Sabet 1
Katelyn Sabet
Jason Mitchell
English 1000
Fall 2012
I Used to Be a Jerk
Her words spilled out of her mouth in rushes, her consonants bleeding together. She spoke the way half-drowned people breathe when the water leaves their lungs. I listened to her.
“And when my mom took me to the hospital she said to me, ‘Don’t tell your Dad.’ Because even she knows how he is, she knew it when she married him - but you know she won’t leave him, oh no, can’t do that. Can’t be alone with your daughter. Can’t be without a man. Can’t kick his broke ass out and make a life of your own. It’s ridiculous.”
“It sounds ridiculous.”
“It is ridiculous. She’s ridiculous. I can’t wait until I’m old enough to move out. I swear to god, I can’t wait. It’s going to be awesome. I’m going to be awesome.”
“What’ll you do?”
“What won’t I do? I’m going to see the world, girl. I’m going to live. And I don’t care about men. I don’t care about anybody.”
“What do you think your mom will do when you leave?”
“I don’t care. Once I’m out, I’m out. Goodbye, see you later. Maybe she’ll grow a pair and leave him, if she sees that he’s why I leave. Maybe the last day I’m home I’ll just scream at them both, just say everything, all the stuff I always tell you. Maybe that’ll do it. I swear to god if he ends up hurting her—”
She looked up from her lunch tray and smiled and shook her head back and forth. I knew that she wouldn’t leave home at eighteen like she said she would. Not with the way her voice softened when she talked about her mom. Not with that smile. In that smile I could see that she knew it as well as I did. And maybe she knew that I knew. But she needed to believe in something. And I needed someone to spot me a dollar now and then at lunch. Sometimes my mom forgot to leave money on the counter before she went to work.
After lunch I had Pre-Algebra. I sat beside a different friend, another girl. The notes we passed were folded a particular way, and we dotted our i’s with empty circles. She was telling me about a dream she’d had last night and was lying about it, but I wasn’t supposed to know that. It was about a boy in our class who she had had a crush on for a long time, but I wasn’t supposed to know about that either. She was pretending to only just now find him attractive, and I was pretending to be surprised, using exclamation points and meaningfully raising my eyebrows while I read. I was almost certain that the boy she was attracted to wasn’t interested in girls, but I most definitely was not supposed to know about that. She let me cheat off of her test. I told her to keep me updated about this new “development.” I imagined her moving away so I’d never have to speak to her again. I wondered when we’d move again. I hoped it would be soon.
Out in the hallway everyone was pretending. People leant against things and looked at each other. People walked and looked at each other. People tried very hard not to look at certain people. Everything is false in a hallway. The hallways were hard for me. I wasn’t sure which pair of eyes I wanted to please the most. Should I look hunched and pensive for the boy in my English class who is standing by the water fountain, pretending to read but watching me? Should I look sweet and peppy for my Social Studies teacher who called me one of her brightest students after I cheated on a test and the other person got in trouble? Should I look relaxed and good-natured for the huddle walking by full of people in my theater class? I was pulled in all directions. Sometimes I’d imagine what it’d be like if all of these people were suddenly in the same room with me, not a transient hallway but a solid, stationary room. I wondered if I would jump from group to group, personality to personality, stretched back and forth until I finally split into several pieces, one for all of them, each slice of me a lie. I wrote a horrible little poem about it once. Then I tore it into pieces as an afterthought. I’m all about dramatic effect.
Next was theater, and in that class I had a friend who was in love with me but hadn’t told me yet. I was hoping he could hold out until we moved again. I wanted him to be in love with me, because it’s a very pleasant feeling, being someone’s dream. Even if it’s not really you they’re dreaming about. It is less pleasant to be someone’s failed hope. I couldn’t pretend to be attracted to him - that was where I drew my line, for some reason. I would have to tell him that I only saw him as a friend, and then he would treat me differently. I wouldn’t be a hope anymore, I’d be a regret. And that’s not nearly as satisfying.
“Hey, did you do the reading for last night?” he asked.
“Nope. It looked kind of boring.”
“Haha, yeah, I thought so too. I didn’t read either. Can’t stand it.”
“I love reading, just not this crap.”
“Haha, yeah. I mean, I don’t hate all books. Just some of them. Like this one.”
“It’s not so bad, really, I’m just lazy.”
“Really? I’m lazy too, man. Like, my Mom will be like ‘Take out the trash.’ And I’m like ‘Why?’”
“It probably smelled.”
“Haha, it kind of did. But I mean, like, that’s not my job. You know?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
I imagined what would happen if I started screaming at him. He wasn’t a bad person. I was the bad person. I knew that. But talking to him felt like someone was slowly squeezing my entire body, tighter and tighter, until all I could feel was this heavy, gasping compression. I felt like an astronaut with no helmet. I always felt like this to some extent at school, but he seemed to intensify the sensation. Looking back, I wonder if he felt the same way about me.
He turned around in his seat.
“Did I tell you about what my brother did?”
“No. Which brother?”
“Mike.”
“Is he the younger one? The dick?”
“Yeah. He came home from State for the weekend and got totally trashed and started cussing out Mom and Gloria. It was hilarious.”
“You guys should be nicer to your mom. What’d your sister do? I hope she beat his ass.”
“Nah, she said he was just being an idiot. Mom didn’t do anything either. They let him do whatever he wants cus he’s a ‘college boy.’ Can’t wait ‘til I’m in college, man. I’m getting hammered whenever I can, let me tell you.”
“That’s gross. Your brother’s your role model or something?”
“Well, he gets what he wants. Whatever he wants, he gets it. The way I figure, he must be doing something right.”
“I would never date someone like your brother. He creeps me out. I like guys who don’t drink.”
He let out a sound that could be spelled: “Tshkuh,” then rolled his eyes. “You haven’t even met my brother.”
“I don’t want to.”
He made the sound again and said, “Whatever. Man I hope we don’t have a quiz.” Then he turned to face the teacher instead of me. I think about him sometimes. I hope that he is nothing like his brother. Though I realize now that I might’ve done more to steer him towards that path than away from it. Maybe I’m giving myself more credit than I deserve.
Theater was my second favorite class behind English. Everyone was flamboyant and goofy, so of course I was flamboyant and goofy. The most flamboyant. The goofiest. Of course. Everyone wanted to say things to me, and I loved that. Everyone thought that they were my favorite person, and they loved that. I knew that some of them disliked me, but as long as they were pretending to like me I wasn’t all that bothered. I loved being liked. It was intoxicating.
Girls would ask things like “How do you do that? How do you sound so natural when you do monologues? You sound like you don’t try at all.”
I’d reply “Baby, you gotta do it from the heart,” while clenching my fist dramatically. Everyone would laugh. Even the girl who asked the question, who hated me, would find a way to construct a slight upturn at the edge of her mouth. A fine actress.
There was a girl that I remember in theater class that year who was small and quiet like a secret. Not a bad secret. A pleasant one. One you’d want to tell. She would get nervous when doing monologues and seemed unsure of how to talk to other human beings. I talked to her. She seemed to like me more than she should have, which made me feel guilty, a feeling I wasn’t accustomed to at the time. She was so painfully honest, and so willing to speak when she got comfortable. She liked me even more than the other kids. I didn’t want her to, though. I felt like I was contaminating her. I talked to her less and less as the year went by.
On the bus ride home I’d never talk to anyone. I’d sit in the same seat, every day, and face the window. I’d watch cars and houses. I’d feel myself fall back into my body. I’d breathe.
At home I’d walk into an empty house and lie down in the quiet and listen to the air. I’d go back over the day in my head and it would look different in those walls. I’d worry about Mom, at work without me. I’d read a book and imagine I was someone real. I’d write something and pretend the day hadn’t touched me. Couldn’t touch me. I was nowhere near it.
Mom would come home, cook dinner, and ask about my day. I’d say “It was the same,” and I’d ask about hers. Hers was the same too, but she still liked to talk about it. I liked to listen.
I’d go to bed planning conversations in my head. I’d go over the ones I’d had during that day and try to remember what lies I’d told, try to remember who certain people thought I was. I’d try not to think about honest things. I’d daydream whole worlds full of fully-fleshed-out, realistic characters, equipped with realistic goals and motives. Characters that were nothing like me. Or I’d read until I fell asleep. Anything to keep my mind off myself. I had a vicious mind back then; I was well aware of it. I tried to never direct it towards myself. Because I could have torn me apart.