Often times, we don’t see the things that truly matter until they’re told to us in an obvious manner. Someone can drop all the hints they like, but we can be so oblivious to the meaning of hints that we find them irritating. You deal with the loss of a lifetime, and people mock you? I know it’s stressful, but what if that isn’t what they mean to do? What if the reason they pester you day by day, the reason that they copy your every move is because they look up to you? You’re their only role model, and you find that you’ve been treating them so awfully? It can make a person wish they had grown up sooner. At least, that’s how it was for me.
***

“Rylee, I’m home!”

My mother bustled her way through the front door, juggling six or more plastic bags full of groceries that crinkled with her every move. Typical Friday; I come home from school, Mom comes home from grocery shopping, Dad comes home from work. I really didn’t think Mom should have been carrying so much “fresh produce” and whatnot with my baby sister soon to arrive, but I didn’t bother question it. I knew better.

Lately, Mom had been super moody. One minute I was being praised for simple tasks, the next minute I was scolded for every little thing I did wrong. I tried to be understanding; mood swings might be a part of pregnancy. However, Dad too was getting touchier. I assumed he was only worried about the baby, just like everyone else. I’m not exaggerating either; total strangers stop my mom when we’re in public to congratulate her new baby. It got pretty repetitive, but it didn’t bother me too much.

“Hey mom.”

“Did you do your homework?”

“Don’t have any.”

“You sure?” My mom said with a clear degree of doubt in her voice. Doubting everything I say is something mom had been finding easier and easier to do.

“Certain.”

Without having anything else to say, I made my way upstairs into my room, where I remained for the rest of the day until supper. Or at least, what should have been supper.

I was still up in my room, headphones plugged into my ears to better hear my music when the shouting began.

I’m not saying my parents never fight, but I certainly was not expecting anything like this. The argument was hardly out of the ordinary as far as intensity goes, it was simply what they were screaming about that made my heart jump. They were talking about money, moving out of our home, the economy, and layoff. My dad had lost his job.

It was at that moment that I realized my parents weren’t necessarily against each other in this argument, both were just panicking. Right then, I also realized how much trouble this meant for our family. Dad had been the only person working in the family. It’s getting harder to find a job. Mom’s pregnant. We haven’t paid off the house costs. My head was spinning at the prospect of everything just falling apart when mom called me downstairs. I stalled a little bit so that my parents wouldn’t know I was listening in.

“Coming Mom,” I said after a little while. I ran downstairs with a cheerful expression on my face, being sure to not make my voice sound like I just found out that my family is doomed.

“Yes mom?”

Basically, my parents worked together in fits and stutters to summarize the information passed in that argument. This time I actually lost it. We had to leave our home by 3:00 tomorrow afternoon to move into an apartment. Too stunned to say anything, I ran back to my room and sat there until I decided it was time to start packing.

I didn’t sleep well that night. I would’ve taken a hot bath to calm my nerves, but of course we couldn’t use water anything else that would raise our already unpayable costs. I packed and repacked an innumerable amount of times, too upset to sleep and too nervous to do nothing. I read books, listened to more music, and read more books. When at last I went to sleep, I dreamt about all the losses our family would go through, and woke up several times shaking from fear. I didn’t think I could ever sleep again.

The next day was no better. I got up and brushed my straight, brown hair, got dressed, and put my glasses on. Apparently my parents hadn’t slept either. Everything made them jump, and no one could say a thing without getting yelled at by someone else in the family. By 2:30, we had had enough of waiting, so we left early. We all said goodbye to the house, dad made a phone call, and that was that. We were on our way to the apartment.

It had “punishment” written all over it. That apartment was probably the closest thing to a jail I had ever lived in. The entire place smelled like mold, and there was not a drywall in the place that didn’t have either a crack or a hole in it. It was freezing in there, as if they forgot to put in insulation. There weren’t even any beds, in fact there were hardly enough sleeping places for us. Mom slept on the couch, and dad and I took turns in a torn, dusty old chair that smelled like wet dogs. The whole building looked and felt like it would topple over any minute. I could hear both my parents mumble “How is this place legal?” to themselves every day. It was so dismal, such a desolate place. The worst part was transferring schools.

I couldn’t stand it at my new school. Every single student there (or at least in the 9th grade) could be characterized as “that guy.” Each one of them seemed to have something strange about them, almost as if they purposely tried to annoy me. Whether they were little habits like always forgetting their homework and slowing the class down, or bigger things like blowing cigarette smoke into my face whenever I walked by, I couldn’t stand any of them. There was always one girl in particular, however, who I despised more than anything. She was short and wiry with stringy blonde hair, and she called herself Marie. I could have easily avoided her, if only she hadn’t mocked my loss. She started wearing worn out clothes that looked exactly like what I had to wear since we had sold everything cute I had owned. She started talking like me, and trying to act like me. When she mimicked me, she way over-exaggerated. She was everywhere I was. I couldn’t even confront her; she’d walk away as soon as I’d look at her.

After weeks like this, dealing with Marie and living in those conditions, something snapped. The next time I saw Marie was the first time I had ever physically hurt someone. The first chance I got, I grabbed Marie by her shirt collar and looked her straight in the eye. By then, her face had been drained of all color, and she shook so much I thought she was going to pass out. I didn’t care. In my outrage, I became a complete monster.

“Of every bad thing that’s happened to me so far, you know what I hate most?”

Before giving a chance for her to reply, I punched her. I felt dazed, not entirely sure of what I was doing, only that I wanted to get it through her head that I would not tolerate her little act. Before then, I wouldn’t have dreamed of ever hurting another person, and yet there I was beating up this girl, not caring one bit about the blue-black color forming on her face and my fists. She must have tried to fight back, but she was pretty weak. I’m no fighter, but I still took her down without a struggle. That could have also been my anger. I felt like the Hulk.

Everyone cleared out of the room, except for a teacher. All she had to do was say my name, and the daze was gone.

“Rylee, your mom is here to pick you up. I’m afraid you’re going to be suspended after this.” The teacher spoke lazily as if she had dealt with this every day. With a calm look on her face, the teacher pointed down the hallway towards the office.


As I turned to walk away, Marie was able to croak a few words that really piled on the guilt.

“Sorry. I just wanted to be like you, that’s all.”

Still in disbelief at what I had done, the walk to the office was slow. I felt like I was walking up a snow-covered mountain, my feet dragging behind me. I didn’t know I was able to hurt someone like that, and now I was getting suspended. Its reality hit me like a thousand more punches. With Mom’s moodiness and the family’s already perilous situations, this was hardly the time to get suspended.

When I got into the car, I tried to avoid eye contact with my mother. That wasn’t necessary. She refused to say a word to me, even once we got home. I guess that was alright, I’d rather be left alone than yelled at. After I was safely in the apartment, mom drove off again, probably to calm herself down. Dad was asleep on the couch, so I went to the corner of the apartment and turned on my music again.

It’s like forgetting
The words, to your favorite song
You can’t believe it
You were always singing along
It was so easy
And the words so sweet
You can’t remember, you try to feel the beat.



“Eet,” by Regina Spektor, the one song that could perfectly describe my situation. Except instead of forgetting a song, it feels like I’ve lost everything, and I’m trying to get it back.
You spend half of your life
Trying to fall behind
Your ears in your headphones
To drown out your mind.


I took my headphones off right then and thought about the lyrics of that song. Fist fights, feeling sorry for myself, avoiding others; it’s just like trying to fall behind. I’m not helping myself. Next week, when I would be allowed back into school, I would apologize to Marie. All she wanted was to be like me. I was her role model, and I beat her up. I felt sick with myself, but I felt confident at the same time. I felt motivated to make a full apology to Marie, with a card and a gift and everything. Forgetting all of the previous worriedness about my mother’s reaction, I called her cell phone using Dad’s and hurriedly asked her to go grocery shopping.

“I know we’re kind of low on cash and stuff, but I need brownie mix.”

“Why could you possibly need brownie mix? That stuff is expensive and unnecessary.”

“I’m making apology brownies,” and with that, I hung up and started on the card.
***

The brownies were baked, the card was made, and I was back at school. All day I searched for Marie, but I never saw her. Same with the next day. Then the next. I finally resorted to giving my gift to the office to give to Marie. I was about to explain what it was for, but I was interrupted by the rasping voice of the school secretary, which sounded thick with sadness.

“I’m afraid... I’m afraid Marie will not be coming back to school dear.”

That didn’t sound good. “Why not? Was she expelled?”

For the first time, the secretary unglued her eyes from her computer screen and looked me in the eye. “Marie made an attempt on her life. It wasn’t entirely successful, but she had to be hospitalized. We were informed only two days ago that she was being taken off life support soon. She’s dying sweetheart. You might have time to visit her, but I don’t think she’ll be able to respond to anything you say.”

For the rest of the day, I could think about nothing except for how I basically killed Marie. If I could have just thought it through a little, it wouldn’t have happened. When I got home, I demanded that someone took me to the hospital to visit her. I referred to it as an “emergency visit,” and my father agreed to take me.

Once inside the hospital, I had to beg for a whole fifteen minutes before they would let me in to see Marie. There she was, the poor thing. We could have been such great friends if my temper hadn’t gotten in the way. I had nothing to say, so I left my apology gift on the side table and ran out of the room. If there was one thing in the whole world I couldn’t face, it was half-alive Marie lying on a hospital bed. Sunken in eyes, pale skin, it sent shivers up my spine just to think that such a horrid fate was my fault.
***



Since then, I’ve gotten a lot of what I lost back. My dad found a new job, and he’s earning a steady income. My sister was born, a happy, healthy girl who we decided to name Holly. We’ve moved out of that apartment and into a smallish house much closer to home. It certainly smells a lot better, and everyone has their own bed. I also transferred schools again, and this one is a much better environment as far as I can tell. Unfortunately, the void left by Marie’s death is still there. That’s the thing about death; you can never completely get those kinds of losses back. She did give me one thing though. Combined with everything else I’ve faced, Marie’s passing taught me how to finally grow up. There are still things missing from me, but I’ll always remember what she taught me. The words to a song, so to speak.