Impulse Read online

  the school bus for an hour ride home.

  But when I opened the door,

  I heard voices in the kitchen—

  one voice, actually. Mama’s.

  You can’t hurt me

  now, not anymore.

  Why couldn’t you

  just leave me alone?

  It’s cold here,

  very cold. Will it

  be like this forever?

  I didn’t want her to know

  I was there, not while she

  was talking to air, but it

  was eighty degrees in Grandma’s

  house. And why was she there,

  anyway? I tiptoed toward

  the kitchen, peeked around

  the doorjamb. Saw her lying

  on the floor, an empty pill

  bottle near her quiet form.

  I walked over, looked down

  into her unfocused eyes, saw

  something resembling peace.

  I should have called 911.

  Instead, I backed slowly

  away, exited

  out the front

  door.

  Conner

  Dr. B Is Psychic?

  Or have I given more

  away than I can recall?

  I lose my smile. “How did

  you know? What did I say?”

  You didn’t say a thing.

  But Emily Sanders did.

  You tried to kill yourself.

  What did you think she’d do?

  I never thought that she’d

  confess, open herself

  to the authorities,

  the school board, the press.

  I’m not surprised you didn’t

  know. We keep things rather

  insular here. But I just

  couldn’t see us making

  progress unless you found

  out. Since it’s all in the

  open out there, I hope

  you’ll talk about it in here.

  I shrug. “Do you want

  details? The way she cries

  when I kiss her, or how she

  never fails to orgasm?

  Or maybe you’d like to hear

  how sunlight dances, bronze

  upon her hair, how she begs me

  to pull her hair, to excite her.”

  Details, yes. But not like

  those. I want to know how

  you felt after, and why you

  chose a woman twice your age.

  She Set Herself Up

  “You mean someone like you,

  with experience, someone

  beautiful and willing? Do

  you think it’s a myth that guys

  my age want to learn how

  to please a woman? Sex

  with a high school girl is like

  screwing a deep freeze.”

  I’m not sure you could

  label me “willing,” Conner.

  But I can’t say that I’m

  unable to understand

  an attraction to someone

  older. It’s true that I

  had a relationship with

  a teacher, first as a shoulder

  to cry on when my life

  went totally crazy. Caring

  turned to passion, but we

  never meant for that to happen.

  “It was the exact opposite

  for me. At first all I

  wanted was sex with her,

  but soon I wanted more.

  More sex, yes, in unusual

  places, and all different kinds.

  But that wasn’t all. I wanted

  her to fill the empty spaces

  left by a father who never

  once praised me, ‘friends’ who

  used me, an ice princess mom

  who raised me with glass kisses.”

  I Can’t Believe

  She got me to say all that,

  pried open my lips for such

  truth to spill out. Dr. Boston

  has managed a total eclipse

  of Conner the Silent.

  Flushed, I chance a glimpse

  of her eyes, find sympathy

  in their gray, fluid trance.

  Define ‘glass kisses,’ Conner.

  I want … um … I don’t understand

  what you mean. Nervous hands

  defy her nonchalant tone.

  Conner the Silent shrugs, gives

  way to Conner the Eclipsed.

  “Smooth. Cold. Flawless. Tasteless.

  Glass. Agate. Sugarless sorbet.”

  She mulls that for a second,

  shakes her head, frees blond

  feathers. Glass and agate are hard.

  Not so sorbet. Please explain.

  My turn to think, to try

  and unravel my own riddle.

  Every inch of me feels weighted,

  like I’m treading gravel.

  “My mother is the hardest

  woman ever—cool, perfect.

  She’d be a diamond, except

  you’ll never melt one of those.

  Sometimes, rarely, influenced

  by full moon or emptiness,

  she’ll rain a single kiss,

  monsoon on desert, melting

  glass.”

  Tony

  I Want to Jump Up

  Leap across the room,

  grab my pa by the neck

  and choke him until

  he owns up—confesses

  why he can’t stand

  the thought of me.

  Okay, that’s not such

  a great idea, so I shove

  it back into my dream

  cabinet, the one I dare

  open only when I sleep.

  Lots of bad ideas in there.

  Tony? reminds Dr. Bellows.

  Don’t you have anything

  else to say? Your father

  has come all this way

  to try and make some sort

  of amends. Can you do that?

  The guy is pissing me

  off. Both of them are,

  in fact. I tell myself to stay

  in control, but it won’t

  be easy. “It’s only twenty

  miles from here to Tahoe.

  Some people drive

  that far every day. It’s

  been eight effing years,

  Pa. Don’t you own a car?

  Or a telephone? What

  the fuck is your problem?

  Do you know how

  many nights I lay in bed,

  wondering what I’d

  done to deserve your

  silence? What had I said?

  What did I ever do, but love you?”

  A New Problem Pops Up

  One I never expected.

  I can’t remember, not

  even once in my

  miserable life, crying.

  Not when Pa first

  walked out the door.

  Not when the judge

  sent me away to live in

  a nest of juvenile delinquent

  hornets. Not even the day

  I sprinkled Phillip’s ashes

  over his secret Truckee

  River fishing hole.

  So that damn eight-pound

  rainbow who

  keeps giving me the slip

  will never forget me

  completely, he requested.

  Okay, I almost cried

  that day, tears welling

  up black, like thunderheads

  boiling up over the Sierra.

  But they never slipped

  down my cheeks, not

  like they’re doing right

  now. This is totally insane.

  All because of this strange

  guy, perched across from me,

  this completely strange guy I’ve

  never really known as my father.

  So how can he make me

 
cry? Why should he even

  want to try? “Why now, Pa?

  Why come back into my

  life now? Are you hoping

  to become someone’s beneficiary?”

  Until I Said It

  The thought hadn’t crossed

  my mind. But now that it has,

  I want an answer. “Well?”

  How can you say such a thing.

  Anthony? No, I don’t want one.

  I want to make you mine.

  “You think I want your

  money? I’ve lived just

  fine without it up to now.”

  Just fine? I know how you

  live, son. I know where you’ve

  been, what you’ve done.

  That can’t be true, can it?

  Has an invisible eye

  been looking my way?

  I can forgive you for all

  of it, Anthony. The drugs.

  The men. Even the … thing.

  Now the tears really

  make me mad, chinks

  in my invincible armor.

  That’s a hard thing to

  forgive someone for …

  to forgive a son for.

  Screw it. Tears or no,

  he’s got it coming now.

  “You forgive me? I

  didn’t turn my back

  on you, didn’t leave

  you under Ma’s thumb.

  You knew what she had

  become, what kind of life

  that meant for me. Where were

  you, Pa, when I went

  hungry? Where were you,

  Pa, when that bastard …

  never mind.”

  Vanessa

  Prozac Can’t Help

  Lift me out of the place

  I’m in now. Thinking

  about my mother always

  drops me here, abandons

  me clear below mania

  into a field of solid blue.

  Maybe I should confess

  my condition, request a lithium

  fix. The Prozac has lately

  left me tossing and turning

  well into the night.

  Then, despite its antidepressant

  buzz, I’m tired from staying awake.

  Sleepy by day; wound

  up at night, brain

  fighting my body’s need

  for REM refreshment.

  I suppose I could ask

  for sleeping pills, but they’d

  drop me way down into the blue,

  maybe so deep I could

  never crawl back up.

  Or I could own up, ask for lith,

  but once I start, I can never stop.

  And it has side effects, too—

  lethargy, weight gain,

  massive diarrhea.

  (Thirty extra pounds,

  despite chronic runs?)

  Something else can help,

  the thing I crave

  more than clarity.

  Self-medication—of the most

  critical, physical type.

  I should wait until after

  dinner. Can’t go

  to the table like Hansel

  and Gretel, trailing crumbs

  of red. Besides, waiting,

  anticipating, can be the best part.

  The Dinner Crowd

  Seems quite subdued,

  the usual chatter strained,

  as if no one really wants

  to discuss their visit

  from home—or lack of one.

  Only Stanley seems his usual

  obnoxious self—poking

  and pushing and asking

  the questions no one

  wants to answer:

  So how did it go?

  Any cool news?

  Anyone die?

  What’s your sister look like?

  God, he’s such a clod.

  I go for my plate—fried

  chicken, corn, and mashed

  potatoes. They definitely

  wanted to impress any

  parent who might inquire

  about tonight’s meal, which

  is definitely the best I’ve had

  since I’ve been here—just

  enough salt, for once.

  As I turn toward the girls’

  tables, Tony comes through

  the door. I try to catch

  his eye, but he keeps both

  of them fixed on the floor.

  Stanley calls,

  Hey, dude. How did it go?

  Any cool news?

  Hey, man …

  what’s up with your eyes?

  Tony glances up, and even

  from here I can see

  the problem with his eyes—

  they’re red, swollen,

  and that can mean only

  one thing, something well

  beyond the realm

  of Stanley’s business.

  Tony’s Fists Clench

  As he turns toward

  the offensive lout.

  Shut the hell up,

  you fat fuck.

  I’m sick of you

  and your whining shit.

  You’d think Stanley

  would get the message,

  but the idiot dares,

  I’m whining? Looks

  like you’re the one

  doing the whining today.

  Suddenly the room

  moves—guys push

  away from their tables,

  expecting (hoping for?) a fight.

  Girls jump up, move

  in for a close-up

  view of the action.

  Tony is ready to deliver.

  I’ve never seen anyone

  so intent on bestowing

  a blow or two—or anyone

  quite as deserving as

  Stanley, who finally

  finds some semblance

  of brains and says,

  Hey man, just kidding.

  Besides, if you hit me,

  it’s back to isolation.

  Tony grabs Stanley by

  the cheeks, pinches them

  pickled beet red.

  I don’t give two fucks about

  isolation, or you. Screw

  with me again, you’re

  dead.

  Conner

  I Melted Dr. Boston

  All those pretty words

  worked, just like I wanted

  them to. Who knew a poet

  lurked inside my brain?

  I understand better now,

  said Dr. B. Thank you,

  Conner, for opening up

  instead of playing it cool.

  But I did play it cool, and in

  the end, she rewarded me

  with Level One. I can’t

  pretend it wasn’t my goal.

  So I’m on my way to

  the dining room, where I’ll

  sit with hungry lunatics,

  all of whom will turn to stare

  at the new guy. Paranoid?

  No more than I need to be.

  Trust is just a five-letter word,

  one that comes before “not.”

  Still, I’ve got to make Dr. B

  believe I trust her completely,

  that I, Conner Aaron Sykes,

  wear my heart on my sleeve.

  Don’t you feel better with

  all of that out in the open?

  she asked. Sharing your feelings

  is no small accomplishment.

  Despite her corny way

  of putting it, I do feel

  somehow relieved, like I’m

  cutting teeth on psychoanalysis.

  I Just Hope

  They don’t bite one of the hands

  that feed them. Speaking of food,

  a decent smell drifts toward me,

  arousing at least one basic need.

  I step through the dining room

&nbs
p; door and stumble upon

  an interesting scene—a guy

  threatening to polish the floor

  with a dude three times his

  size. Everyone’s watching

  them, but, as I predicted,

  all eyes now rotate toward me.

  Catcalls quiet, as if everyone

  mistakes me for a member of

  the goon squad—where are they,

  with the stakes anted this high?

  The smaller guy pushes off

  the fat dude’s face. Don’t forget

  what I said, Stanley, and that

  includes messing with my friends.

  He and I need to become

  friends. I trail him toward

  the serving line as an eerie

  silence descends on the room.

  A pretty girl—familiar—

  with Hershey bar eyes and auburn

  hair inserts herself between us.

  She and tough guy trade hellos.

  He had it coming, Tony.

  Are you okay? Shall I

  assume the outcome of your

  visiting day was like mine?

  That Explains a Lot

  A visit from home could push

  me straight over the edge too—

  Tony mumbles something

  about his father, fills his plate.

  The girl reaches out, covertly

  caresses his shoulder, gentle

  and warm as September wind.

  Tony presses into her touch.

  Inexplicably, jealousy

  pierces my chest. To be touched

  in such a way! I could

  easily become obsessed

  with this girl. She returns

  to her seat, but not before

  gifting me with her smile.

  Gift? I remember her now—

  she’s the one I saw earlier,

  in the hall. Hi. I’m Vanessa,