“Oh. My friend. He got in a fight with his dad. He just…he asked if he could stay over.” I tried to play it off.
“In your room?” She tilted her head and rested her hands on her hips. She wasn’t buying it.
“I slept on the floor with Frankie.” I had to try to make it seem believable. Most of it was true, but I still don’t think she believed me.
“Okay, we need to set some ground rules. You’re more mature than the average seventeen-year-old. You have been for a long time. But you’re still a kid,” she began. “You can’t just have someone stay the night without telling me. Don’t do that again.”
I was welcome to bring any friend home to meet her, she lectured. Which was her way of hinting that she wanted to meet this mysterious friend. My Saturday night with Rhonda would also be a one-time thing until after I turned eighteen. And if I wanted to drink, I needed to be at home. She would need to be there, and only one drink was allowed. I needed to be a little more responsible and more of a role model for my brothers.
I took a second shower and decided to hang around the house for the day. I started my laundry, which included the messy bedding. Mowed the lawn between my two loads of laundry. Then decided to take Frankie for a walk. Without my brothers. This needed to be a structured walk. No meandering and sniffing every object.
The walk gave me time to think and sort through my life without the constant interruptions from home. I knew I had been going out and spending a lot of time away from my family, but was I really a bad example to my brothers? What was I to do with them other than reprimand them when they were being silly? They were several years younger than me and we didn’t really have anything in common. We barely looked like siblings. They liked soccer while I liked swimming and running. It wasn’t that I didn’t like them. We had different interests, and rightfully so. They were ten, going on eleven, and I was seventeen.
The sound of a car engine approached from behind Frankie and me. But it was moving too slow to be someone passing by. We were about to turn the corner of my street when I heard, “Hey.”
“I thought you couldn’t leave the house today,” I said after turning around.
Thad grinned. “My parents went to a casino downtown.”
“Park. Come walk with us for a little.” I gestured him to follow.
This morning felt weird, and I think I may have scared him during my drunken confession late in the night. He looked like he had something on his mind, and he hesitated to stop the car. But Frankie barked in his direction, which I think encouraged him to oblige. Frankie really was a great wingman. Wherever I took him during a walk, he attracted a crowd.
Thad parked his car a house before the stop sign at the end of my street and joined us as I turned right. We were near the entrance of the high school parking lot, and we turned into the lot so we could walk along the tall fencing. There wouldn’t be anyone around and we would have the privacy to speak openly.
“Do you recall the first time we ever spoke?” I asked, tapping his hand with my pinky.
“You mean like two weeks ago? Right?”
“It was in the fifth grade.”
“How can you remember that?”
“I remember everything,” I said. I do remember everything. It’s a blessing and a curse. I have photographic memory, which has always helped me in school. I also usually don’t forget where things are. Unfortunately, I remember every bad thing anyone has ever said to me, and even when and where they said it. I can forgive, but I can never forget.
“Okay. Go on.” He waved. I now had his full attention.
In elementary, my school hosted D.A.R.E. classes to teach kids about substance abuse and violence. You’d think fifth grade was a bit too young to address such a subject, but I assure you it wasn’t. I’ve known plenty of people in high school and beyond who needed those assemblies when they were younger. It’s scary to see someone you love falling into that. Sometimes it isn’t even their choice.
Our class had been visited weekly by a representative for most of the year. We learned about substance abuse and how to reach out for help. We learned about physical abuse within the family unit. And all of this, all these weekly meetings, led to a grand D.A.R.E. assembly hosted in the school auditorium with all of our parents about a month before the year ended, on a Friday night. Before the event, our class was tasked with decorating our black D.A.R.E. T-shirts and writing letters to our future selves promising that we’d try to resist drugs and avoid violence. A few people in our class volunteered to read theirs out loud to the entire auditorium.
On the way home from the assembly, my mom turned to me from the passenger’s seat and said that she ran out of film in her camera and could only take a few photos. I shrugged. Who was I to really care about something like that? My family consisted of several people who were attached to their cameras and had thousands of photos developed each year. It wasn’t a bother to have a few less of me in the pile. I thought my mom was finished, so I looked at her and shook my head, confused why she hadn’t turned forward.
“This really nice dad was standing next to me and offered to take pictures of you. He’s going to get them developed this weekend and his son will bring them to class on Monday. He’s in your class.” She smiled, exposing a red smudge of lipstick on her two front teeth.
“Ma. No. That’s so embarrassing. Why would you do that?” I moaned.
“That’s embarrassing? Sure, Étienne. Yeah, okay then.” She rolled her eyes.
Monday came. I was in class and didn’t know which of my classmates would be the person who’d bring the photos. I spent the morning daydreaming of learning how to fly so I could escape the confines of my school. It wasn’t until after lunch when we were heading past our lockers to go out onto the playground that I heard his voice call my name. His hair was even fairer than it was when we reintroduced ourselves years later.
“Yeah. I have to give you these.” He handed me a sealed Ziploc bag with some twenty photos of me in it. His right arm was stretched out, his left behind his back. He must have been as mortified as I was. Imagine having to carry around a clear package with photos of some other boy in the fifth grade. I would have died if it were in reverse.
“Thanks.” I half smiled.
We both walked away, never to speak again until our last day of junior year.
“You’re kidding?” he blurted. “I think I remember that.”