The Music of What Happens - Bill Konigsberg Page 0,103

comes in. It’s not unusual to get a few of these a week during monsoon season, but overnight ones don’t come too often. I’m staring at the ceiling fan on the white ceiling above me, my arms above my head, my head cradling my hands, thinking about everything, and I get the urge to go outside and watch the storm.

The hot air smells of creosote and dust as I roll open the sliding door from the living room to the back patio. The one at our house creaks when you open it, but this one, not surprisingly, is smooth. Dorcas follows me out.

Our house isn’t ours anymore, and there isn’t an us anymore. I live here now, and I have a headache that could split my whole fucking face apart.

You don’t see a dust storm come in at night. You hear it though. You hear the winds pick up and whip through the palm trees, the fronds slapping in the breeze, and you see the lightning flashes, and seconds later the thunder rumble, and then the neighborhood dogs barking. Not Dorcas. She stands by my side as I look up into the invisible night sky that may or may not be blowing a film of desert dust into the pool I can barely see in front of me.

You’re not supposed to go into a pool when there’s lightning out. Everyone knows that. But not everyone’s as totally over it as I am right now. I sit on the edge and dangle my legs, feel the bath-temperature water soothe my already hot skin. I kick my legs back and forth, making ripples.

“What are you doing out here?”

I hadn’t heard Max slide open the door and join me. His legs are next to me, and part of me wants to lean my head against his knee, and part of me wants — I don’t know. To destroy something beautiful.

I grunt. “Trying to get hit by lightning,” I say.

“Awesome,” is his answer. “Can I join?”

“Sure.”

He sits down next to me and for a bit we just sit there and listen to the winds pick up and the sizzling sound of sand and dust we can’t see zipping by our ears. Then he puts his hand calmly over mine and wraps his left thumb under my right pinky. I squeeze back to show I’m there, but I’m only half, or a quarter.

“I want to hit something,” I say.

He doesn’t respond, which is perfect. He doesn’t grab after my hand when I pull mine away either. Also a good choice. My forehead is pulsing, thinking about everything. I’m so tired of thinking about it. This is why people do drugs. So they don’t have to think. Or gamble, I guess. And you know what? As much as I don’t want to think, or feel, I’ll never fucking drink or gamble or anything, because if I ever made anyone feel the way my mom has made me feel, I would not be able to live with myself either. And thinking about that makes my insides hurt, because I love her still, even though she fucked up my life. Our lives. I can’t even imagine the pain she is feeling because deep down I know she loves me, and yet she did this still. And I know that it’s a disease and not a choice but right now that feels like blah blah blah. She cared more about spinning video slot wheels than she did about me.

Then he grabs my hand and stands up and I resist saying, “Let me go,” but just barely.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s go hit something.”

He texts his mom and we’re out the door and in his truck. When he turns on the beamers, I can see the dust blowing brown in the black night.

“They say don’t drive,” I say.

“We’re going like two minutes. Two turns. I think we’ll survive.”

He pulls into the road and I’m in no position to complain. Maybe we’ll get hit and this will all be over.

He takes me back to 24 Hour Fitness. No cars are out front, which is good because I don’t want to see anyone and I don’t want anyone to see me.

And suddenly I’m inside, in front of a boxing bag. Black with red stripes. And Max is strapping black-and-red boxing gloves on my hands.

“I’ve never hit anything,” I say.

He snorts. “Except Kevin.”

“Well he deserved it,” I say.

“This is my favorite way to get out the pain when I’m pissed. When some stupid kid