got mad at him for lying all this time about the vasectomy. He said he never told her because he didn’t think it mattered because she had said she was done having kids.
That was only a couple of days ago, but since then she’s seemed really out of it. Which gives me a panicked feeling, because I just don’t trust her. I look at the clock: three A.M. I close my eyes to try to go back to sleep, but my mind races … She’ll start drinking … Her kid will be born a retard … She’s probably long gone off her medication … We are going to lose the apartment … I can never move into the group home now, because if I do, my mom won’t get her child benefit government money for me, and if she doesn’t get that, and she’s not working, she’ll lose the apartment … But we’ll probably lose it anyway, and then we’ll be homeless … CAS will probably leave me alone because I’m sixteen, but they’ll take my mom’s baby … especially if we’re homeless … especially if I’m in jail. Which is where I’m going now. Jail. Because of that stupid bitch Rachel.
Forty-Seven
Everything has changed. Now that I don’t have my job, I don’t have a future. How can I be a veterinarian if I get fired from my first job in a veterinary clinic? How can I get into university without that reference? I was such an idiot to even think it was possible.
It’s like all that learning has been for nothing, because I’ll never get the life I want. Something is always going to drag me down. What’s the point of even trying? So every day before school, I meet up with Tyler in the park and we drink, because I still have to go to school and it’s the only way to make it bearable. I usually miss the first period. When I finally get to the church, I brush my teeth in the washroom and chew tons of grape bubblegum. No one notices, because I’m not drunk out of my mind, just enough to get my work done. Just enough to shut off all that misery for a while.
But today, right in the middle of class, Ms. Dally tells me to go into the couch room. Without asking why, or making a scene, I just do what she tells me. I sit in the corner of the green paisley couch, waiting, reviewing today’s list of misdemeanours. Does she know I smoked before school? Does she know I cheated on my math test? Does she know there’s a half-empty bottle of vodka in my bag?
“You’re not in trouble,” she assures me as she walks in. She closes the door behind her and comes to sit on the couch beside me. She smiles warmly. “I just wanted to talk to you. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I wriggle uncomfortably in my seat. It’s going to be one of those conversations.
“I’m asking because you seem upset.”
“I’m fine.” I’m being a bitch to her and I know it, but I don’t really care.
“Well, I’m in the classroom trying to teach you math, but to be honest, it feels a little awkward because you seem so distant. You’re really resisting. And I feel that perhaps algebra is rather unimportant in comparison to what you might be dealing with. I just don’t want to push you too much, Melissa. I want you to know you could draw in your sketchbook or journal for a while if you’d like.”
“I’m okay,” I insist.
She sighs. It’s not the right answer and she keeps looking at me with these sympathy eyes like she’s trying to coax the tears out of me.
“Can I be honest, Melissa?”
Leave me alone! I shrug my shoulders. “Whatever.”
“You look like you’re going to crack. Break open. Like you’re on the edge and you’re barely holding it together.”
It’s a terrible thing to say to someone. It’s like telling someone they look tired. Who wants to hear how shitty they look? Who wants to hear that they look like a miserable, unstable wreck? “I’m okay,” I repeat, annoyed. “I mean, I’m not happy, but I’m not gonna start bawling or throwing up or having a seizure or something, if that’s what you mean.”
She keeps looking at me and I feel horribly transparent now. It’s as if she wants her analysis of me to come true. She wants me to break open right here and spill myself onto