On the day Claire finally confronted me, I let my anger get the best of me. It began with Trevor and me conversing by the lockers. I was struggling to get my locker open. I just need to get my books. Trevor leaned against the locker next to mine as he started to tell me about some guy he saw at the store the other day.
“So I was looking at books and then I saw this cute guy, right–” he began.
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled. I couldn’t get my locker to open. I frowned as my fingers fumbled with the padlock, unable to get the combination code right. I hate these stupid locks. I tried again and failed. I hate these locks. I hate my mom. I hate my life. I gritted my teeth. The thought of my mom made me want to rip my notebooks apart. I still couldn’t open the lock. “Stupid piece of crap,” I shrieked, punching the locker with my fist. The hit made a loud BANG and bruised my knuckles as they collided with the metal.
“What the heck was that about?” Trevor said, startled. His dark eyebrows furrowed over his green eyes.
I froze and my body filled with dread. Oh my gosh, I’m just like my mom. I covered my face with my hands as my eyes filled with tears.
“Geez, is everything okay?” Trevor said, pulling me into a light hug.
“What’s wrong with me?” I cried.
“There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Did you just see what I did? I was about ready to tear apart this locker all because I can’t get the combination right. I’m so messed up. I’m just like my mom.”
“What? No, that’s ridiculous.”
“But I get really angry sometimes, like just now,” I said, trying to prove my point.
“Everyone gets angry at times. It’s natural. I get angry sometimes, too.” Trevor patted my head.
“What if one day I wake up and start throwing things around and then I beat up the people I care about.”
Trevor looked at me with a fearful expression I couldn’t really read. Before he could respond, I heard Claire’s voice come from around the corner. “Katie? Is that you? Are you there?” she said.
Oh no. She can’t see me like this. I look so pathetic right now. “Hide me, please,” I whispered to Trevor, moving behind his tall physique. He was like six feet of hard brick.
“What are you doing?” he whispered back.
“She can’t see me like this.” I wiped away the remaining tears on my cheeks.
“It’s not like you can hide from her forever. Besides, she’s been your crush since like seventh grade. Now that your mom is making threats you’re just going to back out?”
He had a point.
“Katie?” I heard Claire’s voice say again, closer this time. “You’re standing behind the tall guy, aren’t you?”
I could just imagine Trevor rolling his eyes. “You don’t know my name?” he said to Claire.
“Sorry. I’m really bad at remembering names,” she said. “Katie? Can I talk to you?”
I moved out from behind Trevor to stand in front of Claire. Trevor backed away slowly. “I’m just going to get a drink of water,” he said, giving me a hopeful look.
When I looked at Claire, she had a serious expression on her face I didn’t like the look of. “I know I haven’t been around much, and I’m sorry about that. I don’t have much to say.” She looked at the ground. “I don’t think I can do this. It’s too much.”
“What? No, wait, just listen. My mom–she’s crazy. The littlest thing sets her off. She’s just–she gets so angry all the time. But we can work through it.” I choked on my words.
“Things will only get worse. This would just hurt more in the end,” Claire said. “I guess what I’m trying to say is–I don’t think we should do this anymore.” I could see a hint of sadness in her eyes. She’s lying. Before I could say something back, she turned around and walked away, her long, dark curls flowing behind her.
I couldn’t move. I was frozen with my mouth agape. Trevor came up behind me and placed his hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
“What was that?” I muttered. I’m so lost. Claire never sat by me in English class again.
I returned home that evening confused and angry. I heard my parents arguing in the kitchen when I walked in the house. I wanted to put an end to it.
“She needs this!” my mom yelled at my dad.
“No she doesn’t. She is who she is,” my dad said.
What they heck were they talking about?
“They have programs that can cure her,” my mom said.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Are they talking about conversion therapy? Seriously? As I passed by the kitchen, I looked in. Papers and bills lay scattered across the floor like leaves. Cupboards and drawers were open with the contents tossed on the floor: mom’s oven pads, the measuring cups her sister gave her for Christmas years ago, the spoons dad and I used to make cupcakes with when I was a kid. My mom was holding grandma’s porcelain plates above the floor as if she were about to drop them. My dad stood in front of her, holding his arms in front of him as if to show her he was innocent.
As I looked at the damage in the kitchen, I remembered a time from my middle school years when my dad and I were trying to piece the kitchen back together after one of my mom’s violent tantrums. We sat cross-legged on the floor, picking up papers and spoons. I remember looking up at him, my eyes stinging from the formation of tears. “Dad, we have to get out of here. There’s something wrong with her,” I had said to him, my voice shaking as I spoke, but my dad didn’t say anything back. He just covered his face with his hands and wept.
Seeing the damage this time, though, I thought maybe I could be the bigger person. Something wasn’t right with my mom. I knew I had to intervene.
“You never listen to me!” my mom yelled at my dad.
“Mom! Stop! You’ll destroy this house like you’ve destroyed this family,” I cried from the kitchen doorway.
My mom froze before turning to look at me. Her face was twisted with rage but I could see her eyes droop. Sadness washed within them. “You think I’m the one who destroyed this family?”
“Mom, can’t you see the damage you’re doing here? You’re just throwing away memories. How can you do that?”
My mom stared at me. I couldn’t tell if her face softened at all. She didn’t understand the strain she put on the family. I didn’t know if I could make her see that, but I figured it might be worth a shot.
As she looked at me, I thought about how she takes out her rage. She becomes so satisfied from damaging things, beating things, calming down afterwards. I tried comparing her rage to my own. If I really was like my mom, how could I speak so calmly right now? I could feel the anger screaming in my veins. I just wanted her to stop.
As I looked over the kitchen again, I began to realize something. My mom and I take out our rage in different ways. She’ll instantly damage something without remorse, but here I was trying to make her violent tendencies stop. I was channeling my rage in a different way from her.
My mom’s expression suddenly changed. She tried to smile, but it looked far from pleasant. “Katie, I can get you help. You can be fixed.”
I knew what she was talking about. “Conversion therapy doesn’t work,” I said.
“You don’t know that. You’ve never tried it.”
“You can’t change people just because you don’t like something about them.”
“Katie, please? Just listen. You could bring the family back together with one simple choice.”
She’s wrong. She’s looking at it all wrong. I’m not my mom. Her thinking is so messed up. I’m not like that. I’m not like her. Violence and destruction…. that’s not me. I wasn’t going to become my mom.
My mom set the plates down on the counter before walking over to me. I need to get out of here. She pulled her arms around me in a tight embrace. I could hardly breathe. Is she choking me? “Katie, this will be good for you. You need this,” she said.
“No, I don’t!” I struggled against her grasp.
“The priests, the therapists… they all know what they’re doing. Everything will be alright.”
“You’re wrong.” I need to get out of here. I have to leave.
My mom looked down at me with an unnerving smile, a twinge of hope in her eyes. “Do this for your father and me, but especially for me. Okay? I know you love your father. Don’t you love me, too?”
I can’t breathe. “No.”