Back To You (4 page)

The holidays were fast approaching and we had a golden o
pportunity to choose a new book in Mrs. Laurent’s class so we could read it over Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks.  I was interested in one of them in particular but knew nothing about it.  I decided to ask Mrs. Laurent what she thought.

“Mrs. Laurent? May I speak to you for a moment?”  She was in the library behind the checkout desk.

“Sure Suzy.  How can I help you?”

“Well, I was wondering about a couple of the books on
our reading list.  One of them is called “The Count Of Monte Cristo” by Alexandre Dumas.  Have you read that one?”

She laughed.  “It is honestly to this day one of my favo
rite books that I have ever read.  But I will warn you, it is quite long.”

“How long?”

“Very.  Let me put it this way.  There had only been one other freshman in the history of the school who read it, and he was a very advanced reader.  However, when I read it, it was so good, that I finished it in one or two days.”

“Can you tell me anymore about it?” She had certainly peaked my interest by letting me know there was a challenge to read this one, both because people were afraid to read it and b
ecause she absolutely loved the book.  Advanced reader, hmph.  I started reading by the time I was three years old, and have read non-stop ever since.  Never had there been a time I wasn’t in the middle of at least one book.

She got up from her seat and flashed her bright grey eyes at me along with a conspiratorial smile.  “
Let's go get it.”  She told me a little about it on the way to the shelf. 

“Sounds really interesting.”

“Oh it is!  Once you really get into it, you are just drawn right into his world.  Like I said, I couldn’t put it down and stayed up all night reading it.  Ah, here it is.”

There were two copies on the shelf.  One was thick.  The other was a freaking monster.  She pulled down the bigger one and handed it to me.  “This one is the unabridged version and is
the best one.  If you decide to read it, I suggest you read this one.  It’s worth it.  Besides, the test is based on the longer version.”  She winked.

Okay, I had read long books before.  But never had I read anything over 1,000 pages.  I checked, this sucker had 1,365 pages. 
I looked at her with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

“Trust me,” she said.  “If anyone can read this and a
ppreciate it, you can.”

“OOOOOOO Kayyyyyyy...” I said.  “Since I have nine weeks to read it instead of just six, I will give it a try.  Really that good, huh?”

She smiled.  OK, game on.  Challenges are like bees to honey with me.  Can’t resist them.  I was determined to be the second name on the check out card.  And I was even more determined to tackle a book of this magnitude.  Oh yeah, bring it on.  I just wish I was this brave when it came to guys and making friends.

The week of Thanksgiving flew by.  My sister Kim was there as we prepared the feast.  She always had a knack of doing something to hurt my feelings or piss me off during Thanksgi
ving.  Besides that, I wasn’t a huge fan of a lot of the food we had every year.  Just once, I would like someone to ask me what I wanted to eat that day.  Reading was slow going too.  There was a lot going on, so when I would go to bed and get the book out, I was usually asleep after only a few pages.  It wasn’t bad, but I was having a hard time really getting into it.

By the time Christmas break rolled around, I had only gotten a little over 300 pages read.  Kim and I had gotten the tree up (a fake one th
at year, thank goodness) and managed to waste the time away.  A little secret that only a few of my friends knew was that I absolutely LOVED Christmas music.  I could sit for hours after everyone had gone to sleep listening to Christmas music and looking at the tree all lit up.  I would make sure that no other lights were on and just think.

Christmastime was bittersweet for many reasons.  I had some fond memories of Christmas when I was really little.  I loved the year I got the newest baby doll on the market.  I vaguely reme
mber the year that I had come down with a stomach bug, got sick in the car which pissed Andrea off totally so she slammed the car door and my ear got stuck.  Yes.  My ear.   In the car door.  Not too many people can say that.  But the other years were good.  Santa had always left something really cool under the tree as well as stuffing our stockings with neat little gifts, all wrapped in tissue paper, a different color for everyone in the family.  By the time I was six, however, Christmas had taken on a different tone.  Mom had started her drinking and partying stage as the last stages of my parents’ marriage really fell apart.  The last straw for my father was when he had to go get Mom out of a bar in the wee hours of the morning so she could be there when we woke up a couple of hours later to open gifts.  I know the story, I remember that Christmas that year wasn’t a happy one, but I pretty much blocked out the memory altogether.  I guess that was a good thing.

The next Christmas was really awkward.  It was the first time that we had to share the holiday with our parents living in two different places.  Dad had moved on and was happily in love with Sharon.  Sharon had a three year old son, Bryan, who, I had to admit, was pretty cute.  We spent Christmas Eve with Dad and went home to wake up to Christmas with Mom.  It was weird.  Really weird.  And so it went.  Dad and Sharon eloped the next year, and the next Christmas was strained.  I actually didn’t mind
it so much, having two different Christmases.  Like most kids thrown into a difficult situation, I found the silver lining.  Hey, no parents fighting, and twice the gifts!  Bonus!

Our last Christmas in Arkansas was a bit different.  We had our time with Dad and Sharon (and Bryan too), but that year Mom had a strange feeling that would be the last Christmas she would get to see her family together in California.  So we had our little Chris
tmas on Christmas Eve, after we got back from Dad’s and hopped a plane to Southern California.  It was total chaos!  My great grandmother, both of my grandparents, my mom’s two sisters and their families as well as my uncle were all crammed into my grandparent’s house, or staying in an RV just outside.  You could barely see the tree because of the mounds of presents.  It was a very good year.  And fortunately, we had gotten that time with them because my great grandmother passed away just a month later and my grandfather passed away just days before the next Christmas.  During that year Mom married Brent, and we moved to Louisiana so Christmas Eve with Dad and Sharon was not an option.  And Brent? Well, he tried, but he was just not a pleasant guy to hang around with.  Our second Christmas in Louisiana was a little bit easier, but by this time my dad and his family had moved out to California to be close to my grandfather.

This Christmas wasn’t much different.  Mom and B
rent had gotten to the point of hating each other.  Drinking ended up in fighting.  Mealtimes ended up in fighting.  They did everything possible to not spend time together while at home.  And to make matters worse, the great job he had gotten that moved us down to Hammond had fallen through and he was unemployed.  By this time he had no motivation, was increasingly depressed, read books all day, drank all night and basically made everyone’s life miserable.  Not exactly what you call good times.  So I stayed in my room most of the time and only came out to eat or when they weren’t there.  Sometimes I would take the Christmas albums up to my room and listen to them.  I would look at my little tree lighting up my little corner of the world (I always had my own tree in my room).  No other lights.  I could stare at the tree and think my way through happy memories, struggle with issues I was dealing with both at home and typical teenage worries and basically just lose myself for a while.  At times, I would be inspired to write.  And although life hadn’t always been easy, I fervently prayed that life would somehow deliver a Christmas miracle.

I suppose you could say the only true miracle that
happened that holiday season was that it was the last one we had to endure with Brent in our lives.  Mom was out of town as much as she could be by this time.  Life at home wasn’t exactly a party to say the least.  However, I had some great friends and the dream that one day I would have a boyfriend who would kiss me under the mistletoe.  Just thinking about that made my toes tingle!

*****

Thanksgiving went pretty much as normal for his house.  He didn’t have a big family so it was just the three of them.  His mom knew how to cook some delicious food, but doing an all out big meal was sometimes a tad much for her.  She had the tendency to stress out, so most years, they just had their favorites for dinner.  It was nice for him to be able to choose his favorite, spaghetti and meatballs.  Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to have a big family and do the traditional turkey and dressing, but he figured that  wasn’t going to happen unless he had a big family of his own.

Christmas wasn’t much different.  He was an only child.  That meant that he didn’t have to fight for attention.  He didn’t have to share the spread of toys
, and he got whatever he wanted or asked for.  His family wasn’t wealthy, but since they didn’t have anyone else to spoil, they lavished it all on him.  He would be lying if he said he didn’t absolutely love that, and yet, it was bittersweet being the only one opening gifts.  Sure, his parents had gifts too, but they usually knew what was under the tree.  Once he figured that out, and of course, once he realized that Santa’s magic was just his parents giving him everything he asked for, waking up on Christmas morning seemed to lose something special.

Sometimes he wondered why his mom went through the m
otions of wrapping gifts.  He knew if he asked for it, it was his.  And that was great, but it was boring.  Would it be different if there were more voices in the morning rushing to see what was under the tree?  Would he be jealous of any siblings he would have to share anything with?  Probably.  Still, the thought lingered every year as the wrapping came off the presents quietly and they ate breakfast together. 

His mom was great though.  He knew that she loved him more than life itself.  And his dad was pretty cool too.  They were old school.  Didn’t talk about the “birds and the bees” b
ecause it was too uncomfortable.  Wouldn’t argue because that caused too much stress.  He wouldn’t say his mom was fragile, but she just couldn’t handle the tough stuff.  She simply avoided it.  She didn’t want to admit her only little boy was growing up.

Jack’s dad had a personality bigger than life.  He was a “glass half full” guy.  He never seemed to get mad about an
ything.  Took life in stride as it happened.  He would go to work, do his job, come home to a home-cooked meal by a devoted wife and knew love, REAL love.  He was one happy guy.  But he didn’t like to talk about the realities of life.  Why should he?  He lived the perfect life.  Jack loved his parents.  He just wished sometimes that there was more.  He felt these deep emotions and couldn’t talk to them about it.  His body was constantly changing and the only people he could talk to about it were his friends.  Not much help there, they were dealing with the same stuff!  They were all sheltered kids sent to Catholic school and smacked on the hand with a ruler by a nun if they were out of line or asked too many questions.

Hammond had a large population of Italians.  Big fam
ilies, loud boisterous family gatherings, the whole enchilada. 
Or maybe the whole pizza
, he laughed to himself.  He knew that everyone talked over each other using wild hand gestures and emotional explanations when they all got together.  It was chaos.  Tons of food prepared by the women, tons of beer and wine drunk by the men, kids everywhere running and screaming.  Jack shuddered at the thought, and yet he longed for it.  Anything but the quiet and polite life he led with his small, simple family. 

This year the holidays started as usual.  One thing was different though.  He was fourteen years old and his body was changing into a man’s body.  He noticed that hair was beginning to sprout EVERYWHERE on his body.  He went to sleep thin
king about girls, he dreamed about girls, and he woke up every morning wishing he knew what to do with the way his body reacted to this phenomenon.  It was embarrassing.  His mom still came in to change his sheets and do his laundry.  She never asked questions.  In fact, she probably didn’t even notice as he tried to hide the evidence.  He had no idea how he would look her in the face if she asked him.  He figured his dad knew something was changing about him, but his dad never said anything to him either.  He was pretty much on his own.  It was so confusing!  And now, it wasn’t just images of girls wearing tight sweaters and tight jeans in his dreams, it was faces.  One particular face actually.  And those eyes haunted him as he slept and even as he would sit thinking about anything at all.  Thinking about her made his body react in ways he couldn’t have imagined.  But it wasn’t like the typical guy stuff.  There was something that lingered in the pit of his stomach. No, more like a light that emanated from his soul.  There was only one problem.  She said no.  The harder he tried to put her out of his mind, the more he could see her smile, hear her laugh, and feel her presence permeate him in every way.  He had it bad.  He just hoped that this was a passing fancy, and he would move on soon.  Until then, it was certainly a beautiful sight to see Suzy each time he closed his eyes.  If only he could be more like her with her confidence and warmth.  If only he could kiss her lips and hold her close…