Breaking Point (2 page)

“I know that.”
The reason is, my father's sleeping with his secretary
. But I didn't say that, didn't even say anything about her calling me “sweetheart,” which she'd promised to stop.

We reached our landing and walked in silence, me closing my eyes and praying,
Please, God. Please let us get through this one day without her crying
.

She pushed open the door. We stood there, looking at the rented beige sofa, generic table, and every stupid figurine my parents had bought during their marriage. Dad hadn't wanted mementos. He'd just wanted out. Through the still-open door, I heard a car backfiring, rap music, an argument down the hall. Mom's hand strayed to my shoulder. I backed off.

“I'll go put my books away.”

She nodded, and I retreated to my room. But seconds later, as I fitted my books into the milk crates we'd decided would work for shelves, I heard her crying.

So much for prayer
.

I did what I'd been thinking about doing for a while. I walked to the phone and dialed my father's number. He hadn't called since the divorce. I didn't even know what I'd say. It rang once. Twice. Three times. Then, Dad's voice on the answering machine, “You've reached the residence of Lieutenant Colonel Glenn Richmond.” I hung up.

I flopped onto my bed. Mom was still crying. I wanted to go on-line, but in our tiny apartment, Mom would hear the modem, then grill me about what I'd been doing. So I lay there, breathing deeply, drowning her out from inside my head. Dad's voice was still in there too.

I couldn't pinpoint the day Dad had stopped loving us. But if I had to guess, I'd say it began when we'd moved to Kentucky and Mom started homeschooling me.

We'd moved a lot. Between kindergarten and second grade, I'd attended four schools, always transferring midyear, always the new kid being sized up by everyone. I learned to be shy. Mom was a pro at it already. By our third move, she stopped joining Bible-study groups, stopped doing volunteer work or signing me up for sports teams. I couldn't catch a ball anyway. Mom spent her days cleaning our spotless house, waiting for me to get home so we could do homework together, then curl up on the sofa and watch cartoons until Dad came home for dinner. When Dad came home for dinner.

My second-grade year, we lived in Washington. State, I think. At least, it rained a lot. Dad got home early one night, smile plastered to his face. I knew what was coming.

“Guess what?” Dad said over dinner.

“We're moving again,” Mom guessed.

“Don't look so happy. I got a promotion. I'll finally be a major, and we're going to Kentucky.” He grinned wider and tousled my hair. “Home of the Derby, son.”

“Can I have a horse?” I asked.

“Sure.” He patted my shoulder.

But Mom stood, her face a confusion of fear, fury, and despair. “Don't do that. Don't promise him things, get his hopes up like that.”

“Would you calm down? It will be fun—a new adventure.”

“For you, it's an adventure. For Paul and me, it's just another move, another new school, another grocery store to figure out, then move as soon as I know where the cereal is.”

“The cereal?” Dad's smile disappeared like always. “This is what army families do, Laura.”

“Well, I'm sick of it.
We're
sick of it.”

“Can I still have a horse?” I asked.

I got sent to my room. But I heard them fighting, into the night. In the morning, I came downstairs to find that, as all warring armies eventually do, my parents had reached a treaty.

Mom patted the seat beside her. “Paul, how would you like to stay home with me? No new school, no new kids to deal with. Just you and me—together.”

She'd made chocolate-chip pancakes. She always did when arguing with Dad. I loved them, though they made me sick to my stomach later. I nodded. I didn't like school anyway. But mostly, I wanted Mom and Dad to stop fighting. I wanted Mom to be happy because maybe, if Mom was happy, Dad would be happy. Maybe he'd come home more.

“Paul!” Now Mom was knocking on my bedroom door.

I jumped up. “Yeah?” It had become dark as I'd lain there.

Mom came in. She wore her ratty bathrobe, though it was still hours to bed. She shrugged. “No sense staying dressed for just the two of us.” She pulled a hair.

Stop that!
I wanted to scream.
Just stop it!
I didn't know whether I meant the hair-pulling or the way she'd just given up on everything. Was she doing it to torture me? And how could I keep from being a loser when
she
was so content to be one? I was through being a loser. I'd been one long enough.

She sat at the edge of the bed and motioned for me to sit too. I shook my head, but did her the favor of meeting her eyes. On the verge of tears, as usual. I knew I should feel guilty, but I didn't. I knew she was lonely. I knew she was depressed. I knew all that. But she'd been this way as long as I could remember. Too long.

But I switched on the light and sat beside her. “It will be okay,” I said.

“Oh, sweetheart, I hope so.” Then she was crying again. She scooted closer, wrapping her arms around my neck, reaching to stroke my hair. “I didn't want it to be like this.”

“Yeah, I know.” I stayed there a second, then pulled back, stood. I gestured toward the books. “I want to put this stuff away before dinner.”

Over the years, the cooking had fallen to me. But today, I hadn't even started. Mom sniffled a few more times, then forced a smile. “I'll make a salad, okay?”

She didn't close the door when she left. I flopped back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling.

At first, I'd liked staying home with Mom. We'd had time for reading, going to the park, playing games, doing nothing. We went to museums and saw other kids, groups on school field trips. They formed human arm chains that tangled around the statues or Civil War relics. Instead of examining the muskets, I watched the spitball-shooting boys, giggling girls, weary moms, like they were a study I was doing.

And if it hadn't been for the Internet, the people I met in the safe anonymity of chat rooms, I'd never have known anything except what Mom thought, what she believed in. I spent more and more time on-line.

I looked at my computer again. I ached to log on now, to see who was on from my buddy list and how
their
first day of school had been, wherever they were. I'd have settled for a round of Tomb Raider. Anything to get myself out of my head. But the door was open. Mom was listening. The computer cut into “family time,” which was why I liked it and why Mom hated it.

So, I just lay on the bed, stuck there with myself.

The telephone's ring startled me out of my trance. Was it Dad?

No. I hadn't left a message.

Still, I answered on the second ring.

“Faggot.” A voice, a mean voice, invaded my ears.

“Go back where you belong.” Another voice.

“Who is this?” I asked stupidly.

The line went dead.

I stood there, looking at the receiver, then at my own hands.

“Who was that, sweetheart?” A voice from the hall.

My mother. She'd been listening, of course. Did she know?

No, of course not.

“Just … just a wrong number.”
Don't come in here
. “I'll be out in a sec.”

“Salad's almost ready.”

“Fine.”

I stood and started putting away my books.

The last place we'd lived was North Carolina. I was home with Mom. Dad worked late every night, coming home long after I'd gone to bed, if he came home at all. Until, one night, he got home early. He announced he was moving out.

I gaped. Mom said nothing. Dad looked at me for once. “This isn't your fault, Paul.”

Then why say it?

“No one's fault, really. Who understands the reason for something like this?”

But the following week, we found out the reason. Her name was Stephanie—Hurricane Stephanie, Mom called her. She worked with Dad. She was pregnant.

The divorce was quick and painful, a Band-Aid ripped from a festering wound. We moved again, to Florida. But now, it was just Mom and me, and Mom had to work. She hadn't done well in the divorce. She explained that everything they owned was part of Dad's job, protected somehow. The only things Mom got were their collection of Royal Doulton figurines and me—the junk Dad hadn't wanted.

“Paul!” Mom's voice from the kitchen was trembly.
For God's sake
.

I shoved the last book into the milk crate. The telephone rang again.

I shouldn't answer. Probably another crank call.

Still, what if it
was
an obscene phone call and my mother picked it up?

Or maybe it was Dad.

“Hello?”

“That you, Richmond?”

I recognized the voice. Binky, from the registration line. “Yeah. How'd you get my number?”

“School directory.”

“What's up?”
Why are you calling me?

“Just wanted to find out your schedule. We moved here three years ago, so I know it's weird your first day.”

“Is it like that for everyone?”

“Sure. Why would you be different?”

“No reason.”

We talked longer, me reading her my schedule, her assuring me I'd drawn all the teachers who'd come to Gate because Principal Meeks allowed them to practice electroshock therapy or use their cat-o'-nine-tails on unruly students. But I was blown away, thinking,
I made a friend
. Maybe she was another loser like me, but she was still a friend. And that was one more than I'd ever had before.

“Anyone else?” Mrs. Ivins, my Algebra II teacher, looked hopefully around the room. No other hands.

I tried to sneak mine down. Too late. I was nabbed.

“Mr. Richmond.” It came out a sigh.

Mrs. Ivins had begun class each day by putting a word problem on the board. They were pretty easy quadratic equations. Yet, for the third straight day, I was the only one to volunteer.

Everyone stared as I walked to the board. But a senior jock in the front row slapped my back as I passed. “Go, Richmond!”

So, I was grinning when I started.

A man can build a brick wall in 2 hours less than his coworker. Working together, they can finish in 2 hours, 24 minutes. How fast can each man do it alone?

I wrote:

Behind me, a snicker. Someone shushed the snickerer. Why had I volunteered? Why? I turned. Mrs. Ivins twisted to see the board. She nodded.

I wrote:

Another snicker.
Ignore it
.