Stop Him

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On the bus I sat next to Halle this time and she shared her headphones, bumping Fall Out Boy and Panic at the Disco.  I nodded along, staring out the window vacantly until I saw him in the reflection of the window—Charles.  It looked like he was looking at me from where he was seated across the way.  Biting my lip, I stared back at his serious gaze, wondering why he was so weird today.

    In gym, I’d made the mistake of approaching him during the game.

    He’d all but snubbed me with nothing but a nod in my direction before going the opposite way.  Avoiding me completely.

    It was weird since he was the one who’d initiated our first interaction, going out of his way to come talk to me.  Then again, I’d been wearing those tight shorts, right?  That’s why he spoke to me in the first place, to tell me to watch out for myself.  And when I sat next to him on the bus, I’d been the one who chose that spot, the one carrying the conversation—when I turned to look at him, he turned his head, staring out the window.  Evasive.  Turning back toward the window, I grimaced.  Awkward.  It was so awkward.  And so stupid.

    I didn’t have time to worry about strange boys.

    I had bigger problems to deal with.

    As the bus pulled up to my stop, I rose form the seat and Halle got up so I could get out, giving me a small wave as she slumped back into her seat.  I smiled at her, turning forward to frown now that I thought about being home . . . probably alone.

    Maybe I’d wait on the porch for someone to show up.

    But what if the one to show up is my dad?

    Climbing down the steps, I noticed that the truck was in the driveway.

    I wouldn’t be alone, sure, but I didn’t feel great about having company either.

    Heading up the front steps, I quietly unlocked the door, heading inside.  Snores.  So dad was definitely home, slumped on the couch, fast asleep.  There were three bottles on the floor next to where his hand was dangling, a bag of chips lying next to him.  His drinking is getting worse every day.  Carefully shutting the door, I locked it, glancing up toward the steps, chewing on my cheek.

    I didn’t want to wake dad up.

    He’d be grumpy.

    He’s bad enough when he’s in a good mood—I didn’t want to deal with him grumpy.

    But—

    Glancing back toward the stairs, I saw her.

    Or I think I did.

    A flash of somebody moving across the upstairs landing.  I couldn’t see well enough and, stepping backwards, I tried to see better when—

    Clank.

    I jumped, glancing back to find my father’s hand had smacked one of the bottles over, his eyes now wide open.  “What?”  Gruff, confused, he sat up and glanced about with bleary eyes.  s**t.  Turning, I tried to make a break for my room when his eyes landed on me.  “Gertrude?  That you?  Where’s your mother?”  He always asked that when he was smacked.  Always searching for my mother.  “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”  He blinked, smacking his lips.

    It’s only three in the afternoon.

    “Yeah,” I agreed.  I used to tell him the time, argue with him, and it caused nothing but grief.  Gave me migraines, pissed off mom—it’s just not worth the aggravation.  I went to take a few steps up toward the landing when I could’ve sworn I saw her again.  She’d ducked into the bathroom.  My feet planted in place, joints stiffening as I stared warily upstairs, I felt my heart racing.  Twice.  I’d seen her twice now and I’d only been in the house for less than five minutes.

    “Then go on to bed,” he said, voice gruff.  “Don’t just stand there.”

    “A snack,” I said, moving back down the steps.  “You hungry?  I’ll make you a sandwich.”  It was a peace offering, really.  The only time he’s not confrontational is when he’s eating.

    “Grilled cheese?”  It came out like a question but I knew it wasn’t.  He was placing an order.

    “Sounds good,” I said.  “Just a few minutes.”  A few long minutes if I could help it.  I marched into the kitchen, ignoring my sweaty palms, my mounting anxiety—what do I do?  I was thankful mom had gone shopping for the basics anyway.  Bread, cheese, and mayonnaise were readily available which is all I needed for this gourmet recipe I was about to whip up.  As I slathered the bread with mayo, slapping it down onto a hot pan, I tried to picture the girl and realized I still . . . couldn’t.

    Blurred.

    It was like she was blurred in my memory.

    Skin a sickly pallor, dark hair, and she was thin—that’s all I could remember.

    All I could see.

    Three times now.

    Last night, up close and personal.  And twice today, just glimpses but enough to know—it had to be her, right?  The same girl.  God, one was bad enough wasn’t it?

    Who do I even talk to about this . . . apparition?

    It was while I was finishing up the first sandwich that I looked up and, in the reflection of the front of microwave, I saw somebody was standing behind me.  A ripple of fear tore through me until I recognized that stance.  Dad.  He was leaning against the kitchen wall, bottle tilted to his head.  Drinking.  When does he stop drinking?  “That’s taking a hell of a long time, kid.”

    Yeah.  Slapping his grilled cheese onto a paper plate, I handed it over to him.  “For you.”

     “Don’t we have any tomato soup?” he grumbled, taking a seat on the chair.

    Probably not.  I went through the cabinet anyway.  “We have spaghetti-O’s.”

    “Same s**t,” he grumbled.

    So . . . I guess he wants it?  I quirked a brow but he wasn’t even looking at me, already stuffing his face.  Rolling my eyes, I opened the can, dumping it into a plastic bowl and putting it into the microwave for him.  I’d make him two grilled cheeses, I guess.  Maybe a little food would help sober him up, anyway.  The bread might sop up all the alcohol in his stomach.

    “Why doesn’t your mother cook anymore?” he complained.

    I gripped the pan handle, thinking about whacking him in the head with the pan.  No.  Letting go of it, I thought better, trying to calm my temper down.

    I’m not scared of my father.  He’s a pain in the ass, yes, but he’s not abusive.

    I am scared that he might open his mouth one day and I might just . . . snap.  Sometimes when he’s passed out somewhere, I think about smothering him.  It would be easy.  I hate myself for thinking about how easy it would be.

    God, that sounds terrible.

    Maybe I am terrible.

    Don’t get me wrong, I love my dad.  Or at least, I loved the man my dad used to be.  Before the alcohol changed him, before the addiction tuned him into . . . this.  And sadly, alcoholism isn’t even close to being his only vice.  That’s just the one that enables all the others to rear their ugly heads.  And mom . . . she’s not like me.  She’s too forgiving.

    She just makes excuses for those vices too.

    And she suffers greatly for it.

    “She works a lot,” I said, watching the cheese melt.

    “Excuses,” he spat.

    My jaw tightened but I bit my tongue, tossing another grilled cheese onto his plate.  He should starve.  I told my mother once to just stop.  Stop providing for him.  Stop feeding him.  Stop wiping his ass.  Just stop.  Make him suffer, let him struggle alone—but she and I aren’t the same and we both know what letting my father suffer alone looks like.

    Let’s just say, he doesn’t stay alone for long.

    The microwave went off and I pulled it out, mixing the sodium packed carbs with a spoon before setting it down in front of him.  “It’s hot.”

    He waved his hand, dismissive and I rolled my eyes again.

    Fine, burn your mouth then.  See if I care.

    When I finished my grilled cheese, I noticed that he was almost done with his food and, rising thoughtlessly from the table, he headed back to the living room, taking his beer with him—leaving behind a dirty plate and bowl.

    Pig.

    I cleaned the pots, the plates, the damn bowl.  Dried them off, put them back.  On the edge of irate, I took my food upstairs, away from the slob snoring on the couch again.  I was so agitated, it wasn’t until I’d reached the top landing that I realized I wasn’t up here alone.

    I’d nearly forgotten about her until I noticed the bathroom door was open.

    That’s where she’d gone, right?  The bathroom?

    Nervously, I stood there, grilled cheese in hand, peering toward the shower curtain.

    I kept expecting it to shift, maybe it would slide open and there she'd be.

    Would she crawl toward me like the Grudge?  Or worse, meow like that creepy little Asian boy?

    Thinking about it was really freaking me out.

    At least I had an offering if she came at me, right?  Here ghost, my peace offering.  No, I don’t want to be your friend but at least I have no ill intentions.  That would go over well, right?

    A creak to my left.

    I turned to find her seated on my bed.

    Just sitting there, completely calm, motionless.

    Blurred.

    My blood felt like it had turned to ice, frozen in my veins as I gaped.

    Why, God?  Why me?

    Swallowing, I took a step backwards, noticing how her head tilted to the side.

    f**k.  Oh f**k.  Nope.  It’s not real, this isn’t real, can’t be real—all in my mind.  I’m crazy.  I’m f*****g crazy and Jesus Christ, she’s standing up.  No, no, no—reaching out, I shut the door between us, feeling my heart thump loudly in my ears.  f**k that.  Turning, I walked down the steps, trying to remain as calm as possible as I went.

    Don’t alarm the slob, he'll just make things worse.  Act natural.

    When I heard my doorknob to my room rattle, I walked a little bit faster, moving toward the front door.  Stay calm, pretend you don’t hear it, don’t see it—

    “Where are you going?”  My father.  He’s still here.  He can live with the creepy ghost girl.  I bet he keeps her company in his drunken state.  Why couldn’t she choose him?  He’s a better candidate for friendship than me.  He has all day to spend time with her if she wants.  He’s just . . . bossy and sleeps a lot—okay, I guess I see why he wouldn’t be her first pick.

    “To sit on the porch."  It was hardly a whisper.  Escaping.  Can't he see I'm escaping?

    “What?  Speak up!”

    I flinched at the loud noise.  It would only attract her more, I think.  Being loud.  making a scene.  “I’m going out to sit on the porch,” I said, louder.

    “What?  At this time of night?”

    I was about to snap at him, tell him what time it really was, when the creak of a door upstairs sent a trill of panic through me.  Here she comes.  “I just need some fresh air,” I lied, moving out the front door.  Hurry, hurry, hurry, I was chanting in my head, quickly shutting the door after me, leaning back against it.

    I ran my hand over my face, panting quietly.

    She was sitting on my bed.

    Just a few feet away from me.

    I still . . . I still couldn’t see her, not clearly.  Even that close, it was like . . . like she was—

    My phone went off and I jumped, reaching for it in my pocket.  Answering, I heard a familiar voice say,     “Hey, is this Gigi?”

    “Steven,” I breathed, raking my hand through my hair.  “How did you get my number?”

    “Oh, well actually—“

    “I don’t care.  Want to hang out?”  Please.  I’d go anywhere with anybody at this point.

    He chuckled, “Uh, yeah.  Send me your address.”

    Licking my lips, I said, “Okay,” walking forward down the walk, noticing how there were a few kids playing in the neighbors’ yard.  It was bright outside, the sun shining on a crisp autumn day, and I had a ghost in my bedroom.  Glancing up toward the bedroom window I thought I saw my curtain shift and my stomach twisted in knots.  This isn’t one of those low-key hauntings—I need to call an exorcist or something to come chase this girl out because . . . she’s not shy at all.  “We can’t hang out at my house,” I added, shooting him my address.

    “That’s fine.  We’ll find something to do.”  He sounded amused.

    Something to do, he says.  “Just as . . . friends,” I pushed, pacing in front of my house now.

    “Friends.”  It rolled off his tongue, like he was tasting something sour.  “Sure.  We’re friends.”

    “Um, okay—“

    Turning, my eyes landed on Charles where he was chasing one of the kids across the street.  A family of redheads.  I froze, realizing that was his family.  His . . . house.

    Neighbors.  We’re neighbors?

    “I’ll be there in a few,” Steven said.

    Charles had a wide grin on his face, chasing after what I assumed was his little brother, and then his eyes landed on me and the smile shifted.  He stopped running, panting, both of us just kind of staring at each other, dumbfounded.

    We’re really neighbors.

    “Gigi?  Did you hear me?”  Steven’s voice was booming.

    “Yeah,” I said, snapping back to reality.  “Sounds good.”

    The little boy called out to him and he turned his back to me, proceeding with the chasing.  My eyes snapped back up to my bedroom window, waiting, watching.  Nothing.  I didn’t see her anymore.  But I knew she was there.  I imagined her seated on my bed, patiently waiting for my return.

    Glancing down at my grilled cheese, I felt my stomach growl even as anxiety made it churn.

    Taking a bite, I walked over to the steps, taking a seat on the second to last one.

    I can't go back up there.

    We have to move.

    Chewing anxiously, I had no idea how I was going to convince my parents that we have to move.

    I'd have to convince them one way or another.

    I thought about the girl, her blurred image stuck in my mind.

    And I'd have to convince them quickly.