Savannah Burning

Chapter Thirteen

For once I woke up not to someone trying to wake me up, but my alarm clock. I never thought I’d be so happy to wake up to its persistent buzzing, but at least I didn’t have to have a conversation with it. I was even able to sit down and have a cup of coffee with Dad while waiting for Robbie to come scoop me up.

Mom came out of her room, her hair still damp from her morning shower. “Do you want a ride to school today?” She asked, pouring herself a cup.

“Robbie’s coming to get me,” I said. Her eyes flickered to Dad over the rim of her mug. I glanced between the two of them before setting my own cup down, coffee sloshing over the side and onto the counter. “What?” I asked. “What is it?”

“Well –“

“Maybe we should have this discussion later,” Dad interrupted. “Sometime after school.”

“You may as well tell me now,” I insisted. Mom took a breath.

“Beth –“ Dad started.

“Your father’s lawyer called when you were with Savanna last night,” Mom blurted out. I glanced at Dad about a half-second before I realized she wasn’t referring to Dad. When I didn’t say anything she continued on. “He’s up for parole, apparently.” She didn’t bother to keep the toxicity out of her voice.

“And I should care because . . .” My voice was steady despite my shaking hands which were clenched in my lap, hidden underneath the counter.

“He wants you to testify.” Dad said, unable to meet my eye. I glanced from him to Mom and back again.

“This is a f*****g joke,” I said as a horn honked from the driveway.

“Tyson,” Mom pleaded.

“I have to go,” I said, grabbing my backpack.

“Wait,” Dad tried, but I was already out the door.

“The man, the myth, the legend!” Robbie said when I got into the Astrovan. “Daisy told me you and Ms. Girl-Next-Door had a date last night. How did it go? Did you . . . you know?” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“Not today, Robbie,” I said, sinking down into the seat. Robbie glanced over, no doubt ready to retort back, but took one look at the expression on my face and stopped himself from saying anything else.

We drove to school in silence. We were running late – as was always the case with Robbie – and so we met up with Daisy in homeroom. I let them carry the conversation and then, later, when we had to part ways with Robbie, I made sure to nod and “hmmm” in all the right places in Daisy’s stories and gossip throughout the day.

Gym class was a different story, though. It was the one of the only classes I didn’t share with one of my two best friends.

It wasn’t until we first began changing clothes for gym class back in middle school when I became painfully aware and insecure about the state of which my body had become. Kids that age are ruthless – that isn’t anything new. Gavin McIntyre took one look at the small, off-colored scars that were scattered across my back and immediately nicknamed me The Leper, something he picked up from a B-rated movie.

I was so young at the time; I didn’t even fully understand how I got them. I didn’t want to tell my parents about the bullying – I was afraid that they, too, would see the marks as a disease and send me back to wherever it was I came from. It was the first time I felt anger to that intensity as well as shame.

At first I tried to just not change for class. I figured if people couldn’t see the marks on my back then they’d forget. When my gym teacher told me I had to change or risk detention, I stopped showing up all together, opting to hide out in the handicapped one-stall bathroom where I knew nobody would find nor bother me.

Obviously cutting class wasn’t the smartest idea either. The Principal had to call in my parents which is how they found out about the bullying and my confusion about my skin.

I’ll never forget the day they had to sit down with me and explain that it wasn’t leprosy or a disease; they were scars from cigarette burns.

The one on my right shoulder blade, the biggest, ugliest one, is what put me into the hospital at four years old. I nearly died from infection. I was in the hospital for just over a month before I was healthy enough for the state to take me in, my father having being arrested for the abuse and manslaughter. My birth mother hadn’t been lucky enough to make it to a hospital in time.

It took a really, really long time for me to be okay with exposing my back to anyone. Undershirts and, when we’d go out surfing, rashguards were worn. Always. The physical confidence was one thing but mentally coming to terms with my history was a whole different battle. There were days where I’d cut school entirety, the anxiety of knowing that I had to change in front of people or, worse, change in hiding when everyone has already seen and knew why I was ashamed was too much for me to handle most days. Often times I’d leave school and hop on a bus to Mermaid’s Song and fish with Dan or just hang out and watch him work.

When I was halfway through freshman year, Mrs. Kingery sat down with me and my parents and told them I was on the brink of expulsion due to my missed days. She made a deal with me – I’d see the school counselor three times a week in exchange for a clean slate. Instead of feeling relieved that she was pulling strings for me, it made me feel worse; I didn’t feel like I deserved her empathy, or the life my parents were giving me. It’s been a long two and a half years, but I wouldn’t be the person I am today if she hadn’t taken that risk on me.

The skipping stopped over time. There had only been a few, sparse slip-ups on really bad days. The school counselor helped more than I’d like to admit. I still pop my head in there sometimes just to say hi. He pulled a lot of strings for me, too.

I reminded myself of all these things as I sat on the bench in the boy’s locker room while everyone else changed for class. I barely registered them filing out one by one as I tried to talk myself into changing, but I hadn’t been able to still my shaking hands all day.

I closed my eyes, pressed a hand to my chest.

Don’t let it win, I reminded myself as I ground my teeth into each other, forcing myself to take deep, even breaths through my nose.

Breathe, the counselor told me as he gripped my shoulders during a panic attack in his office one day.

Breathe, Dan had reminded me.

My scar itched.

My lungs ached.

My palm burned from my nails burying themselves into the soft flesh there.

I wasn’t sure I could breathe past this one.

“Tyson?” I looked up. Coach Johnson stood in the doorway to the gym. “You doing okay?” I shook my head. He came over and sat next to me, his whistle dangling from his neck. “I can write you a pass to the nurse’s office,” he said quietly. He also knew. Without meeting his eye, I nodded. He reached into his back pocket and handed me a pass.

“Thank you,” I said hoarsely before leaving the locker room. Instead of turning right down the hallway towards the nurse’s office I went left to where I knew Robbie had class. I texted him, asking if he could meet me in the bathroom in that block.

“What’s up, dude?” He asked when he finally joined me.

“Can I borrow the van?” I asked him quietly. There was a pause. I stared at the tiles on the floor.

“Dude –“

“I’ll be back by final bell, I swear,” I pleaded.

“Man, it’s not about the car,” he said, waving me off. “What’s going on with you today? Daisy’s been texting me all morning wondering if you’re pissed at her for something.”

“I can’t –“ my voice cracked and I shook my head. “I don’t want to talk about it right now. But after, I will. I promise.”

Robbie sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Okay,” he finally agreed, fishing his keys out of his pocket and dropping them into my hand. “Just don’t be an i***t and go easy on the brakes, okay?” And then he grabbed me, pulling me in for a hug. Not one of those half-assed hugs but a two-armed, full blown bear hug. “I got you, bro.”

#

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My parents were going to kill me. This was a fact.

I cautiously drove the Astrovan to Mermaid’s Song, my phone on silent mode and tucked into my backpack in the trunk. I pulled up next to the R.V. Dan was already outside, sculpting a creation a few feet away from his home.

“Hey,” I said as I approached him, my hands stuffed into the pockets of my windbreaker. I underestimated how cold it was. Dan looked up at me and then towards the sun.

“What day is it?” He asked, turning back to his work.

“Monday,” I answered. He grunted.

“Monday is a school day.”

“I know,” I said quietly, burying the toe of my shoe into the sand. He sighed, standing up and used a rag to wipe the sand off his hands.

“Alright,” he said. “As long as you know.” He looked out into the ocean, his eyes scanning the horizon. “Are we fishing or surfing today?”

My stomach flipped. He was still on my side. Despite all the times I got him in trouble with my mother, he was still on my side. “Surf,” I said. “Definitely surf.”

Dan’s wetsuit was a little big on me. I was the same height as him and, miraculously, the same foot size, but I didn’t fill the suit out as much as Dan did. When we ducked under the wave the cold, biting water seeped between me and the foam neoprene and despite my chattering teeth I pushed forward. I needed this.

I pulled up alongside Dan whom was already waiting for me to catch up. The cold somehow never bothered nor hindered him. We lay flat on our stomachs, our boards rocking gently beneath us as we waited for the next set of waves to come our way. My hand skimmed the surface of the ocean as it rose and swell beneath my palm. The salt was stinging my salt lips and I knew my parents would kill me for this.

But I needed it.

I breathed.

“There you go,” Dan said, nodding towards a swell heading our way. “Take the first one. I’ll catch up.” He pounded my fist and I turned the board towards the beach but kept my head turned towards the ocean, watching over my shoulder, waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting.

Paddling. Hard.

Heart beating. Hard.

The wave began to pick up behind me and I surrendered myself to it, letting it push me as I gripped the edges of my board. Right foot up. Left foot to follow, body upright and . . .

Breathe.