time I’m able to look down the hall, the voice is long gone. I wonder if there was even anyone there at

all, or if I’m hearing things now too.

The words echo in my head, and I realize that I haven’t knocked. I watch as my hand raises itself

slowly, rapping on the door.

I count my breaths as I wait for him to answer. I reach four and blink, and he’s suddenly there, the

door open enough for me to see the center of his body from head to toe. And even that limited view is

beautiful. I can only stare at him as he stands there. I’m still counting my breaths for some reason, and I

get to nine before he says something.

“What.”

It wasn’t the reception I was hoping for, but at this point, I’m willing to take anything. At least he’s

talking to me at all.

“I need…” I trail off. Why am I here again? What do I need? A fuck? A hug? Someone to talk to? I

open my mouth to say something, but all the words stick on my tongue, and nothing comes out.

“You’re messed up, Keller. Go home.”

This breaks me out of whatever haze I’m in. I can’t leave now. Not yet. Wasn’t there something I

wanted to tell him? Some reason I came here in the first place? Something that seemed so urgent as I

was in my room, laying on my bed, waiting as whatever I’d bought from Marc worked its way into my

brain.

Staring into Rizzo’s dark eyes, I remember why I can’t leave yet.

“No!” And I can tell I’m almost yelling, even though I don’t think I meant to when I opened my

mouth. But my own voice makes me remember what it was I wanted to say, and I push on even though

the words still want to stay hidden behind my teeth. “No, I won’t. I need to stay. And you need to listen.

I’m so sick of you ignoring…” He’s not even paying attention to me now. He’s focusing on something

over my shoulder. I slap my hand on the door, close to his face. “Listen to me! Pay attention to me for

one goddamn minute!” His gaze lands on me again, but it’s not what I want. It’s not enough.

I step in closer to the opening of the door and reach out my hand to touch the T-shirt that covers his

chest. He steps back just as my fingers brush the soft material, and I whine softly, like some sort of

pathetic animal, wanting something to touch, something to feel. His eyes turn dark and cold, and I’m

not sure if it’s from anger or from something else that might be pain if this wasn’t Rizzo.

“Rizzo, please…”

“No. I’m not your mother, Keller. Go. Don’t come around again.” And he steps back and closes the

door, cutting me off. Locking me out. Just like that. And that’s it.

I lay my hand flat against the wood, resting my forehead next to it and trying to breathe, but it’s not

easy. I can hear him moving on the other side of the door, doing whatever it is he does when he’s in

there alone. Every little sound is like a bullet in my head.

* * *

It’s the last day of sixth grade, and the sun is still high in the sky when I use my key to open the door to

the house. The sound of my bag hitting the floor echoes through the entryway and I call out into the

silence.

I walk a giant circle through the house before I find the letter from mom on the kitchen counter, next

to the blinking answering machine. The note tells me that she’s gone out of town with her new

boyfriend, and that dad will pick me up before dinner to stay at his place for the weekend. There’s no

phone number on the note.

I hit ‘play’ on the answering machine, and my dad’s voice is there, telling my mom that something’s

come up and that he won’t be able to pick me up. That he’s been pulled out of town on some business

and won’t be back until Monday. He doesn’t leave a phone number.

I look around again and wonder how such a big house can feel so much like it’s trapping you when

you’re alone.

* * *

I don’t go back to my room after I finally leave Rizzo’s. Instead, I listen to the low thrumming of the

drugs in my veins, telling me to find someone else to help me forget everything. I find a group of people

with more alcohol than they can drink, help them finish it off, screw one of the girls that climbs into my

lap, and pass out until the sun wakes me up the next day.

I have no clue what time it is, but the sun is high above me when I drag myself out of there. I get

back to my prison of a dorm room and don’t even bother to lock the door behind me. I don’t really see

the point. No one ever comes here anyway.

I think about going out and finding another party. Finding someone else to spend tonight with. But

I’m feeling so transparent right now that I’m not sure anyone else would even be able to see me.

I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Every time I think, every time I breathe in, every time I blink

my eyes, it hurts so much I think I’m going to scream. But I know that screaming would hurt just as

much. Or more.

I turn my head to look away from the ceiling, and my eyes land on the wonderful little pile of stuff I

bought off Marc yesterday. It helped to numb things enough that they didn’t hurt so fucking much, the

memories of getting kicked out of the show, of Rizzo shutting the door in my face.

I grab the bag and tip the whole thing out onto my bed, a little avalanche of pills. I look at them,

count them, wonder how many it’ll take to make the memories stop hurting. I grab one of the bottles left

near my bed and wash down as many I can with the warm sludge left at the bottom of it. It burns all the

way down.

As things start to go fuzzy again, I wonder if it’ll be enough to make the pain stop.

Chapter 13

Ripcord

DANNY: Rehearsals for the show are finally getting somewhere. More precisely, to the point where

everybody seems to settle in, and the initial awkwardness passes. You can tell by those quietly working

behind the scenes, building the set or sewing costumes stopping every so often to watch.

I’ll let you in on a little secret. The only reason I got into acting was that it pisses Lilah off so bad.

She’d planned for me to become Mr. Bigtime to impress her Country Club friends. Guess she’s still

trying to make up for the old faux pas, a.k.a. her marriage to my procreator. After divorce number one

(which is the only one that counts for me) I figured that I had two options: to play along and grow up to

be another bitter high-class zombie, or to never take shit seriously and do my own thing. Start my own

game. Make my own rules. Yeah, I thought it was the cooler option too.

But that’s just it, isn’t it? For the very first time, my own thing’s been snatched from my hands. And

I’m left standing here, dumb-founded like some pathetic bastard, beaten at the game I created. Damn if I

know how to deal with things now.

So I’m doing what anyone with the least bit of pride would do. I play pretend. I keep the show

going. ‘Cause hey, it just so happens that I’m an actor. And a damn brilliant one, too.

I don’t sleep much, period. Grazzo’s crazy genes. Lilah used to say it was abnormal, having all this

energy and needing less than five hours of sleep. Back then, she said it with a wink and a smile. And

dad would grin and reply, “Comes with the ‘abnormally good-looking and talented’ package. Deluxe

version.” With the split-up she lost her sense of humor like others lose a car key.

It can be a curse, though, being this restless. Every once in a while there are phases when I feel like

running up my walls at night, under pressure like a steam engine. I just can’t seem to lie still long

enough to fall asleep.

With all this time on my hands, by now I know the entire play by heart. Not just my lines, pretty