I shrugged. “I don’t know. I just do.”
Ben glanced at me in irritation, brushing a strand of hair away from his eyes with the end of the clear yellow plastic lighter. “I call bullshit on that. You’re a certifiable genius, Beck. You’ve got a reason for everything you do.”
I sighed. “Fine. You want to know? I call him Father because it creates distance. He’s not Dad to me, much less Daddy or anything else. He’s my father, so that’s what I call him. It’s a formal word, and it connotes a formal relationship.”
Ben laughed. “‘It connotes a formal relationship,’” he repeated, half-mocking. “Only you, Becca. Only you would say something like that. I just don’t get why you still put up with his crap. I stopped a long time ago.”
“But you don’t care. I do. That’s the difference.”
He glanced at me. “Meaning what? What don’t I care about?”
“Yourself. The future. I have plans, and need Father’s money to get there. I can’t afford the universities I need if I’m going to get my doctorate.”
“That’s shallow and short-sighted,” Ben said. “You could get scholarships. Take out loans. You don’t need his bullshit. He’s a f**king tyrant, a dictator. I hate his ass. Soon as I get a job and save enough for an apartment, I’m moving my ass out.”
“It is not shallow or short-sighted,” I argued. “Do you have any clue how much it’s gonna cost to get my bachelors, masters, and doctorate? Depending on the university, hundreds of thousands of dollars. I’ll still have to take out loans, but with Father’s help, it’ll be manageable.”
Ben just stared at me. “Listen to you. You skipped your childhood, I think. What sixteen-year-old is thinking about this stuff? Just be a kid, man. Sneak out. Make out with a guy behind the bleachers or some shit. Get into trouble and make me beat some dude’s ass for you. Quit being so goddamn serious all the time.” He took a long drag on his pipe and then leaned over and blew it straight into my face before I could roll away. “Smoke some pot and loosen up. We’re young. We’ve got time. Just chill and don’t be so serious.”
I coughed and waved the smoke away. “Goddamn it, Ben. Don’t be an ass**le. Now I’m going to get high. I tried it with you once, remember? I hated it.”
Ben nodded, staring at the ceiling. “Oh, yeah. I remember now. You freaked the f**k out, thought Amma was going to come back from the dead and yell at us, even though Amma was alive and living in Beirut at the time.”
I laughed. “You said yourself you thought it was laced with something.”
He nodded again without looking at me, tamping down the ashes in the bowl with his thumb. “Yeah, dude, I remember. That shit was potent. You were so wasted I had to carry you up to your bed.”
“I really hated that, Ben.” I snatched the pipe and lighter from him and shoved them in his cargo pocket. “I hate it now. I hate what it does to you. It messes with your moods, and you know it. The doctor said—”
Ben stood up, suddenly angry. “I don’t give a f**k what the doctor said!” he yelled. “I hate all those stupid meds they want me to take. They make me feel like a freaking zombie, like I’m half-dead. I’m tired all the time, and I lose a ton of weight ’cause I can’t f**king eat. I hate it. You don’t know what it’s like. This stuff helps me more. Keeps me level, you know? When I get all whacked out and crazy, smoking brings me down, and when I’m depressed, it brings me up. It works better than any of that shit no one can pronounce. Fucking Zoloft and Wellbutrin and Xanax and Clonazepam and Valium and Ativan. It’s all bullshit. Doesn’t work. This shit works.” He grabbed the paraphernalia from his pocket and shook it at me.
I could already see the down-shift in his mood happening. “Ben, you know that’s not true,” I said, my voice soft and careful. “I know I don’t know what it’s like for you, but the way you’re dealing with it isn’t healthy.”
Ben blew out a frustrated breath, pocketing his things again and heading for the door. “You’re not a doctor yet, Becca, so quit trying to fix me.”
“Ben, wait. I’m sorry. I just—just—I want you to be happy. Th-that’s all.”
He stopped in the doorway and glanced at me through a curtain of stringy hair. He gave me a look that was deeper than I thought Ben capable of. “The problem is, when I am happy, no one can handle it. And when I’m not happy, they can’t handle it. It’s not that I don’t care about my life or my future, Becca. I do. I just know that I’m limited, okay? What happens up here,” he tapped his temple, “inherently limits what I can do in my life. Drugs, no drugs, pot, no pot, there’s just no good way to handle my shit. I’ll never accomplish important stuff like you will, Beck. I know that. I’ve accepted it. I’m just gonna live it up and enjoy my life as much as I can for as long as I can. Eventually it’ll all catch up to me. I know that, too. But it’s my life, my choice, and no one else’s.”
“Just be careful, okay?”
He nodded, smiling at me. “Sure thing, Beck.” He turned away and closed the door, then poked his head back through. “Hey, by the way, if you ever want help sneaking out to see Jason Dorsey, let me know. I’ll cover for you.” He winked and was gone before I could reply.
* * *
Jason
I’d barely even seen Becca twice in a month, and those were both fleeting glimpses in passing at school. We didn’t have any classes together this semester and we had different lunch periods, too. She caught up to me at my locker right before I was heading out to practice one Friday in mid-October. It was cool outside, so she was wearing a floor-length blue wool skirt, a white V-neck T-shirt, and an unbuttoned gray sweater. Her clothes were cut so that they clung to her curves without being overtly revealing, and I found this the sexiest thing ever. Any girl could put on a push-up bra and a low-cut shirt so she spilled out. It took class and style to look deliciously sexy without looking skanky, and Becca pulled this off with every outfit she wore.
“Hey, Jason.” She leaned against the locker beside me, mere inches away, so close I could smell the conditioner in her hair and the body lotion on her skin.
I wanted to bury my face in the hollow of her neck and smell her, bury my face in her springy hair. I didn’t, though, because that might come across as slightly forward in this stage of the game. I tossed my history book in my backpack and zipped it shut, then hung it off one shoulder before pivoting to lean against the locker, facing Becca.