Free Cheated by Patrick Jones Page A

resolved never to ask out another girl, never to fall in love, never to take the risk. I cracked all my fingers and toes, the snap, crackle, and pop of the joints—liquid exploding, Mr. Gates said—sounded like fire.
    I looked at the clock; the square red numbers taunted me. I decided on one more futile act of frustration. I dialed the phone again, but this time there’s no machine, only the helpful voice that answered loudly because the background noise was enough to wake the dead and dying: “Thank you for calling Chico’s, the premier women’s clothing experience featuring exceptional service and one-of-a-kind styles. How can we help you?”
    â€œI need to speak to Linda Salisbury,” I mumbled.
    â€œOne moment, please.” The chipper voice clipped off the words, annoyance replacing exuberance. I braced myself tohear the hold message of sale items and bad music. I thought that was what I needed: to put my life on hold. To not have to go to school or be in love or even hang with friends, just to be in some sort of suspended state until I figured things out.
    â€œShe’s with customers right now, could she—”
    â€œI’ll hold.”
    There was no acknowledgment, just the return of comforting sounds. I thought about Mom waiting on people who made five times as much as she does even if she worked five times harder.
    â€œMick, what’s wrong?” Mom sounded out of breath.
    I wanted to say,
Mom, everything is wrong right now, can you tell me what to do?
But no words came; I couldn’t tell her I just called to hear her voice, to calm me down, to set me right.
    â€œMick, I’m really busy, what is it?”
    â€œUm, I just wanted to tell you something,” I said, trying to talk fast. “It’s an away football game, so I might be home late, that’s all.”
    There was dead silence.
    â€œMom, thanks for the cash,” I said as I stopped myself from telling the truth because it was the right thing to do. Let Mom believe I’m going to homecoming. Let her believe I was in love. Let her believe; let the lie live.
    â€œI just want you to be happy,” she said. I hoped she was smiling now. But within me, only dark clouds hovered. I wanted to shout into the phone,
Mom, you know what’s the worst of all of this? I feel bad for treating you like this and lying to you. I just want you to love me and be proud of me.But Mom, I know that you’ll always love me no matter what I do, so I guess I can do anything because I know you’ll forgive me. You’ll never leave or reject me, always protect me. You’re powerless
.
    â€œI have to go,” she said, then added a quick “I love you” but I didn’t get time to respond—not with those words; they embarrassed me—or even to say, “Thanks, Mom,” before she hung up.
    I was getting ready to leave about ten minutes later, when the phone rang again. It was ex-Dad. He never called just to talk, so I knew it wasn’t good news, just more of his bullshit.
    â€œHello, son,” ex-Dad said, like saying the word
son
made the word mean something.
    â€œHey.” I wouldn’t return the father-son serve.
    â€œListen, Mick, something’s come up,” ex-Dad started. “So, I don’t think we’ll be able to get together this weekend, but we have the Lion’s game next Sunday.”
    I just grunted, not caring about missing the court-mandated father-son bonding ritual at all.
    â€œLike I said, it’s a work thing.” I recognized the untruthful tone in ex-Dad’s voice.
    â€œHomecoming’s next weekend. I need money for a ticket,” I said without a pause, as I thought,
You can lie to Mom all you want, but you won’t do it to me, you bastard
.
    â€œYou’re going?” Since I rarely responded to his constant commentary about women’s bodies, I assumed ex-Dad might have wondered if I was gay. So this