Nine weeks have passed since I aced my S-A-T. 780 out of 800 on the verbal—unheard of for a high school drop-out. But of course, nine weeks since Sally’s death, too. It’s impossible to remember the one thing without remembering the other—good and bad all totally mashed together, like so much of my life.

Read more

This morning, I put on my tie, not the same tie I wore to dinner that night, but my other one, and my ‘new’ dark grey sports coat, 42 long. $12 at Goodwill, but it looks all right. I don’t have dress slacks but with my sports coat and tie and my dress shoes, I think my black jeans look okay.

Wally picks me up and we drive to St. Mark’s church. Sally will be buried in a graveside service at Holy Cross Cemetery, but first there will be this mass for her. I didn’t know she was Catholic, not that I care or that it matters; it’s just that my whole ‘giving up drinking for Lent’ probably made more sense to her than I knew. I wonder how many times Sally gave up drinking for Lent, then drank again?

Read more

“Wally, what happened?” 

 “Look at the front page of the newspaper.” 

“We don’t take the paper; what happened? Are you okay?” 

“I’m all right,” Wally says, sounding more angry than sad, “Sally never came by to pick me up last night. Instead, she blew me off, got drunk and drove her sporty little Mercedes the wrong way on the freeway into an eighteen-wheeler. . .” I hear Wally fighting back the tears, “She’s dead.” 

“Was Garth with her?” 

“No” Wally says, “they had a fight and she took off and got drunk and . . .” tears choke off the rest of his words. 

I say, “I’m coming over.” 

Read more

The S-A-T is a lot harder than the G-E-D.  

I think I’m doing all right, though. Even though I spend about half the time trying not to worry about how I’m going to explain to Ally about my past: Sunshine Espresso, Bay Camp, the ugly scar on my hand, my law-and-order sociopath of a brother, my dad—all of it. Of course, I don’t have to say it all at once, but I want to get the bad stuff out and over. She’ll either deal with it or she won’t. I have a feeling that she will. I hope so. What more can I do? Nothing, really. I glance around the room, look down at the test booklet on the table in front of me . . . Oh yeah, the S-A-T. Oops, better concentrate. 

I walk out of the testing room half an hour before the time runs out. I’ve double-checked every answer and triple-checked some. I’m done, and I feel good. 

Read more

Ally Williamson moved here from Seattle three months ago and is a Junior at Thompson High where I used to go to school. 

Read more

Amber Winton’s house, which I’ve never been to before, is like I thought it would be. This isn’t a great moment in psychic history. When you hear about a house in Spokane with a Rockwood Boulevard Address, it’s probably going to be nice.  Amber’s place, her parent’s place, is huge and fancy and beautiful. It reminds me of the Brookridge Country Club, only tonight, I definitely don’t need a sports jacket or tie to get in. As I walk up Amber’s walkway to her front porch, I see a guy taking a leak over in a tall bush, barely even hiding himself, and a girl on the other side of the yard with long blond hair down on her knees throwing up. Yep, it’s party time all right. Even while I’m still outside, I can hear the loud noise of music, laughter, and voices. This looks like a classic. 

I open Amber’s front door and walk in, no point knocking. I step into the entryway, onto a dark slate floor, already smeared with spilt beer. I make my way down a hallway and towards the kitchen, where I spot Arty, who looks pretty drunk or high or both. 

“Art-miester” I yell across the noise. He doesn’t hear me, “Yo, Art-ball!” 

Arty looks up and smiles, “Al-Caponey,” he yells back.  

Arty comes across the room and holds his hand up in a high five gesture; I slap it hard. 

“Beer?” Arty yells over the roar of the party. 

Read more

It’s the Thursday night before Good Friday.  

I’m lying on my bed looking at the S-A-T study guide I checked out from the library. I’ve done a lot of work in it; I’ve taken a bunch of the practice tests. I’ve been doing all right, but I have to admit that the S-A-T looks a lot harder than the G-E-D.  

It’s also kind of cool, though, how much easier it gets the further into the study guide I go and the more I practice. At first, the reading selections seemed really hard, but after doing two or three of them, reading them carefully and then looking at the practice questions, I’m getting most of my answers right.  

Maybe I am a stinkin’ genius??!! 

Yeah, you bet…that’s how I came up with my plan get myself shot by the cops and sent to juvi-jail— 

Read more

Wally calls me ten minutes later, mad, “Why’d you give Arty Muercur my phone number?” 

“He wanted to call you and asked for it—I didn’t think you’d mind.” 

“Well I do mind!” 

I take a quick breath and force myself not to get defensive. Wally has a right to his privacy.  

“Sorry Wally—I shouldn’t have told him without asking you first.” 

Wally, still pissed, “That’s right, you shouldn’t have.” 

“Sorry” I say again. 

There’s a moment of silence, now Wally asks, “Did he tell you about the party?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Are you going?” 

I say, “It sounds like a good one.” 

Wally, real sarcastic and nasty, “Yeah, real great.”  

Read more

Dear Dad, 

Well, obviously I got your letter. I showed it to Mom and offered to show it to Joey but he didn’t want to see it. 

I figure it’s best to just be straight with Dad. Anything I try and cover-up now, I might have to fix later. What’s the point?  

I’m sorry to hear about your cancer. I don’t know if you knew it or not but Mom had to battle cancer a little over a year ago. She’s better—for now at least. It would have been nice to know back then that I still had a parent alive but maybe we’ll talk about later.  

Read more

No one in our family has ever gone to college before. I toss around a few fantasies, try to forget them as I plan dinner, but the crap keeps running through my head. College? Come on . . . be serious . . . you’re Dan Mender’s kid: I am Son of the Deadbeat Polygamist Dad of Raintree Canada. College? I’m not meant for anything like that . . . 

But my smile still won’t leave.  

Finally, seeing as how I’m alone in the house, with this window of privacy. I glance down at Barbara’s phone number and pick-up the phone and dial it. 

“Barbra Keane” she answers, her voice bored and flat. 

Read more

It’s the next Tuesday afternoon and I’ve been trying to write my Dad a letter back, trying and failing for about two hours. Our house phone rings and I grab it. This phone call is an interruption I’ll gladly take to get me out of thinking any more about my letter.

I say, “Hello.”

“Alan Mender, please.”

I say, “This is Alan.”

The lady on the other end says, “This is Barbara Keane, Community Colleges of Spokane. Spokane River campus.”

Read more

Now that I’ve blurted out the truth to Wally about Dad, I have to tell Joey. How fair is it that Wally knows but Joey doesn’t? It’s Joey’s dad we’re talking about and I’m not gonna let him hear the news from somebody else once word gets out.

I go to Joey’s bedroom door and knock.

“Who’s there?” Joey asks.

He’s such an idiot, who does he think? Homeland Security? The FBI? SWAT?

“It’s me.”

Joey says, “Come in.”

Read more

Quibble . . . that’s a pretty funny word, one that mostly old ladies playing Scrabble or over-educated guys use . . . quibble . . . 

I’ve just been ‘quibbling’ with Wally again about drinking in general and quitting in particular. 

He called about ten minutes ago and since Joey and I had just gotten home and I was sitting alone in my room, I answered. 

Read more

It’s Friday evening, two weeks before Good Friday and Joey’s 9^th grade basketball team is playing an amazingly close and competitive game against Golver’s 9^th graders. The game is coming down to the final few seconds and Golver is leading by two points. Joey has the ball at the top of the key. All game long Joey has clearly been the best player on the court. I’ve watched him in other games before, but to be honest I was usually at least a little drunk then, and I never realized how good he is; I see now why Joey is the captain. 

Read more

Somehow, I make it to the second part of the G-E-D exam and somehow, I think I did okay again. If ‘photosynthesis’ has to do with how plants get food from the sun, blah blah blah, I’ll be fine.  

Read more

Maybe it’s the G-E-D thing and feeling so good about it, or maybe talking to Emily Wahhsted, but whatever, I feel like it’s time to talk to Mom about Dad’s letter. It’s afternoon, just before dinner, Mom’s day off from work.  

I go downstairs. Joey is already in his room, doing homework, probably with his I-pod blasting in his ears.  

Mom sits at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee.  

I drop the letter in its envelope Dan Mender handwritten in the return address spot on the table in front of her. She stares at it and now looks up at me. 

“Wow,” she says softly after seeing Dad’s name.  

 “I know. It came a couple weeks ago,” I suddenly feel ashamed that I’ve waited so long to tell her about it. “I didn’t open it right away. He said he’d be writing one to you too, so I’ve been sort of waiting for that.” 

Mom, staring at the letter, “Weeks ago?” 

Read more

I almost blow-off the G-E-D. I really do. After this thing with my dad and my visit with Emily, everything else seems small and silly. 

Besides, what’s the point? ? I’m an ex-con already, at 17. Why kid myself, I’m not going anywhere in my life. But when I hear myself saying all this negative crap, all this self-pitying bull, and imagine Emily Wahhsted hearing me say it, I get mad and decide I’ll go take the test. Hey, why not throw away seven and a-half-hours of my life taking a dumb-ass exam? After all, I’m an atheist who quit drinking for Lent, a totally religious thing, so I guess I can take the G-E-D even if I don’t believe it will make any difference to my future? In case you hadn’t noticed, rational decision-making is NOT my strong suit. 

Read more

Read Chapter 17.

Emily Wahhsted is the mother of Zach Wahhsted, a kid who was in the coffee shop the day we tried to rob it, a kid who probably saved our lives. But Zach ended his own life, by suicide, a few months after that day, when everything seemed over and like all would be okay. 

The bullet through my hand came from grabbing Zach and pulling him out of the line of fire when Joey and I were trying to escape. During that time in the coffee shop, when we were surrounded by the cops, I got to know Zach and understand him a little. When I heard about his death, I called his Mom to tell her how sorry I was and she asked me if I’d come to Zach’s funeral. Of course, I said yes. It was about a week before Joey’s and my trial and some people probably thought I was just sucking up to look good in court, but that’s not why I went. I went for Zach and for Emily. I went because it was the right thing to do. 

Read more

I’m sitting in my room again this afternoon, the Monday after the Brookridge dinner. I just finished looking at the G-E-D book again and taking a few of the little stupid-ass G-E-D sample questions. If I flunk the G-E-D test, I’ll kill myself—I’d be too stupid to deserve to live. I don’t mean to insult kids who flunk it and maybe the actual test is harder than the practice stuff, but right now I gotta tell you, it looks pretty easy! Like I mentioned before I used to read a lot as a kid, truthfully I was a reader all the way up until we got in trouble and sent away.  

Read more

Back home. 

I walk in and Mom asks, “How was it?” 

“Okay” I say. I don’t feel like talking. 

“Tell me all about it.” Mom says. 

Joey interrupts, “Mom, we’re watching this.” 

I glance at the TV and, for once, I kind of appreciate of Joey’s selfishness. I say to Mom, “I’ll tell you in the morning. I’m really tired.” 

Already staring back at the TV, Mom says, “Okay Sweetie, but every detail, first thing, okay?” 

“Sure,” I say, hurrying up the stairs and already knowing that there are some details that I won’t be mentioning. 

In my room, I pull off my tie and throw it, hard across my bed and into the corner. I tear off of my dress shirt and toss is onto the floor, too.  

Read more