Definitions of Indefinable Things

“You think caring about them with the profoundness you did is what hurt you?” she asked. “Not the acts themselves?”


“Someone told me once that caring was just a way to survive. He said that you’re damned if you do and you’re damned if you don’t. So you might as well do. But, I don’t agree. I think you’re just damned if you do. Nothing good can come from caring too much. It’s painful when it’s justified, and it’s painful when it’s not.” I looked at my hands. I had to commend myself, because I’d never talked this much in a single session. And I didn’t want to be genuine, but I wanted to be okay. Just okay. It wasn’t too much to ask. “I don’t want to get hurt like that again.”

“I understand. And you’re afraid that you’ll get hurt by forming new relationships, by getting close to people.”

She was steel-gazed, urging me to blow a gasket and erupt with my deep, dark secrets. Like that I wanted to be with Snake. And that seeing him with Carla drove me insane. And I didn’t know what to feel because I was actually starting to like her. And I wanted them to do the right thing and be together, but I wanted them to be apart.

If only hiding the truth made it hurt less.

“Bree’s never coming back,” I whispered.

Never coming back.

It wasn’t filler. It didn’t fit.

“I could call her a hundred thousand times, and it wouldn’t bring her back.”

“You’re right. It wouldn’t. So what do we do with that?”

“I don’t know. Every time I think about it, it kind of feels like I’m standing on a street corner watching everyone pile into a car and drive off without me.”

“Loss.”

“Yeah, loss. I can’t chase it down or outrun it. It just goes and goes and takes everything with it.”

She slid closer. “It’s awfully lonely, isn’t it?”

I didn’t answer. I’d said too much already, and if I dug any deeper, I feared I would fall into a pit (see: Stage 3) I couldn’t climb out of.

Scribbling something down, she said, “I’m assigning you a different project this time on the off chance that you’ll do it.”

“What?”

“Same task as last time, except now I want you to journal what loneliness means to you.”

“Doesn’t it mean the same thing for everyone?”

“Loneliness isn’t a blanket feeling. There’s all different kinds.” She looked at me, hopeful. “Tell me what you think you should do when you’re alone on a street corner.”



I slouched on the living room floor in front of my dad’s recliner, scrawling doodles (see: nth-degree boredom) in my journal. My essays for the week had all been written, thanks to Polka’s tutoring in the cafeteria after school. It was nice having Polka around to help, given he was a brain on legs that was willing to spend most of his time with me in spite of my complete indifference toward his life outside of Hawkesbury. Sometimes I felt like a jerk for never investing in his life. But he knew me well enough to know I didn’t invest in anyone, myself included, and he would be wise not to take it personally.

“You write nice today, Reggie,” he’d said, leaning closer to me, but not so close I needed to give him the elbow.

I didn’t look up. “Well, superhero stories practically write themselves.”

“The idea give lot of potential, but only good writer write a good story.”

He wasn’t speaking in his usual monotone. I brought my gaze up from the page to find his small black eyes watching me back, emotionlessly, his lips quirked upward on one side. Was Polka smiling? I didn’t think his mouth could go up instead of down.

I felt my own lip slide up in response, using the remaining bit of my concentration to deflate it. “That might be the first compliment you’ve ever given me, Polka.”

He’d smiled full throttle, his teeth bared. It was a cute look for a perpetually frowning face. “I should give compliment more often. You earn it.”

“Dude, are you flirting with me?” I’d teased, punching his shoulder.

His mouth fell flat, his eyes turned down to the table. He adjusted the purple bow tie beneath his chin, back to the Polka I tolerated/mildly liked. “What is it with Americans crushing on teachers? It a weird society.”

His cheeks reddened a shade when he said it, proving that he had, in fact, been flirting. Which was totally weird, and not something he, or I, was likely to ever talk about later. It did feel kind of nice, though. Having someone at school who liked me as distantly as I liked him, someone who wouldn’t try to push me into matching friendship bracelets, or into a prom-king-and-queen relationship. We could write cool essays and eat lunch and not have to exist to each other beyond the perimeter of a building.

“What are you working on there?” Dad asked over my shoulder, snapping me out of my daze. My hand immediately flew to the page, protecting the word LONELINESS scribbled out in blue pen.

I closed the journal and set it beside me, resting the back of my head against the armrest of his chair. “Nothing. Just stuff for Dr. Rachelle.”

He sucked in a breath as if he was prepping to ask me more, then closed his mouth with a swallow. We both sat quietly for a minute, listening to my mother humming praise songs from the kitchen. It began to storm outside, a crash of thunder shaking the walls. The clouds were black in spots and white in others, like the sky was a checkerboard, or a series of dominoes.

Dad knew I hated thunderstorms, so he closed the blinds. “I read a story in the newspaper today,” he said, getting comfortable in his chair. I craned my neck to nab a glimpse of him. “Said some doctor in Chicago is working on a drug that will make people permanently euphoric, like a heightened version of an antidepressant. Claims it’ll help with America’s crime problem. People will be so happy, it’ll be like living in a utopia.”

“How does he suggest people take it?”

“Injection, mostly. He’s still testing the chemicals, but hopes it’ll be ready for consumption in the next few years.” He grinned under his shaggy mustache. It was getting long on the sides, growing into the Fu Manchu (see: facial mullet) he was working toward. His eyes shot to the kitchen, making sure Karen was distracted. I checked, too, just to be sure. I didn’t know why she wasn’t allowed to hear what he had to say, but I was excited to find out.

He bent down a few feet from my face and whispered, “Do we call bullshit?”

My mouth fell open. “Dad.”

“Your mother can’t hear, don’t worry.” He popped his eyes up to the roof and pointed a finger to God. “I’ll apologize to you later.”

Our eyes aligned, both slyly holding in the secrets we couldn’t say to Mom, or to each other. Secrets like my dad was pretty freaking awesome when he gave himself half a shot. Secrets like it was hard to be miserable to the best of my ability when Dad was cursing like a guy who might have been cool if he hadn’t married Karen. Neither of us needed to validate the other. We shared a silent respect on both ends.

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