“Open the door!”
She couldn’t move. A third rush of acrid bile. It meant to punish her. She couldn’t go back. She couldn’t pretend she didn’t know. She heaved, releasing the last of her ignorance. Her innocence. It splashed into the toilet water then floated about lazily—a little, aborted piece of goodness. Worthless now that it wasn’t inside her. Only a faint bitterness remained, coating her tongue and teeth with regret. A byproduct of the shift. It didn’t taste good—this knowing—and she wanted to cover up, hide away.
She flinched at the sound of cracking wood. It splintered and screeched, and in an instant her father flew into the bathroom, dropping to his knees beside her.
“It’s okay,” he assured her, pulling her gently to his chest.
He didn’t know what was happening. He just knew to break down the door at the sound of his daughter’s screams. He knew to hold her when he reached her. He knew to let her soak his shirtfront with tears until she was drained.
He had a clear view of her bedroom, watching the light pour in through the slats of her window blinds. It moved clockwise, sweeping the dark floors in a deliberate arch. Five thirty. Then six. The light inched along to six thirty, and that’s when his back began to ache. The side of the porcelain tub jabbed at his spine—made all the worse as Regan slumped deeper into his chest. But he didn’t dare move. Not until she spent the last of her tears.
“Has this happened before?” he asked gently.
She shook her head.
“Did something scare you?”
She nodded.
“What scared you?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know.”
Silence.
“Do you ever feel anxious?”
“No.”
“School doesn’t make you anxious?”
“No, Dad. I love school. Well, soccer.”
He squeezed her and chuckled.
“So you’re happy?” he asked.
“Happy as a clam.”
“You feel like a clam,” her father pointed out, tracing her hairline with his finger, and she frowned.
Her tongue was heavy and swollen in her mouth, weighted by the damp lies she’d already concocted. They sat waiting to emerge, one by one, slowly and deliberately from the pinkish-gray shell of her lips.
“What should I be doing right now?” he asked after a moment.
“Huh?”
“You were clearly having a panic attack. So what should I be doing? Setting up an appointment for you to see a doctor?”
“Why?”
“Because I broke down your door, Regan. You were freaking out. That’s not a talk-this-through-and-everything-is-better sort of situation.”
“It’s not?”
Mr. Walters sighed. “I don’t know. Half the time I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
“Mom might know,” Regan offered playfully.
“Mom’s at ballet with Caroline,” her dad replied.
And then the lie forced its way out. It disgusted her the entire time the words slipped from her lips. She lied to protect Jeremy, but she didn’t yet understand why.
“I . . . I was napping. I think maybe I had a nightmare and didn’t realize it. I woke up panicking. My arms went numb. I couldn’t breathe. That’s why I was freaking out.”
He bought it.
“That’s it with the magnesium.”
“What?”
“You’re not taking that crap anymore,” Mr. Walters said.
“Dad, the magnesium did not give me nightmares.”
“I’ve read stuff. Forums online. A lot of people talked about having really weird dreams after starting a magnesium regiment.”
“That’s bogus,” Regan replied.
“I’ll show you,” her dad insisted.
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Dad.”
“Listen, I can’t break down your door every time you have a nightmare,” Mr. Walters said.
Regan cringed.
“Why was your door locked, anyway? What happened to our house rules?”
“I . . . I just needed some privacy.” She avoided her father’s eyes.
“Isn’t that why we close doors in the first place? We need locks now, too?”
“I was afraid someone might walk in without knocking.”
“To discover what?”
“Girl stuff, Dad. Jeez.”
Mr. Walters cleared his throat. “I don’t wanna know.”
“Good, because I wasn’t going to share.”
He squeezed her then helped her to her feet.
“Stop locking your door,” he said, and kissed her forehead.
Regan scowled, then mumbled, “What door?”
Mr. Walters ignored her and looked around the bathroom. It was clear he wasn’t altogether certain of his next move.
“Ice cream?” he asked finally.
Pause.
“Uh, yes?” Regan replied.
Mr. Walters furrowed his brows. “I don’t know what that means, but I’ll make you a bowl.”
It was ludicrous. She just read one boy’s plans to shoot up her school, had a massive panic attack, and decided the best way to handle the information was to share Moose Tracks with her dad.
She ate to gorge herself. If she could fill to the brim with ice cream, then there could be no room for anything else. No room for murderous revelations. No room for a kid who threatened to destroy her life. No room for responsibility. She ate and ate, holding out hope that she’d get what she wanted. But hope rejected her wish and gave her a stomachache instead.
~
Why does the world look at vigilantes in the same way they view evil people? They’re not. The vigilantes are the heroes, for Christ’s sake! They’re your Batman, Superman, Spider-Man. They’re your protectors. Yet society wants to argue about how they have no right to keep the public safe. It’s not up to them. It’s up to the justice system, they cry. News flash: the justice system doesn’t work. Not always, anyway. I mean, what are we supposed to do? Let these scumbags grow up to steal, rape, and kill? If you see a bad seed, don’t you yank it when it’s young—when it’s barely crested the soil? You don’t wait until it matures, hoping against hope that it’ll transform into a rose. You know very well what will happen: it’ll turn into a weed to choke out all the pretty flowers. Is that what you want, asshole?
Yeah. I didn’t think so.