The second I close the door, the barrage starts.
It begins exactly as I expect it to.
“How can you be so irresponsible?!” Dad yells. He bangs his fist on the table. “Why are you trying to ruin our lives?!”
Right, I got falsely accused of a crime because I want to ruin your life.
Then comes all the usual stuff about everything they’ve done for me. He tries to wring out every tiny bit of guilt I could possibly have. I swear, if he had this much passion for anything else, he’d win all kinds of awards.
“Your mother is sick all the time! This is because you cause her so much worry!” It’s true that both my parents complain all the time about not feeling well. I think it’s because they’re constantly exposed to dangerous dry-cleaning chemicals, but try telling them that.
The word sacrifices is hurled at me like rock. I stare at a chipped tile on the floor. I’ve heard all of this before. So many times. I’m mad at myself for not being able to just tune this out. I didn’t ask for anything.
“We should never have left China! If this police thing doesn’t resolve itself, you are going back!”
I imagine myself on some farm with only my relatives to talk to — no friends, no Internet. If he knew about my math test, my dad would probably pack my bags tonight. I feel tears forming in my eyes. I clench my fists and do everything I can to hold the tears there, to not let them drop.
I bite my lip. At school, teachers always tell you to walk away from conflict. But the teachers at school don’t know my parents. Mom mumbles under her breath, “Why is this child like this? Where did he pick this stuff up?” I can hear every word, but it makes no sense to me.
“Well?” my dad asks.
But there was no question. I’m somehow supposed to read his mind. Usually, if I’ve done something wrong, I’d apologize at this point in the routine. But I didn’t do anything this time. I look up at him. I know that this is not a good idea, because the look on my face is a combination of confusion, disgust and contempt.
Dad is getting madder, but so am I. His face is growing redder, and I feel mine burning hot. He’s waiting me out. My mom says in the quietest voice, “Emerson, apologize and go study.”
Dad tells Mom to be still. In this case, he means don’t interfere, or maybe, don’t try to help him. I’m still staring at him. Why is he like this? His head is actually quivering now. He slaps me. On the face, hard.
Then he leaves the room.
Mom gets up and slaps me on the shoulder. “Why? Why do you do this?”
Do what? My eyes are full of tears now because I’m so angry. I give Mom a look of disbelief and go downstairs. I don’t feel like doing anything. I lie down on the couch. I feel like maybe I should talk to someone, but there is no one to talk to. I’m exhausted.
Somehow I fall asleep.
I start to have one of those dreams that feels really real. I’m in a long hallway in some kind of hospital. I think I smell bleach. I’m standing outside a door with a small window. I look in and see the girl from the bus, the one wearing the aqua jacket. She’s lying on the bed in the room, all alone. She’s bruised — her entire face is swollen and purple. Her arm is in a cast, hanging from a metal bar. I zoom into her face and I see pus oozing out of the cuts and scrapes. She looks straight into my eyes. She wants to ask me something. “Why didn’t you help me when you saw me getting yelled at on the bus?” I want to throw up. I go to the next room.
I see my father — he stands next to the bed. Mom lies there with her eyes closed. Dad pulls the sheet over her, covering her entire head. Then he turns and sees me. He comes out of the room. He slaps me in the face. I am frozen. He grabs my wrist. His bloodshot eyes are almost entirely red. “We are going back to China,” he says to me in Chinese. I pull free and run down the hall as fast as I can. But in this dream, I can’t run. It’s like I’m running through quicksand. All of a sudden, I jerk forward and crash through another door. I’m on a staircase and I fall to over. My friends from school are all running away from me — some up the stairs, some down. Maheen’s there — she glances over her shoulder and gives me a look, like she’s disgusted with me. Then the police burst through the door and jump me. I jolt awake, breathing hard.
I get up and turn on my ancient desktop — and open Facebook. I’ve been logged off — weird. I leave myself on all the time. I try to get back in. A pop-up message says that my account has been suspended. Great.
I wonder if whoever took my phone has sent any messages to my friends, or posted stuff on their walls pretending to be me. No one said anything at school today. No one mentioned the threats. I hadn’t been called to the office. All of this must have happened while I was at school or after. I guess I should be happy they shut my account down — before any more damage was done. I try to open the messenger app but it’s been shut down too. Without my phone, I’m completely cut off from my friends. I am pissed. I hate knowing that someone’s been messing with my identity — messing with me. This is the worst.
I try to get some homework done, but I can’t focus. School is getting harder, so I really should be doing my homework and studying. But it’s so hard to concentrate. I give up after a while. I put on my headphones and listen to music.
I try a couple of times to go back to my schoolwork again, but I just can’t get going. That English assignment is due next week and I haven’t even decided on a topic yet. I keep telling myself to catch up with my math homework too. Even though we had the test today, the stuff is still going to show up on the exam.
Eventually, I give up altogether. I go upstairs to my room. I’m still really tired. My nap was short and won’t come close to making up for all the sleep I haven’t had the last couple of nights. I lie down and close my eyes. I just want to turn my thoughts off and sleep. I feel light-headed. My stomach hurts. My head hurts now too. I am so freaking tired, so why can’t I sleep? This is twisted. God. Please.
Problems with my parents go back as far as I can remember, from when I was little. These problems with my sleep have been happening for over a year now. I feel stupid for losing my phone. What would have happened if I had just told my parents when I lost it? Maybe they would have shut it down right away and none of this would have happened. Life would be easier if I could just trust my parents, if I didn’t have to worry about how crazy they get every time I mess up. I wish that for once, my parents would do something to help me. Or at least help me to not feel so bad. These thoughts roll through my head like a movie, over and over again.