Six months ago
My lawyer was dead-on about what the judge would give me: probation and counseling. For probation I was ordered to attend school regularly, which I did; hold a steady part-time job once my knee healed, which I had; and meet with a probation officer, which I wasn’t too excited about. Since my shit show had happened in New Jersey, my lawyer requested that I be allowed to work with a Pennsylvania probation officer and counselor. The judge agreed.
For the last two weeks of September, my schedule had been: Monday counseling, Tuesday physical therapy, Wednesday probation officer, Thursday physical therapy, Friday collapse.
Counseling consisted of me with a group of other kids my age in various degrees of addiction and disaster. Some had been expelled from school, others kicked out of their homes, one girl never said a single word, one dude cried every time. The group members changed a lot so it was hard to get invested in them or their stories. I never said too much but I listened. The therapist was an okay guy, not very inspiring, kind of just going through the motions.
At the conclusion of each session, I’d walk out thinking what a huge waste of time it all was. And not that I’m, like, really in favor of making kids go to therapy or anything, but the sessions really were a pile of missed opportunities. Some of those kids were pretty messed up emotionally, and they could’ve used inspiration.
It was Wednesday so I sat across from Mr. Richards, my probation officer, for our second check-in. He was a big guy with a shaved head and thick, black-rimmed glasses. The first time we met him, Dad and I said his handshake practically squeezed the life out of us. He was obviously letting us know he was all man. My pinkie ached for an hour afterward. I got the message.
“Let’s get started,” he said. Mr. Richards was cranky and serious, which I could handle because he didn’t waste time on friendly shit. So in addition to being all man, he was also all business.
His office was small and cramped and filled with nothing but filing cabinets and Eagles paraphernalia. There were bobbleheads, player figurines, framed ticket stubs. Folded jerseys, footballs, posters. This guy was a hard-core fan.
His desk was covered in neat stacks of paper, along with a laptop and an enormous office phone. Seriously, that phone had three rows of preset buttons and a dial pad.
“I’d like to stick with weekly meetings till the end of the month and then go to every other week. Assuming, of course, you continue to keep your end of the bargain.”
“Okay.” My end of the bargain meant counseling, clean drug tests, school, and work.
He dropped his eyes and began filling out a paper from my file. “We’ll reassess midpoint, which’ll take us to Christmas.”
“And this ends in March, right?”
Mr. Richards’s hand froze, and he lifted his brows. “Let’s take this one day at a time, Vance.”
I nodded slowly.
He went through the same boring stuff as last week, and then we were done. I limped back toward the car. Each step hurt like hell, like a sharp, stabby pain. My physical therapist said recovery from my injury was one of the longest and that I’d have pain for a pretty long time.
Oscar had dropped me off at the front door so I wouldn’t have to walk far. Since the probation meetings were over in twenty minutes, he’d decided to just wait in the car. I scanned the lot and saw that he wasn’t too far away. As I got closer, I could see that he had his homework spread out all over the front seats. I tapped on the hood and startled him.
“Damnit!” he shouted.
I grinned. Scaring the crap out of him hadn’t gotten old yet.
“God, Vance! You made me rip my notebook page,” he said. Oscar was so damn uptight.
By the time I got situated in the front seat, I’d lost the urge to apologize. So I let it go.
He turned onto the road. “When can you drive yourself around? I’m unequivocally over being your chauffeur.”
I clutched my chest. “Aw, come on, little brother, you’re breaking my heart. You mean you’re not loving our extra time together?”
He stared straight ahead and acted as if I hadn’t said a word. Why didn’t he have a fully formed sense of humor? I swear it felt like he was part cranky old man. “I’m obviously kidding, Oscar. You’re always a total buzzkill.”
He huffed. “Oh right, I’m killing your buzz. Maybe you should stop chasing the party and learn how to be quiet.”
“I haven’t partied since the beach, so how about you be quiet?”
“Whatever, Vance. You know as well as I do that when your knee heals, you’ll be back to numbing yourself up, and then you and Dad can party your feelings away.”
A huge semitruck whizzed past, shooting a whoosh of air into my face. I just wanted to live. I wanted to feel alive and know that I was present and accounted for. What was wrong with having fun? Oscar wouldn’t know how to lighten up even if he went to Fun School and studied fun. My brother was mind-numbingly un-fun.
“Me driving myself can’t come soon enough, shithead,” I said. “Believe me.”