Three months ago
“Happy belated birthday, Vance,” Mr. Richards said from across his desk.
My probation meetings were down to every other week, which I was psyched about. Otherwise, I would’ve been there on my actual birthday last Friday. Since I’d turned eighteen, Dad threw me a big party at the bar. He closed the restaurant section that night and had everything set up in there. I’m pretty sure the party was packed with lots of kids because they thought they could get wasted. Dad really only served jerk chicken sandwiches, fries, and cake—no alcohol. I was proud of him. He didn’t even let anyone sneak a shot in the back.
Well, there was no alcohol for me and my friends, but Dad was three sheets by the end of the night. I had to drive home. But partygoers got high in the bathroom so they got over the lack of drinking real quick. A toked-up Growler stood on one of the tables and led the place—even the bar side—in a rowdy rendition of “Happy Birthday.”
I smiled at Mr. Richards. “Thanks.”
He stopped writing and looked over his glasses. “According to your clean urine, you stayed away from parties. Smart man, ’cause if you get yourself arrested now that you’re eighteen, well, whole new ball game.”
“My dad did throw me a huge party, alcohol-free of course.” I put my hands behind my head. “How many times do I have to tell you… I’m not messing up anymore.” My urge to party was sleeping. I just wanted to be done with this whole process so I could go back to planning for college. When I went to Drexel, the urge would awaken. I had no doubt about that. But even then I intended to reel it in a little so that I never ended up across from a probation officer again. I’d had enough.
Mr. Richards huffed. “If I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I’d be on a beach in Jamaica.”
Even though I’d grown to like Mr. Richards, he was the type of guy who never lightened up. He wasn’t a dick or anything. He was just all about probation. All the time. Even when I’d try to get him talking about the Eagles—nope, he’d tell me we weren’t there to talk sports and then change the subject back to me. I think I grew to respect his laser-focused dedication to his job. The guy should’ve won probation officer awards.
“We’re closing in on the end, Vance.” He shuffled a few papers. “I’ll see you four more times, which takes us to the end of March.”
“And then what happens?”
“Pretty simple. You stay out of trouble and live your life.”
“I like the sound of that.” We shook hands, and I headed to my car. I’d been driving myself for a while. Thank God. As I drove away, I pictured Oscar fist pumping when I’d told him he was fired from chauffeur duty. I’d been happy about that too. We never had too much to say to each other during the drives. We never had too much to say to each other during life.
Oscar was at my party, but he wasn’t present. He spent most of the night bar-backing for Joey and Bill. I don’t remember seeing his face when everyone sang to me, and I looked. He was probably out back sulking or drawing or staring into space.
I don’t know how Oscar got home that night because he was already gone by the time Dad wanted to leave, so it was just me and Dad on the car ride home. I don’t think Dad even noticed that Oscar wasn’t in the car with us. But he had made it home. He was passed out on the sofa with his earbuds in. His sketchbook sat on the coffee table, taunting me.
Oscar kept his drawings private. He didn’t even show Dad. I always wondered if he was any good. I’d seen some of his stuff over the years—the things he’d done in middle school art class—and I thought he was okay. Nothing jaw dropping. The way he kept it so secret made me think he was embarrassed by the dumb crap he drew and because he wasn’t that good.
Criticism usually cut Oscar off at the knees. His backbone was made of Jell-O. I honestly had no idea how he would be able to function as an adult. Life could be shitty. People could be shitty. And there were lots of shitty people who said shitty things. What was he going to do, run away and hide in his room every time his feelings got hurt?
That wouldn’t work.
Dad had already stumbled up to bed. I swear Oscar’s sketchbook got all glowy, calling out: Open me! As slowly as I could, I slid it off the table. He didn’t move a muscle. Mozart was probably blaring in his ears, which was perfect for me. I hustled into the dining room and used the flashlight on my phone.
The first few drawings were old. And just okay. There were no rainbows or sunrises. But as I turned the pages, his skills improved, a lot. The book was filled with sketches of people.
About midway through, I flipped the page and an uncanny sketch of my mother stared back at me. She was on the phone. She was clearly upset about something. I could see it on her face. In her eyes.
There was a drawing of me and Dad dancing in the kitchen. He had his favorite Red Stripe T-shirt on, and I wore my lacrosse uniform. My hair was matted and my cheeks flushed. I was sweaty from practice. And we looked so happy. Oscar captured the emotion and…wow…
I looked at every drawing. Many were of me and Dad. Some just Dad. But they were all good.
Oscar was good.
Holy crap. He was excellent.