Chapter 1, Part 1 Goodbye, Sarah

Ronnie

“Sarah?”

“What do you want?”

“Did you blow all of our rent money on booze again?”

My sister is lounging on our patchwork couch, tattered and torn in more places than imaginable. Her feet are bare, her toenails longer than my fingers. The balls of her feet are cracked and dry, peeling away.

“No. I only picked up a few twelve packs, Ron. Calm down,” she mumbles into a throw pillow.

“Sarah,” I enunciate each syllable of her name clearly and drawled out, “that account is strictly for bills. You know, those things that keep our water running in the shower and the television on that’s holding your attention more than me at the moment?”

“Mhm. I know, sis.”

I yank the remote from under her arm and click off the television. I chuck the remote across the room and it clanks against the kitchen tiles.

“No. You obviously don’t know. You don’t pay our bills. You don’t know how to budget our money. You don’t know how to be a big sister to me in the least of ways.”

“Don’t start in on me. Your being a royal bitch right now. I’ll yank that stick out of your ass if you go and fetch me the remote.”

She motions to the kitchen with exaggerated hands, and it makes me want to wrap fingers around her pretty little neck.

“THAT’S IT. You. Are. On. Your. Own.”

“Oh, c’mon, Ron,” Sarah plucks a cheese puff from the bag lying on the coffee table. She chomps away as if my yelling doesn’t faze her.

“I am moving into Peyton’s apartment,” I grit through my clenched teeth, “and you can take care of yourself from here on out. I am done with you.”

“It’s not my fucking fault that dad didn’t show up this month,” Sarah retorts.

My father has always been a mysterious man. He pops in and out of our life like a lost phantom, searching his way through this dead end town. My dad forks us over cash from…I’d rather not know, quite honestly. He makes a living somewhere, somehow, but he’ll never disclose. He has this way about him- he can elude anything.

There are the few, rare times during the course of the year when he’ll disappear for a few months, then show up with double the amount of money he typically hands us. It covers our expenses; the bills, groceries, gas for our dumpy cars. My dad even throws in a bonus here and there.

Yippie.

Sometimes he’s a day late and a dollar short. Every so often, we’ll be without power for a few weeks, Sarah’s glum face illuminated by candle light as opposed to the TV screen.

My father has always kept his life a secret ever since he moved five hours out of town. Or, at least that’s what he tells us. He’s in some beat up town just outside of PA. He won’t tell us exactly where, and in no way, shape or form- why. Why did he have to relocate away from our hometown? My dad never hints at moving back permanently anytime soon, but I just know he is up to no good. Something in my gut tells me he’s not the man I think he is.

My mother, on the other hand, was to the tenth degree of scum rot compared to my dad. She not only cheated three times, but she prostituted herself in between men. Finally, my dad filed the divorce papers. Third time’s a charm, they always say.

I give Sarah a hard look as I mull over my deadbeat family. Sarah is unemployed and helpless. She doesn’t know how to write out bills or balance the checkbook or save a dime for that matter. She’s clueless. Ever since the divorce she has been one hot mess that I can’t keep cleaning up. My hands have been dirtied and bruised and scarred, and frankly, they threaten to fall off if I don’t let her take some of the fall for her apathy.

“Don’t try and find me,” I whisper as I grab my keys, my bag and my last shred of dignity from our dingy floorboards.

“Hey, Ron. You don’t have to be like this.”

She sits up and smooths out her hair. It’s a downward spiral from here. She’ll beg and plead for me to stay, I’ll threaten her if she doesn’t pull through, and she’ll make empty promises. I’d give in at that point and stay.

Not this time.

“Neither do you, sis.”

With that, I cross the room and swing our door wide open. The cool night air hits me like a ton of bricks. I’ll have to find some clothes elsewhere, or borrow from my friend Peyton.

I slam the front door shut. Once I hear the seal click, I start to run and I don’t look back.

***

“Peyton?”

I don’t bother to knock. Peyton and I have been best friends ever since we learned how to spell our names. We lived next door to each other for years, and our parents were close. Peyton and I sat in our shitty diapers together, played together, grew up together, went to the same school together, and just about every other thing that best friends do.

My parent’s divorce caused an uproar in the friendship zone. No longer did my parents care whether or not Peyton and I were feet away, or her mom and dad for that matter. My mom wanted to hit the road and move across country. My dad was more than happy to relocate a good thirty minutes away or so, because he couldn’t stand to even look at the house. It reminded him of her. Every crack, door, window. It screamed mom, he told me.

I’m exhausted by the time I arrive at Peyton’s house. It’s nearly midnight, and the fight with Sarah drained every last ounce of energy left in me.

“Ron? Is that you?” Peyton whisper-shouts over the dog’s snoring.

“No, it’s Barack Obama. Who else would show up on your doorstep at twelve a.m.?”

“Meow!” she pokes fun at my acidic sarcasm, “What’s up?”

She motions for me to come inside and I relay the events of tonight. After arriving home from my minimum-wage retail job, finding out that Sarah had blown half of our rent money on beer, it just sent me over the edge. In fact, my hands are still shaking from anger.

“It frustrates me to no end!” I yell to no one in particular- maybe myself, “How could you be so irresponsible? My paycheck isn’t past the hundredths places weekly, and I don’t understand how Sarah never catches on. I’m the only one pulling the weight around our house, the only one managing the bills, the only one who does a God damn thing!”

I bury my head in my hands, but I don’t cry. I’m too furious to cry. I want to punch a wall, or drive through one, or scream at the top of my lungs- but I’m too drained. I want to fix everything with a Band-Aid. I want my dad to come back home, I want my mom to reach out to me, I want my sister to empathize with me. I want, I want, I want. But we always want what we will never have.

“Listen, Ronnie. It will get better. Things won’t always be like this! We’ll be graduating in the summer, though I wish we were walking in the same arenas. Too bad your dad had to be an asshole and screw everything up for us.”

“Well, my mom wasn’t exactly innocent in the whole fiasco. I cannot wait to grab my diploma, pack up, and get away from this hellhole of a town.”

“Amen!”

With that, we make our way to the kitchen and load up on snackage. Emotional eating has always been one of my many strong suits.

“By the way,” I begin as I grab a package of Oreo’s from Peyton’s heavily stocked cabinets, “is it okay if I crash here for a while? I can’t go back home.”

“No problema, chica. Mi casa es su casa!”

“Thanks, Peyton. By the way, lose the Spanish accent. Say that out in public, and I don’t know you.”

She chortles and pours chips into a giant mixing bowl along with Cheetos and Fritos and anything ending in “-itos” that can grease up your hands. Once we trek up Peyton’s stairs and onto her room, I ask if she has plans for tonight.

“Hell no. We’re going to plant our asses on this bed of mine and eat a sleeve of Oreo’s each while crying over The Notebook. That shit gets me every time.”

“I’m good with that for a little bit…”

“…but?” Peyton pushes.

“Why don’t we do something fun tonight?”

Peyton grins from ear to ear and a twinkle bounces around in her eyes.

“What did you have in mind?”