Wake

Old Johnny McVicker turns toward the door.

Sees his son.

It’s the first time in nearly twenty years.

The old man rises from his chair slowly.

Grabs hold of his walker.

His dinner tray and spoon clatters to the floor. But he doesn’t notice. He’s staring at his son. Says, way too fast, “I was wrong, Edward. You were right. I’m sorry. I love you, son.”

Edward stops in his tracks.

Takes off his hat. Scratches his head slowly.

Crumples the hat in his hands.

Janie closes the door and goes back to the desk.

11:08 p.m.

She parks her car at her house and sprints through the snow to his.

“I was wild,” she says when she slips in the house. “You shoulda seen me with the bedpans.”

He waited for her. And now he hugs her. Lifts her up. She laughs.

“Can you stay?” he asks. Begs.

“If I go home in the morning,” she says. “Before school.”

“Anything,” he says.

Janie finishes up her homework, shoves it in her backpack, and finds him. He’s sleeping. He’s not wearing a shirt. She crawls into his bed and marvels silently at his stomach and chest. He breathes deeply. She settles in.

For now, anyway.

He knows she might have to go away.

Get away from his dreams, so she can sleep.

But when he dreams the fire dream, and meets her behind the shed, kisses and cries, begging for help, she reaches for his fingers in her blind, numb state and takes him with her into it, so he can watch himself.

She shows him how to change it.

It’s your dream, she reminds him.

And she shows him how to turn the man on the step, the man who carries the lighter fluid and the cigarette, into the man on the step whose hands are empty, whose head is bowed. Who says, “I’m sorry.”

When they both wake, the sun streams in the window.

It’s 11:21 a.m. On a Wednesday.

They exclaim and laugh, loud and long. Because there’s not one single parent between them who gives a damn.

Instead, they lounge on a giant beanbag in the computer room together, talking, listening to music. They play truth or dare.

But it’s all truth.

For both of them.

Janie: Why did you tell me you wanted to see me that first Sunday after Stratford, and then you didn’t show?

Cabel: I knew I had to hit that party—I was going to come back early. I didn’t know we were going to hold a fake bust. I got sent to jail overnight, just to make me look real. I was devastated. Captain let me out at six the next morning. That’s when I left the note on Ethel.

Janie: Did you ever sell drugs?

Cabel: Yes. Pot. Ninth and tenth grade. I was, uh…rather troubled, back then.

Janie: Why did you stop?

Cabel: Got busted, and Captain made me a better deal. Janie: So you’ve been a narc since then? Cabel: I cringe at your terminology. Most narcs are young cops planted in schools to catch students. Captain had a different idea. She’s not after the students, she’s after the supplier. Who happens to be Shay’s father. And she thought this was a good way to go—since he’s starting to sell coke to kids at the parties. And implies he’s got a gold mine somewhere. I’ve got to get him to say it on mic.

Janie: So you’re a double agent?

Cabel: Sure. That sounds sexy.

Janie: You’re sexy. Hey, Cabel?

Cabel: Yeah?

Janie: Did you really flunk ninth grade?

Cabel: No. (pause) I was in the hospital, most of that year. Janie: (silence) And thus, the drugs.

Cabel: Yes…they helped with the pain. But then I got myself into a few, well, uh, situations. And Captain stepped in my life at exactly the right moment before junior year, before I was too far in trouble. And it sounds weird, but she became sort of this army-type, no-nonsense mother I desperately needed. That was the Goth stage, where I decided I’d never get the girl of my dreams because of my scars. Not to mention the hairstyle. (pause)

But then she slammed a door handle into my gut. And when a girl does that to a boy, it means she likes him.

Janie: (laughs)

Cabel: So that made me feel better. Because she didn’t care what people thought if she spoke to me. Before I changed. (pause)

Janie: (smiles) Why did you change it? Your look, I mean.

Cabel: Captain’s orders. For the job. It’s not my car, either, by the way. It’s part of the image. I suppose I’ll have to give it back after a while. (pause)

Hey, Janie?

Janie: Yeah?

Cabel: What are you doing after high school?

Janie: (sighs) It’s still up in the air, I guess. In two years, I’ve barely saved enough money for one semester at U of M…God, that’s just crazy…so, unless I get a decent scholarship, it’ll be community college.

Cabel: So you’re staying around here?

Janie: Yeah…I, uh, I need to be close enough so I can keep an eye on my mother, you know? And…I think, with my little “problem,” I’m going to have to live at home. Or I’ll never get any sleep. Cabel: Janie?

Janie: Yes?

Cabel: I’m going there. To U of M.

Janie: You are NOT.

Cabel: Criminal Justice. So I can keep my job here. Janie: How do you know? Did you get an acceptance letter already? How can you afford it?

Cabel: Um, Janie?

Janie: Yesss, Cabel?

Cabel: I have another lie to confess.

Janie: Oh, dear. What is it?

Cabel: I do, actually, know what my GPA is.