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By Root 1165 0

Camp the Summer before. I had met this Girl there, I think her name was Emily, and we spent all of our time at the Camp sneaking away and smoking dope. When we left, we wrote each other. She was sort of a female version of me, which meant the letters were pretty explicit about drugs and drinking. One afternoon I came home from School and went to my Room and a bunch of my stuff, stuff that I kept hidden, including Emily’s letters, was sitting on my dresser. I knew I was in trouble and I was pissed my Mom had gone through my shit, so I went back downstairs to find her and get it over with. When I walked into the Kitchen, she was standing there holding a bag of dope that she found in the pocket of my coat. She asked what’s this and I asked her where she got it and she said don’t talk back to me young man and I said tell me where you got it and I’ll tell you what it is and she said stop mouthing off young man and I laughed.

I look at my Mother. Her face is white beneath her makeup. I look back to Joanne.

She held the dope in front of me and she screamed what is this where did you get this you tell me right now. I laughed and she kept screaming. I got sick of her screaming and I was pissed about the invasion of my privacy, so as she was holding the bag up, I reached out and I snatched it from her hand. She was shocked, and as I put the bag in my pocket, she reared back to slap me. I saw it coming, so when she swung I grabbed her hand. That made her swing with the other hand and I grabbed that one too. I had both of her hands and she was struggling and screaming and I was laughing. I guess I was laughing because a bag of dope didn’t seem like such a big deal to me and it was ridiculous to watch her freak out over it. She couldn’t hit me because I had her arms, so she tried to kick me. As she did, I let go of her hands and she lost her balance and fell to the floor and she started crying, crying really hard. I turned around and walked out the front door. I could hear her crying as I did, but I didn’t want to deal with it, so I just walked out. When I came home a few hours later my Dad screamed at me and grounded me for a month.

I look at my Mother. She is staring at the floor. Joanne speaks.

That’s an awful story, James.

I know.

How did it make you feel as you told it?

Part of me still thinks it’s funny, but more of me is just ashamed and embarrassed.

How do you think it makes your Mother feel?

I look at my Mother. She is staring at the floor and she is trying not to cry.

I think it probably makes her feel pretty awful.

Why?

Because it must have been humiliating. Trying to confront your Kid about drugs and having him laugh at you and trying to discipline him and ending up in a heap on the floor.

Joanne looks at my Mother.

Is that true, Lynne?

My Mother looks up, lips quivering.

Yes.

Do you think that was what the incident was really about, drugs and discipline?

I speak.

No.

What do you think it was about?

It was about control.

Why do you think that?

Going through my shit and reading my private letters was about knowing what I was doing so that she could control me. Trying to make me tell her what was in the bag when she already knew what was in it was about control. When she fell after she hit me, she wasn’t upset because she didn’t land her shots, she was upset because she knew, at that point, I was out of control.

Joanne looks at my Mother.

Do you think that’s a valid interpretation?

My Mother stares at the floor, thinks. She looks up.

I was upset about the drugs. It was upsetting reading those letters and finding out about some of the things he had been doing, especially after we sent him to that Camp to try and get him away from some of that stuff. When I actually found the bag in his coat, I was scared and horrified. He was fourteen. Fourteen-year-old Boys shouldn’t be carrying around bags of drugs. To a certain extent, though, he’s right about the control. His Father and I were always trying to control him, mainly because he had always been so out of control.

There is a knock at the door. Joanne