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You aren’t a bad person.
All right, you’ll admit it: you have a bit of a short fuse, and sometimes you don’t have the best judgment because of it. But who doesn’t lose their temper every once in a while?
It just happens that you have a harder time keeping your anger in check than most people do, that’s all. That doesn’t mean you’re bad.
So you’re getting pretty tired of people telling you that you are.
“God, I just can’t believe you,” your mom says, pulling at her hair in frustration. “Every other week, you’re getting into a fight, or skipping class, or keying Mrs Dombrovsky’s car!”
“She kicked me out of class for ‘being disruptive’ even though literally everyone talks in her class! She hates me, Mom!”
“So that gives you the right to key her car?” Your mom shakes her head and sighs. She looks defeated. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”
You cross your arms and look away stubbornly, setting your jaw.
Your mom stands there in silence for a moment, trying to ice you out you guess, before she gives up.
“I have to get to the diner. I’ll be home late, so you’ll have to find something to eat.” She waits for you to say something, and when you don’t, she takes a step closer and puts a hand on your shoulder. “Honey, I just want what’s best for you. I don’t understand why you don’t see that.”
You jerk your shoulder out of her grip. “Maybe because you never listen to me,” you fire back.
She looks hurt, just like she always does when you tell her the truth. You regret it immediately.
She sniffs and lifts her chin. “I’m leaving now. I hope you have a better attitude by the time I get home.”
She turns and leaves, grabbing her keys from the dish on the hall table without stopping. When she closes the door, the sound seems to echo through the house.
You stay there, standing in the middle of the living room, listening to the wall clock tick, for several long seconds. Then you sit down on the rug and cry.
When you get to the cabin, you knock on the door and wait -- you don’t try to go in because you know the door is locked.
When the door opens, revealing a girl with curly brown hair in baggy jeans and a flannel shirt, you say, “Is he here?”
She nods. “Yes.”
“Can I see him?”
“Yes,” she says again, stepping aside so you can enter the cabin.
The creaking of the old wood floors alone is enough to ease some of the tension in your shoulders. You breathe in the smell of wood and old furniture, and when you breathe out, the anger and the sadness isn’t gone, but it doesn’t seem so crushing anymore.
Hopper is in his recliner with his feet up, a half-finished beer on the side table. He looks over at you and seems surprised, but not unpleasantly so.
“Hey, kid,” he says. Then, because he’s always understood you better than anyone, he adds, “Bad day?”
You nod.
He nods back. He reaches down and throws the lever on his recliner back into its original position, and then stands with a grunt, leaning backwards a little to pop his back. Without saying a word, he heads for the porch, and you follow.
The two of you sit on creaky old deck chairs, looking out over the lake. Hopper takes a carton of cigarettes and a lighter out of his breast pocket, sticking a cigarette in his mouth. You hold out a hand and he raises an eyebrow.
“When’d you start smoking?”
You shrug. “Few months ago.” You keep your hand extended.
He eyes you for a moment before sighing and putting a cigarette in your hand. “Just this once, though. I want you to quit; ‘s a bad habit.”
“Really?” You say, putting your own cigarette in your mouth. He lights his and then hands you his lighter so that you can do the same. “I don’t think you get to lecture me about this , Hop,” you say, eyeing the lit cig between his fingers.
He chuckles and takes a drag. “I’ve been smoking since I was younger than you. I think I have every right to lecture you about it.”
You consider this for a moment, and then you shrug and nod. He does have a point.
“So, what brings you here on this lovely, overcast night,” Hopper drawls, turning to stare out at the horizon. You do the same, taking a long drag from your cigarette.
“My mom,” you say simply.
“Ah,” Hopper says. “Givin’ you grief again?”
You sigh. “Yeah. She’s pissed off because I got caught keying Mrs Dombrovsky’s car.”
Hopper whistles. “That’s somethin’. What’d Dombrovsky do?”
“She kicked me out of class for talking and wrote me up for being disruptive. Which is utter bullshit because everybody talks in that class, but I’m the only one who gets in trouble? Like, whatever, bitch, I know you hate me, I don’t care,” you roll your eyes and lift the cigarette to your lips again.
“She didn’t do anything else?”
You exhale smoke through your nostrils. “...Why do you ask?”
“Because that’s not the kinda thing that really grinds your gears, kid. The shit that really gets to you is more personal than that. You don’t key somebody’s car because they kicked you outta pre-calc.”
You hesitate. “She… She called me a burnout.”
Hopper nods, grimacing. “That sounds like Dombrovsky, all right. That woman had it in for me, too.” He looks over at you. “That all she said?”
You bite your lip and shake your head. “She said I was nothing but a burnout and a delinquent, and she didn’t want to see me in her class for the rest of the day if all I was going to do was distract the other students,” you say. The words are practically burned into your memory. Just thinking about it makes you so mad you want to punch something. “All I did was ask somebody to move so I could see what she was writing on the board.”
Hopper shakes his head. “I’m sorry, kid,” he says, and he sounds it, too. You know there’s nothing he can do about it, though; Hopper’s not your dad, and it’s not like he can arrest Dombrovsky for being a heinous bitch to you. At least he can be there for you, though.
The two of you are silent for a while, just listening to the cicadas and the gentle lapping of the waves on the lakeshore.
Then, Hopper says, “How’re your grades?”
You shrug. “Okay, I guess.”
He raises a brow. “‘Okay?’ What’s ‘okay’ mean?”
You pick at a loose thread on your shirt with your free hand and smoke to buy yourself time. “I have a C in English.”
“Uh huh.”
“...And a D in Spanish…”
“How come? And why do you have a C in English, I thought you liked English?”
You sigh in frustration. “I didn’t wanna do this stupid oral presentation in Spanish so I skipped class that day. And the book we’re reading in English is really boring, I can’t focus on it when we have to read at home.”
Hopper shakes his head, frowning. “Kid, c’mon, we’ve talked about you skipping school. You’re gonna get into trouble if you don’t stop ditching.”
You look down at your lap, feeling guilty, like you’ve let him down. “I know. ...Sorry.”
He sighs and takes a drag from his cigarette. “It’s fine,” he says, smoke trailing from his mouth and nose. “Just try a little harder, okay? I know school sucks and it’s boring, but you have to stick it out until you graduate. Don’t be like me that way, all right?”
You nod.
“You know, when I was your age, I was dealing with a lot of the same… issues you are. Shitty teachers, boring classes, parents who either aren’t there or aren’t listening to you. I was angry. Hell,” he laughs shortly, bitterly, and you know more than ever this man recognises something in you most other people never will. “Sometimes, it felt like I’d never stop being angry. But I want you to know it will get better. And if you ever start to feel like you’re all alone in the world… If that anger and hurt ever starts to feel too big…” He looks you dead in the eye. “I want you to come talk to me. Okay?”
You swallow thickly and nod. “Okay, Hop.” You feel wetness on your cheeks, and you swipe at them with your palm, sniffling.
Hopper notices and stands, wordlessly opening his arms to you. You accept gratefully, and he lets you cry into his chest for as long as you need before you pull away slowly, sniffing and wiping your eyes.
“Thanks, Hop.”
“Anytime, kid.”