The Strategy of Denial

I haven’t slept well in days. Don’t pity me. I refuse to return from Suggs’s house, where I abuse the unrestricted access to 17 types of caffeinated cola, and my bed equals four faded pillows in the hollow between Suggs’s bed and the wall.

Ever experience denial so bad that you refuse to prepare for that thing you’re in denial about, hoping that acting detrimentally toward your results will make that thing not real? An elevated game of pretend. Act enough like something won’t happen, and it won’t.

But it always does.

Denial keeps me here today despite tomorrow’s chem quiz. And here two days ago despite my social studies test. And here three days ago despite my English essay. And… I get déjà vu from the number of times I’ve pretended I could avoid schoolwork by camping out at Suggs’s place. The same guilt. The same view of Suggs gaming or doing homework. He always invites me to join. I never do.

Suggs has big, ugly feet that twitch whenever he’s excited about something, like getting the most kills in Glizzy Gunners or talking about the girl he likes. (Veronica Puth. Not my type.)

I poke his foot.

“Acky, stop!” I avoid his kick.

I poke him again.

“Cut it out!”

Suggs’s tongue sticks out in concentration as the final boss bounces up and down going, “MWHAHAHA!”

I keep poking his foot, and Suggs keeps trying to kick my hand away. At last, the boss beats him, and he drops his controller.

“The heck, man?!”

Suggs flings himself at me and wrestles me until we’ve fallen off the bed. I hit my head against his nightstand, and it makes such a loud sound he gets off me.

“You good?”

I shove him. I think my nose is bleeding.

I sniff, wiping it on my sleeve.

“I’m good.”

Suggs resumes gaming.

He forgets to invite me. Guess I’ve turned him down a lot.

We played together all the time before I adopted the Strategy of Denial.

I poke his foot.

Suggs hits pause and turns to look at me. He needs a haircut. A shower too.

“What.”

He uses this voice that sounds like a meme duck.

“What. What. What. What.”

I sigh. He already knows.

“Nothing.”

Suggs gets up and goes to the kitchen to get some SweetieRope. He sets it on the bed, and I grab some out the box. The blue kind. Not my fav.

I get up to get a soda.

“Grab me one too!” Suggs says.

I already know.

Drinking the first sip of soda in the kitchen, where Suggs’s mom dances around Suggs’s toddler brother, speaking nervously on the phone about some sort of prescription, I think about if my dad saw me.

“Your body’s important. Respect it.”

I heard that every morning in middle school while he dragged me out with him for a jog. Now that I’m 16, I’m old enough to refuse to go.

Dad started getting his friend Rudy Brooker to go with him on weekdays. He says it’s because Rudy gets lonely after dropping his kid off at school, but I think it’s him who’s lonely.

I remember laughing at them freshman year, thinking of them as The Loser Single Dads’ Club. I remember promising myself I’d never fall for someone who would leave me. No one. Ever.

Suggs’s mom pulls a tray of dino nuggies from the oven and covers the receiver of her phone.

“Help yourself, Acky,” she says, one-arm scooping the toddler up and situating him in his high-chair.

Suggs’s dad is on a business trip. He usually is. Suggs’s situation isn’t the same as mine, but sometimes it feels that way. It even feels worse sometimes. At least my dad always cooks real food for me.

I immediately feel sort of bad for thinking that. Suggs’s mom has always been nice to me, despite the fact that I’ve practically moved into her house.

But still.

The doorbell rings and Suggs’s mom goes to answer it.

“Mr. Ackerman! Hello! Just a moment,” she gestures at the phone and waves him into the house. I try to scuttle away.

Not fast enough.

She waves at me.

I trudge over. Suggs’s mom hurries back to the now-screaming toddler.

It’s just us.

“Jake. You haven’t been home in almost a week. There’s only so long you can impose on-”

“I’m not imposing. Suggs’s mom just offered me food. She really doesn’t mind.”

“Well, I mind. I know I said that now you’re 16, you can start making your own decisions-”

“Then let me make my own decisions!”

He shakes his head. “I thought you’d do better.”

“Do what better, Dad? I’m just hanging out, I’m not doing drugs!”

“I know you’re not doing drugs. I’ve never thought that. Not doing terrible things doesn’t mean you’re actively doing good ones, Jake.”

I stare at the floor.

“Is this about my grades?”

“No, not really. Not at all. Well, maybe a little.”

He brushes his hand through his hair, over his bald spot.

“I miss you, Jake. It’s time you come home. I’m your dad, and I say it’s time.”

I blink slowly.

“What’s on your sleeve? Is this Suggs’s hoodie? When we go home, make sure you wash it before you give it back to him-”

“Ugh! Stop doing this!”

“Stop doing what?”

“You’re so… conscientious all the time! Guess what, Dad? I’m not like you! I don’t care that much about doing things right or doing homework or eating right or whatever! You said I can make my own decisions! I don’t care that you’re lonely. I’m not going home!”

“Tough.”

“What?”

“Tough cookies. I’m your dad, and I say you’re going home, so you’re going home. Now say goodbye to Suggs.”

I stare, aghast. There’s nothing I can do.

He follows me into Suggs’s room. Embarrassing.

“Jake is leaving now.”

Suggs looks mildly surprised. I hand him my soda.

“See you, Acky.”

He pretends to sip. Smooth.

We go home. Dad heats up a plate. It’s surf and turf. My favorite. It’s not as good reheated, but somehow it’s amazing.

I crash like a boulder onto my own bed. I sleep long and hard. In the morning, I hear birds twittering around the feeder dad and I built together. It’s not a bad sound.

Dad walks in. I roll over, pulling the covers over my face.

“Want to come for a run with me?”

He still asks every day.

“Just go with Rudy.”

“That’s Mr. Brooker to you. And Rudy can’t make it. Sandra’s sick.”

I pity Rudy. Sandra annoys me more than any other kid I’ve been forced to babysit, and he has to deal with her every day.

“I’m not going.”

“Suit yourself. You need to get up and eat, though.”

“I’m not going to school.”

He’s quiet.

“Are you sick?”

“No.”

Again. Quiet. The birds outside sound sort of sad.

“OK,” he says, “I’ll call the school. I’ll take today off too. When I get back, you and I will talk.”

“I don’t wanna talk.”

“I don’t wanna talk either. Don’t worry, I’ll go on an extra long run so we can both stall.”

He ruffles the blanket over my head, statickying up my hair, and he’s off.

I roll back over and return to sleep.

As soon as I wake up I check my phone. It’s already 10am, chem quiz long over. So weird to think about.

Suggs flooded me with memes. I open one and crack a smile at a bunch of bros dancing in inflatable dino costumes. Reminds me of Halloween our freshman year.

My phone dies. I didn’t charge it overnight.

I tiptoe to the shower. I take a good long one, hiding out so dad can’t force me to “talk” yet.

I get out starving.

Dad left some bacon on a skillet for me. It’s cold, but delicious. I grab a banana too. All Suggs ever eats for breakfast is Frootie-Ooties. It freaks me out when the milk turns purple.

I bump into the skillet’s handle, and it CLANGs to the ground, nearly missing my foot. So much for lying low.

I expect Dad to come running in, but he doesn’t. Weird.

I go to his office. Maybe he’s wearing headphones? I think about him sitting there on Saturday mornings, drinking coffee with honey and reading history books.

His big brown chair sits empty.

“Dad?”

I check over by the door. His running shoes are still gone.

I check the garage. The car is gone.

If he said a “long” walk, that means he drove up to hike the mountain trail.

He left at 6:30am. It’s already 11am. It only takes an hour to hike and an hour total drive time. Even if he detoured, like he used to when I’d go with him and he’d show me mushrooms to avoid or wild onions to eat, he still should have returned by 9am.

Maybe shopping?

I dart back to the kitchen.

No. He would have brought the list.

I hurry back to my room and plug my phone in. It takes an eon to turn on. I call him.

DOOT-DOOT-DOO!

I stay calm. We always lose service on the mountain path. And what had Dad said? An “extra long run.” Maybe Dad is avoiding me in the woods like I’d been avoiding him in the shower.

I sink down onto the carpet. I scroll feed for half an hour. It begins to rain.

Lunchtime. I call Suggs.

“Yo.”

“Suggs?”

“Acky! Lucky dog~ That chem quiz destroyed my psyche. I considered burning my own hand with Hydrochloric Acid to get out of it- Burger! Tots! Thanks, Mrs. Otis!”

There’s a loud clattering, and I suspect I’ve been placed on a tray.

“Man, I’m gonna have to sit with the football guys. Bart always smells like he just got out of practice. Throws off my lunch. You suck, dude! Come back tomorrow!”

Maybe I’m overreacting.

I wait for Suggs to hang up, but he doesn’t. The cafeteria noise swells. He waits.

“Acky, you there? I’m hungry, man.”

I say nothing. Suggs assumes the connection dropped and hangs up.

I think back to Dad leaving this morning.

“Rudy can’t make it.”

If Rudy had gone with him, he’d have returned forever ago. I never worry about Dad when Rudy’s there. The guy’s a seven foot tall giant.

“Sandra’s sick.”

Sandra. Evil gremlin. Germ-factory. Kids are gross.

Dad. Why did he have to go running, anyway?

It dawns on me. Dad’s intentionally taking a long time to teach me a lesson because I stayed at Suggs’s place all week.

I smile, feeling relieved, but it fades fast.

Would Dad really do that?

Sure he would. He doesn’t want to talk anyway!

I hold out. I will be nonchalant. When he comes in, I will be unbothered.

I scroll feed. I go to the kitchen and make a sandwich. I almost study for chemistry.

At 1:46pm I break. I text Dad.

Where are you?

Message Not Delivered.

Still in the mountains?

I text Suggs.

Can you call?

Say less. Miss Yeats is boringggg.

A minute later, my phone buzzes.

“What’s up?” A toilet flushes in the background.

“Suggs. My Dad’s missing.”

“Someone kidnapped Mr. Ackerman?”

“No. Well, I don’t think so. I really need a ride. Now.”

“Acky, I can’t skip school! My mom will call my dad!”

“Suggs.”

“Shouldn’t you, like, call the police?”

The police? If I call the police, this will be real.

“No! Just come over!”

20 minutes later, I hear The Clunker pull into my driveway. When I get my license, I’m going to make sure I don’t get anything that sounds like The Clunker.

I slam inside.

“I think he’s on the mountain trail.”

“Should we call the ranger?”

“The what?”

The Clunker struggles up the mountain pass. My heart pounds when we roll into the parking lot.

Dad’s car is here. It’s the only one.

I’m so desperate to get out that I yank the handle before we’re even in park.

“Easy!”

I stop.

“Thanks, Suggs,” I say.

“Thanks for what? Don’t thank me until we've found your dad.”

He starts getting out too. I always knew he’d come with me, but it surprises me a little anyway.

I slam the door as gently as The Clunker permits.

“Just do me one thing,” he says, “Give my hoodie back when this is all over.”

I feel a stab in my gut. Dad was right. I should get that stain out.

The ground is slushy from the rain. I move as fast as I can. Middle school me could run faster.

It gets darker the deeper we go into the woods. The air turns cold. My converse squelch over and over like suction cups on an octopus.

“DAD?!” I call, “DAD?!”

I think back to every little stray-from-the-path.

Tree with the pink flag? Strawberry stream.

Seven grey rocks? Beehive.

The rain returns. Pouring.

“Acky, wait up!”

I’m not listening to Suggs.

“DAD?!”

No one comes here on weekdays. No one to walk by someone in trouble.

I slip. I’m coated in mud. Shoot. I can’t get mud on Suggs’s seats.

No. I’m going home with Dad.

Lightning cracks and thunder booms in almost the same instant. I feel the electricity on my scalp.

Get up. Run on.

“DAD!”

The storm rages.

“DAD!”

“Jake?”

I almost think I’ve imagined it.

“DAD?!”

“JAKE?!”

“KEEP CALLING!”

“JAKE! JAAAAKE!”

I hoist myself over a log marked with yellow spray-paint.

There! My heart drops.

His leg’s caught in a bear trap.

I freeze.

I want to deny this. I want him to be home in his chair where he belongs. But denial never works.

Swallowing, I force my neck to turn to look at him. Time moves again.

“Dad!”

I run toward him. I slip again, but get right back up.

“Dad! What are we gonna do?!”

“Calm down, Jake.”

He’s sweating and pale but smiling.

“Who did you call? Did you bring anyone? The ranger?”

“Just Suggs.”

As if on command, Suggs’s torso appears over the log.

“Ah! Geez, Mr. Ackerman! Your leg!”

“Hi, Suggs. Don’t worry. See this?”

He holds up a large stick.

Suggs and I exchange a look. The look says, “He’s gone mad!”

“I’ve been trying all day to use it for leverage to compress these springs. Now that you’re here, I think I’ll have a better shot.”

We inch toward him like he’ll bite. We’re both trying not to look at his leg. Our hands shake around the stick.

“Good, brave boys,” Dad says, “Now, push.”

We push.

Dad’s suddenly lying on the ground, but his leg’s free.

“I’ll carry you, Dad.”

“Thanks.”

The trek up the mud supporting Dad should be tougher than the trek down, but it’s easier somehow.

We load Dad into The Clunker. Suggs drives to the hospital.

Nothing feels real.

Dad keeps his leg. Barely.

He’s banned from running for months.

Instead, we build add-ons to our bird feeder in the early mornings.

Dad buys Suggs a new hoodie.

I ring Suggs’s bell, new and old hoodies in a bag.

“Cool, thanks. How’s your Dad?”

“Alright.”

“Glizzy Gunners?”

“Only if I can dibs Shellsalot.”

“Hmm. I guess. Vocab assignment after?”

I hiss in air through my teeth.

“OK.”

It’s due tomorrow. I can’t deny it. I won’t.