NOVEL NEXT Chapter 7: Weekends
Seven Years Ago
James normally enjoyed weekends. Time off from school was always welcome.
Some weekends, however… some just sucked. Whether it be a weekend his dad chose to take him for a haircut, try out for a sport, or something else entirely.
This was one of those sucky weekends. And not just one thing. Oh no. This was multiple different sucky things all in one weekend.
Starting with Friday night, when James could usually get some quiet time. He would normally have homework, and spending time doing it usually guaranteed he’d be left alone. This Friday night, however, James had none. That’s fine, he could spend some time relaxing, just enjoy himself? You’d assume so.
You’d be wrong.
Naturally, instead of letting James have any time to himself, his dad decided that that evening was the perfect opportunity to host an impromptu get together with a few of the other boys in town. And, of course, James was expected to join in.
It wasn’t fun. James wasn’t a sporty guy. Actually, James was, according to his classmates, the sissy kind of guy. James didn’t exactly know what that meant, but he knew it was a bad thing. But, despite all of that, James’ dad, who (yippee) was also the local high school’s gym teacher, decided to invite as many of the more sporty boys from that high school as he could find. And he expected James to participate.
James knew his dad was disappointed in him. He wasn’t the son his dad wanted. Hell, he didn’t even really want to be a son, for that matter. But he knew by this point to never say anything about that.
James groaned in pain, lying on the ground after getting knocked over by one of the other boys. He thought it might have been Derek. Derek was always going out of his way to push James around.
“James!” his dad called, with a note of angry exasperation in his voice. “Get up!”
James would very much rather not. His legs were sore. His arms were sore. He was covered in mud and grass stains. He would much rather be lying in bed reading a book (or a fanfiction, James had found he enjoyed those too).
But, before James could utter another groan, he was being dragged to his feet by one of his teammates — a grade twelve boy named Jeremy. Jeremy was scowling. “Come on, Wilson!”
They were playing soccer. James didn’t like soccer. He tended to get nervous whenever the ball started leaving the ground even a little bit. He didn’t want to get hit in the head then end up in the hospital or something.
James stumbled back towards where the ball had ended up, wiping his hair out of his face. It was getting kind of long, his dad would probably want it cut soon.
Once it got too dark to continue playing, all the boys started heading home. James tried to head back home on his own before his dad noticed, but no luck. His dad made him carry the soccer ball for some reason— the wet and muddy soccer ball. James was so glad he hadn’t had to play goaltender and have to touch this the whole game.
Of course, James’ dad was all too eager to explain to James all the way James showcased how much of a disappointment he was during the game. James just nodded along and tried not to snap back at his dad. That wouldn’t do him any good at all.
Once they got home, James’ dad — thankfully — took the ball to the garage, finally allowing James to head inside and shower. He may have taken a lot longer than necessary in it.
Once he was done, it was time for supper, which was a lot of awkwardness. James’ dad kept trying to engage James in conversation about the Leafs and other random sports stuff, which James couldn’t care less about. James’ older sister, Martha —who was significantly more sporty than James, not that James’ dad gave a shit about that— kept trying to chime in with her thoughts, only to be completely ignored in favour of James trying his best to somehow deflect.
As for their mom? Well, she had left years ago. She had fought to retain custody of James and Martha, but had been unsuccessful.
Finally, after several excruciating minutes of some attempt at existing as a functional family unit (an attempt that failed miserably), James and Martha headed upstairs to bed.
Saturday that weekend was just as painful, but in a completely different way. Dad’s family was visiting.
At first, it seemed pleasant. Sure, James would much rather be alone in his room reading instead of surrounded by a bunch of people he didn’t even know that well, but at least the snacks were good.
And then Uncle Jeff had to start talking. And once Uncle Jeff started talking, he kept going. On and on. About anything. Complaining about some strike or another, complaining about gay people, complaining about liberals. A lot of complaining, really. Martha wisely retreated out to the backyard before he could start ranting at her, but James wasn’t so lucky. He ended up facing the full force of Uncle Jeff’s inability to regulate his internal monologue. He attempted to engage James in some conversation about the Jews or whatever, pausing to comment on (complain about) James’ hair, then moving on to some other topic.
James hated when people commented on his hair. It was always something about how it was getting long and it needed to be cut. James actually would rather it be long. The feeling of it being so short after a haircut always put James in a bad mood for around a week afterwards —which, of course, he’d learned to hide from his dad, who would just tell him to ‘man up’— whatever the hell that meant.
Martha wasn’t spared either. She may have been able to escape, but Uncle Jeff was happy to complain about her to James anyway. There were some words thrown in that James was pretty sure were very cruel to call someone, but he didn’t comment on it because he didn’t want his uncle to start yelling at him over it.
Finally, James managed to find an excuse –lunch– to leave the conversation.
That wasn’t the end of the torture, of course. Among several other members of James’ extended family making comments about his hair, his dad finally mentioned that tomorrow –Sunday– he’d be taking James to get his haircut.
Wonderful. What a perfect ending to a horrible weekend.
James wanted to cry. He’d actually been starting to like how his hair looked. The shaggy look had even been called cute by a girl recently. But now that was all gone. His hair was back to barely being half an inch long. He ran his hand over the back of his head, cringing at the bristly feeling of the short hairs.
This was always the worst part. While getting a haircut, James could close his eyes and somewhat ignore it. But afterwards, he was expected to look in the mirror. Expected to say he liked the result, when he never did.
His hair had never been allowed to get long enough, even before Mom had left.
Internally, James felt it wasn’t really fair. It was his hair! Why shouldn’t he get to choose to let it grow out? But he would never give voice to those thoughts. Dad wouldn’t like it.
He felt like crying, as he saw the clippings of his own hair scattered across the ground.
But no tears came. He hadn’t been able to cry for years by then.
