The Bad Decisions Playlist by Michael Rubens

Author:Michael Rubens
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

I believe in things I cannot see /

I believe in you and me / I believe /

I believe that we’ll be together

“Where is he?!”

“Whuh?”

“WHERE IS HE?!”

Really bad way to wake up: My mother shaking me violently by the shoulders and screaming in my face.

“What? What’s happening? What’s going on?”

“Where. Is. He?”

The various components of my consciousness that go off and do their own thing when I’m asleep are still struggling to return to headquarters so that my brain can function.

“Mom, whuzzuh . . . What’s going on? Where is who?”

“Don’t give me that crap! Where is Shane!”

“Shane? He’s not here! What are you talking about!”

“Why is his goddamn car here?!”

Oh, crap. The car. Right. I drove home from Josephine’s, dazed, three-fourths baffled, one quarter love-dopey, and parked in front of the house, figuring I would wake up before dawn and drive it to math class and then to work before my mom was the wiser. Fail.

“I said, why is his goddamn car here?!”

Lesson number one: Don’t plan tactics when you’re baffled and/or love-dopey.

“What time is it?” I say, then look over at the alarm clock​—​“Oh, crap!”​—​and leap out of bed and rush out of the room and down the hall, my mom in hot pursuit.

“What the hell is going on here!”

“Mom, shut the door! I’m peeing!”

“Why is his car here?!”

“Mom, I will pee on you!”

Really shocking statement from my mom about what she, in turn, will do to me.

“Jesus, Mom!”

“I’m serious! Where is he?”

“He’s not here! I just have his car!”

“Have you been hanging out with him? You have been hanging out with him! I’m going to​—”

Truly harrowing, scrotum-puckering description of the traumatic punishment that awaits Shane.

“Mom!”

“What the hell happened yesterday! Where were you last night? What have you been doing!”

What was I doing last night? Did all that really happen? It can’t have. It’s impossible. It was a dream. I made it up.

“I’m talking to you!”

“Mom!”

It goes on like this for the next several minutes as I yank my clothes on​—​“Answer me!” “I’m trying to put my pants on!”​—​and head downstairs​—​“Where are you going!” “Breakfast!”​—​and pour myself some cereal and shovel it into my mouth while standing at the counter, my mom at my elbow, harrying me.

Mom (pulling cereal bowl away; milk and cornflakes slopping on the linoleum): “Look at me when I’m talking to you! How come you have his truck?!”

Me (pointing to mouth stuffed with cereal): “Mmmm! Rmmph mmph mmmm!”

Then I grab the box of cereal and scoot out the door​—​“I gotta get to class and then work! It’s in the contract!”​—​and hop into the truck, my mom banging on the window.

“We are gonna talk, mister!”

“I love you!”

“You tell him he’s dead!”

“I love you bye!”

SCRREEECH!

I Fast & Furious it backwards out of the driveway and accelerate away before my mom can leap on the hood, punch through the windshield, and pull my heart out of my rib cage.

∗ ∗ ∗

Last night when I got home, I texted Josephine:

Is everything okay?

It was the only text I sent. I’d

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