Cliché - By Lisa Perron
Section 1 (July)
The first day of school always stunk. The perpetual listing of rules and expectations from each teacher droned on and on. It didn’t help that the kid behind him kept kicking his chair. “Oops. Sorry,” the kid said. Only, he knew that the boy wasn’t sorry at all.
He usually sat in the back row to avoid his classmates’ complaining about not being able to see over him. But the two desks he’d tried had uneven legs, and he knew that the constant tipping would have driven him crazy. However, it would have been better than sitting in front of this kid. He felt like a giraffe crammed into a tiny desk doing his best to look average size.
His pencil moved continuously giving the appearance that he took vigorous notes. Instead, he doodled. He always doodled. He found that if he kept his hand busy, he could listen easier. He didn’t have to waste all of his energy focusing on sitting still and looking at the teacher when he mindlessly scribbled. The muscles in his back tightened as each kick from the boy behind him landed noisily on his chair. Heat crawled up the back of his neck. He curled in on himself, shielding his paper from view as insignificant shapes morphed into the club he wanted to use on the kid. Fury crept down his arm, causing him to increase the pressure on his pencil. Snap. He set his broken pencil aside and grabbed one of the four others lined up on his desk. He was always prepared for situations like this.
He seethed. The lump of unsaid words collected in his throat, preparing to explode at the kid, if only he could remember his name. There was a time when he would have shrieked at the boy, but he was in high school now and much too old for outbursts.
Fifth period ended—two more to go. Students clamored out of the classroom, several deliberately banging his desk. Bulls. He covered his belongings with both arms to keep his stuff from falling.
“Hi,” he heard someone say. The words couldn’t be meant for him. No one talked to him at school, at least not without taunting him. Ever.
“Hi,” she said again. “I’m Ruby.”
A girl stood next to his desk waiting. He glanced at her and realized that she was talking to him. He nearly knocked his chair over when he stood. He tried to look at her face like Aunt Cara always told him to do when he was addressed, but his eyes stuck on the huge port wine stain covering the bottom half of her right cheek spilling onto her neck. Who would name a child with a huge red birthmark on her face Ruby?
“What’s your name?” she asked.
Stop looking at her birthmark. Stop looking at her birthmark. Stop looking at her birthmark. He raised his gaze to her eyes, something he never did, in order to stop staring at the blob on her face. Green. He almost looked away but told himself that green was okay. It was blue eyes he avoided. Blue eyes reminded him of . . .
“So,” she said. “What’s your name?”
He was so befuddled about this girl talking to him that he had to force himself to answer her. He swallowed. “Um, people call me Cliché.”
“I know that. That’s just your nickname. What’s your real name?”
He stared. He’d never been asked that before. He’d been called Cliché for so long that he figured that no one knew he even had a real name.
He had always had trouble understanding people. People hardly ever said what they meant. They used expressions and figures of speech instead of speaking plain. When he was little, his mother bought a dictionary of clichés that she read to him every night before bed to help him understand. Most kids liked bedtime stories, but not him. The dictionary of clichés fascinated him. In an attempt to talk like everyone else, he ended up inadvertently overusing the very clichés he was obsessed with. Strangers used to refer to him as that cliché kid. At family gatherings, people would stop conversations and say to him, “Cliché?” He would answer them with the first cliché that came to mind that had to do with whatever they talked about. Eventually, people stopped calling him by his actual name. He was just Cliché.
At first, he felt rather clever when he was put on the spot like that. Eventually, he realized that others didn’t think he was clever, only odd. Now he did everything possible to avoid using clichés. In fact, he tried his best to keep from talking at all. He just wanted to be invisible so the ridicule would stop. However, it was impossible to be invisible when he towered over everyone.
“Surely Cliché isn’t the name on your birth certificate.” Ruby’s smile confused Cliché. It wasn’t mocking like most people’s—at least he didn’t think so.
Cliché busied himself with collecting his belongings. “Arthur.” Arthur Paul MacKenna, after his great-grandfather.
“Arthur.” The pleasure in her voice made him look at her again. This time he didn’t stop at her birthmark. “That’s a nice name.”
Cliché gaped. He felt like he had just let out a huge secret that he’d been keeping and he didn’t know how he felt about it. His name had died a long time ago, along with his mother.
“Arthur,” Ruby said again. “Can I call you Artie?”
“No.”
The voice of Aunt Cara echoed in his head saying one of the five things she told him at least once every day.
“My mother called me Artie,” he murmured.
Ruby’s smile faded for a moment, and her eyebrows angled up into a point. She knew he had lost his mother. Everyone did. It was like there was a sign on his forehead labeling him an orphan.
Her smile returned. “Well, can I call you Arthur then?”
Warmness spread in Cliché’s chest and his scalp started to tingle from the idea of Ruby calling him by his real name. He allowed the corners of his mouth to rise slightly and said, “Yes.”
“Great,” Ruby said. “Goodbye, Arthur. See you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. For the first time ever Cliché looked forward to tomorrow. He was so happy that he forgot answer her. He just stared after her.
“You’re in my desk, Cliché,” a boy said. “Don’t you have another class?”
As he walked through the halls to his next class, Cliché replayed the whole exchange with Ruby. The third person he bumped into said, “Looks like Cliché is out of it. What’s the matter? You got your head in the clouds?”
It usually bothered him when people threw clichés at him, but he didn’t react. Instead, he thought about clouds. In particular, cloud nine. What was the scale that was used to determine the value of cloud nine? If it was a scale between one and a hundred, cloud nine wasn’t that impressive. However, if it was rated between one and ten, a nine was pretty good. If that was the case, Cliché was sure that’s where he was—on cloud nine.
He usually sat in the back row to avoid his classmates’ complaining about not being able to see over him. But the two desks he’d tried had uneven legs, and he knew that the constant tipping would have driven him crazy. However, it would have been better than sitting in front of this kid. He felt like a giraffe crammed into a tiny desk doing his best to look average size.
His pencil moved continuously giving the appearance that he took vigorous notes. Instead, he doodled. He always doodled. He found that if he kept his hand busy, he could listen easier. He didn’t have to waste all of his energy focusing on sitting still and looking at the teacher when he mindlessly scribbled. The muscles in his back tightened as each kick from the boy behind him landed noisily on his chair. Heat crawled up the back of his neck. He curled in on himself, shielding his paper from view as insignificant shapes morphed into the club he wanted to use on the kid. Fury crept down his arm, causing him to increase the pressure on his pencil. Snap. He set his broken pencil aside and grabbed one of the four others lined up on his desk. He was always prepared for situations like this.
He seethed. The lump of unsaid words collected in his throat, preparing to explode at the kid, if only he could remember his name. There was a time when he would have shrieked at the boy, but he was in high school now and much too old for outbursts.
Fifth period ended—two more to go. Students clamored out of the classroom, several deliberately banging his desk. Bulls. He covered his belongings with both arms to keep his stuff from falling.
“Hi,” he heard someone say. The words couldn’t be meant for him. No one talked to him at school, at least not without taunting him. Ever.
“Hi,” she said again. “I’m Ruby.”
A girl stood next to his desk waiting. He glanced at her and realized that she was talking to him. He nearly knocked his chair over when he stood. He tried to look at her face like Aunt Cara always told him to do when he was addressed, but his eyes stuck on the huge port wine stain covering the bottom half of her right cheek spilling onto her neck. Who would name a child with a huge red birthmark on her face Ruby?
“What’s your name?” she asked.
Stop looking at her birthmark. Stop looking at her birthmark. Stop looking at her birthmark. He raised his gaze to her eyes, something he never did, in order to stop staring at the blob on her face. Green. He almost looked away but told himself that green was okay. It was blue eyes he avoided. Blue eyes reminded him of . . .
“So,” she said. “What’s your name?”
He was so befuddled about this girl talking to him that he had to force himself to answer her. He swallowed. “Um, people call me Cliché.”
“I know that. That’s just your nickname. What’s your real name?”
He stared. He’d never been asked that before. He’d been called Cliché for so long that he figured that no one knew he even had a real name.
He had always had trouble understanding people. People hardly ever said what they meant. They used expressions and figures of speech instead of speaking plain. When he was little, his mother bought a dictionary of clichés that she read to him every night before bed to help him understand. Most kids liked bedtime stories, but not him. The dictionary of clichés fascinated him. In an attempt to talk like everyone else, he ended up inadvertently overusing the very clichés he was obsessed with. Strangers used to refer to him as that cliché kid. At family gatherings, people would stop conversations and say to him, “Cliché?” He would answer them with the first cliché that came to mind that had to do with whatever they talked about. Eventually, people stopped calling him by his actual name. He was just Cliché.
At first, he felt rather clever when he was put on the spot like that. Eventually, he realized that others didn’t think he was clever, only odd. Now he did everything possible to avoid using clichés. In fact, he tried his best to keep from talking at all. He just wanted to be invisible so the ridicule would stop. However, it was impossible to be invisible when he towered over everyone.
“Surely Cliché isn’t the name on your birth certificate.” Ruby’s smile confused Cliché. It wasn’t mocking like most people’s—at least he didn’t think so.
Cliché busied himself with collecting his belongings. “Arthur.” Arthur Paul MacKenna, after his great-grandfather.
“Arthur.” The pleasure in her voice made him look at her again. This time he didn’t stop at her birthmark. “That’s a nice name.”
Cliché gaped. He felt like he had just let out a huge secret that he’d been keeping and he didn’t know how he felt about it. His name had died a long time ago, along with his mother.
“Arthur,” Ruby said again. “Can I call you Artie?”
“No.”
The voice of Aunt Cara echoed in his head saying one of the five things she told him at least once every day.
- “Stop slouching. You’re so much more handsome when you stand tall.”
- “Look at me, please.”
- “Speak clearly. I can’t understand you when you mumble.”
- “Is there anything I can do for you today?”
“My mother called me Artie,” he murmured.
Ruby’s smile faded for a moment, and her eyebrows angled up into a point. She knew he had lost his mother. Everyone did. It was like there was a sign on his forehead labeling him an orphan.
Her smile returned. “Well, can I call you Arthur then?”
Warmness spread in Cliché’s chest and his scalp started to tingle from the idea of Ruby calling him by his real name. He allowed the corners of his mouth to rise slightly and said, “Yes.”
“Great,” Ruby said. “Goodbye, Arthur. See you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. For the first time ever Cliché looked forward to tomorrow. He was so happy that he forgot answer her. He just stared after her.
“You’re in my desk, Cliché,” a boy said. “Don’t you have another class?”
As he walked through the halls to his next class, Cliché replayed the whole exchange with Ruby. The third person he bumped into said, “Looks like Cliché is out of it. What’s the matter? You got your head in the clouds?”
It usually bothered him when people threw clichés at him, but he didn’t react. Instead, he thought about clouds. In particular, cloud nine. What was the scale that was used to determine the value of cloud nine? If it was a scale between one and a hundred, cloud nine wasn’t that impressive. However, if it was rated between one and ten, a nine was pretty good. If that was the case, Cliché was sure that’s where he was—on cloud nine.
Section 2 (August)
I sat and stared and tried my best not to think about Elizabeth’s visit. I tried not to think about anything. My phone vibrated again. I’d already ignored a few calls from Elizabeth since she left and a couple from her brother. This time it was my son. I pressed the ignore button and shoved the thing between the armrest and the cushion of my chair. I rubbed my eyes firmly to keep myself from crying. At least Elizabeth had me so mad that I didn’t blubber in her presence. Anger is so much easier than facing the agony of losing Millie. It’s been so long since I’d had an actual conversation with the real Millie that I felt I’d lost her already. Elizabeth had no idea how close she’d come to breaking me earlier. I’d clenched my stubborn nature as if it were my only lifeline.
I needed to get my mind off of all of this. Surely there is a game on TV or something. The damn remote was across the room on my dining table. What in hell was it doing all the way over there? I stared at it as if I could conjure it to fly to my outstretched hand. Nope. A nap. There’s something I could do without having to leave my chair. I leaned back and closed my eyes reaching for nothingness. I concentrated on the whoosh of the dishwasher. Maybe the sound would lull me to sleep. Nope. Instead, Elizabeth’s words echoed in my head. “You really are a jackass, do you know that?” “Mom deserves so much better than this!”
Elizabeth’s face morphed into Millie’s, and it was no longer my daughter yelling at me but my wife. The long ago memory forced its way into my awareness with a distinctness I had not thought possible. I’d been out of town for a few days helping one of my friends on a construction job. Millie had expected me home hours earlier and was less than pleased when I finally clamored into the kitchen.
“You’re late.” Millie’s arms hung stiffly at her sides, her fists tightly clenched.
I gave her my remorseful look. “I’m sorry. Ted and I stopped for a drink and lost track of time.” Actually, we had gotten back in town at two that afternoon. We ended up calling a few other friends and spent the rest of the day drinking and telling stories. I spent the last hour and a half trying to sober up enough to drive home. I glanced at the clock: 8:48 p.m.
Millie took a few steps toward me to get a closer look. Her eyes squinted as she stared into mine. “You’re eyes are bloodshot. You’ve had more than a few drinks.”
“After working my ass off nonstop for three days, I come home to this?” I played a perfect victim. “No ‘Welcome home, I missed you’ from my wife?” I was good, but not good enough.
Her expression changed from extreme irritation to downright hostility. “You worked your ass off?! You poor baby. Do you want to know what I’ve been doing since you left? Oh wait, I don’t want to overwhelm you. Let me just tell you about today.” She held up her index finger. Uh oh. I was about to get the list. “First, Adam woke me four times in the night: twice because he was thirsty and twice because he had to pee. Four times being woken by Adam and two more times by Elizabeth wanting to nurse. That doesn’t leave much time for actual sleep.” Elizabeth started to fuss from the other room but Millie ignored her.
She held up two fingers. “Then, this morning, Adam colored on his bedroom wall. He tried to tell me that it was Elizabeth, but I didn’t think a fifteen-month-old could spell out A D A M.” I looked past Millie to see Adam grinning at me from the kitchen doorway. “He lied so convincingly, if it hadn’t been for the letters, I would’ve believed him.” She shook her head, sending her red curls bouncing, and her arms flailed around trying to make her point. Freckles spanned across her nose and cheeks that always darkened when she was all riled up. I loved those freckles. They’d faded through the years along with Millie’s temper.
God, I missed that Millie.
Three fingers. “Then, as I cleaned the markings off of the wall, the dog decided to get into the trash. I came out of Adam’s bedroom to find garbage strung all over the kitchen and dining room. And after I took care of that mess, I find that the damn mutt had vomited all over the living room rug.”
Elizabeth began to wail louder. I started toward the sound only to be frozen in place by Millie’s glare. Four fingers. “Neither kid has napped today. So, I have had no sleep and no break since 5:45 this morning and I’m about ready to blow.” Too late, she’d already blown. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t welcome you with open arms and a passionate kiss, but this is as good as I could muster today.” She let out a breath and her shoulders slumped in defeat. Tears cascaded down her face and I knew that for now, the list was finished. It was a good thing she’d only recounted the one day.
I was pretty sure that my wife no longer posed a threat to me and risked gathering her into my arms. She didn’t return my hug but she didn’t pull away either, so that must have been a good sign. “I’m so sorry you’ve had such a rough day. I had no idea. I should’ve come straight home.” I kissed her on the top of her head. “Go take a long bath. I got the kids. Take your time.” I watched as she shuffled out of the kitchen.
I raised my eyebrows and smiled at Adam. He grinned widely as I picked him up. “Son, don’t waste your lies on things that can be proved. I mean really, son, you signed your name.” He hugged me tight and giggled into my neck. I spoke from experience. I knew the guys would never give away the fact that I had been at the bar for six hours instead of coming home. We always had each other’s backs. All those guys are dead now. Lucky bastards.
When Millie came out of the bathroom, I sat in the rocker with both kids sleeping on my lap. She smiled and her eyes lit up. “I don’t think you’ve ever been more attractive to me than you are right now,” she said.
I made a point to stare at the towel wrapped around her head then took in her flannel nightgown with the pink flowers that stopped just above a pair of my socks that slouched down around her ankles. “Funny,” I said. “I was just about to say the same thing to you.” Millie laughed, and I knew that I was forgiven. She picked up Elizabeth to take her to bed. “You go on to bed,” I said. “I’m going to just rock him a little longer. He’s getting so big.”
Millie was already sleeping when I went to bed. I used to love to watch her sleep. The way her hair spilled all over the pillow and the peaceful look on her face in slumber always filled me with emotion. I gently brushed her hair off of her forehead, and at my touch a hint of a smile curved at the corner of her mouth. Even in her unconscious sleep, she recognized my touch. Millie lived with passion and gusto but was also the sweetest, most gentle woman in the world. How I longed for her to know me again.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was supposed to be long in the ground before Millie reached the end of her life. I’d made a deal with God. I was so sure of our deal that when Millie was first diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, I thought that at least my wife wouldn’t have to mourn me if she didn’t know me anymore. Instead, it’s me getting left behind, and I don’t even have the comfort a failing mind. Gee, thanks God. Thanks a hell of a lot.
TO BE CONTINUED...
I needed to get my mind off of all of this. Surely there is a game on TV or something. The damn remote was across the room on my dining table. What in hell was it doing all the way over there? I stared at it as if I could conjure it to fly to my outstretched hand. Nope. A nap. There’s something I could do without having to leave my chair. I leaned back and closed my eyes reaching for nothingness. I concentrated on the whoosh of the dishwasher. Maybe the sound would lull me to sleep. Nope. Instead, Elizabeth’s words echoed in my head. “You really are a jackass, do you know that?” “Mom deserves so much better than this!”
Elizabeth’s face morphed into Millie’s, and it was no longer my daughter yelling at me but my wife. The long ago memory forced its way into my awareness with a distinctness I had not thought possible. I’d been out of town for a few days helping one of my friends on a construction job. Millie had expected me home hours earlier and was less than pleased when I finally clamored into the kitchen.
“You’re late.” Millie’s arms hung stiffly at her sides, her fists tightly clenched.
I gave her my remorseful look. “I’m sorry. Ted and I stopped for a drink and lost track of time.” Actually, we had gotten back in town at two that afternoon. We ended up calling a few other friends and spent the rest of the day drinking and telling stories. I spent the last hour and a half trying to sober up enough to drive home. I glanced at the clock: 8:48 p.m.
Millie took a few steps toward me to get a closer look. Her eyes squinted as she stared into mine. “You’re eyes are bloodshot. You’ve had more than a few drinks.”
“After working my ass off nonstop for three days, I come home to this?” I played a perfect victim. “No ‘Welcome home, I missed you’ from my wife?” I was good, but not good enough.
Her expression changed from extreme irritation to downright hostility. “You worked your ass off?! You poor baby. Do you want to know what I’ve been doing since you left? Oh wait, I don’t want to overwhelm you. Let me just tell you about today.” She held up her index finger. Uh oh. I was about to get the list. “First, Adam woke me four times in the night: twice because he was thirsty and twice because he had to pee. Four times being woken by Adam and two more times by Elizabeth wanting to nurse. That doesn’t leave much time for actual sleep.” Elizabeth started to fuss from the other room but Millie ignored her.
She held up two fingers. “Then, this morning, Adam colored on his bedroom wall. He tried to tell me that it was Elizabeth, but I didn’t think a fifteen-month-old could spell out A D A M.” I looked past Millie to see Adam grinning at me from the kitchen doorway. “He lied so convincingly, if it hadn’t been for the letters, I would’ve believed him.” She shook her head, sending her red curls bouncing, and her arms flailed around trying to make her point. Freckles spanned across her nose and cheeks that always darkened when she was all riled up. I loved those freckles. They’d faded through the years along with Millie’s temper.
God, I missed that Millie.
Three fingers. “Then, as I cleaned the markings off of the wall, the dog decided to get into the trash. I came out of Adam’s bedroom to find garbage strung all over the kitchen and dining room. And after I took care of that mess, I find that the damn mutt had vomited all over the living room rug.”
Elizabeth began to wail louder. I started toward the sound only to be frozen in place by Millie’s glare. Four fingers. “Neither kid has napped today. So, I have had no sleep and no break since 5:45 this morning and I’m about ready to blow.” Too late, she’d already blown. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t welcome you with open arms and a passionate kiss, but this is as good as I could muster today.” She let out a breath and her shoulders slumped in defeat. Tears cascaded down her face and I knew that for now, the list was finished. It was a good thing she’d only recounted the one day.
I was pretty sure that my wife no longer posed a threat to me and risked gathering her into my arms. She didn’t return my hug but she didn’t pull away either, so that must have been a good sign. “I’m so sorry you’ve had such a rough day. I had no idea. I should’ve come straight home.” I kissed her on the top of her head. “Go take a long bath. I got the kids. Take your time.” I watched as she shuffled out of the kitchen.
I raised my eyebrows and smiled at Adam. He grinned widely as I picked him up. “Son, don’t waste your lies on things that can be proved. I mean really, son, you signed your name.” He hugged me tight and giggled into my neck. I spoke from experience. I knew the guys would never give away the fact that I had been at the bar for six hours instead of coming home. We always had each other’s backs. All those guys are dead now. Lucky bastards.
When Millie came out of the bathroom, I sat in the rocker with both kids sleeping on my lap. She smiled and her eyes lit up. “I don’t think you’ve ever been more attractive to me than you are right now,” she said.
I made a point to stare at the towel wrapped around her head then took in her flannel nightgown with the pink flowers that stopped just above a pair of my socks that slouched down around her ankles. “Funny,” I said. “I was just about to say the same thing to you.” Millie laughed, and I knew that I was forgiven. She picked up Elizabeth to take her to bed. “You go on to bed,” I said. “I’m going to just rock him a little longer. He’s getting so big.”
Millie was already sleeping when I went to bed. I used to love to watch her sleep. The way her hair spilled all over the pillow and the peaceful look on her face in slumber always filled me with emotion. I gently brushed her hair off of her forehead, and at my touch a hint of a smile curved at the corner of her mouth. Even in her unconscious sleep, she recognized my touch. Millie lived with passion and gusto but was also the sweetest, most gentle woman in the world. How I longed for her to know me again.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was supposed to be long in the ground before Millie reached the end of her life. I’d made a deal with God. I was so sure of our deal that when Millie was first diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, I thought that at least my wife wouldn’t have to mourn me if she didn’t know me anymore. Instead, it’s me getting left behind, and I don’t even have the comfort a failing mind. Gee, thanks God. Thanks a hell of a lot.
TO BE CONTINUED...
A couple of days later, Cliché doodled in one of his notebooks in his room when his cousin, Alayna stormed in. “A girl is here to see you.” The squeal in her voice when she got excited always annoyed him.
Ruby stood just inside the front door. “I hope you’re good at math because I really need help.”
Awkward doesn’t begin to describe the scene in the entryway. Aunt Cara stood next to Ruby beaming while Alayna hopped up and down behind him with her hand over her mouth. There would be questions later that he would expertly evade. The embarrassment of that moment couldn’t tamper his delight in knowing that he was indeed good at math.
“Come on,” he said and led the way to his bedroom.
Cliché’s room was far too neat to be inhabited by a teenage boy. His bed was made with military precision, and his dirty clothes were tucked away inside a hamper. Ruby perused the bookshelves that lined his bedroom. Several shelves housed the notebooks that his mother had given him. Ruby paused in front of a sign that hung from one of the shelves that said, “Private. Do not touch.”
“That’s a lot of notebooks,” she said.
Cliché hoped she wouldn’t ask to look inside them. As far as he knew no one ever had. Except his mother. “Twenty-seven,” he said. “Some of them are still empty.”
Ruby giggled when she found a whole shelf of books on clichés. Not all of them were there though. His favorites, the ones his mother read to him, were on his bedside table. Their covers barely hung on but that didn’t prevent him from reading them every night before falling asleep. That’s when he could hear his mother’s voice the best.
“This explains a lot,” Ruby said. She was quiet for a couple minutes and then asked, “Do you like being called Cliché?”
Did he? He’d never considered it. He stared past Ruby and said, “No.”
“Then, why don’t you tell people that?”
He didn’t answer, but after that, he cringed inside every time he heard the name Cliché. He looked forward to his tutoring sessions with Ruby. He didn’t have trouble finding words to say when he talked about Algebra and after a while, he found it easier to talk to Ruby about other things. School was somewhat bearable now that Cliché and Ruby were friends. It seemed whenever pressure would build inside him, Ruby would be there to ground him. He almost felt normal.
But Cliché wasn’t normal. Not even close.
He’d been a difficult child—prone to fits of rage more extreme than the average kid. He used to scream and kick, press his hands against his ears, and rock back an forth hollering, “Ba ba ba ba,” to try to block out the noise. He didn’t understand that the noise he so longed to escape often came from inside his own head. His mother would hold him tight and say, “It’s alright, Artie. I’m holding you together. I’ll always hold you together.” Eventually his screeching would morph into sobs as he sat on his mother’s lap.
The first time he threw a fit after he went to live with his aunt and uncle, his uncle scooped up his flailing body and carried him to his room. “Nobody’s here to see you so there’s no reason to keep thrashing and screaming.” It only prolonged his tantrum.
A few times Aunt Cara sat in his room with him. “I just want you to know that you’re not alone, Cliché,” she’d say, voice cracking. “I’m here.” Cliché couldn’t look at her while she cried. She had tried to hold him but he wouldn’t let her. Cara looked too much like his mother.
****
“Stop fidgeting, Arthur. My family is going to love you,” Ruby said. Cliché couldn’t believe he’d let her talk him into coming to her house for dinner. But after turning her down three times, this time he just couldn’t say no.
Cliché tugged on the right shoulder of his blue- and white-checkered button down shirt. He could never find a shirt that was long enough for him that also fit his skinny neck. He looked at his reflection in the window of the screen door. He pulled on the left shoulder, but he still looked like he wore someone else’s clothes. “Are you sure?” he asked. Cliché couldn’t help but worry that if Ruby’s parents found out how strange he was, they would no longer allow their daughter to be friends with him. It baffled him that Ruby actually wanted to hang out with him and he couldn’t imagine losing her. He ran through Aunt Cara’s list: use eye contact, don’t slouch, smile, and answer questions politely when asked. He grabbed the front of his collar and yanked.
Ruby grabbed his wrist and giggled. “You look fine, Arthur. Really.”
It surprised him at first when Ruby’s parents called him Arthur. Of course they would. To Ruby, he was Arthur and every time he heard the name spoken to him something inside him stirred, almost like he was waking up.
By the time Cliché sat down for dinner, he was exhausted. Socializing with Ruby’s family had to be one of the most difficult things he’d done in years. The dining room table was at least 12 feet long. Surrounded by two parents, nine children, and Cliché, made it feel cramped. He kept his elbows tight to his body to avoid touching anyone. They had a round dining table at home, which provided plenty of room for the four people that lived in his house. It was quieter at his house as well.
One of Ruby’s brothers started whining. The boy looked about twelve years old and his tone startled Cliché. “But, you said we were having tacos.”
“I know Chris, but we didn’t have enough taco shells for everyone so I made a casserole instead. You love taco casserole.” Ruby’s mother’s voice was cheerful yet strained.
“I hate taco casserole,” Chris said. “I’m not eating.” He clumsily scooted his chair back and stood up.
“Sit down, son,” Ruby’s dad said firmly. “This is no way to act when we have a guest.”
Cliché fought the urge to run from the room. He knew what it was like to expect one thing and receive another. Last minute changes were one of the things he had the hardest time accepting, and seeing Chris struggle with the same thing filled him with anxiety. When Uncle Tim spoke to him the way Ruby’s dad did to Chris, Cliché always felt worse. It’s not like he tried to act inappropriately. Emotions, especially anger, overwhelmed him easily.
Ruby stood up and approached Chris. She gently placed her arms around her brother and urged him close. She spoke softly while she held him tight. “Chris, I know it stinks when you feel broadsided. It’s okay to be disappointed, but can you understand why Mom couldn’t make tacos without shells?”
Chris nodded while tears streamed down his face.
She kissed his forehead. “Let me know when you are ready to sit down so we can say grace and eat.”
For the first time since Cliché’s arrival, the house was silent. He’d never been on the side of staring at the white elephant in the room. It made him feel almost as helpless as when he himself was the elephant. The air felt thick and the stress in the room felt like a physical entity.
After what seemed like forever, Chris wiped his face on Ruby’s shoulder and said, “I’m okay now. Thanks Ruby.”
Everyone around the table released the breath they had been holding in a collective sigh. Chaos was welcome once it returned but it was guarded somehow. Cliché was almost relieved for Chris’s behavior. He wasn’t the only one after all.
“Chris,” his father said. “You owe Arthur an apology.”
“No,” Cliché said quickly. He tried to cover his panicked feeling. “That’s not necessary. Really.” He locked gazes with Chris conveying understanding.
After dinner, Cliché and Ruby stood on her front porch. “How did you know that hugging Chris would diffuse him?” he asked.
Ruby shrugged. “It usually does.”
Cliché watched Ruby as she stared across her front yard. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a familiar ponytail. She had a few freckles on her nose, which Cliché found appealing. He hardly ever found himself staring at her birthmark anymore. It no longer seemed out of place. It was just part of her.
“When Chris was really little,” Ruby said, “he used to throw huge fits. It was horrible to witness. His emotions poured out of him. I guess I picked him up to keep him from spilling out all over the place.”
“My mother used to do that for me,” Cliché murmured.
For some reason this both pleased and terrified him.
Ruby stood just inside the front door. “I hope you’re good at math because I really need help.”
Awkward doesn’t begin to describe the scene in the entryway. Aunt Cara stood next to Ruby beaming while Alayna hopped up and down behind him with her hand over her mouth. There would be questions later that he would expertly evade. The embarrassment of that moment couldn’t tamper his delight in knowing that he was indeed good at math.
“Come on,” he said and led the way to his bedroom.
Cliché’s room was far too neat to be inhabited by a teenage boy. His bed was made with military precision, and his dirty clothes were tucked away inside a hamper. Ruby perused the bookshelves that lined his bedroom. Several shelves housed the notebooks that his mother had given him. Ruby paused in front of a sign that hung from one of the shelves that said, “Private. Do not touch.”
“That’s a lot of notebooks,” she said.
Cliché hoped she wouldn’t ask to look inside them. As far as he knew no one ever had. Except his mother. “Twenty-seven,” he said. “Some of them are still empty.”
Ruby giggled when she found a whole shelf of books on clichés. Not all of them were there though. His favorites, the ones his mother read to him, were on his bedside table. Their covers barely hung on but that didn’t prevent him from reading them every night before falling asleep. That’s when he could hear his mother’s voice the best.
“This explains a lot,” Ruby said. She was quiet for a couple minutes and then asked, “Do you like being called Cliché?”
Did he? He’d never considered it. He stared past Ruby and said, “No.”
“Then, why don’t you tell people that?”
He didn’t answer, but after that, he cringed inside every time he heard the name Cliché. He looked forward to his tutoring sessions with Ruby. He didn’t have trouble finding words to say when he talked about Algebra and after a while, he found it easier to talk to Ruby about other things. School was somewhat bearable now that Cliché and Ruby were friends. It seemed whenever pressure would build inside him, Ruby would be there to ground him. He almost felt normal.
But Cliché wasn’t normal. Not even close.
He’d been a difficult child—prone to fits of rage more extreme than the average kid. He used to scream and kick, press his hands against his ears, and rock back an forth hollering, “Ba ba ba ba,” to try to block out the noise. He didn’t understand that the noise he so longed to escape often came from inside his own head. His mother would hold him tight and say, “It’s alright, Artie. I’m holding you together. I’ll always hold you together.” Eventually his screeching would morph into sobs as he sat on his mother’s lap.
The first time he threw a fit after he went to live with his aunt and uncle, his uncle scooped up his flailing body and carried him to his room. “Nobody’s here to see you so there’s no reason to keep thrashing and screaming.” It only prolonged his tantrum.
A few times Aunt Cara sat in his room with him. “I just want you to know that you’re not alone, Cliché,” she’d say, voice cracking. “I’m here.” Cliché couldn’t look at her while she cried. She had tried to hold him but he wouldn’t let her. Cara looked too much like his mother.
****
“Stop fidgeting, Arthur. My family is going to love you,” Ruby said. Cliché couldn’t believe he’d let her talk him into coming to her house for dinner. But after turning her down three times, this time he just couldn’t say no.
Cliché tugged on the right shoulder of his blue- and white-checkered button down shirt. He could never find a shirt that was long enough for him that also fit his skinny neck. He looked at his reflection in the window of the screen door. He pulled on the left shoulder, but he still looked like he wore someone else’s clothes. “Are you sure?” he asked. Cliché couldn’t help but worry that if Ruby’s parents found out how strange he was, they would no longer allow their daughter to be friends with him. It baffled him that Ruby actually wanted to hang out with him and he couldn’t imagine losing her. He ran through Aunt Cara’s list: use eye contact, don’t slouch, smile, and answer questions politely when asked. He grabbed the front of his collar and yanked.
Ruby grabbed his wrist and giggled. “You look fine, Arthur. Really.”
It surprised him at first when Ruby’s parents called him Arthur. Of course they would. To Ruby, he was Arthur and every time he heard the name spoken to him something inside him stirred, almost like he was waking up.
By the time Cliché sat down for dinner, he was exhausted. Socializing with Ruby’s family had to be one of the most difficult things he’d done in years. The dining room table was at least 12 feet long. Surrounded by two parents, nine children, and Cliché, made it feel cramped. He kept his elbows tight to his body to avoid touching anyone. They had a round dining table at home, which provided plenty of room for the four people that lived in his house. It was quieter at his house as well.
One of Ruby’s brothers started whining. The boy looked about twelve years old and his tone startled Cliché. “But, you said we were having tacos.”
“I know Chris, but we didn’t have enough taco shells for everyone so I made a casserole instead. You love taco casserole.” Ruby’s mother’s voice was cheerful yet strained.
“I hate taco casserole,” Chris said. “I’m not eating.” He clumsily scooted his chair back and stood up.
“Sit down, son,” Ruby’s dad said firmly. “This is no way to act when we have a guest.”
Cliché fought the urge to run from the room. He knew what it was like to expect one thing and receive another. Last minute changes were one of the things he had the hardest time accepting, and seeing Chris struggle with the same thing filled him with anxiety. When Uncle Tim spoke to him the way Ruby’s dad did to Chris, Cliché always felt worse. It’s not like he tried to act inappropriately. Emotions, especially anger, overwhelmed him easily.
Ruby stood up and approached Chris. She gently placed her arms around her brother and urged him close. She spoke softly while she held him tight. “Chris, I know it stinks when you feel broadsided. It’s okay to be disappointed, but can you understand why Mom couldn’t make tacos without shells?”
Chris nodded while tears streamed down his face.
She kissed his forehead. “Let me know when you are ready to sit down so we can say grace and eat.”
For the first time since Cliché’s arrival, the house was silent. He’d never been on the side of staring at the white elephant in the room. It made him feel almost as helpless as when he himself was the elephant. The air felt thick and the stress in the room felt like a physical entity.
After what seemed like forever, Chris wiped his face on Ruby’s shoulder and said, “I’m okay now. Thanks Ruby.”
Everyone around the table released the breath they had been holding in a collective sigh. Chaos was welcome once it returned but it was guarded somehow. Cliché was almost relieved for Chris’s behavior. He wasn’t the only one after all.
“Chris,” his father said. “You owe Arthur an apology.”
“No,” Cliché said quickly. He tried to cover his panicked feeling. “That’s not necessary. Really.” He locked gazes with Chris conveying understanding.
After dinner, Cliché and Ruby stood on her front porch. “How did you know that hugging Chris would diffuse him?” he asked.
Ruby shrugged. “It usually does.”
Cliché watched Ruby as she stared across her front yard. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a familiar ponytail. She had a few freckles on her nose, which Cliché found appealing. He hardly ever found himself staring at her birthmark anymore. It no longer seemed out of place. It was just part of her.
“When Chris was really little,” Ruby said, “he used to throw huge fits. It was horrible to witness. His emotions poured out of him. I guess I picked him up to keep him from spilling out all over the place.”
“My mother used to do that for me,” Cliché murmured.
For some reason this both pleased and terrified him.
