[later] November 6th: What happens in Fight Club STAYS in Fight Club.

The second most awkward dinner in history took place that night. Lily was pale and looked ready to fall asleep in her food; April was sawing into her pork chop like she was out to kill the poor pig again; Mom was expending quite a lot of energy trying not to look at any of her offspring; and Dad was expending quite a lot of energy pretending that our family wasn’t in complete chaos. And of course there was me, not expending much energy at all staring down at my meat and poking it with my spoon.

Unlike our last awkward family dinner, noone tried to make conversation. We were all too wrapped up in our own problems – and each others’ – to use any energy on polite banter. It was a huge effort for me, and I was sure for the other four, to even show up at a family event.

So when the phone rang in the middle of the meal, everyone rose. April ended up the only one not to sit down with a sheepish look on her face. She ran to get the cordless from where it sat by the couch in the living room.

"Hello?" She listened for a moment. "I’m fine, thanks. Yeah, he’s here, but he’s eating. Can he call you back? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Dad, can you get me a pencil and paper?"

My father looked relieved to have something to do, and scurried around the kitchen like a paranoid mouse.

Lily stared across the table at me, her eyes vacant. I smiled weakly, and she managed to twitch the corners of her mouth upward in response. My eyes darted over to my mother, but she was still engrossed in her food. I wondered if she was using more calories worrying about what to do if she made eye contact with one of us than she was taking in eating her rubbery pork chop, but I decided not to conduct an experiment.

Dad returned to the table, having accomplished his mission, and took a big, overzealous bite of his food. He almost spit it back out, I could tell by the way he held his napkin to his mouth, but decided not to. Mom was usually a good cook, but lately I guess she’d been too tense to worry about food. Dad’s eyes darted around as he chewed laboriously, as if to see if anyone had noticed his discomfort. He shot me a slight smile when he saw me looking. I didn’t smile back.

April sat back down, but unlike Dad she didn’t make any move to eat. Instead, she turned to me. "That was some guy named Peter. Says he wants to talk to you. He left his number." She took a sip from her glass of water. "It sounded pretty urgent."

I had an idea of what the call was about. I smiled feebly at April across the table. "I’ll call him back tonight sometime," I promised. But I knew I wouldn’t keep that promise. I didn’t need to listen to Pete yell at me over the phone. He’d undoubtedly let his opinions be heard at school the next day, whether I called him back or not.

As it turned out, I was only half-right. He would let his opinions be heard, but it would be long before the bell rang the next morning.


It was about 9 o’clock when the doorbell rang. Lily was watching the television screen again, knitting something with bright green yarn. April was sprawled out on the couch in the living room, her headphones on, reading Pride and Prejudice for what I’m sure was the tenth time. Mom and Dad had gone out to the store, or at least that was their excuse. I had the sneaking suspicion that they were out somewhere talking about us, about what to do with our family.

I was in the kitchen at the time, leaning on the counter, eating a bowl of cereal and reading over my notes on the Constitutional Amendments.

April was the one who got the door. I heard her in the front hall, laughing and talking to whomever it was who’d shown up. I looked up when I heard them approaching my post, a smile on my face ready for whichever of April’s friends had shown up this time.

I wasn’t prepared to see Peter Edward Blackman standing front of me. It wasn’t a welcome sight.

April grabbed her novel and Discman and left the living room, I suppose to give us privacy.
Pete watched her leave, then walked around the room divider and grabbed my arm, hard. "We need to talk, buddy. Where’s the closest door outside?"

I jerked my head to the back door on my left. He dragged me to it, flung it open, and shut it behind us. Grabbing my throat, Peter pinned me to the wall of the house.

"Did I tell you to stay away from her?" he hissed. "I could have sworn that I did. So how the hell did you manage to upset her this afternoon, if you were staying away from her like I told you?"

I stared into his eyes. They were the eyes of an animal, wild and cold. I remembered reading somewhere that you should never look a strange animal in the face, or it would attack. I looked away, over Pete’s shoulder and onto the deserted street.

Peter wasn’t happy. "I said, how did you get Ashley’s panties in a knot if you haven’t been going near her?" I still said nothing. He squeezed my throat harder, his other hand holding my wrists above my head. "Answer me!" he barked.

"She called me," I sputtered, struggling to breathe. "She wanted to talk. You were at practice. I said something stupid. I’ll apologize, if you let me. You won’t have to hear about it anymore. And I’ll never take a call from her again, I promise." I was pleading with him now, begging him for my life. But something deep inside me knew that no matter what I said, he would do the same thing.

He lifted me a couple inches off the ground and dropped me again, twisting my arms above me. "She says you were talking about me, calling me evil. You jealous, Colin? Are you jealous of me?" He was breathing hard, his grip on my throat ever-tighter. "Are you trying to steal my girl, Colin?" I gave no answer. He let go of me completely and stepped away. In that split second, I had the opportunity to run.

But I stayed.

And because I stayed, I was able to experience the pain of the punches that he pounded into my chest, knocking me to the ground in two swift strikes. He stepped on my groin, grinding the heal of his sneaker into it. I let out a gasp, still struggling to breathe. He kicked me in the face. I felt my nose bend to the side, and I swore I heard it creak from the effort of not breaking.

Peter stepped away and grabbed my arm, pulling me up. He slammed me against the wall again and resumed his old position, holding my throat and hands, one knee on my chest, pinning me to the side of the house. "When I say not to talk to my girl, you don’t talk to my girl. Capice, York?"

I couldn’t nod, and I certainly couldn’t speak, so there was no way for me to respond to him. But he must have been satisfied by my silence, because he stepped away, then turned around and walked down the street. Only it wasn’t really a walk, it was more of a swagger, as though he knew he’d won.

For the first time in my life, I felt true, honest hatred.