The Family Project Kenji Asakura
Second day of Middle School, I slung my book-bag over my shoulder and scrambled off the football field and toward the cafeteria. As I reached the big double doors that were the entrance to the cafeteria, I looked over my shoulder to see if David was following me again. Then a voice rang out behind me. “Where you going? You little baby, you orphan! Your ‘Mom’ found you in a dumpster.” The pimple-faced, brace-faced, smelly, eighth grade bully yelled at me. I pushed the big door open just as David reached me. He pulled me by my collar, making me lean backwards on my right leg. I tried to hold on the door handle as if I was hanging on the edge of a cliff, with fiery lava and the depths of hell below me as I hopped around on one leg trying to regain my balance. “I’m not adopted... I’ll prove it to you. I’ll show you my family tree.” I softly said with all my courage not really believing my own words, as I remembered what all those other people had said. “You don’t look like your parents, where did you come from?” “Are you adopted?” and worst of all “You’re so ugly your parents are probably happy you don’t look like them.” But I wasn’t adopted, was I? I don’t look like Mom... So... Argh! Stupid life! Stupid parents! Why can’t I just look like them, it’s not my fault I don’t look like them.” Bam! “Don’t lie, you baby, you know you were adopted.” The pest said as he punched me in the stomach again. I grunted as my gut was forced up my throat. Bam, thwack, again and again, I took blows to my stomach, each time I felt closer to dying. That evening after suffering the torment of that butthole David all day long, I decided to ask Mom if I could take the family tree to school. But before I asked, I waited until she drank her second shot of whiskey. I figured she would be more likely to say yes. I didn’t have to wait long. I walked over to the couch picking things of the floor and asked Mom for the book. However, even in her tipsy state Mom immediately she said, “Nooope.” “Mmmmm,” I sighed with a puppy dog look on my face, “Don’t you trust me? Don’t you think that I am responsible for my things? Have I ever broken something?” I replied, annoyed.
“Don’t wanna risk it. Don’t wanna discuss...” Mom said, dozing off as she sank back into the cushion asleep in seconds. Thoughtfully, I decided not to wake her and ask for the book again, I would probably just get another beating. Whatever, who cares what she says. I’ll just take the book. Nothing will happen to it. I’ll just bring it to school, prove that idiot David wrong, and put it back onto the bookshelf. The alcoholic mother that I love will never find out, and I won’t get a beating from her or David. That night I went to bed and turned off my light, pretending to be asleep. At eleven, well after the time Mom usually falls asleep drunk, on the couch, I snuck downstairs. Skipping the steps on the staircase that creaked, tiptoeing over to the bookshelf, I picked up the book. Blowing the dust away, I examined the cover. It was brown and had the family name ‘Proctor’ painted on with long swishing letters in purple, outlined with golden paint. The pages were thin, but dry and hard and made a crackling noise when you touched them. Silently, I ran up the stairs hugging the book against my chest. I crept into my room and slowly sat down on my bed so that the frame wouldn’t creak. I put the book under my blanket right next to my feet as I yawned. I turned off the light and lied down. I couldn’t fall asleep. I sat upright and propped myself up with my pillow. I grabbed a flashlight and pulled my sheets over my head. I grasped the book and put it on my lap. Flipping through the pages of the book I saw pictures of scientists, doctors and other prestigious jobs. My whole family was in this book. I felt proud. Then I saw a picture of Nick Johnson, it was scratched up a bit and the sides were bent as if Mom had tried to remove the picture while she was woozy. I resisted the urge to flip the page because I had to make sure I looked enough like the man to be able to show the book to the pest, David. I studied the picture and remembered what happened the morning Dad left. While I was hiding under the couch, I had watched Dad bring a suitcase to the front door. Then I remembered Mom running down the stairs shouting at him using words I couldn’t understand back then. But before she reached him, he slipped out of the front door. That was the last time I saw him, and no goodbye, no ‘I love you’, nothing. Simply nothing. The next morning, I walked to school, the book in my hand. Vroom a bus sped past, splashing me with muddy water. That stupid bus driver, he’s probably the one that hates me! I turned my head and looked at the number of the bus, and indeed it was bus #3015 that had splashed me. Then I remembered the family tree book in my hand. It was wet. No, it was soaking wet. My stomach flipped like a pancake in a pan. How could I come home with the book? Unless... Unless I left it here on the side of the road! No one would ever know... It’s not right! A small voice in my head protested.
Do it! Imagine mom’s anger. Another voice said dominating over my mind. No, don’t do it... Another voice said, trailing off. Drip, drip, drip the sound of the mud trickling down from my jacket to the ground “awoke” me from my mental ‘battle’. What should I do? The book’s cover was splattered with mud. I could still go home and save it... The thought disgusted me. Or, I could leave it here... Mom would never know. She was always forgetting and loosing things anyway. The water on the book started to seep in. I had to decide. Argh, My mind was split between the two choices; I knew which one was right. And I knew what I was going to do. I flung the book onto the grassy field next to me and without another thought walked on. That day at school I did nothing out of the ordinary. I learned about algebraic equations, had lunch, and played outside on the soccer field. I didn’t even think of the book plastered with mud lying outside on the grass until... Until that eight-grade pest David started taunting me again, “Where’s that family tree you were talking about? Huh? Where is it you little liar? You know I’m right, you were found in a dumpster and your ‘Mom’ felt sorry for you, you ugly baby!” “I-i-it g-got sp-sp-splashed with water the way to school.” I desperately tried to convince David. “You liar, I was right and you’re proving my point now, you’re an ugly lying baby.” AND then to make matters worse that dumb teacher ‘Ms. Work’ (as I call her) assigned the class another big project, and just my luck, a family tree project. She told us that we had to ask our parents for help. Oh god. I sighed as a small knot formed in my stomach. Now I’m gonna have to come up with a lie. Pfft. I moaned. Then I formed a plan; I knew exactly what I was going to do.
For the rest of the day I continued to do my work, but this time I was a bit more distracted. Why can’t I focus? I asked myself even though I knew the answer. It was four in the afternoon when I arrived home. I sat down at the table and ate a snack while Mom was having a glass of wine. Not just an ordinary glass of wine, a big glass of wine, and when I say big I mean a big glass filled to the brim. Suddenly, as if a filter had been over my eyes before, I noticed how dirty our house looked. I decided I would have clean it up because the pathetic excuse for a mother that, I still aside from everything else loved, just simply wouldn’t even notice the mess in the place that we called home. Leaving all those feelings behind, I then mentioned, “We have a project at school, we have to make a family tree.” “OK, use our book to help you.” Mom replied, “I’ll go get it now.” Yes, she’s going to go get the book, everything is going to plan so far. “Nick? Did you move the book after you looked at it yesterday?” Mom called over from the bookshelf. “No. Why?” I answered. “It’s not in its usual place.” “Where is it then?” I said while walking over to the living room. She’ll never know! “I-I I don’t know.” Mom replied with a worried tone. Mom paced back and forth putting her pointer and middle fingers to her temples, as if it would help her to telepathically locate the book. “Where could it be? Where could it be?” Mom asked herself more than me. “Now are you sure you didn’t take it to school?” My stomach squished together and then stretched out again like an accordion. It was all NOT going to plan.
I looked away from Mom’s eyes and to my feet, “N-n-o, I didn’t take it to school. I left it here on the shelf.” “Are you sure?” Mom asked again, her tone becoming a bit more accusatory. I felt like her eyes were piercing through my body and into my soul. “OK I did it.” I blurted out without thinking. No, without even wanting to, my body had just done it by itself. Mom looked at me with disappointment and anger. Her face probably couldn’t look any madder, and she didn’t even know the worst of it. “Then why didn’t you just tell me?” Mom asked. “And why did you do it?” “BecauseIgotsplashedwithmudandthebookgotwet.” I blurted out as I burst into tears. “I had to bring it to school to prove that bully David that I wasn’t adopted!” Without even comforting me, Mom asked, “Where is it now?” “I left it outside on the grass.” I said so softly I was surprised Mom had even heard me. “Show me where.” Mom said sternly, “Right now.” She added. I sat still, tears still running down my cheeks. My mom being a strong lady grabbed me by my shirt and dragged me to the front door. Mom and I got to the place where I had left the book. Mom picked up the book and inspected it. She put it under her arm, and without explanation walked home not even waiting for me. When I got to the house I opened the front door and as silently as I could I snuck up to my room. I crept into my bed, put my face into a pillow, and wept. I wept, I cried, and then I wept some more. Finally when the tears stopped rolling down my face, Mom called, “Nick, Come down, you have a project to do!”
What? I thought as I ran down the stairs. Isn’t she mad at me? And why hasn’t she passed out yet? When I got downstairs Mom was sitting at the table with the family tree book. From my point of view it seemed fine. But I didn’t know how it could be fine. I sat down at the table and took the poster paper that I had to use to make my family tree out of my bag. I spread it out on the table and used cups to hold down the corners that were trying to curl. “Ok, so how do you want to start?” Mom asked after she noticed I was ready. “I think I should... Mom, aren’t you mad at me?” “Yes, I’m angry, you shouldn’t have taken the book without telling me, but it was my fault.” “What? I don’t get it.” “While you were upstairs I was thinking. It’s my fault you felt like you had to take the book. If I hadn’t been drinking, we could just have talked about that bully and you wouldn’t even have had to bring the book to school. So, I’ve decided to stop drinking and get over your father.” The corners of my mouth lifted up until I had a huge smile across my face. “But, that doesn’t mean you aren’t being punished.” Mom added, while walking to the closet with the stick. Glug, I swallowed. The smile on my face turned into a frown. Oh no, I am gonna get a beating. Mom opened the closet and took out the stick. She snapped it in half. What? “I’ll figure out your punishment later, but first I think we should do something else... Something that could have prevented this all.” Mom informed me. “You’re going to learn who your father was, and why he left.”
Kenji Asakura is a seventh grader who goes to the American School of Warsaw in Poland. He has been living in Warsaw for eight years. He is from Belgium but has never lived there. Kenji Asakura speaks English and Flemish fluently and is now learning French.