Zonked Out: The Zoe Series, #4

By Michael Benzehabe

Parasites, predators, and misfortune are devouring teens in San Diego. Anna Wiley is wholly unprepared for the twists and pitfalls of life as an almost-adult. A mysterious grandfather, an albino monkey, and an acid-mouthed algebra tutor rob Anna of deep sleep and sweet dreams.

 

A story that won't let you sleep, until you hit the last page.

 

Like a chilly hall of mirrors, Anna can't find her way out of unpopularity, red hair, and depression. A family can live in the same house, share the same meals, yet miss all the clues that sink each other's dreams.

 

Sometimes it takes a provocateur—a disrupter—to tumble the walls blocking our light. A comedy of family flaws, revelations, and finally acceptance that could only play out between a priggish grandfather and his beloved granddaughter.

 

Michael Benzehabe, an award-winning author, invites you into his quirkiest, most exhilarating novel, to date.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Benzehabe
• Release date: Feb 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9780578260471

Book preview

Introduction

Chip Foose is the greatest car designer—ever. An inexperienced designer might throw in the towel when faced with setbacks: a design that exceeds the actual body shape; when the new engine’s motor mounts don’t align with the actual chassis motor mounts; when the engine fires up for the first time and runs rough. All these seeming problems are factored in, all part of a build.

Teens must be every bit the designer that Chip Foose is. They too will reach a stage that requires adjustments, maybe even replacements. Not a big deal if you have a therapist, because a therapist knows emotional malfunctions are bound to happen—all part of the human design plan. Yet, this is where many teens throw up their hands and give up.

Teens need to remember that they can have a better tomorrow, and they have something to do with that. Remind them to have some optimism, because they’re courageous; have some trust in people, because they’re courageous; have some hope, because they can self-construct a person who matters. –Jordan Peterson/clinical psychologist

All of us can benefit from an occasional counselor, someone to strengthen our social skills and help us through the cloudy days. Your favorite teen may be standing on a precipice overlooking a decade of bad decisions. Sharing this book may be a parent’s last shot at having an enjoyable conversation with their teen before a domino of circumstances make that conversation impossible. Make this book an anchor for your teen who is about to launch into a private storm of distractions.

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Michael Benzehabe

Chapter One

Monday, May 27, 2019

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The bargain is, I do homework and I won’t get grounded. I’m so tired of the subject. Homework. I do chores while Dad drones on about it; eat dinner while Mom quizzes me about it; doze off with Mom still crying about it.

Look, I don’t want to freak anyone out, but maybe college isn’t in the cards—at least not for me. I can barely say the word and keep my voice regular. Guaranteed, Mom will never convince me with her not-so-veiled threats, sweetened with smiley stories about developing new friendships in college study groups.

Ho, ho, ho. Who cares?

We—my parents and me—live a few miles from the beach, which means I’m a ten-minute bike ride from the waves. Instead of a nice day at the beach, I’m sent to school, still smelling the salt in the morning fog, painfully aware of what I’m missing . . . on top of all my other problems. The trick is, don’t give in to the grief. Instead, I let myself feel it, embrace it, learn from it. In bed by 9:30, up at 7:00, breakfast, then off to school where I spend five mind-numbing hours living by the dictates of San Diego County’s Board of Education, the Western version of Mao’s Little Red Book.

Here I am, caged in this glorified kennel they call Pacific Ridge High. Teachers play their role in the plot, sifting me through the school’s proletarian worker-making machine. Each pass removes another thin layer of human soul, just enough to wear down my resistance.

It’s been about a month since I stopped turning in homework. Life’s harder when you’re the only one who sees the actual gears of oppression at work—and I see no way out. Society has me in its machine.

I’m half-charged, half-concerned, half-awake.

Zonked.

Zonked between society’s expectations and the fatigue of constantly trying to measure up. I can’t do this anymore. Someday, novels will be written about all the sad ways we kids struggle to make teachers happy. There’s just no way to describe it. I guess adults will never understand . . . until they go through it. My parents won’t even let me have a cell phone. I can’t even text.

SO STUPID!

My favorite part of school? Going home. I’m too young to drive and live too close to catch a bus. So, I’ve made it a practice to kill after-school time by sitting on the garden wall, near the front steps. Decompression time is what a proper therapist would call it. Plus, I get to see everyone funneling out the front gate as they leave.

Hi! I call out to Robby Benson. He doesn’t wave back. Probably didn’t hear me.

To my right is Bus Circle, where all the bus riders wait. To my left is the students’ parking lot. The older kids pass me on the way to their cars. Johnny Clark (locker #242) comes this way. I like to look at him.

I’ve known every kid in school since first grade. I used to be close to some, when we were all small and skinny, back when we didn’t know too much about the world. Now, the kids with cars know too much, if you know what I mean.

Anna, are you waiting for someone?

I’d know Dotty Simmons’ voice anywhere. As I turn, her head bobbles between me and the blinding California sun. Dotty’s curly black hair glistens in the sunlight. I squint until she comes out of the glare to sit beside me. We used to be friends. She doesn’t have a car, but she’s still one of those kids who knows too much. Her boyfriend, Johnny Clark (locker #242), has a Jeep.

You, I say in my most insincere voice.

Me? she asks with a giggle. I’m just passing by. John’s waiting in the parking lot.

She’s so clueless.

I know. I just wanted to give you a wave. I say this hiding my contempt behind a cute tilt of my head. Ugh, I’m such a phony.

That’s nice. Hey, need a ride?

Grrr. And watch those two, in the front seat? Nope.

Dotty smiles—she always smiles.

But that’s Dotty in a nutshell. No one in the course of my life has ever been as happy to see me as Dotty. That’s the worst part.

I think about you, she says. A lot.

She’s the only person I know who speaks in emojis. Yet, I know she means it.

Maybe you could come over some time, she says. We could play Crazy Eights.

The truth is, I let Dotty go quite some time ago, when she stole Johnny—or John, as he’s come to be known. At one time, Dorothy, aka Dotty, had been my best friend. Reestablishing that bond is a doomed mission.

Yeah, that sounds like fun. I’ll give you a call. I won’t give her a call, and I’ll ignore her calls. I think we both know that.

Dotty smiles—bright as ever—leaving for the parking lot.

She doesn’t get far. She marches back with long, determined steps and sits beside me. Her face takes on a few different expressions before pulling something from her purse—a packet of Clinique’s Take the Day Off Cleansing Towelettes. Anna, you’re humiliating yourself. When you’re humiliated, I’m humiliated. She raises a damp towel and scrubs the makeup off my face. A private high school is no place for this much makeup. She continues scrubbing as I voluntarily push my face forward. Forgive me, but you can’t imagine how you look.

Some girls would consider this an insult. Not me, because if you had any idea how close we used to be, you would know how sincere she is. I guess you could say she’s still my friend, but a friend I keep at arm’s length.

Dotty puts the makeup remover back in her purse, along with the stained towelettes. Not a trace of bad judgment is left on my face. She grabs me by the shoulders. We don’t have to play cards. We could try out new makeup—glow up. You know, see what works and what doesn’t . . . if you want.

She stands and lets out a long breath, then heads toward John’s muddy four-wheeler. I wave while she’s watching and stop when she isn’t.

Ahhh, John Clark—totally dope. I’m simmering with curiosity about their romance. I guess that’s what people without romance do . . . wonder. It all started with him. Now, I die a little more every day. Only a fellow shipwrecked lover could possibly understand.

My attention returns to the students coming down the school’s front steps. Kids swarm by. I wave, and wave some more. It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Everyone at Pacific Ridge is well mannered—a little on the hard-of-hearing side, but well mannered. We have a peppy slogan over the front gate. We Focus on the Three R’s: Rigor, Relevance, and Relationships. Really? Then, why do I feel so empty?

Need a ride? Marco Garcia says, suddenly in my face. We drive by your house.

While Marco is talking, his dad, Mr. Garcia, of the famous Garcia’s Mini Mart, walks up behind him. Wait in the car, Marco. I’ll catch up in a sec.

An odd thing for Mr. Garcia to say. What if I want a ride? And maybe I don’t want an old man to sit beside me—which he does at this point.

Marco doesn’t answer his dad, nor does he leave all at once. He keeps stepping backward, sneering as he goes.

Mr. Garcia swats at Marco, the international signal for beat it. After Marco leaves, Mr. Garcia turns to me and all the irritation in his face turns into a sweet smile. I’ve known you all your life. I’ve known your family for years. Did you know my store burned down when you were a baby?

No, I say, puzzling. If I was a baby, how would I know?

Did you know your mother and her Presbyterian Women’s Group found us a place to stay, and gave us a thousand dollars in restaurant gift cards from El Torito?

No. Mr. Garcia is making me squirm. Sheesh, don’t parents know? School is a parents-free zone.

The point I’m making is, not only am I indebted to your family, but I love them. So, when I see you steal makeup from my store, no way would I call the police.

Hellish goosebumps flash up my back, ripping, like tiny molecular machetes beneath the skin. As a redhead my face has no ability to hide fear.

He folds his arms high on his chest, yet his smile is still there. You tell me, what’s the best way I can help you?

I could make payments, Mr. Garcia, I say in a voice two octaves higher. I don’t want to touch him or lean too close, but I’m desperate to convince him not to tell my parents. We—mainly me—would be disgraced.

You can call me Che Che. His thumb and fingers touch as he makes a motion that corkscrews into the air. Like Che Guevara.

A bit on the loud side, for this Invisible Girl’s taste.

Money has nothing to do with it, he says. "I owe your mother much more than money. I’m not trying to stop you from stealing from me, I’m trying to help you to stop stealing . . . from all stores, from your family, from yourself."

Did everybody hear him? I’m quickly topping off with self-loathing and nausea. Does Marco know?

No, of course not, he says nearly laughing. This is a private matter between you and me.

Chapter Two

Monday, May 27, 2019

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I walk through our front door, give it a good slam, and wait for a reaction. All I get is a house full of indifference. It’s the same old rerun: Dad, who arrives minutes before me, has already settled into his leather Barcalounger, wearing his same Wolf & Badger silk smoking jacket, same Dolce & Gabbana velvet slippers, with his face hidden behind The San Diego Union. At least I think that’s him. The first proof-of-life is a spiral of smoke coming from the Savinelli pipe I can’t see.

I’ve warned him about the dangers of smoking and second-hand smoke. He always looks off in the distance, as if giving my warnings serious thought, then returns to his paper. I reconcile it all by thinking of him as an incense burner. I do like the smell of pipe tobacco . . . may Al Gore forgive me.

Hello Pumpkin, he says—as he always says.

Hi Dad.

Some kids tell me their parents are never at home. How I wish. I never have a minute to myself, except in my room. Our back yard is no escape. Every time I sit by the pool, Mom is at the kitchen window doing this and that. Always watching.

Smile, Mom calls out from the kitchen. The world always looks better through a smiling face.

I head upstairs to my room for a little privacy.

I’ve been trying to put my finger on what’s wrong with America. Even our little town, San Marcos, is a frightfully complex universe. I’ve earned the right to steal a little makeup. Scientists have confirmed that humanity is highly suggestible. If I intend to escape the jaws of consumerism, I have some hard choices ahead. I won’t say that the Devil is behind this, but Gretchen goes to Catholic school, she says the Devil can show up anywhere, and we wouldn’t even recognize him. Last week Gretchen told me, Watch carefully to see how one thing connects to another.

Well, I’ve been watching, and I’ve been connecting a lot of dots. Mom, for example, is Procter and Gamble’s perfect repeat customer. Renovation contractors send her personalized Christmas cards. She lives for the Sunday edition of our local newspaper. She thumbs through the Modern Home section. She mopes through the rest of the day, unhappy with all her outdated things.

I slide a finger over my new Danton Aluminum Writing Desk. I don’t see anything that looks outdated.

I fall backwards on my bed and bounce. I lay there, contemplating the ceiling.

What is wrong with America? I give and give, and the system takes and takes. My mind is forever dodging this and that, flittering from homework (that I no longer do) to school gossip, from great Billie Eilish music to Dad’s monotone lectures. Seems like every subject Dad harps on Billie Eilish has written the perfect rebuttal.

So, maybe the Billie Eilish thing is a form of universal synchronicity, and maybe stealing makeup is a fate over which I have no control.

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Late at night, my blood pressure flares when I hear our TV blaring in the den. I walk in to find Mom and Dad’s faces aglow, reflecting the pixilating light of commercials for Kendall Jenner’s newest cosmetic line. Just another delivery system to ensnare the innocent who can’t afford makeup, innocent kids who need makeup, but are allowance challenged, an insurmountable hurdle that excludes them from participating in all the fun that the Kardashians enjoy without a second thought.

I have this highly developed fraud-alert for social influencers. From a mile away I can spot an ad designed to undermine the contentedness of vulnerable female teens. How can you watch this? I hiss. Can’t you see they’re mocking your intelligence? Clever little ruses, Madison-Avenue zombie-sirens, feminist getting-what-you-deserve mantras.

Mom is the first to acknowledge me.