Donorboy : A Novel

After the deaths of her mother and her lesbian lover in a bizarre accident, Rosalind, a troubled, fourteen-year-old girl, suddenly finds herself living with Sean, the sperm-donor father she has never met, who takes on the overwhelming task of caring for a grieving teenager. By the author of It Takes a Worried Man. A first novel. 20,000 first printing.

Chapter 1

Okay, so here we go with my grief journal.

Jesus, that's mad corny. "My grief journal." -What are you doing, Ros? Oh, I'm just writing in my grief journal. Okay, grief journal grief journal, mad corny, mad libs, mad stupid, mad at the world (are you paying attention, Denise? Make sure to ask, why do you think you wrote mad at the world there? I don't know, genius, maybe because my parents are dead and my dad is some dork and not Kurt Cobain or Bono or even that Everybody Loves Raymond dork or anything else I used to imagine, he's

just a regular nonfamous dork like any dad, and I have

absolutely no idea on earth why he would want me to live with him, I want to live with Aunt Karen, I want to die like Mom. And Mommy.

No, Denise, not really. I mean, I don't particularly feel like living now, because it seems really pointless, but I don't really feel like doing anything as big a deal as killing myself, and probably you don't want to hear this, Denise, but I don't really want to die a virgin, even though there's nobody I really . . . sorry, IM from Sasha, probably I should do this in a real journal instead of on the computer and it did cross my mind to say, "I have to go write in my grief jrnl :-[" but I was too embarrassed, it's too-see now when they ask what's hard about having two moms, probably the hardest thing is that when something is really really gay, like a grief journal, you can't say it's really gay, because that's like dissing my mom, who's dead . . .

Okay, fuck you grief journal and fuck you Denise, because I just sat here and cried for like ten minutes because my . . .

fuck.

I don't want to do this. Are you going to collect it, Denise? Am I going to fail grief? How did you do in grief? Did you ever take grief? What do you do when you go home? Do you have some dork that you love? Do you drive home and get crushed by stupid foodstuffs? I like that word. "foodstuffs."

What the hell was I writing about before I cried twice. Fuck you Denise, fuck you Denise, I hate you Denise, I don't want to sit with the sadness Denise, I want to not feel like this ever, I hate Sean who I can't even call Dad because he's just the stupid donor, I can't even figure out why he wants me, especially since Grandma is all, "I'm just too old, honey," and Uncle Mike is all, "I have to work on some of my own issues right now."

Then again, Mom told me they didn't know the donor which is obviously a lie, so maybe the petri dish part is a lie too, maybe, ick, well, I can't even imagine this dork having sex with Mom, but then again the idea of Mommy having sex with Mom totally icks me out anyway, so maybe moms are just yucky and shouldn't have sex at all but then they wouldn't be moms, so there is what they

call a conundrum, a dilemma if you will, impaled on the horns of the dilemma, killed by a truckload of turduckens.

Okay, IM from Sasha again, I guess she's nice to check on me, but I hate everybody worrying about me and talking about me and asking how I'm doing and how they all just look at me when I come to lunch because now I'm tragic, oh my God that is so sad, oh my God, I am so sorry, Oh my God Ros. Oh my God. I love them but I hate them and I wish they would shut up except when I don't want them to, but they always get it wrong.

I hate this Denise. It doesn't help. Can I stop now? Please? Are you even going to read this?

>>>

You didn't read it, Denise, you just asked if I did it and how it made me feel and I really want to smack your fucking face when you ask me stupid shit like that or when I tell you how much I hate you and you say, "I know that you're feeling a lot of anger right now. Would you like to talk about that?" No, actually, I would like to smack your chubby cheek and see my handprint in red and watch the tears run out of your eyes and have you look at me and cry and ask me why why, it isn't fair, you only want to help me, you hate these ungrateful kids and then run out of the room and never ever come back and still feel the sting of my hand on your chubby little fucking cheek.

But that would mean something going my way for once, so instead you just do that annoying thing you do. "Let's talk about why you're feeling that way. How do you feel when you think about hitting me?"

I feel good, Denise. I feel real fucking good.

Ok, I'm lying. I feel like shit today and every day and

I hate everybody.

I don't want to do this, Denise. I have nothing to say. Mom's still dead, and the last thing I said to her was some bitchy thing and I hate that, I hate you, I hate me, why does the last thing I ever say to her have to be some mean thing? I hate it, Denise, I can't stand to think about myself, I can't stand anything.

I don't have anything to say. I can't see the screen because I'm crying again.

This is a sucky idea, Denise. My grief journal is dumb, my grief journal is dumb, Denise is dumb, Sasha

is dumb, Rosalind is dumb, and whatever fucking idiot

invented the turducken is dumb. I think I'm going to go veggie just to protest. Also that should fuck with Sean, so that's good. He'll try to be all sensitive and pretend like he's not annoyed, but I'm like fuck you Sean, send me back to Karen if I bug you, but you won't so I will make you pay if I ever decide to talk to you. I guess I'm gonna have to if I am going veggie. Or I could write him a note. "Going veggie. Buy tofu. Hate you. Send me to Aunt Karen." I think I smiled. Still my grief journal is dumb, stupid, mad corny, mad mad mad.

>>>

Dear My First Grief Journal:

Still not talking to Sean. Sean is my dad. Sean is the donor. Sean is some dork who lives in this house. I guess it's my house now. I hate that. I hate this stupid single guy house with the stupid big TV and PS2 and cable even though I kind of like those things. I think I want to live in my own house, in my real house, and I think I could stop the sale. Then I could have my real room and my real door and the thing on the trim in the kitchen where Mom marked how I grew.

But I guess Sean would have to live there too, and Mom is never coming home, and Mommy isn't either, and I know I would wake up every day thinking it was a bad dream and I didn't tell my mom I hated her just before she died because I couldn't go to some dumb party with people it turns out I hate.

I don't want to think about that. It makes me hate myself. Why can't I say I'm sorry? I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, please come back so I can tell you I'm sorry.

Okay, other stuff, other stuff. Sean's house is weird and boring. I want to go live with Aunt Karen.

Except I hate her too, I'm sick of her stupid phone calls, every night, honey is there anything you need,

how you holding up kiddo, honey I'm feeling sad and missing your moms tonight, sweetie I'm really sad and I just want you to know that we are sharing that. Whatever. Take care of yourself, bitch. Nobody cares if you're sad, nobody cares if I'm sad, even stupid Sean who keeps

looking at me like won't you please talk to me, and I just act like I don't even see that because the hell with him.

Denise, I really think this idea sucks. I felt okay when I started writing, and now I feel shitty and sad and I just want to lie on my bed and not sleep and wake up wondering where I am and then remember it all and dream about Mom at the foot of my bed saying honey I just want to check on you, I want to make sure you're okay, I'm sorry I had to leave. But she never says don't worry about being a bitch to me just before I died . . .

Goddammit Denise I have tears running down my face and big mascara streaks on my cheeks. Is this helpful? Is this a therapeutic dose? Can you just give me some drugs or...