Call It What You Want

by Brigid Kemmerer

  “No!” He almost shouts the word, and I flinch. “No, Maegan. It was—I don’t know what it is. It was after. After Bill. After I had to listen to him accuse me.”

  He was so upset when we left the house. I could almost understand retaliation as a motivation, but … “You said you’ve stolen other things.”

  “Only what wouldn’t be missed! And—”

  “That’s still stealing!”

  “I know. I know.” Rob’s eyes are panicked. Anguished. “I wasn’t thinking. I was so angry. It was—it was a mistake. You understand that. I know you understand that.”

  “My mistake didn’t hurt anyone else,” I say.

  His expression hardens, a glimpse of the old Rob Lachlan peeking through. “Yeah? I heard that it hurt about a hundred people.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Are you kidding me? None of this is fair.”

  He’s angry now. Good. So am I. “Just because people treat you like crap doesn’t mean you get to take whatever you want from them.”

  “Just because people treat you like crap doesn’t mean you have to sit there and take it.”

  That’s not a dig, but right now, it feels like one. “It doesn’t mean I get to forget the difference between right and wrong.”

  “So you only get to do that when you’re jealous of your sister?”

  That hits me like a sucker punch. I reach out and grab his wrist, but I’m less gentle than he was with mine. His eyes are dark pools of anger and guilt and shame and sadness, but I can’t figure it all out, and right this second, I don’t want to. I drop the earrings into his hand and stand.

  He catches my hand. “Wait. Stop. Please. Maegan. I’m sorry.”

  “You are a thief,” I say to him.

  “I don’t want to be. Do you understand that? I don’t—it was a mistake. I want to undo it.”

  I know all about mistakes you can’t undo. “Then turn yourself in,” I say.

  Without another word, I walk out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Rob

  Monday morning, I show up at school looking like I spent the weekend on a bender. Despite what Maegan said, I kept waiting for the cops to show up and arrest me. When car tires rolled up the driveway, I thought for sure it was time. My heart nearly beat a path out of my chest. I actually laced up my running shoes.

  It was just Mom coming home.

  That was almost as bad. I was a wreck. Confessing to her would be a lot different from confessing to Maegan, so I dove into bed and turned my lights off.

  She barely looked in on me before moving down the hallway to her own room.

  When the police didn’t show up, that was almost worse. Was Maegan waiting until morning to tell her father? Maybe he was working a late shift and she’d have to wait for him to come home.

  Maybe she meant what she said.

  Turn yourself in.

  I have no idea how to do that. I can’t take the shoes back from Mrs. Goettler, and I don’t have the money to repay Lexi, even if I had the nerve to admit what I did. I don’t even have forty bucks to give back to the sports fund-raiser, if I even had a way to put it back.

  Hey, Connor, I actually stole this. Here you go.

  Yeah, sure. I could hand over the earrings at the same time. Tell your mom to be more careful.

  All that is beside the point anyway. As much as I don’t want to admit it, a dark, secret part of my brain is satisfied, as if I’ve finally fulfilled some kind of destiny. The feeling has been lingering in the back of my thoughts since the moment I wrapped my hand around that money from the cash box, and it only intensified when I told Maegan what I was doing.

  It’s intensifying now, as I stride across the quad to enter school through the front doors, instead of parking around back. Connor and his friends are sitting around the flagpole, and their eyes follow me like rifle scopes.

  I don’t care. I keep walking. I dare anyone to say anything to me. I want someone to start something.

  A tall girl parts from the crowd to block my path. My thoughts are so cloudy that it takes me a moment to recognize her. Rachel. Maegan’s friend. Fury lights her expression.

  Almost immediately, a scenario clicks in my head. Maegan told her friend about me. Of course. They chased me out of Taco Taco because they thought I was a thief, and they were right. Maegan probably called her the instant she pulled out of my driveway.

  “What are you doing to Maegan?” says Rachel.

  The question takes me by surprise because it’s nothing like I expected. “I’m not doing anything,” I say, and my voice comes out like a low growl.

  “She asked you a question,” says a male voice behind her, and I realize I’ve missed her boyfriend standing there. Stellar.

  “I answered it,” I say.

  They say nothing, but they block my path into the school. The quad is filling up with students before the first bell, and we’re generating more than a little interest.

  “Please move,” I grind out. “I need to get to class.”

  “I’m looking out for my friend,” says Rachel, “and I want to know what’s going on.”

  I don’t need to stand here for an interrogation. I move to push between them.

  Drew moves to block me. “Look, man, you don’t have to be a jerk. She’s asking you about her friend.”

  “Let him go.” Connor steps between us and shoves Drew away from me. A couple of guys from the lacrosse team have followed him over here, too.

  I lose a moment to shock.

  Drew does, too. He takes a step back. “Chill out,” he says. “This has nothing to do with you. Rachel is trying to look out for Maegan.”

  I’d be impressed at the concern if it weren’t all open hostility directed at me. But as much as I don’t want to be hassled, Drew and Rachel didn’t confront me to give me a hard time. They really do care about Maegan.

  Connor looks like he’s going to unleash some douchebaggery meant to chase them off, and the last thing I want is his help, especially that way. “Get lost, Connor. They’re just looking out for a friend.” I look at Drew and Rachel. “She’s fine. We’re doing a math project together. That’s all.”

  Rachel doesn’t look convinced. “But—”

  “That’s all,” I say. “Really.”

  Her eyes glance from me to Connor, who’s still standing there looking like he wants to start something.

  I can’t handle this.

  “Get over yourself,” I say to him. “This guy was right. None of this has to do with you.”

  He inhales to snap back, but I don’t bother waiting. Instead, I turn and walk into the school.

  Mr. London is delighted to see me. I’m practically crawling through the doorway into the library, but he smiles and says, “Mr. Lachlan! Ready to discuss book two?”

  I’m ready for coffee. A shot of vodka. A baseball bat to the face.

  None of those are available. I sigh and talk about the book. “I think Cook is her mother.”

  “Yes,” he says. “I think so, too.”

  I want to return his enthusiasm. I want to talk books. I want to be normal. The moment on the quad has left me shaken.

  Instead, I feel like I’m going to cry. My stupid throat is closing up.

  The smile melts off Mr. London’s face. He raises the counter. “Office?”

  No. I want to turn and bolt.

  Instead, my feet march me forward, into his office, where I collapse into a chair.

  Fuck. I am crying.

  I scrape my hands against my cheeks and try to get it together. The sleeves of my winter coat dig into my skin. Mr. London shoves a box of tissues my way.

  “I don’t deserve this,” I say.

  “I don’t think anyone ever really deserves Kleenex,” he says.

  That makes me laugh, which helps. I choke back the tears before I turn into a sniveling puddle on the floor. “No. This. You being nice to me.”

  “It’s not charity. I get paid to do it.” His expr
ession tells me he’s teasing. Gently.

  Even that is more than I deserve. I don’t smile back.

  “You want to talk about it?” he says.

  He says the words so matter-of-factly. Not the kind of warm, probing question I’d get from the school counselor, or the soft, intrusive way my mother would ask. Just straightforward.

  The way my father would have asked.

  I press my fingers into my eyes again.

  No, I want to say. No. The word sits in my throat, but it’s blocked by emotion.

  Instead, I say, “I miss my father so much.”

  For the longest time, the room is so silent. Or maybe I can’t hear anything over my roaring heartbeat, my shaking breath.

  Mr. London lets out a sigh. I can’t look at him now.

  I swipe at my eyes again and stare at the bottom edge of his desk. “Everyone thinks he’s horrible. Maybe he was. I know he was. But … I don’t—he wasn’t horrible to me.”

  This is humiliating. I’ve never said this to anyone.

  Now I’m saying it to the school librarian, for god’s sake.

  “I’m sorry.” My eyes are a blur. I shove myself out of the chair. “I need to go to class.”

  “Rob—”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

  “Please stop.”

  “I need to go.” I pick up my backpack and sling it over my shoulder. My breathing is a hitching mess. I need to get it together.

  Mr. London steps in front of me. “Rob. Stop.”

  I stop. I breathe. My fingers are digging into the nylon strap of my backpack with so much force that my knuckles burn.

  “Sit,” he says. “I’ll write you a pass.”

  I don’t want to sit, but he’s blocking the doorway, and I’m not a rebel. I’ve never been the kind of kid to get in trouble with teachers. I do what I’m told.

  I sit.

  Something about the command is stabilizing, though. My tears have dried up.

  Mr. London eases into his chair behind the desk. “I was thinking about you this weekend,” he says. “Until you hid in here last week, I don’t think I really considered what this all must mean for you.”

  I say nothing.

  “I didn’t consider,” he says slowly, “that you lost your father without losing your father.”

  His words bring on a fresh round of tears, and I try to blink them away.

  It doesn’t work.

  I’m so sick of crying. Being lonely sucked, but it had its advantages. No one talking to me meant I didn’t talk to anyone else.

  I give in and take a tissue.

  “When I was young,” he says, “my grandmother had a stroke.”

  I stiffen. I don’t want an anecdote.

  “She lived with us,” he continues. “She used to watch my sister and me after school. So we were really close. When she had the stroke, it was really … really weird. I was twelve. She was still there, but she wasn’t there.”

  That forces me still. I meet his eyes. Yes, I think. Yes. I can’t say it. But I don’t think I need to.

  “This kid once …” Mr. London takes a long breath. “This kid once said something like, ‘What’s wrong? Who died?’ But no one had died. It was so strange. I couldn’t explain it. And because no one died, it wasn’t like … I don’t know. I don’t really even know how to explain it now.”

  I don’t, either.

  The words are stuck in my throat. I try to swallow past them. If I speak, I might lose it.

  Mr. London looks at me. “I’m sorry about your father, Rob.” He pauses, rolling a pen between his fingers.

  “He was awful.” My voice cracks and I swipe at my face again. Thank god this is the library and not the lacrosse coach’s office.

  “But he wasn’t an awful father.”

  “No.” I press shaking hands to my face.

  The room falls quiet again. The first bell rings. I don’t move. I can’t move.

  Mr. London picks up the phone on his desk. After a moment, he says, “Rob Lachlan is in the library with me. Will you tell his first-period teacher?” A pause. “Thank you.”

  The phone clicks back into place. My heart pounds against my rib cage. My body feels like every emotion is trying to rattle free, as if I’ve confined too much inside my skin.

  “Tell me about him,” says Mr. London.

  I open my mouth to refuse. He’s the last person I should confide in.

  Instead, I tell him everything about my father. The man I thought he was. The man I thought I wanted to be. The way my father would show up for every game. The way I could tell him anything.

  I tell him every good memory. Everything I miss.

  I tell him how my father’s crimes felt like such a betrayal. So big that I can barely admit it to myself.

  Mr. London makes for a good audience. He’s quiet, and he listens. When I’m done, I’m wrung out. I want to melt out of this chair and dissolve into the carpeting.

  When he finally speaks, it’s not what I expect. “You know I’m gay, right?”

  There’s a picture of him with his husband on the wall behind him. I’m pretty sure the entire student body knows he’s gay, but his question was matter-of-fact, so my answer is too. “Yes.”

  “Just making sure.” He pauses. “When I told my parents, they didn’t react well. They wanted me to go to this … this camp.”

  I don’t know where this is going, but it’s not about me sobbing in his chair, so I’m okay with it. “A camp?”

  “A religious camp. A gay-reversal camp.” His eyebrows go up, asking if I’m tracking.

  I am. “Did you go?”

  “Yes.” His jaw tightens. “They told me I couldn’t live with them anymore if I refused to go. So I went. And I hated it. It was … awful.” He grimaces and holds out his hands. “It obviously didn’t work.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “When I got home, I faked it. I hated it, but I faked it.”

  “You faked being straight?”

  “Yes.” He pauses. “It put this wall between me and my parents. I used to lie in bed and think of all the ways I hated them. My father especially. He watched me, checked my computer, searched my room—” He breaks off and shakes his head. “We were close when I was young. It was such a relief to get out.”

  Nothing sounds like a relief about this story.

  His eyes return to mine. “My sister eventually convinced them to come around. She was the only person who let me be me—and convinced them to let me be me. But it took me a long time to forgive them. To reconcile that the good memories didn’t vanish just because there were bad ones in there, too. All those memories are a part of who I am. The good ones and the bad ones.”

  His eyes are full of emotion I’m sure is matched in mine.

  “It’s okay to miss him,” he says. “It’s okay to miss him even if what he did was wrong.”

  The words are so simple, but they seem to find a crack in my armor. The grip on my heart eases. I let out a long breath.

  All of a sudden, I want to tell him everything. About the cash box. About the earrings.

  Everything.

  A hand knocks on the door frame, and it breaks the spell. Another teacher stands there. I don’t know her at all.

  “Mr. London?” she says with an apologetic glance at me. “The computers won’t log on and we need to reboot the server.”

  “I’ll be right there,” he says.

  “Go,” I say. I grab my backpack, then duck my head to wipe my face on my shoulder. “I’m missing calculus.”

  I’m through the door when his voice calls me back. “Rob.”

  I barely pause. I can’t look at him now. I almost told him everything.

  Turn yourself in.

  I’m too much of a coward to do that.

  “What?” I croak out.

  “Come back tomorrow morning,” he says. “We can finish our conversation then.”

  I say nothing. I can’t decide if I should bolt
or if I should beg to hide in his office for the rest of the day.

  “Will you do that?” he prompts. “Come back?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll be here.”

  I’m twenty minutes late for calculus, especially since I took a few minutes to wash my face in the men’s room. I ease through the door so I don’t interrupt Mrs. Quick’s lecture. Maegan is sitting there in the front row. Her pencil slides along her notebook, and she doesn’t even look at me.

  I’m encouraged by my conversation with Mr. London. Maybe I can fix this. Maybe I can undo it.

  I need to apologize. I dragged her down a road she didn’t deserve.

  I steel my nerve and slide into the seat beside her. “Hey,” I whisper. “I want—”

  She closes her notebook and grabs her backpack.

  Without a word, she slides out of her seat and moves to the back.

  Leaving me alone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Maegan

  Rachel finds me in the cafeteria line. She sidles up beside me with a tray full of food.

  “Hey,” she says, and her voice is low. “Can we talk?”

  I’m so burdened with secrets about my sister and Rob that I don’t have the strength to fend off Rachel, especially if she’s going to start criticizing my friendship choices. I reach for an apple and add it to my tray.

  “Please,” she says. “I really miss you. I don’t want to fight over boys, of all things.”

  That gets my attention. I turn my head and look at her. “You think we’re fighting over boys?”

  “Well, we’re fighting because of a boy.”

  “No, Rachel. We’re fighting because you and Drew were being nasty to—” I break off and shuffle forward in the line. “Forget it.”

  “No.” Her voice takes on an edge. “Finish what you were going to say.”

  I want to dodge. I want to hide. I don’t like confrontation, and I don’t like worrying I’m in the wrong.

  If anything, the situations with Rob and my sister have taught me that trying to do what everyone else wants just leads to misery. I face Rachel head on. “I was going to say that you and Drew were being nasty to someone I considered my friend. I didn’t think you were being very fair.”