by Tara K Ross
“You too, Thea.” He slips his journal into his satchel, takes a sip of his coffee, and, with another slight bow, strolls away from the coffee shop. Obviously, he’s not under the same strain I am to arrive someplace in the next ten minutes.
Despite my time constraints, I stand and watch him saunter away. The narrowness of his neck reveals his slim frame beneath the bulk of a wool sweater Grams would have proudly knitted. And yet on him, it comes across more than okay. He brushes through his short, sandy-blond hair, leaving it just the right amount of unkempt.
A fluttering sensation rises inside my chest. Am I attracted to him or just fascinated? He is nothing like Gavin, my two-years-running dark and addictive infatuation. But there is something so captivating about Khi. So quietly confident. I have never been able to reel in my nervous chatter or directly ask a guy to hang out with me before. Ever. I need to figure out how I did it and how to replicate it. Imagine if I could be like that with Gavin.
I head toward school, then stop. Something Khi said flashes through my mind.
What other here was he talking about?
CHAPTER THREE
Yellow flicks to red and the cars and people proceed as expected. Myself included.
With practiced grace, I rebalance cups atop one another to search for my phone. Yep, still not in my bag. Instead, I untwist a lip gloss with my free hand and apply some color while I wait. I glance across the street at the looming, two-story building, and my nervous system cranks into overdrive. My palms start to sweat, and my scarf feels more like a choke collar. Did I mention how much I hate when my routine is off?
Other than the apricot lip sheen, I’ve done nothing to my appearance. Khi must have thought I was not only crazy, but a complete slob. I untie the topknot in my hair and toss my curls left to cover the growing bald spot I’m creating. As I wait, I scratch my head, a replacement habit I’ve developed to avoid pulling. But even this happens all too often when I approach school. Whether it’s a good, bad, or downright awful day.
Ridgefield Secondary is where I find myself facing a new set of emotional hurdles each morning: embarrassment, anticipation, anxiety. A flood of overwhelming experiences that sometimes feels flat-out terrifying. And I don’t get it. Why does high school still freak me out so much? At this point, it’s not like I’m new to it. Does anyone else feel this way? Some clearly will need to wait until college to find their eclectic posse of acceptance, but the rest? Everything seems to just work for them. Maybe they’re all better at acting than I am, but I doubt it. There’s a reason I got the lead in the school’s one-act drama festival.
Acting is one more coping strategy that gives me precious moments of escape. If I pretend to be someone else, I can be confident and in control for a little while. And let’s face it, I’m never going to be prom queen or class president. The cross-country team has zero varsity value, and sports that require hand-eye coordination don’t play nice with me. But the drama club gives me just enough social leverage to be accepted amongst the artists.
Even so, each morning a train seems to hurtle through my ribs as I drag myself through the front doors. And I swear there’s a conductor shouting, Watch out, here comes the social misfit!
Sometimes it’s not so much a shout, but a poorly-timed smirk or glance that signals my social failures. The older girls from the café line arrive at the intersection with this morning’s confirmation. They chuckle on approach. I transfer the second cup back to my hand to stop the scratching and will the yellow light to reappear. The two girls look identical. Both have ripped jeans, gray sweaters, dark hair that hangs to their waists in loose waves, and heavy makeup, the kind that has been layered to cover any evidence of actual skin. The only obvious difference between them is their height. One is taller by a couple of inches and no doubt flaunts that fact as though it were a badge of honor. She presents as the leader, with more confidence and security.
You’re staring, Thea. I take a sip from my tea and wait for them to cross ahead of me.
“Hey, Vanya, look.” The shorter girl points to the half-mast flag on the pole at the front entrance.
“Ah duh, Dhalia. That’s what they do when someone dies,” Vanya responds. “It’s creepy to think we just saw Malin on Friday.”
We cross the street, heading toward Ridgefield and the red-and-white material hanging lifeless against the pole. Our school is in mourning.
Do I know a Malin? Why does that name sound familiar? This must be the girl from the accident I’d read about in the paper. Our school has about a thousand kids in it, so it’s possible she’s a student here in a different grade.
My curiosity gets the best of me, and I have to ask.
“Hey, does ...” I falter. Both girls twist and glare at my attempt to keep pace with them. “Did Malin go to Ridgefield?”
Vanya’s bronzed forehead wrinkles. “Uh, yeah. Everyone knew her from being on Show Choir.”
“Right. How could I forget that?” I say with perhaps too much enthusiasm.
That’s how I know her name. Malin had her fifteen minutes of fame when she auditioned for the reality TV show a few years ago and managed to get on the first couple of episodes. We’d also done a drama camp together when I was in grade seven and she was in grade eight. I recall being insanely jealous of her voice, her dancing, her confidence. She had wisely gone on to musical theatre, and I had wisely stuck to not dancing and singing.
Silence fills the air. Vanya’s look of mild annoyance has changed to a death stare.
Heat flares in my cheeks. “Sorry. I, uh ... read about it in the newspaper and—”
Dhalia leans close to Vanya and whispers loud enough for me to hear, “The newspaper? It’s like she’s from the ’90s.”
I pretend not to notice the verbal slap. “The newspaper didn’t say … I mean, I didn’t know who it was at first. I remember her now. She was … uh … she was really nice.” It’s a lie. Memories tramp through my mind of her sauntering past me the entire week of camp, despite my subtle pleas for friendship.
The girls stare at me and then at each other, as though they are telepathically connected by their twin wardrobes. Thankfully, the thought they appear to have communicated to each other is to not waste any more of their time on this lesser-known social hermit.
Without another word to me, the two of them quicken their pace up the stairs to the front doors. I take another sip to let them get a few steps ahead before I meander after them. I wouldn’t want them thinking I’m eavesdropping again, even though that’s exactly what I intend to do.
“I heard from Hope that Malin was signed by an agent in Toronto. She could’ve been so famous.” Dhalia bounces up another step.
“Yeah, well, now she’s going to be famous for another reason. I can’t believe she would do that.” Vanya shifts her bag to lean in closer to Dhalia. “If I had her life, I never would’ve thought about—”
“You don’t know that she did.” Dhalia’s voice lowers, and I tilt forward to hear. “She could’ve slipped or been pushed.”
“Yeah, pushed by a ghost. She was by herself,” Vanya says.
Suicide? I didn’t know Malin that well. I’d only run into her a couple of times around town since that summer in middle school. When I did see her, she always seemed happy. Maybe looking happy doesn’t always equate to being happy. But she didn’t seem like the kind of person who would voluntarily take her own life. She had a normal family from what I remember; they came to our end-of-summer performance and brought her roses. A lot of roses. She seemed to get along with her parents and made it appear like she had it all together. But then, I don’t look like the kind of person who would need counseling or experience hallucinations or have parents who likely didn’t sleep in the same bedroom last night. Looks can be deceiving.
I trip on a step, barely catch myself before my drinks go flying, and create more distance from the twins than I want. Mind you, we’re almost at the school entrance and there is no longer a need to eavesdrop. Every conversat
ion is the same, an ironic rhapsody of infectious gossip.
“That girl from TV was killed.”
“Did you hear what really happened?”
“She was my friend in primary school.”
“Malin Porter is dead.”
Through the thickening crowd of students entering the school, I search for any of my friends. Nobody I know well enough to stop and question. The wave of bodies bottlenecks at the doors, and I hold my tower of tea high to avoid having the cups bumped from my hands. I move with the flow of energy and voices through the main foyer. Pushing my way to the left, I escape into the grade eleven hallway and make a beeline toward my locker. Ahead of me, my longest-known friend Jade’s jet-black bob hovers above the rest of the students. She closes her locker and veers off in the opposite direction. I need to talk with someone before first period, even if it’s just to hear the same gossip from a familiar voice and then to unload a little of my crazy morning. Without my cell phone, I feel disconnected from everyone.
“Jade,” I holler. “Wait up.”
Obviously failing to hear me, she trudges away in her typical stooped fashion. She is one of the most beautiful people I know, and yet she holds herself as though she wishes she could disappear. I try again. “Hey Jadiac!”
This time she turns around, looking a tad annoyed. Once she spots me, she sticks her tongue out and then lugs off again.
I break into a light jog to catch up to her. “You know I hate when you don’t wait.”
“You know I hate when you call me that.” She stops and raises a plucked-to-perfection eyebrow. “You’re surprisingly late today, and you haven’t found a recipient for your second tea yet. Is the whole Malin thing getting to you?”
“Yeah, I guess, but something else happened this morning that is totally freaky.” I hesitate. Should I tell her? Maybe she’d think me shallow for wanting to talk about something other than Malin.
The first bell chimes out our two-minute warning. Jade holds her position, despite the sudden flow of students around us, and cocks her head slightly to the side.
“I had this weird ... um ...” How exactly do I describe it without sounding completely crazy? “… experience.” I stumble to one side, pushed by backpacks and overly scented bodies.
“Experience? Can you give me a little more?” Jade crosses her arms, oblivious to the traffic.
One of the basketball players slams past my shoulder, sending a spurt of tea that barely misses my jeans. “Gah!” This is ridiculous. I slurp at my wrist. “Not now. When is your spare today?”
“I don’t have one, and I don’t have the same lunch as you either. Text me after first period, okay?”
“I don’t have my phone.”
“What? How do you not …” She shakes her head. She must remember who she is talking to. “What happened this time?”
“Forgot to charge it last night, then when I plugged it in ...” I shrug my shoulders. Generally speaking, I don’t forget a lot of things. School assignments, social plans, even my keys are not an issue. But for whatever reason, I lose or forget to bring my phone at least once a month. “Never mind. I’ll call you tonight, okay?”
“Fine, but if I find out this experience was with a certain someone, you are going to need to write my English paper for making me wait so long.”
“It’s not, but nice try. Oh, and take one of these teas. I don’t have time to give it away today.”
“You know I hate tea.” Her gaze lifts over my shoulder and she winces. “Give it to Evan. He looks like he’s about to bawl.” Jade waves a hand in the direction of a fringe kid from our English class. She begins to lumber away, resuming her hunched position. “And don’t forget to call me,” she says without waiting for my response.
“Trust me, I won’t forget.” I glance behind at Evan and duly note his morose appearance. He wears his usual fitted black jeans and hoodie but lacks the quaffed hair and the profusely cologned scent of the majority. He’s also missing his usual appendage, his girlfriend Nora, and seems lost in the crowd without her. He doesn’t strike me as a tea drinker, but then, Grams always told me everyone feels better with a cup of tea.
I approach him, and the smell of marijuana and BO overwhelms the aroma from the team. He glances up from his cell phone and raises an eyebrow. We don’t travel in the same circles, so this is veering into faux pas social rules.
“Hey, Evan, do you want a London Fog?” I hold out the cup.
“A London what?”
“Sorry, it’s black tea with vanilla and … It’s good, trust me. I have an extra if you want it.”
He stares at me without accepting or declining. His face holds a tense expression as though I’m offering him a much more serious choice. I thrust the tea at him, needing to climb the stairs to reach chemistry on time. A shiver rushes through my body, ending with sharp sensations on my wrist. I flinch and release the cup before his hand fully encircles it, and he lunges his other hand out to catch it. His wrist is crisscrossed with marks. Fresh cuts, from the looks of it.
He jerks his sleeve down and grasps the cup hard enough to make the lid pop off. We both crouch down to retrieve it from the floor. I arrive first and shift my gaze away as I pass him the lid. We stand, and I force a terse grin, but no words come. What would I say? He did not want those slashes seen.
What must he be feeling inside to do that to himself? Heat rises from my neck, up to my cheeks. My chest restricts. I want to bolt, but the quickening thuds of my heart are like a chant for me to stay. To say something. But I can only feel. Evan takes action for me. Before I can get out of my head long enough to look up, he’s halfway down the hall. A spark of light draws my eyes to his back. I blink hard. He rounds the corner at the end of the hallway, and I am still speechless.
With each step I travel toward class, my heart pounds out a remix-beat and my shoulders begin to ache with tension. This isn’t the first time I’ve felt another’s pain, as though my body needs to help out by empathizing. I’ve always cried when others were hurt or felt fear with another’s phobia, but now it’s more visceral. Almost real, like what I felt outside the Shens’ home. I glance down at my hand and wrist. I need to reassure myself that I’m fine. And I am.
Another weird anxiety symptom. That’s all. But what if this is the compassion thing Khi was talking about? And how exactly is it a gift? I practically burned Evan’s fresh wounds with said gift.
I should just forget what happened this morning. Take it as a sign I’m stressing too much over my stupid daily qualms. Besides, from everything I’ve seen and heard since arriving at school today, others clearly had way bigger issues than me.
CHAPTER FOUR
I forgot to call Jade. Okay, let’s be honest, I didn’t forget so much as feigned illness. When I got home from school on Monday, my phone had over forty text messages and notifications. Most of them were about Malin. My replies used the minimum number of keystrokes necessary to get my message across: it’s sad, got headache, can’t talk, in bed. I probably came off sounding inconsiderate and self-absorbed. And maybe I am. Isn’t that what all teenagers are supposed to be? So what if she’s dead? My life is messed up too. Wanna hear about that instead? But I didn’t. I may be self-absorbed, but I’m not narcissistic.
The reality is my life is not the priority at Ridgefield High, and I just need to accept that my sketchy hallucinations about other people’s issues pale in comparison to the real deal. Besides, two days have passed now, and I haven’t experienced anything else unusual.
So, I created a new mantra—forget it ever happened. It was working well until Mom decided she had other ideas. Centered around getting ice cream. In November.
In the summer, a trip to the Cow’s Pint brings back nostalgic memories of past accomplishments: our last day of school, my first Brownie badge, getting the lead in Annie. But when the offer of ice cream comes after the first frost, a darker set of memories comes to mind. Grams’ diagnosis being the most recent. It’s as if my parents decided
the Cow’s Pint would be the PG-13 location of choice for unloading bad news. There’s even a booth of choice. Secluded from the rest of the fluorescent-lit store, it faces the street, blocked off from the door’s wind by a wall full of cartoon artwork.
The doorbell clangs as we jostle in, and Mom ushers me over to the cubbied space to stake our claim. Given it’s almost winter, we really don’t have a lot of competition. But I comply, having already placed my order on the car ride over.
Chalk drawings of TV cartoons from yesteryear fill the upper half of the wall. Curious George, Rainbow Dash, and Dora stare down at me, their twinkling eyes always confident that their fictional problems will resolve within twenty-three minutes. Maybe Mom’s hoping for a similar outcome this afternoon.
Loaded with double scoops of maple-walnut ice cream, she returns with a smile that looks glued on like a catalogue model. She slides in across from me, and the sight of sprinkle-encrusted waffle cones freezes my arm mid-reach. I shift back on the plastic bench, now hesitant to accept the best flavor of ice cream ever. Why? Sprinkles only appear for those conversations that require an extra level of rainbow magic to unload.
She fits the cone into my hand and slides a pile of napkins underneath as if I am a three-year-old who doesn’t lick the base of my scoop. With both hands around her own cone, she leans in. “How was school today?”
“Fine.” I twist my cone and trace a perfect circle with my tongue around the sprinkles, savoring the caramel ribbon that weaves through the maple. I’m not going to survive this talk without sweet reinforcement, so I may as well enjoy the bribe. “How was work?” I say between licks. If I can keep her on small talk, maybe she’ll forget her true agenda.
“It’s been busy this week.” She glances sideways out the window at Queen Street, the main road that cuts through the heart of Ridgefield. “Any sign of winter seems to ramp up emergency room visits for this community. The mental health floor barely has any beds left.”
