“It’s OK,” I say to Ellis now. “I get it.”
“So, we’re cool? You forgive me for being a bitch?”
It’s amazing how easily Ellis owns up to being herself. It’s enviable, really. I give a nod, and Ellis seems relieved, though I can’t say I feel the same. A slow-moving distance is creeping up on us.
“I gotta go,” I say and gesture toward the guidance office. “I’m meeting with Lori.”
“I can’t believe that woman still has a job. Remember when the school made me go see her freshman year for dead mommy issues? She kept trying to get me to talk to her like she was my friend or something.”
“I think that’s the point of therapy.”
“She’s a high school guidance counselor, not a therapist. She should stick to scheduling problems and college applications, not deconstructing mommy issues using the Socratic method.” Ellis checks her phone. “Shit, I’m gonna be late. Text me later.”
I’m relieved to walk away.
Lori is sitting at her desk typing when I walk in and take a seat.
She leans forward, resting her forearms on the desk. “Seeing as most teenagers relish any opportunity to sleep an extra minute, but you’ve come in early—on a Monday morning no less—this must be a big deal. What’s up?”
I start into it without hesitation. “Well . . . my dad showed up to Thanksgiving high, after being away for two weeks. I haven’t told you this, but he’s a complete pothead. He then proceeded to fall asleep and miss the dinner, which pissed off my brother, who’s been a complete ass lately and drinking way too much, but I’m starting to think maybe River’s right about our dad. Then I got into a fight with my best friend, who I’m not so sure is my best friend anymore, which oddly enough, I’m not that sad about, so I’m not sure what that says about our relationship. Just a few months ago, I had my whole life planned out, but now I’m not so sure it’s what I want. And I’m in love with the boy next door, but I can’t break up with my boyfriend because he’s at college in New York and threatened to jump into the Hudson if I do.”
“Shit,” Lori says.
“But that’s not why I’m here.”
“It’s not?”
“No,” I say. “I want to fuck with the system.”
Lori perks up. “That’s what I like to hear. How do you want to start?”
“Have you ever noticed that there’s a racist mural in the hallway?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Yeah, going up to the second floor. My friend Jamison pointed it out to me.”
“I know Jamison. Is he the boy you’re in love with?”
I nod. “That’s the one. I want to get the mural taken down. Can you help me?”
She stands with intention. “First things first. I need to see this mural.”
Lori sees the slave ship right away. And again, I find myself envious of that instant awareness. A list of profanities spills out of her mouth, mixed with shock and shame that she hadn’t noticed the mural sooner. I’m quick to remind her that no one did. It’s been in the school for years. Thousands of students and staff have walked by it, and no one said a word, until Jamison.
“That’s symbolic, really,” Lori says, shaking her head. “We’re programmed to ignore what we don’t want to see.”
Jamison said almost the same thing.
“What should we do?” I ask.
“I think our first move is to inform the principal. It’s his school, after all.”
We make a plan for after school. When the first bell rings, I’m certain I did the right thing. I knew Lori would understand. And I know Jamison was nervous about saying anything, but the situation isn’t so scary after all.
The day is the same as always, the forward march of education, fact stacking on fact as seniors try to appear engaged while texting under desks and counting down the minutes until the next bell, and the next party, and the eventual exit from high school so we can move on with our lives.
When it all happens in the hallway at the end of the day, the slow disintegration of what I thought would occur into what actually does, “Strawberry Fields Forever” plays in my head. The song is about a Salvation Army children’s home next to John Lennon’s childhood house. He would look over the fence at this place that everyone saw as sad and dreary and decrepit, but there was this beautiful wild garden in which he loved to play. Lennon never saw the home the way other people did. I read an interview online with Lennon and he said “Strawberry Fields Forever” was one of the few true songs he ever wrote. That he wrote it from his actual life and not an imagined situation or story. That the Salvation Army home Strawberry Fields represented how his whole life was—he saw the world differently than everyone he’d ever met. For a while he thought he was strange or crazy, because that’s what the world does to people who see what we refuse to see—what we blind ourselves to. To make our own selves feel more comfortable, we negate the voices of others we simply don’t want to hear.
I imagine the scene playing out. Of course our principal, Mr. O’Brien, will immediately get rid of a racist mural. He’s a decent person. Sure, he dresses like it is still 1995 and makes pop-culture references from the same year. But those are his only flaws. And I wouldn’t even call them flaws. Pearl Jam is a great band. Mr. O’Brien’s flannels are a staple in the mountains, and let’s be honest, everyone kind of wants to know what would have happened if Oasis hadn’t broken up.
And Mr. O’Brien is gay. He’s seen his fair share of oppression. He’s in this fight like Sam is, right? But then there’s Tucker. Sometimes people who are oppressed have to fight so hard for themselves, they’re exhausted, and they don’t have anything left to give to others.
Mr. O’Brien, Lori, Jamison, and I crowd around the mural. My heart beats rapidly. Change is on the horizon, and nerves always accompany a shift like that. But they’re good nerves. I’m doing the right thing. I’m doing this for love.
But as soon as Mr. O’Brien speaks, the record starts playing in reverse. I go from thinking I know the next lyrics to hearing a completely different tune altogether. Life is backmasking me.
“I can’t just go around covering up murals,” he says, “when we have no idea if that is what you say it is. I’m not convinced it is. We don’t actually know that the artist intended to paint a slave ship.”
“Does it really matter what the artist intended,” I ask him, “if Jamison feels the impact?”
“We can’t just ignore that piece of our history, Amoris,” Mr. O’Brien says. “That doesn’t feel effective or educational.”
“But this mural celebrates it,” I counter. “There’s a difference.”
“To you. To others . . . maybe not. No one’s noticed this for years. We can’t just go around painting over these things because one student doesn’t like how it makes him feel.”
“How it makes a Black student feel,” Jamison clarifies.
“I don’t think it behooves us to draw racial lines,” Mr. O’Brien says. “That only sets back progress.”
“I didn’t draw the lines,” Jamison says. “But I’m forced to live within them. You can’t just go around erasing realities when it benefits you, Mr. O’Brien.”
This is the moment when it dawns on me, a truth I hadn’t conceived of. I’ve rarely noticed the turning points in my life. They’ve been more like curves, gentle changes of direction that, only after time has passed, I look back and see as times of change. But this, right here—I feel the immediate shift. A pivot I was not expecting.
Mr. O’Brien is knotting his hands and clenching his jaw.
“If I may—” Lori attempts, but Mr. O’Brien cuts her off.
“It’s not as simple as painting over a mural,” he says in a professional tone that wasn’t there before. “There’s lengthy paperwork and procedure involved. I’d need to take this matter to the school board. That mural is technically school property. Defacing it is a crime. Even if I wanted to paint over it, I’m not sure I could. I’m sorry.”
“That’s bullshit,” Jamison says.
“I’ll ask you to watch your language, Mr. Rush.”
“You’re lying to save your own ass and avoid taking action,” Jamison insists.
“That’s your second warning.”
“So, I’m supposed to walk past this mural every day,” Jamison says, “just to keep everyone else in this school comfortable. So some unknown artist isn’t hurt. So you don’t have to fill out paperwork. What you’re saying is—my pain means nothing.”
“I did not say that,” Mr. O’Brien enunciates. “Frankly, your insinuation that I don’t care for each and every one of my students is insulting. I won’t stand for it.”
“This mural is insulting to me,” Jamison counters. “But you think I should just put up with it.”
“You’re twisting my words.”
“Or maybe you don’t really know what you’re saying,” Jamison says. “Maybe you’re not who you think you are.”
Mr. O’Brien takes a step back. “I came here this afternoon with an open mind and heart, but you seem bent on attacking me when I’ve done nothing.”
“You’re feeling attacked?” Jamison scoffs. “That’s so fucking typical.”
“That’s enough,” Mr. O’Brien says. “I’ll let your language slide today, but understand this, Jamison, I know you’re new to this school, but I will not tolerate bullying on any level. I suggest you take a hard look at yourself and your actions. They will have consequences if you’re not careful.”
Mr. O’Brien storms down the hallway toward his office. Throughout it all, Lori and I haven’t moved. I’m stuck in place, completely shocked.
Lori snaps back to the moment. “Shit. That did not go as I had hoped. But don’t worry. You have my full support. Let me see what I can do.” She leaves in a hurry.
Jamison paces back and forth, his hands clenched in fists.
“You shouldn’t have yelled,” I say.
His eyes are on fire when he turns to me. I’ve never seen him so angry.
“Were you listening at all?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “But you flew off the handle, Jay. What did you expect?”
“Jesus Christ, Amoris! Are you serious right now? Were you listening?”
“I’m just pointing out that you could have handled the situation better. That’s all. You didn’t need to swear. You got too angry. If you would have just stayed calm, he would have responded better.”
Jamison laughs. “This is a theme with you.”
“What?”
“Protecting the guilty instead of the innocent.”
“How can you say that?”
“Wake up, Amoris. I didn’t do anything to Mr. O’Brien. He’s the one refusing to address the mural. He’s the one who gets to walk away when it’s uncomfortable for him. But me?” Jamison gestures to the mural on the wall. “See what’s still here? In broad daylight? I can’t walk away. There is no walking away for me. Mr. O’Brien just made sure of that.”
“But I told Lori about the mural for you. It’s like you said. I’m standing up for you when you’re too vulnerable to do it yourself.”
“Don’t twist my words against me,” he says. “You didn’t do this for me.”
“How can you say that? I’m on your side, Jay. I want to help.” Tears well up and spill down my cheeks. This is a disaster.
“Can’t you see what you’ve done?” he asks. “What you’ve caused? I warned you. You’re self-destructive, Amoris. And now, you’ve brought me down with you.”
When he walks away, I holler at him. “Please, I’m sorry, Jay. Don’t leave. I’ll fix this.”
“I need space right now,” he says, not looking at me.
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. I just can’t be around you.”
“But I didn’t mean for this to happen,” I plead. “I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. I did this for you.” I don’t bother wiping the tears.
“The least you could do is be honest with yourself, Amoris.” Jamison is stoic. Solid. Impenetrable. “You did this for you.”
And there it is. The hidden message in reverse. I did this for me. I put Jamison in a vulnerable position for me. I wasn’t showing love. I was trying to prove myself to him, prove that I’m a good person, worthy of his love. But needing to prove myself to him is inherently and positively selfish.
Ellis warned me. She said I like attention. She said I convince myself that what I’m doing is for the benefit of others, when it’s really just for myself. I was too stubborn and arrogant to listen. I simply didn’t want to spin the record in another direction and reveal a new message. Reveal the truth.
19
HOT CHOCOLATE AND MY OLD MAN
Jamison’s voice, cold and coarse, echoes in my memory. Can’t you see what you’ve done?
I wish it was a horrible nightmare I could wake up from, panting and sweating, only to realize I’m safe in my bed and my life isn’t crumbling around me.
A light dusting of snow covers the ground. The garden that was overgrown and bursting with sustenance just months ago is now withered and dead. All that’s left are the twinkle lights. Rayne leaves them up all year because they’re friendly and warm, and in winter we need that most. Even the sun is dim this time of year, hanging low in the sky all day. That’s exactly how I feel—weighted and drained. And it’s all my fault.
School is officially on break. Christmas is in a few days. Sam is visiting his grandparents in Nebraska. In an odd turn of events, Matt planned a trip to Hawaii for himself and Ellis. She won’t return to Alder Creek until after the New Year.
I offered to work extra shifts at the café during the school break. Not that it’s much of a relief. It doesn’t feel the same as it used to. I no longer look around and think of Grandma setting up shop, selling her first coffee, baking her first scone, hanging her first picture on the wall. Instead, I think about Jamison. The time he made me laugh with foam on his upper lip like a mustache. The hidden piece of paper under the cash register where Jamison and I play never-ending games of tic-tac-toe. The funny poem he wrote one day about the guy in town who walks his cats.
Now every shift with Jamison is a torture I didn’t think possible. There’s no laughing or goofing around. No secrets under the cash register. The silence leaves infinite room for the imagination to create whatever dialogue it wants. I’ve imagined so many conversations with Jamison since the mural incident, and not a single one ends the way I want it to. With forgiveness. With an erasure of what happened. I imagine apologizing profusely, only to hear Jamison say with finality—You did this for you.
He’s right. The power of hindsight is the ability to see the disoriented building blocks that eventually led to the crumbling. How each step I took stacked incongruently on top of the other, forming a weak structure, until it all came tumbling down.
I’ve replayed the conversation between Jamison and Mr. O’Brien over and over in my head. And Jamison is right. Mr. O’Brien got what he wanted, and Jamison has to live with the consequences. The guilty prevailed and the innocent suffers. I should have listened to Jamison when he said I was self-destructive. More than that, I should have simply listened to him. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to hear what he was saying. I didn’t want to believe him.
That’s the worst part. He tried to tell me, but it was more important to protect my own interest—getting Jamison to see what I wanted—than it was to listen to him. I negated his voice completely. I put myself in an echo chamber.
I believed in my own good intentions with no regard for the pain they might cause.
The only positive of the holiday break is that I don’t have to see the mural every day. I can hide from my own shame, lock myself in my room, and play the guitar until my hands hurt as much as my heart. That’s my current plan of action—complete avoidance. I only take breaks to check my Snapchat and text messages, though my phone offers no reprieve.
Zach is home. He got in
last night and texted me early this morning. He wants me to call him.
I toss my phone on the bed, wishing Zach’s text, the length of a small novel, would disappear in the messy sheets and never come back. I can’t stop staring at Jamison’s apartment next door, even though he’s not home. The Rushes rented a cabin by one of the local ski resorts for the holiday. Victor and Talia flew in from Kansas City.
You’d think Jamison’s absence would be a relief. It’s the opposite. I’ve gotten used to him being nearby, and the fact that he’s not has left this giant hole in my chest where all my mistakes echo. I have this ridiculous fear that he won’t come back.
“Can I come in?” Chris pokes his head into my room, offering up a cup of hot chocolate.
I gesture him in but don’t take the hot chocolate. We haven’t spoken much since Thanksgiving. Chris walks around as if admiring an art exhibit. He eventually takes a seat on my bed, setting the hot chocolate on my nightstand. He picks up my guitar and touches the strings.
“Remember when I gave this to you?” Like I could forget. “It was so beat up. I never thought it would play.”
“Then why did you buy it, if you thought it was useless?”
“I knew if there was one person who could get it to work, it was you. That’s how you’ve always been. Someone brings you a problem. You work at it until it’s solved. You’re like your mom that way.”
He knows I like it when he compares me to Rayne. But I turn my back on him, putting away the clean clothes Rayne delivered to my room earlier. “Some people call that being stubborn.”
“Being stubborn isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” Chris says. “Depends on how you use it.”
Well, I’ve used it all wrong. But I’m not about to admit that to Chris. If he’s expecting a father-daughter bonding opportunity, he won’t find it today.
He sets the guitar down and moves to the record crates, flipping through them. He stops Joni Mitchell’s Blue on the player and replaces it with the Grateful Dead.
Only the Pretty Lies Page 13
