Awkwardly, I shake my head and say the only words I can muster. “Saggy pants.”
She looks confused—heck, I’m confused—but taps on the window again, this time with the tip of the mic’s metal. There’s a real intensity to it. She wants to break the glass, but I’m still looking into that droopy eye. She thrusts her body up against the car, red pencil skirt and the power of all the Spanx beneath, tries to keep me from leaving, and still, her mindless herd watches from behind with sad faces like I’m a tragedy, too.
My foot on the brake, I rev the gas. The engine roars this black cloud of smoke and fumes, because this car is older than me and Brynn combined, and I raise a finger at her, as much as I want to imply my frustration with the strong middle finger. I use the more restrained index finger instead. This should get my point across loud and clear.
Julie backs away. “Is that a one? What does that mean? You’ll do the interview at one?”
I’m furiously shaking my head, wagging my finger as hard as my swollen eyes are pressed into hers, both the normal and lazy one, and as she steps away, I continue to reverse into the highway with screeching tires. The bumper strikes the recyclable-trash can on the opposite corner of the drive, knocking a mound of cans and cereal boxes to the ground, and I’m thinking back to all the times I explained to Brynn you don’t recycle them together as I speed away. In my rearview, a speechless Julie Sturghill and her voiceless fans watch as I clumsily work to find some sort of order both in the car, and in this world.
On my way to school, I pass a peculiar-looking carcass, so I pull my car off the side of the road and lift my camera from the puke-smelling case. I slowly approach and kneel down to see the mass is not one, but three small raccoons, all smashed into an almost unrecognizable sheath of bones and rotting flesh. My nose wrinkles at the stench. But I turn my camera to the black-and-white setting, angle the lens, and snap. Passing cars probably think I’m morbid, as Brynn says, but others just see death where I see collapsible frames that once held life. I wonder, What were they thinking as they crossed together? Because the prelude to death is a series of questions, and those questions have answers—answers I want to know. As a gust of wind spins off of a semi’s tail end, I decide three pictures for three souls is enough. And I tell them good luck and good-bye because Sarge promises some kind of everlasting afterlife, or whatever. Amen.
I swerve into the senior parking lot of West Clifton High, the tires squealing to an abrupt stop. My breath dances in front of me through the crisp, stinging autumn air. I keep my head down, buried into my chest, and make my way through the rows of the senior parking lot. I shouldn’t be here. I wrestle with my conscience. One foot in front of the other, I ignore that voice because twelve years of perfect attendance isn’t something I can just scrap. That’s a lot of days feeling like hell, struggling through tests with fevers, and still acing my classes. School is more than a place where I learn—it’s part of me. But today, of all the days I’ve walked into those doors, it looks different.
“Hey, Birdie!” Jess Wilson yells. “Saw what happened on the news.” She grabs my arm, keeps me from walking. I feel the need to turn toward her. “How is he?”
Jess and I have never said more than three words to each other, partly because we’re not in the same classes, we don’t hang with the same people, and mostly because her breath smells like sour apples and Tang. She’s a close talker, so it’s hard to ignore.
“I don’t know,” I say, trying to move past. Her ginormous hoop earrings dangle against her shoulder and, in this light, I can see the multitude of turquoise eye shadow layers piled on.
“Why are you even here?”
“Why are any of us anywhere?” I quip.
She looks confused. “Okay, well, let me know if I can do anything.”
“A breath mint?” I mumble.
“What?”
“Nothing. Thanks.” I navigate my way through the doors to find my purple locker in the long row of others just like it. My fingers fumble on the lock’s dial. It takes three tries before the bunk latch pops open. The noise squeezes every last bit of concentration out of me, and I start to hate myself for wanting to be here. But the smells—the weathered pages of musty books and old paint lacquer and wooden desks and underclassmen who haven’t yet discovered deodorant—comfort me in ways my family can’t, won’t. I close my eyes and breathe it in as hard as my lungs allow.
On my way to class, a flock of girls I’d rather not talk to, Mace(y), Grace(y), and Stacey (also known as “The Aceys”), move toward me in one giant, swaying herd—much like those strangers at the bottom of our hill. What is it with everyone today? Stacey’s near the back because, even though she’s only a few pounds heavier, the other three refer to her as Fat Stac(k). In their insanely superficial world, they’re led by the idiotic pack master, Tracey, and I realize the probability of running into any one of them (let alone as a quad), at this exact moment, out of all 333 kids in the school, is exactly 1 in 333—which is really, really sucky. Tracey stops short in front of me as each girl behind plows into the back of her like a set of dominoes; Fat Stac(k), who is about as awkward as me (and thus why she’s my favorite), nearly knocks them to the floor, which pretty much makes my day.
“Oh. Em. Gee,” she says, grabbing my shoulders. “I am SO, SO sorry about your brother. It’s SO terrible. How are you even standing? I’d die. I’d just die. Don’t you just want to die?” The other Aceys watch this weird interaction, standing there staring at me with these identical great big mascara-tinged eyes. They want me to say something magical and inspirational while all I’m thinking of, really, is how she, and the others, get their teeth so blindingly white. My eyes fall to Fat Stac(k), whose shaky hands unwrap a piece of gum—right here, in the middle of this emergency intervention of grief. It’s all I hear—crinkle, crinkle, crinkle—and she knows this because she pauses when all eyes fall to her, instead of me—the grieving one.
“I guess,” I mutter.
Tracey wraps her sticklike arms around me—I want to scream—and tilts us back and forth like we’re dancing. The other girls have their hands placed on their hearts. “Aww,” they all say together. I can’t breathe, she’s squeezing so hard, and my glasses crack between her boney clavicle and my nose. I breathe in a thick waft of her vibrantly scented citrus perfume and have an instant headache. Eyes toward the long hallway, it is only now I’m rethinking this whole zero-absence streak.
“Thanks,” I say, pulling back quickly. She holds on, clings to me like a dryer sheet. “I’m fine.”
When I finally get free, she smacks her lips together and pretends to shed a tear, but there’s no real sentiment behind her stale words; there’s not even a real tear. She tilts her head and makes this sad face like I’ve just given her all the buried treasure in the world. “You are so great. Isn’t she great, girls?”
“So great,” they say. Fat Stac(k) isn’t paying attention. She’s already gotten a patch of gum into the ends of her hair and is fighting to pull the gob free. Tracey whips her head around, silky blond hair flying, to punish Fat Stac(k) with a glare. For a second, I forget they’re feeling bad for me because, at the look on FS’s face, my heart wrenches for her. It’s a fleeting thought, and when the first tardy bell rings, Tracey flips her hair back behind her shoulder and waves the girls on. “Well, if you need anything.”
She walks away, the other Aceys nipping at her heels. Fat Stac(k), with her slight muffin-top spilling out over the band of her skinny jeans, spins back toward me. “Help me,” she mouths. Grace(y) grabs her by the arm and yanks her forward, back to the mindless self-esteem booster she’s meant to be. For some sick reason, all of this makes coming to school totally worth it because for a short time, I can forget about everything else.
I continue on my way through the corridor, down the hall to where my first-period English class is, and while everyone is dispersed in separate areas of the bustling room, I quietly take my seat without anyone noticing, including Violet.
/> “BIRDIEEEEEE!” she cries when her eyes alight on me. Before I can hug her, tell her everything, the room goes quiet as, one by one, they all move in like this solid wall of comfort I can’t escape. I’m surrounded by cold, slimy hands and tight hugs and someone’s hair in my mouth and, at the tail end of everyone’s sympathy, Mrs. Rigsby’s sad eyes. The pack spreads thin. She opens her arms and waves me into her, clutching the back of my head as she whispers, “There, there.”
Here I am, nuzzled against my teacher’s boobs, with all of these eyes on me—eyes that have barely looked at me all year—and I’m not thinking about Benny. I’m wondering if one boob is an A-cup and the other a C. They feel way off. Like, not normal boobage kind of off. I mean, mine are different sizes, but I wouldn’t compare them to an apple and a watermelon. It’s a sizable difference that I’d never really noticed just by looking, not that I’ve ever looked. I don’t want to grope, but I casually move my head to try and solve the equation before the not knowing bothers me.
The final bell rings, and Mrs. Rigsby lets go with her arms but is still holding my head in her palms. “Poor girl,” she says. “Saw the news, and I’ve been thinking about you, wondering if you’d be here today. How are you and your family?”
“Fine,” I say. I try to move my eyes from the heaving right side of her bosom.
She shakes her head. “It’s okay not to be.”
The others take to their seats. “I know.”
She backs away and moves behind her industrial metal desk. “Class, let’s just take a moment to dig deep in our hearts and send all the love and support you can gather over to Birdie. For those of you who don’t know, Birdie’s baby brother was in a horrific accident. When you go home tonight, please continue to keep her and her family in your thoughts. I will do the same.”
When she’s finished, she just looks at me. Everyone is just looking at me. All these eyes, forty-eight to be exact, have decided I am the only thing worth seeing. Violet looks at me with a devious grin like she’s got something up her sleeve—I knew I could count on her not to make this worse. She winks, and I don’t feel so alone.
Eventually, the morning moves on and we’re working independently on personal essays using literary devices. I choose something I learned in chemistry called the collision theory to better explain all the things I can’t seem to say, feel. Things that makes sense to me, like coming to school when I should be at the hospital. I’m thinking hard on different words to string together when Vi taps me.
“I bet everyone’s asking why you’re even here,” she says. Her springy auburn curls are tamed by the medieval headwrap she’s wearing, but loose tendrils bounce as she angles toward me.
“Yup,” I say.
She sighs, places a hand on my arm, and with all seriousness, guides my eyes to hers. “Bitches be trippin’.”
I chuckle. “You know me too well.”
Her face falls flat, and she squeezes my arm, something Mr. Crouch showed us in psychology to make people feel more comfortable, and tells me how sorry she is this is happening. “He’s gonna be fine. I promise.”
“You don’t know that.” I refrain from explaining how all this happened in the first place—how it’s my fault—not that she’d judge me, but because I can’t say the words out loud yet. Not to her or to anyone.
She releases her grip to unfold a printout and clears her throat. “Today is a fantastic day for new beginnings. Thanks to a play from Uranus”—she pauses to snicker—“Aries to Jupiter, and Leo to the moon in Sagittarius, is about an extraordinary flow. This should fill everyone with hope and optimism. And finally, today, focus on any healing, hospitals, or spiritual approaches, thanks to Venus in Pisces.”
She refolds the paper and sets it on my desk. “See? It’s in the stars, babe. Release the negative. Live and let die. Throw caution to the wind. Be the best you you can be. Have it your way. Because you’re worth it.” She falls back into her chair, obviously pleased with herself.
I hold my stare, eyebrows scrunched, because I’m pretty sure she’s just shouting slogans. “What?”
At ten till, a freshman student officer struts in and hands a pink paper to Mrs. Rigsby. I remember when I was that freshman, awkwardly tossing papers at the teachers and running out of the room like it was on fire. Everyone wants a pink paper. It means you’re being awarded, honored, or saluted. But today, I know what this particular pink is for. Her eyes meet mine, and she signals for me to walk over. I grab my backpack and head over. “You’re a wanted woman,” she says.
Before I go, she also hands me a business card. “This might be helpful.”
HANCOCK FAITH-BASED COUNSELING SERVICES
“Thanks,” I say. “But we don’t need spiritual intervention. We need a scientific miracle.”
“Sometimes the two go hand-in-hand, Birdie.”
“If there’s any other work, send it with Violet, please.” I force a smile and push past her. Vi salutes me from her chair with another wink. I wave, slightly, and make a beeline for the guidance office. When I round the corner, Ms. Schilling waves me in. With shaking hands, I grab on tight to my backpack.
“Birdie,” she says, standing. “I am so sorry about your brother.”
I nod. She circles around to me, boxes me in between her arms. Ms. Schilling and I go way back to my first day of high school when we thoroughly went over the academic plan Mom and I set in place. She’s like an aunt—a stumpy, apple-shaped aunt with short, salt-and-pepper spiked hair and a newsboy cap always resting on her desk. Her voice is deep but calm. She folds her hands and leans in toward me. “I wanted you to know, if there’s anything you need, I’m here.”
Once she pulls back, the quiet is too much for me. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes.” She pushes into my shoulders, grounds me into the floor, but it’s in this way like she doesn’t know her strength. It kind of hurts, but I don’t let on. “I don’t want you worrying about the scholarship. We’ll find a dozen others to apply for, and with your impeccable test scores and near-perfect grades, something will come through. I just know it. I’m already on the hunt.”
I shrug.
“Listen. Be with your family. School, scholarships—all that stuff will still be here to deal with in a couple weeks. And in the meantime, I’ll see what I can dig up.”
My stomach rumbles, and I think back to breakfast—same as Chomperz—I had none. “But I want to be here.”
She sighs at me with this long, dramatic breath. “I understand why it might be hard.”
“But?” I ask.
“No but. I understand, is all. If you feel like being in this place is what you need, then by all means.”
I resling my backpack over my shoulder and prepare to leave. “It is.”
She stops me. “Just know that not being here doesn’t take away everything you’ve accomplished. And not being here won’t change the scholarship thing. There are no rules when it comes to tragedy, but … do what you need to do to feel … okay.”
There’s that word again. Okay. My toes curl in my shoes, and I’m eyeing the door.
“Go” she says.
I linger, my face unsure.
“Life is about choices. If this is your proverbial fork, you choose which direction to go. Home or class,” she clarifies. “Whatever your choice, I hope it heals you. Because I know you, Birdie. I can see behind those glasses; behind that huge wall, there’s more grief than you realize.”
I smile, my lip quivering. “It’s fine. I’m fine. We’re going to be fine.” Lies I tell myself, tell her. School, my safe haven, suddenly feels claustrophobic. The walls are moving, closing in. My feet are stone-heavy, but I hold that smile tight.
Ms. Schilling nods me off, and after the bell rings, Violet comes running down the hall. I know it’s her by the sound of her clogs, and I think back to all the times I’ve said, “Who wears clogs?” and she’s said, “Everyone,” and then I reply with “who is your everyone?” But it’s okay because she grew u
p what she calls “new age”—which Sarge refers to as “hippie shit”—so it’s expected.
“BIRDIEEEEE!!!” She pushes past all the warm bodies in her path, straight down the middle, until she gets to me. It’s almost like she can feel my heart breaking with every passing second and knows exactly how to fix it. She nearly knocks me over with her arms wrapped so tight around my rib cage. I want her to squeeze tighter—so tight, I’ll stop breathing, at least for a second. At least for the same amount of time Benny stopped. Because, it’s only fair, right? His breaths for mine?
Minutes pass, and I try to peel her off, but—God Bless this wacko—she clings tighter. Her stray curls brush against my cheek, and I can feel her crying into my T-shirt. “I just don’t know what I can do to make this better for you. I hate it.”
“It’s okay, Vi,” I tell her. “The stars said so.” I rub the wetness from my sleeve.
When she finally looks up, red-faced and snotty, she smiles. “I hate that effing shirt.”
I smile back. “Bitches be trippin’.”
LESSON OF THE DAY: If particles collide with enough energy, they can still react in exactly the same way as if the catalyst wasn’t there. Maybe some things are just meant to be and others aren’t.
But who decides—Uranus or me?
BASH
“Mr. Alvarez,” Mrs. Pearlman says loudly, shaking me from my distracted thoughts. “Can you name one thing that can speed up the reaction rate in an inevitable collision?”
I raise my head, look around at all the eyes on me, including Kyle’s. He’s mouthing something I can’t make out. “Eat,” I say, confused.
The room erupts with laughter, and Kyle buries his head in his hand. He’s now pulling his shirt away, fanning his face with the other hand. “I meant heat. Heat speeds the reaction.”
He’s relieved I didn’t waste his theatrics on another wrong answer, but it’s those same theatrics that got the asshole kicked out of private school. Well, theatrics and Ecstasy. And whiskey. And a lady (hooker) named Anna Conda, who, to no surprise of mine, was no lady at all.
The Inevitable Collision of Birdie & Bash Page 7
