An Illusion of Control

by Cecelia Earl

  I don't say anything. I just click my tongue.

  25

  popularity vote

  Mentally, I make a list. Turn in all late work, gather missing assignments. Spend study hall and lunch making up exams and work. Sketch posters. Ask permission to make an announcement. People know me. I'm their leader. They're used to me being their leader. They'd recognize my voice before anyone else's. How could they possibly want anyone else to send them off to their adulthood?

  After second hour French, the hallways are buzzing, more than normal. It could be that it's spring and graduation fever is beyond contagious.

  Or.

  It could be that Lucy Fox is passing out punch and fliers for a party. Punch. Funny. On the cups—with a professional logo and text—she's printed: Don't let an opportunity get wasted. Choose a valedictorian who can roll with the punches.

  Ha. Cute. Plays on words do not make a valedictorian. Drive. Success. Leadership. Laine Carroll.

  I've barely bumped through dozens of shoulders and stepped in several sticky red punch puddles before I'm upon a different crowd. This group is taller, thicker. I can't see around them to find out what the hold-up is.

  But then I don't have to see. I can hear. A boy's voice blares from what must be a microphone or megaphone or something. "I ask not what you can do for me, but what I can do for you. Choose a valedictorian who serves you, my fellow classmates. I don't want to lead you to your future, I want to walk there beside you. We are a team! Together we learn, we serve, we win!" The crowd is deafening, repeating what must be Lucas Boyer’s mantra: We learn, we serve, we win!

  What service has he done? I led the turkey drive for the Salvation Army, the penny drive for the Leukemia Foundation, the coat drive for Coats for Kids, and the 5K run for the homeless shelter of the Fox Valley. Where was he? Not on any of my committees!

  A poster catches my eye: Who stocked the food pantry? We did! Who provided dozens of children with toys? We did! Who caroled at nursing homes and visited hospital patients? We did! Together, we learn, we serve, we win!

  Near tears, I practically crawl through the legs of the athletes and cheerleaders fist-pumping with Lucas.

  School spirit. That's me. Homecoming dances and parades. Prom. The school yearbook.

  Academics. All me. I've been on the fast track to the top universities since eighth grade. I've never even gotten an A-! I've won essay contests, speech and forensic competitions, debates. I've been to state, competed in national competitions. That alone would make me the one and only candidate worthy of giving a graduation speech!

  But then another corner, another poster: Don't die, vote Vi!

  Really, we had gaming clubs? Lego, chess, Yahtzee?

  And yet another: Let's go out with a bang! Let your drum corps send you off with a drum roll. Vote Codey Consuela for Valedictorian.

  And finally: A rose by any other name would never smell as sweet. Vote your favorite actress, Rose Summer, as Valedictorian. She'll be sure to inspire you so you have a lifetime of standing ovations no matter what path you choose.

  I can't find a bathroom stall fast enough. After all my hard work, it's going to come down to a popularity vote? Which group has more friends?

  Sports, humanitarians, thespians, band, partygoers, or me?

  Where do I even fit in? It's been me and May. Then Marc. He has a lot of friends, but we mostly hung out just the two of us. I worked a lot and studied a lot, so he had plenty of friend time. When we got together it was for dates or to squeeze in a few hours of stargazing, talking, and cuddling.

  I'll get two votes?

  This can't be happening.

  I'm not going to fall apart. Step by step. One step at a time requires leaving the bathroom and stepping all the way to class.

  I can do this. Out I go.

  By the end of the day, I've managed to make all my teachers—minus Ms. Fulton, who is out sick—smile and gush about my promptness and how impressed they are by my dedication.

  Words I've heard my whole life.

  I'll never tire of it.

  I convince May to meet me in the art room after the final bell and am surprised when Chase tags along. He turns out to be quite the marketer. With May's artistic ability and his bright ideas, we have several posters and a few other tricks up our sleeves.

  "Thanks, guys." I throw my arms around their shoulders. "You make a great support team."

  "Is this the first time you've let someone else help you?" Chase asks.

  "What? No," I say. He cocks an eyebrow at me. "I've had plenty of committee members working under me."

  "And you let them do things?"

  I cross my arms.

  He crosses his. He says, "I was on your yearbook committee freshman year. You ran the whole thing. Huge micromanager. No complaints, you got it all done, and the final outcome was stellar and all, but you're going to go prematurely gray."

  I narrow my eyes.

  He throws up his hands. "Don't say I didn't warn you. Just saying: trust. You need to learn to trust people a little more."

  I huff. "Well, I'm trusting you both now, and I'm saying I couldn't have done this without you. Thank you."

  "Just be sure to thank us in your graduation speech," May says dotting one final i. "Done."

  "I have a feeling this is only the beginning," I say, holding the poster up to admire. "Graduation Day seems ages away."

  26

  almost

  Mom's crying on the phone and I've missed half a dozen texts from Brady. He has to get back to college for a few days and when am I heading back? Mom's a nervous wreck about Dad's tests. She doesn't want to sit in the waiting rooms by herself while his chest is dissected.

  I can't even begin to swallow that. Every time life gets this real, lights brighten, I feel jittery, and I have to take a few extra breaths to stay sane.

  The here and now becomes vital to get me from one moment to an hour from now.

  Being away is harder than I thought. I need to get back, but first . . . .

  May passed out yearbooks a week ago, and we want to make signing them a huge deal this year. It'll have to be next week. I choose a day and plan an announcement, crossing my fingers that I'll be able to be here for the date I've chosen.

  For the announcement, I want to make my voice friendly:

  "Hello, friends! This is Laine Carrol. I'm excited to announce that our annual yearbook signing will be next Thursday at two o'clock. We'll meet in the gymnasium where tables will be set up. Pens and markers will be provided, but feel free to bring your favorite. Plan to stay late, I have a few surprises up my sleeve to make the event extra special this year."

  I want to show I'm a team player:

  "As you know, it's my senior year, and it's important to me to make this final time memorable for my fellow senior class. We've been united for four years as students, teammates, dancers, actors, leaders, volunteers, spectators. We've done it all, and we've done it all together, side by side."

  I want to show I'm open to change. That I'm flexible. Open to opportunities for all:

  "What an exciting year this is. We've made a change to the traditional role of valedictorian, once reserved for only the top academic student. This year we've opened up that opportunity to allow the student who has touched the most lives in this school to earn that title. This student will make a speech before—for the first time in our lives—we travel on our own, no longer a united student body, but individuals seeking the future that is meant for each and every one of us."

  I want everyone to vote for me. Chase struck a chord with me. I get it. I'm a control freak. Well, here's me letting down my guard:

  "I hope you'll consider me for that honor. I've dedicated my entire high school career to filling this school with spirit and unity through dances, parades, saving our memories and preserving them in the pages of the yearbook, through community service to show that even as high school students, we have heart and can make positive changes in this world. I've worked h
ard for myself and made the highest grades, I've been competitive, too, yes, but no matter what role I've taken on to make this school great, I've been 150 percent committed and have worked hard with you and for you, for Appleton West. I've not often asked for help, that's true, but today, I ask for your help. I'd be honored to be your valedictorian."

  "You can't be serious," Chase says after reading my speech.

  Tongue click. May looks at the paper and her eyes refuse to look at me.

  "Come on. It's not that bad."

  Tongue click. "Yes. Yes it is. It's that bad."

  "What you need is a spokesperson," Chase tells me, swiveling on the office chair in my bedroom. He decided that since there were fewer distractions (adults) at my house, we should work here. May tried to explain that fewer adults at my house meant little to no food, and Chase ignored her. Little did he know that literally meant he would be able to help himself to 1) water from the faucet and 2) the final bag of saltines, still unopened and unstale, et c'est ca.

  He's filled his water glass with ice and water three times and the saltine bag (with crumbs) is lying on my desk, a little too close to my laptop for my liking.

  "A spokesperson?"

  "That's actually a great idea," May says.

  He grins. "Who knew I could think so well on an empty stomach?"

  I get up and carefully fold the saltine wrapper in on itself without spilling any crumbs and take it to the kitchen garbage.

  If they're my spokespeople, people won't hear me plugging myself. People will realize I have friends, that I'm likable. I'll be able to head back by Mom and Dad. And Jax.

  I lean over the kitchen sink and look out over our backyard. Straight ahead it's nearing the pitch blackness of night, but if I raise my eyes to find the tip top of our largest blue spruce trees, they're illuminated with a soft blueness, a twinge of twilight remains.

  A glimpse.

  Of hope.

  I find some orange soda in the garage and carry it back to my room, careful not to shake it. "Okay, I trust you two to do it."

  I sit back on my bed and fold my legs into a pretzel. They look at each other.

  "Did she use the word trust?" Chase asks.

  "Did she say us? I didn't volunteer."

  "I'll do it," Chase says. "You'll help."

  "I'll help," May agrees.

  "Not if you don't want to," I say. The last thing I want is for her to hate me for it. I can't lose the one friend I've managed to make during my lifetime.

  "Of course I'll do it, but you need to say please."

  "Please. Pretty, pretty please with a jangle-bangle charm bracelet on top."

  She grins. "Done."

  They pop the top on their sodas and tap cheers.

  "Let's get to work," Chase says. He looks at me. "Don't you have studying to do?"

  I can take a hint.

  I sit at the dining room table and listen to them finalize the plans we'd started in the art room the other day and brainstorm more.

  I doodle a picture of a happy face and text it to Jax.

  If I could draw hope, I'd send him a picture. He doesn't text back, so I study with him in the background of my mind, unable to focus my normal 200 percent.

  The next morning, I wake up to a brilliant sunrise. I snap a picture with my phone and send it to him with a message. "See you soon." There's promise in each new day. It's not hope exactly, but it's only a step down.

  After a long run, I receive my official rejection from Johns Hopkins University. The letter May had been referring to the other day had been an acceptance to Stanford. I added it to my small stack of acceptances. Clutching this rejection letter in both hands, I take an extra-long, cool-down walk.

  Where's the promise in rejection? What's the step down from that? The step up?

  Opportunity.

  My opportunity is gone. What was it May had said? That I could always get into a different med school than the one I attend for my bachelors? Can I accept that?

  I should have applied to more schools.

  Now that Dad's sick, do I want to go to Stanford or Harvard? I've been away for two days and my hands are sweating. If he gets a transplant, he'll be in the hospital for a long, long time. How can I fly to one coast or another and be gone for semesters a time?

  College always loomed so far in the distance, but the hours have now bridged that gap and the minutes are closing in on me.

  It's almost decision time, but so much is uncertain.

  Opportunity. Promise. Hope.

  Will that always be the path? What if I choose the wrong opportunity? Will that eliminate the route to promise and hope and happiness? Isn't happiness the next step after hope?

  I shower, pack Mom's and my things, grab St. Jude, and say a silent prayer to him to stick with me if he can really hear me. I'll take his prayers if he'll listen and help us all out.

  If Heaven exists out there somewhere, then it knows I need all the help I can get at this point.

  So many things I'd planned for are slipping away. All this time I'd kept everything contained in my nice, closed-up box, all wrapped and pretty with ribbons and perfectly creased paper. Without any reason whatsoever, my box exploded and it seemed to have been filled with water. Water and my plans. Now they're washing away out of my reach, and I'm treading water as a current pushes me downstream. Away from it all.

  I've never had to swim so hard to find my goals before, to get what I wanted.

  The whole drive back to Milwaukee, these are the thoughts swirling in my brain. The wayside zips past my peripheral vision. Signs and towns. Fields give way to clumps of trees, birch and evergreen. The road widens to four lanes. The haphazard cars multiply until I find myself stuck in rush-hour traffic and I'm at a dead stop on the highway. It takes me fifteen minutes to move four miles. When finally I make it to the Froedtert exit, I'm ready for another run. Impatience has me tapping my foot and fingers so that I'm reminded of Jax. Once I park, I almost race to see him before my dad. Almost.

  I text Mom and Brady and Jax to let them know I'm here. Past the revolving doors, the waiting area is filled with people sitting by the windows, sitting on chairs. Nobody is really talking. They're all staring. I've returned to the land of stagnancy and waiting. A huddle of wheelchairs sits by the back wall, unused. I hurry through, past bathrooms and elevators, toward the family center. Mom's standing at the entrance.

  "They've moved us to the smaller room I told you about. We can only stay so long in the family center."

  "Do they have a lot of other rooms?"

  "Not really. But they're letting us stay in a private waiting room. It's . . . not much. They said I could stay as long as your dad is here."

  The room isn't much farther down the hallway, but Mom has a key for it. It's super tiny. There's a round table and four wooden chairs. Two armchairs that she's pulled down into cot-like beds and made up with sheets and blankets.

  "Cozy," I say.

  She affords me a tired smile.

  I tell her about the YMCA and the showers. She nods, says she'll think about it.

  As soon as I put our bag in the room and use the bathroom, we head up to see Dad. It's just as hard to see him unmoving, eyes closed as it was a week ago. Almost a week. My mom hasn't showered in almost a week. He hasn't opened his eyes or spoken in almost a week.

  We spend two hours sitting on our green chairs up by him, Mom journaling, me willing Dad's eyes to open. When one specialist doctor or another comes to take him for a scan of some sort, we head down to eat lunch. Mom leads the way. I remember the prayer card in my pocket and turn back to stick it inside her journal. I look at St. Jude for a moment and think I might miss him. By now I have the prayer memorized, so I tuck it inside a pocket of my brain.

  Mom can have the card, but I keep the words of the prayer, just in case.

  27

  take a chance

  Why Mom wants me with her is beyond me. She doesn't look at me or talk to me. She's staring out the window, and I'm
starting conversations she doesn't finish. After pacing, I leave the room to check the hall about six times to see if they're wheeling Dad somewhere on his bed, to see if I can catch a glimpse of the doctor and read some hidden message in the way he pinches his eyes or fixes his lips, and to fill up a minuscule Dixie cup with water from the water cooler. I've drank enough that I now need to pee. After another restroom visit, I give up on anything happening in the hall and plunk in a chair to finally open my laptop to post in that online novel discussion forum.

  I can't even believe Ms. Fulton continues to stroke Lucy Fox's ego. Lucy Fox is an idiot. Her posts are incomplete thoughts and barely skim the surface of the novel. This time we're supposed to build on the conversation of others by leaving thoughts under their comments, so I can't help myself. I leave a three-paragraph rebuttal under one of her claims of evidence for a character trait.

  Next, I check for texts from my spokespeople or Jax.

  Nothing.

  After an hour that seems like seven, the cardiovascular specialist comes in and tells us Dad's heart is healthy and he will be advising the transplant team that it's strong enough to withstand surgery and transplant. Mom exhales and practically hugs the guy. Finally, she notices me and smiles. I follow her out into the hall and back to our tiny closet of a room. They'll call us when Dad's back in his room in the ICU.

  Mom lies down and closes her eyes, so I slip out to take a walk outside. It's the hottest day so far, and I've hit the peak hours of the day. The final school bell rang an hour ago back home, a world away.

  Chase texts me. What is that? I look closer and maximize his text. He sent a picture . . . of a picture. It's me. A blown-up black and white photo of me with a microphone. He sends another. Black and white me loading coats into my car. And another black and white me decorating a parade float. He sends ten more, all black and white pictures of me hosting various events throughout the past four years.

  May texts: In lieu of posters, we created a photo montage of your accomplishments!