The Last to Let Go

by Amber Smith

  I look up in time to watch as the bus pulls away from the curb.

  Shit. I’m going to be late. Again.

  “Ms. Winters . . .” My head snaps up from the sign-in log. It’s Mrs. Murray, my guidance counselor. I’ve been dodging her for weeks. She wanted to sit down with me after I dropped those extra classes at the beginning of the semester. She told me to make an appointment with her whenever it was convenient for me. But there never seemed to be a good time.

  “Hi, Mrs. Murray.”

  “Do you have a moment?” she asks.

  “Well, I’m—I’m late, so . . .”

  “Yes, I see that. Please,” she says, leading the way to her office. She lets me in first, then follows me inside and shuts the door. “Have a seat,” she tells me, sitting down across from me, in her vomit-colored three-piece suit, her hair unraveling from the bun knotted at the back of her head, somehow already looking sick of me. She thumbs a file folder full of papers and sighs, shaking her head.

  “Is that mine—my file, I mean?” I ask.

  She nods. “I’ve been trying to reach your guardian. Aaron Winters—is this an uncle?”

  “No, he’s my brother.”

  “I see. Well, he hasn’t returned any of my phone calls,” she says.

  “Oh, really?” I say, pretending to be confused about the situation. “Well, he’s been pretty busy.”

  “I’m your guidance counselor and I’m pretty busy too. And part of my job is to make sure you’re doing okay.” She pauses, expecting a response. “You’ve been missing a lot of school recently. Have you been ill, or is it something else?” she asks.

  I recognize these questions. They pulled this on me at my old school. Fishing. Trying to see if something’s “going on” at home. When I don’t answer, she raises her eyebrows and says, “Or maybe you’ve just been truant?”

  I despise her with every fiber of my being, for ambushing me, for her headshaking and phony concern, but especially for using the word “truant.”

  “Either way,” she continues, “this number of absences is unacceptable.”

  “I’m not quite sure what that means. I’ve had the flu a couple of times. But I’ve been keeping up with schoolwork and everything. I can’t really help it if I’ve been sick, can I?”

  “Look,” she begins, sitting up straighter, “you have to meet me halfway here—a quarter, an eighth of the way, even. Give me something, anything, to work with,” she says, clasping her hands together. “Your teachers are concerned about you. You started off very strong, and now . . . well, your work has tapered off.” She stares at me while I consider this for a moment.

  “Like I said, I’ve been sick. But I’m better now, and I just need a little time to catch up.”

  “Did you know if you have more than ten unexcused absences, you could be in danger of not having enough credits to pass the year?” she asks.

  I shake my head no.

  “This is serious. I need to speak with your brother. We need to get some documentation for your absences—that is, if they’re legitimate.”

  “I thought you only needed a note after three days in a row.”

  She grins. “I see you’ve brushed up on the rules.”

  “Not really,” I lie. “I just like to be informed.”

  “Good. This is me informing you that you’ve already accumulated thirteen unexcused absences since December. And that doesn’t include the days you’ve been late or gone home early, which are adding up as well.”

  “What?” My voice is raised, I know, but I can’t help it. “How? It couldn’t have been that many already.”

  She nods emphatically. “No, I assure you, it is. I’m looking at it right here.” She flips the printout over and slides it in front of me.

  I can’t believe what I’m seeing; it’s true. I scramble to find some kind of response. “Well, once I explain to my brother, he can write a note and sign them and—”

  “Yes, do that. I’ll still need to speak with him, of course.” She reaches across the desk and draws an arrow in red pen. Once. Then twice. “But see these—these two weeks you missed three days in a row. For those you need doctor’s notes. The rule is three or more, not more than three, by the way.”

  Those are the week of the trial and then the week of my breakup with Dani. When I look up, Mrs. Murray is eyeing me like she’s some kind of bird of prey. She knows I’m trapped. In another life I would’ve commended her for being such a stickler about the rules. But this isn’t another life.

  “No problem,” I tell her, careful not to let on how screwed I really am. “Can I get to class now?”

  “Of course.” She stands with a smile, and so do I. “Remember, I need to see your brother. In person. Have him call me, please. Will you?”

  I find Tyler at his locker before chem. “Dude,” he says as I approach. “You look like crap.”

  “I feel like crap, thanks for noticing.” I drop my bag on the floor and kneel down next to it, rifling through the mishmash of papers crumpled at the bottom. “I need help,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, I’m not even going to touch that one.”

  “With midterms. Mrs. Murray ambushed me today. I’ve gotta find a way to step it up.” Finally my hand finds my stash of aspirin. I twist off the childproof cap and shake three white pills out into the palm of my hand. “Because apparently it’s common knowledge among the entire staff that I’m fucking up in all areas right now.”

  “What do you mean?” He closes his locker and stands there, looking down at me, waiting for me to answer.

  “I don’t know.” I throw the pills into the back of my throat and down them with a swig from my water bottle. “Does it ever just feel too hard some days?”

  “What, school? Shit. Yeah.”

  “Not school. Just life, in general.”

  He crouches down next to me, and looking at me more seriously than he ever has before, he says, “Honestly, now. Should I be worried about you?”

  “What, I’m just venting.”

  “Yeah, I know. But should I be worried?”

  “I’m not trying to off myself, or something—not with three stupid pills.” I laugh, but he doesn’t. “Relax. I have a headache, that’s all.”

  “Well, you’re not in school half the time anymore. You look like you haven’t slept in a year, you’re currently sitting on the dirty-ass floor popping pills in your mouth, and you’re asking me for help studying. There are so many things wrong with this picture.”

  “It’s aspirin. And I’m kneeling, not sitting,” I tell him as I pull myself up to my feet.

  He stands as well and examines me for a moment, narrowing his eyes.

  “Think of it as us studying together, not you helping me. Does that make it easier?”

  “It makes it less weird,” he counters as we begin to walk down the hall toward chem.

  “Weird because of Dani?”

  “No, weird because you’re acting weird right now,” he says matter-of-factly as we enter the classroom. Our teacher is already talking, even though the bell rings directly after we walk through the door.

  “So, do you want to or not?” I whisper as we take our seats, not sure if he realizes he still hasn’t given me an answer.

  “Oh. Yeah,” he finally says. “I mean, of course I will. This weekend good?”

  I nod, and mouth the words, “Thank you.”

  BLAME

  DR. GREENBERG TAKES IN a deep breath through his nose. “Last time we were talking about your mother.” He reaches for the notebook sitting on the table next to him and flips a page. “You were telling me about how your father would beat her. Talk to her like she was stupid. Take her money. Take her shoes so she couldn’t leave—”

  I have to stop him there. “I never said ‘beat.’ And I didn’t see that shoe thing,” I correct. “I told you that was something my grandmother said in court.”

  He moves his glasses up to the top of his head and looks at me. “Okay. Well, but what’s the diff
erence?”

  “Nothing. I’m just saying that’s not what I said. It sounds worse when you say it like that.”

  “Worse than what?”

  I shrug. “Worse than it was, I guess.”

  “Well . . . ,” he starts, then stops, then starts again. “Okay, but it really was pretty bad, wasn’t it? I mean, your mother is in prison and your father is dead.”

  “When you say it like that, yes.” I can feel myself losing my patience.

  “Well, how would you say it?”

  I study him closely. “I would say it was an accident.”

  “You don’t know that, though, do you? Isn’t that what you said caused all the tension between you and your sister? You wanted to know, and she couldn’t tell you.”

  I cross my arms over my stomach. I don’t know how we got into all of this again. I only came here to see if he could write me doctor’s notes. I swear, the last time I was here, I must’ve been delirious from that lingering fever. Otherwise, why would I have told him so much?

  “ ‘He blamed her for everything,’ ” he reads from the page. “That’s what you said. And then I asked if you blame her.” He looks up at me. “You never answered.”

  I blame her. And him. I blame them—their weakness, together. I blame the sun and the moon. I blame the year, the season, the month. I blame the hour of the day.

  “I blame her . . . ,” I begin, not knowing what I’m about to say, “for not being here now.”

  It’s so silent I can hear Dr. Greenberg breathing. I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears. I can hear Ingrid’s voice carry through the thin walls.

  “Maybe I thought that if we could all agree that it wasn’t her fault, then I wouldn’t have to blame her?” I say it like a question.

  “There’s no right answer, Brooke.” But before I can respond, he continues, asking, “What about Callie and Aaron? Do you blame them for not being here now?”

  “They’re coming back,” I tell him, my voice clearer, louder, trying to cover the fact that this is one more thing I don’t know for sure.

  “Okay,” he concedes. “But let’s just say they don’t. What would that mean?”

  I shrug. I reposition myself in the chair so I can see the clock on the wall. It’s 4:40. I follow the slim red second hand all the way around the circumference of the clock to 4:41.

  “Brooke?”

  I look up again. The clock suddenly says 4:45.

  “Why do you think they left?” he asks.

  “I told you, they’re coming back!” I nearly shout, though not quite. “Aaron’s only out of town, doing this job thing. And Callie is only at Jackie’s until Aaron gets back.” Except I think Dr. Greenberg doesn’t even believe me. I check my volume, force myself to turn it down a notch before answering his question. “I think they just wanted to give up.”

  “Give up on . . . ?” he prompts.

  “Give up on us—our family, our mom.” On me.

  “But you don’t want to give up?”

  “I’m trying not to. I mean, isn’t this what family’s supposed to do? You’re supposed to be there for each other through anything.” I stop because I can feel my head starting to pound.

  “Well, I think there’s a difference between giving up and letting go.”

  No there’s not.

  “What would happen if you let go?”

  A tiny bell chimes from somewhere behind Dr. Greenberg’s desk.

  Time’s up.

  I pick up my bag and prepare to stand up, leave, and possibly never come back again.

  “Wait—wait right there. We have time. What were you about to say? What are you feeling right now?”

  A few moments of silence pass between us as I try to find a way to express all that I’m feeling right now. But no words can make sense of how much I want things to go back to the way they were, even when things were bad. Or how much I want to leave—how sometimes I wish I could burn the whole place down, take a wrecking ball to it. No words to explain how I feel all those things at the same time, all the time.

  “If I really let go”—my voice catches, even though I’m trying so hard to be brave—“I’ll never have a home again, that place you hear people talk about—that safe place to land. That’s over for me.”

  “I’m curious, is that really what it felt like before?” he asks.

  I think about it for several moments, but I refuse to give him the answer I know he wants, the answer that I know deep down is true.

  “I have to go to work,” I tell him, rushing out, not even bothering to ask about those damn doctor’s notes.

  TINY STORM

  THE SMALL COWBELL STRUNG to the door with Christmas ribbon dings softly as two cops walk through. I see their uniforms before I see their faces. The air is suddenly sucked from my lungs. Because for a moment, a millisecond, a nanosecond only, my mind forgets and I think that one of them is my dad. But then my brain kicks in and I realize for the millionth time, in the millionth way, it can’t be.

  I return my attention to the woman in front of me. She gives me that passive-aggressive I’m in a hurry scowl I’ve come to recognize so well. “I’m sorry, what was that again?” I ask her.

  “Large coffee and one of those cinnamon rolls. To go. Please,” she adds, looking down at her wallet.

  I pull a sheet of wax paper from the cardboard box underneath the counter and grab the cinnamon roll farthest back, squeezing my fingernails gently into the dough as I shove it into a paper bag. The coffeepot crackles and hisses like a tiny storm as I place it back on the burner, and it’s more like that is what’s happening inside of me.

  I snap the lid on snugly and tell her “Three seventy-five” as I slide the cup and bag across the tile countertop.

  She lays down a five, mumbles, “Keep the change.”

  I turn away, pretend to count the number of blueberry muffins that must be rationed throughout the night, while I slip the five into my apron pocket.

  Turning around, I grab a rag from the bucket under the sink and start wiping down the counter in slow, circular movements. Then all the surfaces on my side—the sugar canister, the cream dispenser, the coffeepots, the register—for the hundredth time tonight.

  I’m despicable, I know.

  The first time was an accident, a mistake, but it’s become easier and easier. The trick is not ringing up the order at all. No one will notice money missing that was never supposed to be there in the first place. The trick is to spread it out across a bunch of small orders. It’s not like I don’t feel bad about it—I feel horrible. But rent is due again, and I’m already late, and I honestly don’t know how I’m going to pull it all together before getting another one of those scarlet-letter notices taped to my door.

  “Behind you,” Owen says as he brushes past me with a fresh tray of chocolate-glazed something. The thick, sugary scent wafts up through my nostrils and sticks in the back of my throat.

  “Slow tonight,” I muse halfheartedly, my usual Owen small talk.

  He casts a sideways glance at me over his shoulder and grins. He shakes his head slowly, then he turns his back to me. “You’re slick. You know that? Very slick.”

  I swallow hard, watching him fill in the pastries, the word sinking into my brain, slow like honey. “What?” I utter, pretending I didn’t hear him, pretending I’m not completely taken off guard, pretending those aren’t dangerous words he’s speaking. But Owen is quiet as he finishes arranging the new pastries. And then he leans up against the wall and stares at me as if he asked me the question instead of the other way around. “What?” I repeat, louder.

  He gives me another one of his noncommittal headshake gestures and walks back into the kitchen, wordless. I brace myself with both hands on the counter. Inhale one-two-three-four, and exhale one-two-three-four. Inhale. And exhale. I try to count slowly, by Mississippis, like Dr. Greenberg taught me, but I can’t even get past two Mississippi. I try to rehearse in my head what I can say, how I can explain, or even better, lie
. But I can’t do that, either. So my feet begin to move in spite of my brain, taking one step, too fast, into the kitchen; they slide across the wet floor.

  “Careful!” he shouts, looking up at me for only a moment, his eyes wide. “Floor’s wet.”

  I grab hold of the counter and regain my balance. He dunks the mop into the dirty gray water, the muscles in his forearms contracting as he squeezes the excess water out. Then he slaps the mop down against the floor, pushes it back and forth, slopping left to right and left to right.

  “Owen, what did you say?” I ask as calmly as I can.

  “I said”—he enunciates precisely—“be careful. Floor’s wet.”

  “No, I mean before.”

  “Oh.” He stops, and stands the mop up straight, crosses his arms over the top of the handle, and squints hard at the air above my head with this puzzled expression on his face. “You have to be more specific. I’ve said lots of things before.”

  I’m not amused. I cross my arms.

  “Look, I know what you’ve been doing,” he finally says, returning to his mopping.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Owen,” I lie.

  “Well, how ’bout that? I’m guessing I don’t know what I’m talking about either, huh?” he says, staking the mop into the floor with a splat.

  “Owen, I need this job, so whatever you think you saw—never mind, fine!” I scoff, reaching down into my apron pocket. “Here, take it! Happy?” I yell, throwing the five-dollar bill onto the floor in the space between us.

  He looks down at it and shakes his head, then looks up me accusingly. “You have Jackie wrapped around your little finger. She thinks you’re a friggin’ angel.”

  “It was a couple dollars, okay?” I lie. “It’s not like I’m some mastermind. And I’m going to pay it back.”

  The bell dings out in the shop. A woman’s voice shouts, “Hell-ooo?” But I can’t move, can’t end this conversation. Not without some kind of resolution.