by Kit Frick
24
JANUARY, SENIOR YEAR
(NOW)
Mr. Michaels raises his eyebrows as I start disassembling the project I’ve been working on for weeks. I started it before break, but now it feels off. A torso twisted thin enough to snap, a long, angular neck, and a blank, moon-shaped face.
“I’m just not connecting with it anymore,” I explain, popping one earbud out. The girl in the sculpture wears her pain in each sharp angle. Touch her, and she’ll hurt you right back.
After Mr. Michaels heads home, I stay late working. I feel inspired for the first time in months, since school started, really. I want to start something brand new, something big and round and brightly enameled—something . . . happy? A thought tickles my brain, something cheesy, something I’d never say out loud. Make the girl you want to be in the world. I blast Rihanna and work until I have to get home for dinner.
By the time I walk outside, it’s pitch black. Usually, the deep winter darkness really gets to me, tugging at my insides like a heavy stone for months until daylight savings time comes to the rescue. But lately, the dark has felt like a challenge. Can’t see the way forward? Figure it out anyway. The giddy high of returning to school after break is gone, replaced by pure, unfiltered determination. I can’t make out the path ahead, can’t make sense of what I need to do quite yet. But before graduation, I will face every piece of my past. I will find my way.
The Subaru is almost the last car left in the student lot. As I walk across the pavement, the sparsely scattered yellow lights on metal poles don’t do a whole lot to break up the dark. But the light is enough that, as I get closer to my car, I can see a figure leaning against the hood.
I freeze, fifteen feet away. It’s too dark to make out a face, but I would know that silhouette anywhere.
“Ellory?”
And there goes the universe, throwing my darkness metaphor right back in my face.
“I’m sorry for commandeering your car. I just want to talk.” The figure straightens up, moving away from the hood. His hands are shoved inside deep coat pockets, but his shoulders are straight. Perfect posture.
I try to speak, but the words are stuck somewhere down in my throat. I take a step back, breathing quick. This is not what I need right now. This is not okay. I mumble something, but it doesn’t come out in sentence form.
“What?” he asks, stepping toward me.
I clear my throat, plant my feet. “I said, it’s not a good time.”
“I’m sorry.” He hangs back. He can see how rattled I am, and I hate it. I don’t want him to see me shaken up. I don’t want him to see me at all.
“Look, can I get by?” I force the words out without a quaver. It’s more of a demand than a question. I shove my hand into my bag, and my fingers close around the keys.
Matthias steps aside, clearing my path to the driver’s side door. He takes his hands out of his pockets, raising them in front of his chest. He’s wearing my gloves, the ones I got him last Christmas. Like they don’t remind him of me every time he slips them on. Like they’re just things to keep his hands warm. His body is in retreat mode, but his voice presses against me, full force. I don’t want to hear anything that comes out of his mouth, not one single word, but I can’t shut it out.
“I didn’t mean to upset you, honest.” He takes two more steps back. “It’s just I never see you in school, ever. It’s like you don’t even go to Pine Brook anymore. I left you some notes. . . . I don’t know if you read them?”
I don’t say anything. Of course I read them. They’re in a box in my room, one for each week of the semester. He knows perfectly well that I know where his locker is. That I could have responded if I’d wanted to.
When I still don’t say anything, he continues. “I was at school late, making up a French test. I had the flu last week. . . . Anyway, it doesn’t matter, the point is I was there late, and then I came out here and saw your car. I wanted to see you. I knew you had to leave the shop eventually, so I waited.”
I make a beeline for the car door. There’s a reason we never see each other in school. There’s a meticulously orchestrated schedule motivated by a strong desire for self-preservation. There’s a reason I’ve never acknowledged the notes. See above, regarding self-preservation. I’ve made it to January with a blissful lack of hallway run-ins and zero words exchanged. Until now. I had been aiming to maintain that record until I figured out what to say. My words, on my terms. But this is an ambush.
I open the door and stand behind it like it’s a shield. Matthias stays where he is, a good five feet away. His hands are back in his pockets. He has a wool hat shoved down over his head, and the ends of his hair spill out around the rim. Even with the hat on, I can tell it’s longer than I’ve ever seen it. His face looks thinner, like he’s lost too much weight.
Not that I care. Not that I have any reason to give one fuck if Matthias has been losing weight, or losing sleep, or losing his mind. My hand moves automatically to touch my ring finger, something I haven’t done in months. The bare skin throbs, a dull ache where three little stars used to be.
“The notes have to stop,” I say from behind my door shield. I feel less vulnerable here, protected. Strong enough to shut this conversation down. “I get that you have things to say, but I really don’t.” I make my voice mean. I slide into the car and put the key in the ignition. Before I can close the door, Matthias is right outside, crouched down in the path of the open door. If I try to close it now, I’ll hit him.
“Okay, I’ll stop. I’m sorry. I just have one question, then I’m gone. Promise.” His eyes are wide, pleading. Jesus.
I don’t say anything, and he takes my silence for permission to go on.
“Did you get your application in? To Portland State?” Of all the burning things Matthias Cole might have to say, he’s using his one question to ask about college?
“Yes . . .” I don’t even try to keep the skepticism out of my voice. Why the hell does he care? “Portland State and four other schools with art programs.” I raise my eyebrows, silently asking if he’s satisfied.
“Good, that’s great. I’m really happy for you, Ellory. You’ll get in, to Portland or wherever you want to go. I’m just really happy to hear that.” He’s rambling. He straightens up, backing out of range of the car door. I stare at him for a moment, not sure what to make of any of this.
What I do know is that I am complicit, and he is complicit too. He should want to forget me as much as I want to erase him from this parking lot, from my past, from my life.
“Thanks,” I finally manage, and then I close the door and start up the car. If I still cared, I would ask how he was getting home. If I still cared, I would offer him a ride for his trouble. But I’m so far past the point of ever giving Matthias a ride ever again. I throw the car into drive and pull forward, turning toward the exit, toward home, away from Pine Brook and Matthias Cole.
25
JANUARY, JUNIOR YEAR
(THEN)
Matthias propped his boot up on an empty chair, and a big gray clump of slush dripped onto the Roaster floor. It was too cold and wet to do anything outside, so we were camped out at a table between the art deco fan lamp and the hall leading back to the bathrooms.
“It felt like you were gone for five years.”
“If you felt like it was five years, imagine how last week felt for me. No you, no Ret, no real-life adolescent contact. Just me, my parents, and miles and miles of snowbound slopes.”
He grinned and shook the hair out of his eyes. “One sec.”
“How’s Cordelia?” I didn’t even need to ask who he was texting. It could have been Dave or the Smurf, but it was pretty much always Cordelia.
“Fine, bored. None of her activities start up again until next week.” He clicked off his screen and set his phone face down on the table, giving me his full attention. My group chat was filled with new messages from this morning—Was I back? Was I stranded on the slopes? Had I run off with a yeti
? But I hadn’t responded yet. Matthias was the only person I wanted to see.
God, I had missed him. The runaway brown-blond strands. The way his face broke so easily into a wide, open smile. Every warm inch of his skin, covered now by an armor of winter layers.
“So what did I miss around here?”
“What is there ever to miss?” He shrugged. “I ran into Ret at the mall.”
“Yeah?”
“More like Cordelia dragged me into Hot Topic. Ret was busy. We didn’t stay long. She said they’re promoting her next month.”
“She didn’t tell me that.” Ret had told Matthias, but not me. I filed away that bit of information to think about later.
“She didn’t seem too excited about it. You know Ret. Anyway, tell me about Fox Mountain. I bet you perfected your downhill game.”
“Not much to tell. It’s not like kicking ass on the slopes is going to do me much good in Portland.” I took a long swallow of my vanilla latte and popped the lid back on the cup.
“Portland, huh? That’s still the plan?” He swirled a spoon through his Midnight Runner—a big mug of dark roast spiked with a shot of espresso, no milk, no sugar.
“Sure is.” I took another sip, never taking my eyes off Matthias. He seemed to be considering something thoughtfully, his eyes fixed on the mug in front of him. It had been ages since I had first mentioned Portland, and he still remembered.
“So why Portland, anyway? Is it the city, or did your parents go to school there or something?”
I hadn’t really been planning to have the Portland Talk today—the one that involved big words like College and Future—but suddenly it felt right. We’d been together for seven months. We loved each other. If I wanted Matthias to be open with me, I needed to be open with him.
“It’s like six parts the college, four parts the city. There’s this art professor I want to study with; he does really progressive work with copper and stone. I’ve been stalking their website for months. And the city just seems perfect. The bookstores and the coffee shops and the art scene. There’s this donut shop that’s supposed to be out of this world.”
“Sounds awesome.” I tried to get a handle on his tone. I wanted him to be excited about this, about the idea of us there, but his face gave nothing away.
I chose my next words carefully. “College might be the only time in our lives when we get to just pick a place and move there. And Portland feels right. The water, the bridges, the river dividing the city in two . . . It’s like here, but bigger and better and far away.”
“Sounds like a really great town.” Still totally neutral, totally flat.
Screw careful. I dove in headfirst. “Let’s not go to Penn State, okay? Let’s promise right now not to be those people. Who wants to get stuck in State College? People go to Portland. Like on purpose.” Then I pulled out my ace. “There’s a big music scene—you’d have so much to write about.” Once I started, I couldn’t stop. He’d love it—he had to see. “Think about where your website could go. All the shows, and not just local bands. Musicians come through Portland all the time. You’d be in the epicenter of indie cool.”
He was silent for a moment, staring intently at his coffee. When he spoke, his words shot straight down into the mug. “Portland State sounds really great for you. Especially the copper and stone guy. It’s not like there are a lot of opportunities for art here. I think you should go for it, definitely.”
There was no hint of we in his words, not even a whisper. My face crumpled.
“I think it’s great,” he said quickly, “that you have it all figured out and stuff. I think it’s awesome, Ellory. I really do.”
“But you don’t?” I felt like he was patting me on the head. Good girl, very smart. It felt awful. “Have it all figured out?”
“Not really.” He picked up a sugar packet and began turning it over and over. “I guess I’m not like you.”
My eyes were fixed on the packet, the white blur weaving faster and faster through his fingers.
I tore my eyes away and looked him straight in the eye. “Maybe it’s really easy.” My voice threatened to shake, but I forced it to stay steady. This was probably the single most important thing I’d ever say to Matthias. More important than a thousand I-love-yous. I needed him to hear me. “Maybe all we have to do is decide to be together. Maybe there’s nothing else to figure out.”
Suddenly the air between us was filled with a spray of white powder. It was on my hands, my face, all over my hair.
“Shit, I’m sorry.” He reached across the table with a napkin to dab at my face. The ruptured sugar packet lay between us on the table.
“It’s okay,” I sputtered.
“Listen.” He ran his fingers through his hair. He was looking at the table, the fan lamp, the out-of-order sign on the bathroom door. Anywhere except at me. “I’m just not ready to talk about college. I might not be ready for a long time. Maybe not ever. I know it’s not fair, but I just can’t.”
My stomach twisted. But he’d brought it up. He’d asked about Portland. Had he been setting me up on purpose?
“What do you mean can’t?” The words came out in a stranger’s voice, high and thin.
“I’m sorry.”
“So that’s it?” My heart was pounding so loud, so fast, it was going to tear out of my chest.
He was silent.
“Is it money? Because they have financial aid. Or we could go somewhere else. It doesn’t have to be Portland. There are so many options.”
Matthias pushed back from the table, his chair scraping loud against the Roaster floor. “Can we go?”
“Go where?” I looked outside. The Subaru was covered in a fresh coat of snow. Everything was wet and cold and gray.
“I just need to get home, okay?” He followed my gaze out through the big glass window. “Give me your keys. I’ll go brush off the car.” He slipped on his gloves and held out his hand, and I fished around in my bag. This didn’t make sense. Not at all.
“Cordelia’s been cooped up in the house all afternoon,” he said. An offering, a cover.
I didn’t say anything back. He paused for a moment, my keys in his hand, caught halfway between me and the door.
I made myself speak before he could disappear outside. “Please don’t shut me out. You promised to let me be your cave. Remember?” The words that had sounded so romantic, so beautiful in the cab of Ricky Cole’s pickup truck sounded suddenly childish. Ridiculous.
“I told you we were messed up. All of the Coles. I told you I wouldn’t be mad if you wanted out. I’m not hiding anything—you knew from our very first date.” His voice was cold.
I stared at him, speechless.
“I’m trying really hard, Ellory. But I guess I can’t be perfect all the time.”
A minute later he was outside, popping the trunk, grabbing the snow brush.
I shrugged on my coat, not bothering to button it up. The snow outside was heavy and wet, the deep, ugly snow of midwinter. Matthias had finished cleaning off the car and was climbing inside to start up the engine.
Every molecule inside my body was screaming no, screaming why. But there was nothing left to say. Nothing that wouldn’t just make this worse. He scooted over to the passenger’s seat, and I sat down behind the wheel and nudged the Subaru into reverse.
We sat in silence the whole way to his house. This was somehow worse than the screaming fight we’d had on his birthday. Lots of couples went to different colleges; I got that. They stayed together, or they broke up. I wasn’t expecting a magic eight ball. But if we couldn’t even talk about it—if the future was suddenly taboo—what the hell was the point?
I ignored the tears slipping down my face as I drove. I stared straight ahead. I refused to look at Matthias in the seat next to me. I refused to lift my hand from the steering wheel to wipe my cheeks. I kept my eyes on the road, which blurred, then came back into focus. I drove like that all the way to his house, and when he leaned over to kiss me,
I turned away. Somehow, hiding the tearstains felt like a small victory.
For a moment, he froze, suspended midlean toward the driver’s seat. I could feel his body stiffen next to me. Then, the unclasping of the seat belt, the release of the door handle as it swung out into the cold.
“I’ll see you in school.” This time, his words came out in the voice of a stranger.
“Yeah,” I said into the driver’s side window, not turning around. I couldn’t look at him. I didn’t know who I’d see. “See you in school.”
26
FEBRUARY, SENIOR YEAR
(NOW)
All day, my stomach flutters. I told myself starting with Bex would be easy, but that was a lie because nothing about this is easy. I sit in eighth period and stare down at my list: five little names. Bex, Jenni, Jonathan, Matthias, Ret. Dr. Marsha had me write them down in our last session. She thinks if I have a physical list, something that looks official, I won’t lose my nerve. I’m glad one of us feels confident about this. I don’t even have a real plan; just five names and four months until graduation.
I read through my list for the twentieth time, and Principal Keegan’s voice echoes in my ears. Manageable, attainable. Start with number one, and worry about the rest later. When the bell rings, I’m the first out of the classroom and into the fifth-floor stairwell, heading all the way down to the first floor and through the diagonal hallway to the art wing. On the way, I spot Abigail and two other girls in maroon and gold Rockette uniforms, heading in the opposite direction. I wasn’t exactly nice to her before winter break, when I told her I didn’t need her help. But really, she helped me more than she could possibly know. She gave me permission to see all of Ret—the complicated, messy, hard to see parts. Without Abigail, I might not have walked away from her in December. I might not have had the guts to make my list, either.
