by Unknown
“Where are you sleeping tonight?” she asks, as she grabs a bottled water from the refrigerator.
“I’m not sure. Eric is sleeping in my spot,” I say dryly.
“Eric?” She asks looking at me, confused.
“Yeah, just testing it out.” I shrug. “I guess I can move stuff off my bed and pile in.”
“Come on; you can sleep in my bed,” she says, grabbing my arm and pulling me behind her down the hall and up the stairs. After we scrub the paint off and change into our pajamas, we pile into bed. She turns off the lights, and we lie there silently.
“What’s going on with you and dad?” she asks. We’re both lying on our backs looking at the ceiling. I could tell her what I saw, what I’ve heard, and how angry I am with him.
“I see past all the illusions. You know our family is in trouble, right?” I ask instead with a sigh. “It’s my fault.” She rolls on her side and looks at me, forcing me to do the same.
“Mom is just sad, and Dad is avoiding it. He works late because he doesn’t know how to deal with it all. You scared all of us. It’s not your fault; it’s mine. You were silently crying for help. I see that now, but I was too busy in my world and in my own secrets and lies to pay attention. Maybe Mom blames herself too because she didn’t see any of it coming when you two were so close. The thing is, you survived, and we should be celebrating and building stronger relationships, but we aren’t. I don’t know.” Her eyes are glassy, but she tries to smile.
“It was never your fault. I didn’t want to live, even after the doctors started saving me. I begged them to stop. I. begged. them.” I pause and let that sink in. “I’m not proud of that, and I think that’s part of the reason they knocked me out. Well, that and blood loss. Everything for me has been easy, and that was the hardest time of my life; I’m not like you. You’ve always had to earn your way, grades, friendships, work, your car.” A tear slides from the corner of her eye.
“It should be easy for you; you’re so young,” she whispers.
“So are you,” I reply.
“I’m different; you know that. You have the looks, the hair girls die for, the style. You always did; you are graceful and so smart. I think you were meant to have it the easy way. Everything is difficult for me. I’ve accepted it. It just means I have to work a little harder that’s all.”
“You don’t even see it, do you?” She looks at me confused. “You hold your head high when ridiculed. You stand up for yourself. You are so confident now. You want to know why you used to always stumble around? Because you always looked down. Now you look people in the eye. People know you because they realize when you speak you usually have something to say. And you’re beautiful too. The fact that you don’t know or acknowledge it, makes you that much more attractive to guys. Chase has been drooling over you since the first time I met him.” She offers a disbelieving weak smile. “See? You wait; you’ll see. Just don’t let it go to your head, or you might end up like I used to be.” She yawns and causes me to yawn too.
“I love you, you know,” she whispers.
“I love you too; go to sleep. If you make me late to school tomorrow because you’re tired, I’m going to kick your butt.”
Lacey
If I thought I got dirty looks from girls in the hall before, it didn’t compare to the looks I get now. Chase meets me by the entrance as he’s done all year; we walk down the hall holding hand as we’ve done most of the year; we return hi’s to people who pass us as we’ve always done. Not as many girls tell him hi, which is fine with me, but the ones that don’t say hi are the ones added to the dirty-look-for-dating-Chase Club. Apparently they were closet Cate’s asses. After we finish at our locker, I lean in to give him a peck on the cheek, hoping to ensure no dramatic PDA. But he turns his head just in time to find my lips. It’s still a small kiss, but it’s enough to stir me.
“Bye,” I say, rolling my eyes at him.
“Later, love,” he smiles.
“Old man,” I mutter, causing him to laugh as he turns to goes down the K-hall.
“So you’re official. I heard the rumors, but wasn’t sure if I could believe it.” Byron and Bea loom up on either side me, both smiling widely as Byron questions me.
“Yeah,” I say, still not used to this new friendship.
“Pay up.” Byron holds out his hand to Bea and smiles at her.
“Wait! You guys bet on my status with Chase?” I ask, stopping to stare at them.
“Before you get mad, we made the bet long before we were friends,” Bea justifies. “Long before we were friends” was only a week ago.
“When?” I ask, walking with them again.
“Last spring when Henry and I saw you kiss, do you remember that night?” Do I remember that night?
“I think so,” I say coolly.
“Well, I told Bea about it, and she bet that he would get bored with you before you went out with him, and I bet that you guys would couple up,” Byron says.
“Then this year when it looked like you guys were still friends, Byron bet that you would hook up first semester, and I said second,” Bea explains.
“I can be observant, too. The way you two are together, it was going to happen. I just hoped sooner rather than later.” He hoped I’d get with Chase? Then I remember. Oh yeah, his crush on Henry. Why does it always come back to stupid Henry? As if reading my mind, he holds up his hands and adds, “Not what you’re thinking. I like you. I just had to get to know you is all. See you third,” he smiles sincerely, and it’s really hard to believe he has a nasty bone in his body, but he does, a few actually. I smile back at him and wave bye to them as I turn to go to my class. I’m still in a daze, confused by my new friends. Can I call them friends? I’m not sure. My real friends are so distant and scarce I’m beginning to wonder if we’re still friends. I sit in my usual seat, lost in thought. Mr. Dexter is a chill teacher; he has a different sort of philosophy. Sit wherever; do whatever; just pass the test. It’s my highest class grade.
“It’s not enough that you humiliated me in front of our entire class; now you’re stealing my best friends?” Henry says bitterly, as he takes the seat behind me. He usually sits across the room from me. I take a deep breath before I turn to look at him.
“You really have to get over this. I’m sorry. I don’t know how many ways I can say it or prove to you that I am. I was stupid, I admit that. You weren’t the only one humiliated or the one who felt the backlash.” I lean in so that we are close and lower my voice as the class fills up. “But since then, I’m not the one who’s acting stupid. You are, and I think you owe me an apology.” My eyebrows raise as if to force him to see my side. He studies my face before he leans back in his seat.
“Whatever,” he says, rolling his eyes. I can’t believe this is the boy I used to dream about. I don’t recognize this bitter attitude and angry face. It breaks my heart actually. His best feature was his happy-go-lucky attitude.
“I’m sorry that whatever I did to you has turned you into this,” I say softly and sincerely just before I turn around and realize everyone around us is watching. Look away people; the show’s over. He huffs behind me and stacks his books loudly, probably realizing the same thing. He rises abruptly and knocks the desk over. It clatters on the floor as he stomps toward the door.
“Mr. Emmitts, class has begun,” Mr. Dexter says as he writes on the board.
“Expel me,” Henry spits as he goes out the door. Mr. Dexter sets down the chalk and follows him into the hallway. He shuts the door, but we still hear raised voices. They’re arguing, and it’s kind of my fault. I look down at my hands on my desk.
“Way to go Lacey: you broke Henry,” Derrick Chandler says from across the room like Henry’s a toy or something. I drop my head to the desk with a thump.
I carry that fight with me all day. I’m solemn, distracted. Chase notices and tries to coax it out of me, but I don’t tell him. Not yet, he’d just get mad and give Henry the what-for. The old man language is co
ntagious. Byron notices too and tells me that Henry’s in a dark place right now. “He’s being a bigger douche than the new normal. It’s probably because he and Melanie broke up.” We are working the counter, checking out the long line, addressing our customers in between our personal conversation. Some of the people look at us weirdly, but most ignore us; as long as they are taken care of, they don’t care.
“They broke up?” I’m so confused.
“Yeah, like yesterday around noon, he just dumped her, didn’t give her a good reason.” Byron shrugs. “That’s the thing with Henry. When he dumps a girl, it’s usually out of the blue, and he doesn’t give her a real reason. Sometimes it’s boredom; sometimes he starts to like someone else.” My eyes must be the size of saucers. “You didn’t know that, did you?” I shake my head. “He can be ruthless, but he’s got that cute coolness, and the girls usually accept it OK. Some even come back for seconds. He’s lost that cuteness lately.” Was Byron getting disenchanted with him too?
“So you know him. What can I do to help him get over this? I mean, at least before he was semi-nice to me.” I’m selfish. Obviously, Henry is going through something because of me, and I just want him to get over it so that my life will become comfortable. I look down feeling bad.
“You guys should just have it out, knockdown, drag out, winner takes all, and the crowd roars.” He makes that crowd cheering “ahhh” sound people make with their mouths; then we both start laughing.
“Serious,” I say composing myself just before I greet my next customer.
“Seriously, he needs to get stuff off his chest. But if I were you,” he looks over at me pointedly, “I’d let him come to me.” I only nod. That advice fixes nothing.
I count the minutes, seconds even until my shift is over. After I bundle up, I go outside. It’s begun to flurry lightly. The tiny snowflakes flitter around in the air dancing their ballet. I start my car but climb out of it; it’s colder in there than it is outside. I look up at the street lamp above me showcasing the snow as is falls down on me. I’m the only one standing in the parking lot, and I can’t stop myself; I hold my arms out and twirl. I feel like a kid, like I don’t have a care in the world, like I was meant to stand here during the first snowfall of the season. I stick out my tongue, and the delicate flakes melt on my tongue. I wish I had a camera that could capture what I see as I look up into the stark night lit by the yellow glow of the street light. I don’t know how long I twirl, seconds, minutes; I twirl until I’m dizzy, and then I steady myself at my car. I pull my beanie hat further down over my ears. One thing I didn’t take into account when I bought this awesome classic car was the fact that it was old and would take forever to warm up. It’s still cold though so I make the short drive home freezing. I wonder if I should have Chase take a look at it. I mean, he’s a genius with all things automotive. He did rebuild the Mercury after all. I file that in my favors to ask later.
Lana
Christmas is everywhere—in commercials on TV, vomited on all of our neighbor’s houses and front lawns, at the mall, and in the air. I call bah-hum-bug. I probably wouldn’t feel this way if I could get Tomas to return my calls, texts, or emails. He’s been avoiding me at school for the past four days. I saw him in the hall Tuesday, and he looked right at me, but when I tried to catch up with him, he raced away. The only thing I can figure is that something happened when he was with his dad after school on Monday. He was fine on Monday, but then he’s M.I.A. I know he’s at school. I’ve seen his truck; no, I’m not stalking him, but I had to know. It snowed a few days ago, and there’s still a light dusting on the grass. It’s cold out, but I don’t care; the cold is familiar. I sit on the swing on the front porch listening to the street lamp buzz. That’s the only sound except for the occasional motor of a car on another street. It’s six o’clock, and it’s dark as midnight. This is why I hate winter; the days are so short, and it makes me depressed. All the houses around us are lit up, and I can see shadows move across the blinds and curtains, but not here. Lacey is at Chase’s house or working; I don’t really know which. Mom is in her bedroom, and Dad is napping on the couch while reality shows rule our TV.
I decide that two months was a good run. I realize that this still hurts, and I love him. I can’t let myself get more involved or down over Tomas. If it’s over, then it needs to be over. But he’s a good kid who obeys his parents and stays out of trouble. So with shaking fingers, I compose a text to him. It will be my last one.
I hope we can still be friends. You don’t have to avoid me anymore. I understand; you have to do what your parents say. And they don’t like me, I get it. I think, however, the decent thing would have been to tell me to my face that we were breaking up. I thought you were better than that. I thought you were different, that we were different together. I thought you had morals because of your whole virginity speech. I guess I was wrong though. It’s not the first time. I’m just glad we figured this out earlier rather than later. I’m sorry that I loved you only for it to end this way. If this makes you feel bad, good, because bad is how you’ve made me feel for the past few days. Actually, I take it back; I don’t want to be friends.
OK, so I wrote a letter, but it’s better to get it out and over with than drag it out and be miserable. At least my holiday won’t be ruined. I hope. My finger hovers over the send button, as I hesitate briefly, but I take a deep breath and push it at the same time. I lean my head back and cause the swing to squeak and rock back and forth. Then I let silent tears stream from the corner of my eyes and into my hair. These will be the only tears I cry for him. I can’t allow it to hurt much more. This must be why Dr. Mase doesn’t want us depending on others for our happiness. They just let us down. I hear a vehicle that sounds like Tomas’ truck. I look in the direction it’s coming from and watch the silhouette of a truck turn onto my street, but it’s dark, and I can’t tell if it’s him. I hope it is, part of me wondering if he’s coming to tell me face to face that it’s over, the other part wishing he’d tell me that I’ve got it all wrong. The truck is blue or black, not the silver of his, and it drives by and turns off my street. Another tear streams down my cheek as I realize just how badly I wanted it to be him. So badly. I rise stiffly and go inside to my room, to my depressed, breakup playlist that I made last night.
The next day for school I do something that I haven’t done in a long time. I fix my hair, like really fix it, not just blow it out or rat it up. I curl it in my flat iron to give it a tousled look. I used to do it that way all the time. And I put on makeup. Not a lot but enough that you can tell I’m wearing it. I dress in skinny jeans and raid Lacey’s closet for a red toga tank and black blazer. I’m tired of hiding. That’s what I feel like I’ve been doing with the dressed-down clothes. My scars aren’t pink anymore; they are just thin brown lines. Maybe by spring I can wear short sleeves again. Don’t get me wrong; I’m still going to sport my T’s and hoodies. I just feel like today I need to look how I want to feel. I want to feel happy. Lacey smiles at me. She probably thinks I’m getting my old style back, but she doesn’t know about Tomas’ dad’s dislike of me for no reason. Maybe he thinks I’m a punk. Maybe he thinks I’m a bad druggie influence. I might have looked like one since I’m so skinny, pale, and have all those dark circles. Maybe he thinks I’m from a bad family. I’m not really sure why I want to prove him so wrong. Maybe it’s the fighter in me. As Lacey and I descend the stairs, my dad is standing at the door talking to someone. I wonder if Chase or the girls are riding with us to school or something. Lacey turns and looks at me questioningly, which makes me thinks she didn’t have plans with anyone. My dad moves out of the way, and I see Tomas standing there wearing a sock hat that makes his face so adorable with his green military coat. I go to the closet and slowly begin bundling up as Lacey follows silently and looks between us. Dad goes ahead and leaves, patting Tomas on the back as he passes, but Tomas stays on the porch. Once I’m sufficiently covered, I get my bag and head out the door with every intention of g
etting into Lacey’s freezing car. I walk past him, ignoring him. Obviously, he came here to see me, maybe even apologize, but I don’t want to hear it, and I add a little stomp to my step.
“Stop being a dramatic spoiled brat,” he says, not moving one inch. That’s not an apology. I turn and look at him with no words, just shock on my face. His breath clouds around his mouth, and his nose is pink on the tip. He’s been standing there awhile.
“I’m being a spoiled brat? You fell off the face of the earth,” I exclaim, throwing my arms in the air. Lacey awkwardly moves out of our way and goes to start her car.
“You didn’t trust me. Didn’t you think there was a reason, and I would tell you if I could, when I could?”
“But you didn’t.” I stomp my foot again. Old Lana rearing her ugly head; stomping was my signature move. Patent pending.
“So to get my attention you sent me that awful text?” He may have a point.
“I deserved to hear you say it. Tell me,” I demand. He struts to me, literally puts some swagger in his step, and I want to punch him in both of his beautiful eyes.
“You’re going to make me say it?” he asks seriously, looking into my eyes, his swagger gone. “I don’t want to.”
“Say it,” I say through clenched teeth. He’s going to face it. He takes a deep breath and looks up at the sky before returning his gaze to me. I don’t want to cry; I won’t cry.
