What You Hide

by Natalie D. Richards

  I can’t explain my world to Spencer.

  “I…” My mouth feels dry and hot, and my fingers go cold on my backpack straps.

  His face falls, confusion giving way to embarrassment. He takes a step back, and my insides ache. “Wow. Holy misinterpretation.” He laughs, hand at his chest. “The male ego is a heavy yoke to bear.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I misread,” he says, clearly humiliated. “Sorry. Really, I am. I didn’t mean—I’ll get you the connection. No problem.”

  “It’s not—it’s hard to explain.”

  “No, it’s my bad. I’m always delusional after work. Sometimes I think I’m the Pope.”

  I laugh, but it hurts. “I have to go. Will I see you tomorrow?”

  He nods, hands in his pockets as he walks away. And maybe I imagine the slump in his shoulders. I probably do because I want him to be disappointed. More than that, I want to yell after him and tell him he wasn’t misreading anything, that I would give him a number if I could.

  I don’t say any of that because it’s pointless. It doesn’t matter how he interprets me. Any way you slice this, we will always be heading in different directions.

  • • •

  The red clock on the bus reads 7:24, but I don’t know if that’s good or bad. How late is too late to stop by the Women’s Crisis Center? Hopefully before 7:30 at night is cool.

  I ring the doorbell, chewing my lip while I wait. There’s no obvious sign or parking area. For the women’s protection, I’m sure, but I check the address four times, just in case.

  A woman with short, tight curls and an ample bosom opens the door.

  “May I help you?”

  I recognize her voice immediately. It’s Ruth, the lady I spoke with on the phone.

  “I’m Mallory. My mom, Sasha, and I were supposed to come a while ago.”

  “Of course. Would you like to talk inside?”

  I nod, and she leads me in. It’s like a house, but bigger. I’d think a college dorm might look like this. Inside the front door, there are living rooms on either side of a large entryway and wide stairs leading to a second floor. Nothing is fancy, but there’s plenty of space.

  A group of kids play video games in one living room, and the other is quiet. Ruth leads me through the quiet room, which isn’t empty. A mother and toddler are playing with plastic dishes in the back. The toddler is mostly bald and giggly. The woman has a tired face and a yellow-green bruise under her left eye.

  Ruth says hello but doesn’t introduce me. Instead, she leads me into a small adjoining office. There are stacks of papers on her desk and floor and several pictures of a very fat pug on the shelf behind her. She closes the door, and I sit, waiting for her to settle behind her desk.

  “Make yourself comfortable. I’m glad you came.”

  “I’m sorry my mom isn’t here with me.”

  She smiles, clicking something on her computer. Opening my file, I guess. It worries me that I even have a file in a women’s crisis center.

  I hadn’t considered this piece of my plan. What if Charlie found out? What would he do? More of the same berating lectures? No. Appearances are everything to him. Me being here, or anywhere like it, would tip him over the edge. Having a runaway stepdaughter? A wife considering a split? That’s his worst fear—proof that he’s not in control.

  Ruth looks up from her screen. “You were originally planning to come on the third? Is that right?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry about that.”

  “No apology needed.”

  “My mom changed her mind. You don’t seem very surprised by that.”

  “It’s not uncommon,” she says simply. “Is she still considering it?”

  “Not right now. It’s just me.”

  Her smile drops, and her eyes search the screen. I’m not sure what she’s reading until she says, “Remind me how old you are, Mallory.”

  “I’ll be seventeen next month.”

  “Are you currently still at home?”

  I barely hesitate, but it’s enough for her to guess the answer. She’s probably professionally trained to read through girls like me.

  “I’d like to put you in touch with the Mulberry Manor,” she says. “They’re a group home, like us, but for teens. They can provide a temporary residence and great resources.”

  “They’ll call my mother.” This part is very clear on several websites. Within twenty-four hours, they’ll inform my mom, and then Charlie will hear all about it. And with Mulberry Manor so close to his school, the news could get out to other people he knows. Coworkers. Maybe his boss. The backlash of that terrifies me.

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry. Thank you, but I can’t.”

  “Mulberry Manor deals with situations similar to yours every day. They’re very skilled at these conversations with parents. Talk to them.”

  “No. If they call her, he will know. He’ll—” I take a shuddery breath. “It can’t happen.”

  “Has the situation escalated?” A glance at my file. “You mention a lot of control issues, but has he become violent or threatening?”

  I sigh because this is the problem. How do I explain a monster that hasn’t fully shown his face? “He isn’t like the men they talk about on the website. He doesn’t scream or hit us.”

  “Abuse comes in many forms.”

  “Yeah, well Charlie’s form is tricky to explain. If I go somewhere like that, everyone will find out. He’ll be humiliated and he’ll snap. Right now, she’s safe, but if I embarrass him…”

  Ruth wants to ask me more questions, but I hold up my hand and take a step back toward the door. “I appreciate everything you’re doing, but I need some time to think.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “I have friends. I’m okay. And before you ask, yes, I’m in touch with my mom. She knows what’s going on.”

  “Mallory, if your mother won’t leave, and the situation has become dangerous, then you need to consider what’s best for you. I want to help if you’ll let me.”

  I tell her I’ll think about it, but I’m lying. I don’t think about Mulberry Manor or Ruth’s comments at all. I head south to the bus stop and use my pass to get to Lana’s house. It’s 7:55 when I arrive, the dark porch lit by a single yellow bulb.

  I ring the doorbell, but it isn’t Lana or her mother who answers. It’s her younger brother, Finn. Fernando, actually, but he was so frightened after his father was deported, he insisted everyone start calling him Finn.

  He was a reedy thirteen-year-old then, but now, only a year later, he’s broader at the shoulders and grouchy in the face.

  “She’s not here,” he says without greeting. Finn traded in his smiles when his father left. Now he’s quiet and sometimes a little mean.

  “Okay, will she be back soon?”

  “She’s with Mom and Abuela,” he offers, which is obvious and offers zero information.

  “I need to give her something.”

  “You were here for over a week. You couldn’t give it to her then?”

  I swallow hard around the sudden fist-size lump in my throat. If Finn’s noticed—then Maria’s mom has noticed. They might have talked about me; how I’m here too much. If I stay again, she might grow suspicious enough to call my mom.

  “Do you need to wait for her?” he asks.

  “Nah, just give her this, will you?” My hands shake as I hand over the laptop, my smile as wide and flat as a magazine ad. I tell him to have a good night, and my voice cracks. Then I turn and pad down the steps, my knees like wet sponges.

  What am I going to do?

  Night has swallowed up the last warmth from the sun, leaving a biting wind behind. I pull up my hood, my fingers waxy and cold. Lana’s duplex is only four blocks from my apartment, but when I get there, Charlie’s car is in the p
arking lot. I see two splotches of shadow against the glow of the living room window. Charlie and Mom are on the couch. Probably watching TV.

  My insides ache with cold watching them. After a while, I’ve almost convinced myself to climb the stairs and put my key in the lock, crawling back—just like he said I would.

  But then I see his hand through the window. It comes up slowly from the back of the couch to rest on the back of Mom’s neck. My skin goes cold, a memory flaring to life: Four years ago, at a movie theater. Mom and I filed out behind a couple. The man did that, reached up and cupped his hand around the nape of her neck and my mom had shuddered. Revolted.

  Men like that. Might as well put a collar on her.

  My mother might as well be wearing a collar. What would she think of herself if she remembered those words in the theater? My shivering stops, and my sore shoulders go numb as I turn away. She might have forgotten her own lesson, but she raised me better.

  I walk the twenty-two blocks to the library and climb the stairs to the entrance at 8:43. The air is warm and smells of old paper and wood polish. I immerse myself in the wonderful atmosphere, grateful for the heat and the familiarity.

  Absurdly, the warmth makes me shiver harder. I duck behind a book display before the lady at circulation can see me. My body is racked with cold, hands stinging and teeth chattering so hard that I shove my tongue between them to keep down the noise.

  I tuck into the corner by the display window, letting myself warm up. No one greets me. The associate at the desk steps into the circulation office to retrieve books and then across the lobby to restock one of the tiered book displays.

  I slip quietly through the front and into the tall rows of shelves. The first closing announcement sounds overhead and instinct takes over. I move quietly through the stacks, sticking to the less frequented sections, avoiding the sound of any approaching carts. Ten minutes before closing, a guy takes a call at the browsing room desk. His head turns toward his monitor, the phone propped on his shoulder, and I cross to the restroom like I’m on autopilot.

  Inside, I drink from the faucet and then quietly lock myself in the back stall. When they make the final call before the library closes, I rethink my hasty plan, unlatching the door so that it can swing open a few inches. The stall will look empty. They won’t see me unless they come all the way down the line.

  And they won’t.

  They won’t have any reason to do that.

  I pull my feet up on the toilet and rest my forehead on my knees. Two staff members call out to one another in the hall beyond the door. They walk through the rooms. Voices murmur.

  The bathroom door swings open, and my stomach shrinks into a baseball. A walnut. Footsteps. The swing-bang of the first stall door. My heart is a bass drum. A frantic beat that rattles my bones.

  Say something! Tell them before they find—

  The footsteps retreat. The lights click out, and darkness swallows the room, shrinks it down to the space of my breath against my knees.

  I open my eyes and see nothing but blackness. I’m alone in the dark, but I am not afraid. I am relieved.

  Spencer

  Friday, November 17, 6:02 a.m.

  I wake up in terror, tumbling out of bed and searching for my phone. Late. I’m sure I’m late. To what, though? Practice? School? A game?

  I find my phone on the nightstand behind a half-empty bottle of Gatorade. It says 6:02 a.m. It’s Friday. We’ve got testing, so juniors aren’t due in until fourth period. I’ve got a shift at the library, because every night this week was nothing but hockey. But I’m not due in until 8:00.

  There’s plenty of time. I’m fine.

  My hands are shaky, and my heart is still pounding, so I say it out loud. “I’m fine.”

  Nice try. When’s the last time I felt fine?

  I strain my senses, in case a weird instinct is trying to alert me to danger, but there’s nothing. No smell of smoke or strange footsteps thumping up the stairs, though that makes me think about the dirty footprints in the library. And that little girl in the vending area.

  I heard a ghost in the walls.

  Creepy, but I don’t think I can blame the little girl for me waking up. This is my new daily routine. Some people do yoga or drink lemon water. I start my days with a crippling panic attack and cold sweat.

  It wasn’t always like this.

  And that’s just it. Why is it like this? In August, when school started, I was normal me. Now, it’s like I spend half my time floating six feet above my own head, going through the motions of a life that feels like it belongs to someone else. Nothing has changed, and it’s not depression. I took general psych last year, so I know the signs. I’m just…I don’t know. Floundering?

  Maybe.

  It’s pathetic. I’m pretty sure kids with real problems don’t use words like floundering.

  I jump in the shower before heading downstairs. I’m halfway through a bowl of smuggled Cocoa Puffs—Mom’s all organic—when Allison comes in from a run. She pours a glass of water and bellies up to the table next to me, chugging.

  I push my cereal over. “Don’t drip in my milk.”

  “Good morning to you too, sweetheart.”

  I flip her the bird, and she sits across from me, stretching her calves. For a while, it’s companionable silence, which I’ve missed. It’s always been easy with Allison and me. Mom calls us flip sides of the same coin. Allison’s serious, and I’m a clown. She runs cross-country in shorts and sneakers, I play crash-’em-up hockey in ten thousand pounds of gear. She’s blond and short like our father, but my DNA made me dark and lean.

  “Did you see Mom before she took off?” Allison asks.

  “No. How early did she go?”

  “Six twenty? She wanted me to talk to you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “She wanted to see if we could schedule a weekend of visits together. She thought you wouldn’t mind me tagging along.”

  “I haven’t scheduled any.”

  “That’s kind of the point. You’re cutting your time really close, Spencer.”

  She drops the big sister hand on my bicep again, and I resist the urge to slap her away, because she’s Allison. My sister. I force myself to remember my worst skateboard wreck. Allison showed up like a flag-carrying knight, scooping my wailing seven-year-old self off the ground. She was only nine, and we were probably the same weight, but she piggybacked me all the way home with blood dripping down my knees onto her new Abercrombie shorts.

  She’s a good sister, and whatever’s wrong with me, I have no right to take it out on her. So I listen. She tells me about my bright future and encourages me to make plans. Take on leadership roles. I tune a lot of it out because she’s using words like potential and aptitude.

  “Zoned out yet?” she asks.

  “About five minutes ago.”

  She sighs. “You know I hate this.”

  “If by hate, you mean you love it more than anything.”

  It’s a joke with teeth, and Allison feels the bite. Her smile fades. “You’re worrying Mom. Your grades are slipping.”

  “I’m fine. I’m passing everything.”

  “You’re passing, but last year you were on the honor roll. You got arrested for God’s sake.”

  “They didn’t press charges.” I turn away from her, my gaze dragged to the backyard beyond the window, everything in its place. Everything the way it’s always been.

  “You’re quiet a lot,” she says. “It makes me wonder if something is wrong.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, though we both know I’m not. But what should I say? How do I explain that all the familiar things and smart choices I’ve ever known feel like shoes that don’t fit?

  “I won’t get in the places they want,” I try, because it’s a start. “It feels pointless.”

  “Your grades aren�
��t that bad.”

  “Come on, Allison.”

  “Well, you still have the ACT and the SAT. Your scores are good. Plus, Mom and Dad have plenty of strings they can pull. If you want something, you’ve got to try.”

  “And what if I don’t?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if I don’t want Dartmouth or UChicago or any of this?”

  “You want to go to a state school?” Her brow furrows. “Are you shooting for division one hockey? Spencer, I don’t think—”

  “It’s not about hockey,” I say, pushing a hand into my hair. I don’t know how to say any of this. All I know is that all this stuff—the plans and the colleges and climbing the library and feeling like a stranger in my own damn town—adds up to something.

  But what?

  “Mom and Dad aren’t going to go for a gap year if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “It’s not.” I sigh because this is a losing fight. “I’ll schedule some visits. Let’s drop it.”

  “Hey.” She kicks my shoe with hers. “I know you missed early admissions, but I promise it’s fine. You’re smart. You’ll make the right choices.”

  “Sure,” I say, and I kick her shoe back.

  I know she’s trying, but she’s never been further from the mark. And as for the choices I need to make? I’ve never been less sure of anything.

  • • •

  I’m at the library by 8:00, but I’m not the first one here. Gretchen’s car is in the lot, and someone’s up on the top floor too. It creeps me out for a second, that quick glimpse of slim shoulders and flash of a female profile stepping away from the window. I think of the person I saw in the window before. Then the little girl’s cries of Ghost!

  Of course, there’s a whole second floor of staff. The director, the marketing team, and an executive assistant doing whatever it is those people do all day. It’s weird to think there’s more to the library than books, but there are offices and supply rooms and collection rooms where old books are repaired and new materials are processed.