Higher Ground

by Nan Lowe

“I’ll call Auburn and make the necessary arrangements for a visit,” Mom said. “Spend the rest of the day in your room. Clean it. Study. Read. I don’t care. But don’t leave your room.”

  “Fine.” I was more than happy to stay in my room, so I spent the rest of the weekend in there alone except for meal times. Van brought up trays of food and ate with me on our porch.

  Miss Verity drove us to school Monday morning. At the drop off, she stopped me before we could exit. “I’ll be here to pick you up this afternoon,” she said. “Don’t linger.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  Van walked next to me in perfect synchronization. He was the pillar between me and Oliver, and when I turned my head to my right for a peek at the picnic table, my brother’s frame blocked my view. For the first time, we walked straight up the stairs to homeroom without stopping.

  “Find me if you need me,” he said right before he left me at Mrs. Laurel’s door.

  I went to my desk without looking directly at any of my classmates. Penn stopped next to me, touched my arm for few seconds, and leaned down. “Are you okay?”

  It wasn’t what I’d expected, so I looked up. His concern made my cheeks burn, and I lowered my gaze to my backpack on the desk in front of me. “I’m grounded.”

  “That sucks.” He slid into his seat across from me and shook his head. “Oliver told us what he did.”

  “Told who?” I asked, glancing around the room to see if anyone was staring. No one was, though.

  “Me and Troya. Don’t freak out.”

  “He’s an asshole.” The bell rang, so I turned to face forward.

  “Yeah, he is,” he agreed quietly.

  Scared to see Oliver, I hesitated in the halls between homeroom and first period. Anger was easier with city blocks and silence between us. Nothing could’ve prepared me for the sight of Oliver, his black eye, my father, and the principal, Doctor Winston, standing outside my first period classroom.

  “Good morning, Violet,” Doctor Winston said. “I’ve already spoken to Miss Sanders, and you’re excused from class. We’re going to meet in my office.” She caught me glancing at Oliver in alarm. “Mr. Bergeron will be joining us at your father’s request.”

  What followed was one of the most embarrassing hours of my life. In classes I shared with Oliver, my seat would be moved across the room. He was told, very clearly, to stay away from me and was then excused back to class. I wasn’t as lucky. There was still the matter of my legal troubles to discuss.

  Doctor Winston was more than unhappy. She made it known, several times, that she could’ve expelled me for being arrested. At the beginning of the year, I’d signed a copy of the student handbook, and one of the things acknowledged by that signature was the expectation I would uphold the standards of the school by refraining from illegal activity.

  I’d failed spectacularly by landing myself in jail over the weekend on multiple charges.

  She was wrong, though, if she thought she could make me feel any worse than I already did. The guidance counselor, Mr. Stacy, was called in at the end of the meeting, and it was decided I would meet with him twice a week until graduation. It was to help me, not punish me. At least, that’s what they said.

  For the first week, I would have In-School Suspension. During that time, all of my teachers would be instructed to keep me and Oliver separated when I returned to regular classes. I was placed on probation, so my enrollment status with the school would depend on my compliance and future good behavior.

  “You’re three months away from graduation, Violet,” Doctor Winston said as I was walking to the door with Mr. Stacy. “Whether or not you cross that stage is up to you now.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  Dad shook her hand, ignored me completely, and went in the opposite direction toward the exit down the hall.

  The next time he spoke to me was the morning of my hearing. Miss Verity told me to wear my school uniform to court. I was a nervous, shaking mess, so I took her advice and tried to look as nonthreatening as possible.

  George’s dad met us downtown, and that was when I realized how serious the situation was. I held onto Dad’s forearm and followed them down a hall and up a flight of stairs to a courtroom. We took seats in the back of the room and waited for my name to be called.

  The judge wore wire-rimmed glasses and had long brown hair pulled into a ponytail. She called my name, briefly glanced at me as we walked forward, and then turned her attention to the papers in her hand. She waited until I was sworn in to call out the charges. I’d expected two joints and a fake license bagged up and presented as evidence, but real life and TV are different. She dropped the papers, leaned back in her chair, and pushed her glasses against her face.

  “How do you plead?” she asked.

  “Guilty, Your Honor,” I said.

  “Tell me what happened the night you were arrested, Miss Foster.”

  I looked at my father, and the panic on his face made me switch to Mr. Murphy’s calm smile instead. “She doesn’t need details,” he said quietly. “Stick to the facts.”

  “My… A friend and I went to the parade, and on the way home, we snuck into the cemetery. A couple of officers saw us when we were leaving.”

  “Had you been drinking?” she asked.

  I licked my dry lips and inhaled. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Did you smoke marijuana?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Dad took a small step backward, but I stayed glued to Mr. Murphy’s side.

  “Where did you get the drugs found in your pocket?”

  I’d lied to my father, but perjury was something else entirely. “The marijuana belonged to my friend. He must’ve put it in my pocket.”

  The corner of her mouth turned up. “Was that your friend’s fake identification found with it?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  She gave me a long look. “One hundred hours of community service is a good place to start,” she said. “Two weeks at a rehab center or six weeks in an outpatient program—your choice—and probation for the next six months, with random drug screenings until the time of completion.”

  Mr. Murphy accepted on my behalf but requested a shorter probation, one that would end on my birthday in June instead of the date she’d specified in August. “Miss Foster has been offered a scholarship to Auburn, and she’ll need to set up residence there prior to the start of term.”

  “All right,” she conceded with a nod. “If she meets the terms of her probation and completes the community service before her birthday, I’ll agree to those terms. New court date is June 23rd. When I see you again, Miss Foster, you’ll be a legal adult. It sounds like you have an amazing opportunity in your future. Don’t blow it.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  We walked out together, and Mr. Murphy shook my father’s hand. They discussed the next steps, and Mr. Murphy recommended an outpatient treatment center. By the end of the week, I was evaluated and talking out my issues in individual and group therapy sessions with other “at risk” teens. Mr. Murphy helped me get a job picking up trash at the zoo to work off my community service.

  Every now and then, I lost my temper when Van was allowed to go out and I wasn’t. I asked for my phone and my laptop, but my parents kept both. There was some yelling and some boredom—lots and lots of boredom.

  It took a couple of weeks to settle into the new routine, but I managed. Adjusting at school after my suspension ended was much harder. As promised, Oliver had been moved away from me in every class we shared. Sometimes he would look at me in the halls, smirk flirtatiously, and wrap his arm around whatever girl was closest at the time. It was a silent message, but it was loud and clear.

  Our friends seemed to be bouncing between us. They were mine during school hours, but they were Oliver’s when I was trapped at home every afternoon. They still smoked and partied, but Van was the exception. His loyalty was to me, and he made it clear he was finished with Oliver.

  It almost seemed
like things would be okay… until the day my period was due came and went with no period. I checked and double-checked my empty pill packet, but it wasn’t a user error. After a few days, I panicked.

  Of course, the one time I actually wanted to talk to Oliver, he didn’t show up for school. Miss Verity picked me and Van up and drove us home. When we got there, instead of following Van inside the house, I stood next to her car in the garage.

  “I need to leave,” I said.

  My grandmother stopped and turned to look at me. “Why?” she asked.

  I didn’t bother with lies. There was no point with her. “I need to talk to Oliver.”

  “Your parents—”

  “Miss Verity, please,” I said. “I need one hour, maybe less.”

  She thought for a moment, eyes squinted and lips pursed. “You have one hour.”

  “Thank you.” I nodded and dropped my backpack on the trunk of the car. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

  I caught the first trolley and rode it as far as possible to save time. Getting to Oliver’s house and back in less than an hour would’ve been tricky under normal circumstances, and those were anything but.

  There was a crowd at his place when I arrived. Penn’s car was parked out front with several others, and Celeste met me on the porch.

  “Hey, girl,” she said, hooking her arm through mine, trying to steer me down the steps I’d just climbed. “Finally ungrounded?”

  “No. Probably never.” I stopped and held firm on the porch. “I need to talk to Oliver.”

  She looked down at her feet and interlaced her fingers with mine. “Talk to him some other time,” she said.

  “Why?” I asked, looking at the door. “Is he fucking someone in there?”

  She shrugged and pulled her hand away.

  I walked through the front door and saw a mixture of people I recognized from school and some from Mitchell’s place. Oliver was on the brown couch with his hand up the skirt of some girl who looked older than Ronnie. His lips were on her neck, and the people around them ignored her panting and the way her hand clawed at his forearm as he finger-fucked her.

  “Oh, fuck, Violet.” Penn’s voice behind me caused Oliver’s eyes to snap open, and he smiled cruelly before scraping his teeth against her skin. Her body stiffened, and she cried out once, then twice.

  Oliver pushed her legs off of his, stood, and adjusted his cock through his pants with his hand. “You finally came around, huh?” he said, stepping over her feet and around the table to stand next to me.

  “I need to talk to you,” I said.

  He smiled. “Okay. I want to talk to you, too. Let’s go to my room. I’ve got some good shit in there, and you can catch up.”

  “No.”

  “‘No’?”

  “I need to talk to you,” I said again.

  He looked around at the others in the room who’d started listening to our conversation. “Well, if you’re not here to party, talk.”

  “I’m late.”

  The chatter stopped. Someone across the room said “oh, shit” at the same time Oliver grabbed my arm and walked to the hall.

  “Let me get this straight. You haven’t spoken to me in weeks, you act like I’m not there, and then you want to pull this?” He stepped forward, cornering me. “You said you were on the pill.”

  “I am,” I said. “And before you ask, no, I didn’t miss any.”

  “Have you taken a test? Are you sure?”

  “No. I’m fucking grounded. I can’t leave the house without supervision. I’m only here now because Miss Verity had mercy on me.”

  “Don’t come at me with this shit until you’re sure, and even then, I want a fucking paternity test.” His thumb caught my chin and pushed my head back against the wall. A stranger stared back at me. “I’m no one’s fucking daddy. What the hell would I know about being a father?”

  “Fine.” A whisper was all I could manage. “Leave me alone.”

  He moved so I could pass him. Everyone in the room was staring, and the music sounded far away as the faces blurred on either side of me.

  “Wait.” Penn’s hand grazed my shoulder, a feather-light touch compared to Oliver’s grip. “I’ll give you a ride.”

  Too tired to argue, I nodded. He kept a hand on my back to steer me out of the house, and when we reached his car, he opened the passenger door for me.

  Penn didn’t talk during the drive. He made a quick stop at the Walgreens on Magazine, but I stayed in the car, dazed and exhausted. There was a pregnancy test in his hand when he came back. There was no bag, so I shoved it into my purse and counted the street signs until Dufossat came into view.

  “Thanks,” I said as he parked in front of my house. “I’ll pay you back. I have money.”

  “I’m not worried about it.” He cut the engine and turned to look at me. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” I stared at my hands in my lap. A week before, I’d thought Auburn would be my future.

  “You’re not in this by yourself, you know.”

  “You heard him.” My voice strangled around tears. “Yes, I am.”

  I got out before he could answer. Miss Verity was on the porch, watching as I closed the car door behind me.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?” she asked.

  Instead of answering, I passed her and went straight upstairs to my room, where I knew she couldn’t follow. My hands shook holding the box, but I made it through reading the instructions and then peeing on a stick. All of that was cake compared to the wait.

  I stared at the clock on my wall and watched the seconds tick down. Instead of going back to the bathroom when the allotted time had passed, I walked out onto the balcony and took a few deep breaths to calm my racing heart. The trembling eventually stopped. There was a brief moment of nausea walking into the bathroom, but in the end, it wasn’t necessary.

  The test was negative.

  Life moved along. My period didn’t.

  Four days later, it still hadn’t shown up. I knew then that something was wrong. Maybe the test had been a dud. Obsessing over something that wasn’t there, I went to the bathroom between classes. Since it was officially a week late, I broke down and went to Miss Verity.

  “I think I messed up,” I said, sitting at the kitchen table after school. “I did. I messed up.”

  “What happened?”

  “I need to go to the clinic. Can you take me tomorrow? I can’t skip school. They’ll call Dad…” She walked across the room with measured steps and slid into the chair across from me. “But if you check me out, they won’t.”

  “Violet, I—”

  “Please. Please take me. I don’t want to give them another reason to hate me.”

  She reached across the table to lay her hand on mine. “We’ll talk to your mother tonight. Together. It’s her place, honey, not mine.”

  “She’ll tell Dad.”

  “You don’t know what she’ll do.”

  “Fine. I’ll talk to her.”

  And after dinner, while we were in my parents’ office, I did. She dropped her pen in surprise when I told her I was late. “Oh, Violet” was all she said.

  The next morning, I went to school like any other day, and once her morning classes were finished, she came to pick me up. Oliver’s head whipped up when the secretary called for me via the intercom during French. I ignored him and gathered my things as quickly and quietly as possible.

  “Will you take me to the clinic?” I asked after closing the car door. “I don’t want Dad to see an insurance claim.”

  She glanced over at me. “You’ve given this a lot of thought. Don’t you think we’ll have to tell him if the test is positive?”

  I thought of the acceptance packet to Auburn sitting on my desk in my bedroom. I also thought of my sister, pregnant and hundreds of miles from home.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  There were a few other girls in the waiting area at the clinic. Mom took a seat while I
signed myself in at the reception desk. In the box labelled Reason for Visit, I scribbled in a one-word answer: late.

  My name was called almost an hour later, and Mom hesitated in her seat until I turned and waved for her to come with me. The nurse took my blood pressure and then gave me a cup to pee in. Mom was alone in the room after my trip to the restroom. She kept her back turned while I changed into a white paper gown.

  The doctor came in and asked questions—invasive, embarrassing questions—and some of my answers made the skin of my mother’s cheeks stain red. Other answers caused her head to shake and lips to purse in anger. At the doctor’s urging, I lay back and let her check for other issues. Then the nurse came back to draw blood. They said sex with addicts was dangerous, that I’d opened the door and exposed myself to all sorts of unpleasant scenarios by not using condoms with a boy I’d handed my heart to.

  They left me alone with Mom and the most terrible silence I’d ever known. I felt dirty and exposed, and I rushed to change into my clothes, like covering myself made any difference. Every minute felt like an hour until the doctor finally came back into the room.

  “You’re not pregnant,” she said. Tears slipped down my cheeks as relief flooded through me.

  “Oh, thank goodness. Thank you,” I said. “Why am I late, then?”

  “It could be stress. Plus, you said you’ve had trouble sleeping.” She tapped the file in her hand and frowned. “The results of a few of the other tests are in here.”

  Oliver hadn’t knocked me up, but he’d managed to leave a stinging parting gift. Trichomoniasis was small in comparison to a baby. One dose of Tinidazole took care of the issue. My period started that night while I was sleeping. Knowing must have kick-started it.

  A week later at my recheck, I was given the all clear and told to follow up with a Pap smear in three to six months. Mom took me for gelato to celebrate. Instead of taking me back to school, she drove to Tulane and let me spend the afternoon with her in her office, where we listened to her eighties playlist and graded tests. My Auburn plans were back on, and our visit was scheduled for the end of March. Mom seemed excited to discuss things I’d need: new bedding, a microwave, decent luggage, a bicycle… The list went on.