If This Were a Story

by Beth Turley

  “Yeah. That’s what I’m going to do.”

  The door to the bathroom bursts open so hard, it smacks the wall. My heart jump-starts, and I clutch my knees even tighter into my chest. I close my eyes and mumble apologies to everyone: to my parents, to Kimmy, to Ms. Meghan. To myself.

  “Hannah? Hannah, are you in here?” I hear.

  “Bubby?”

  “Yes, yes, it’s me. You’re safe; you can come out.” I want to run from the stall, but instead I stand slowly and peek through the cracks. I see Bubby’s gray hair and white T-shirt. I’m crying when I open the door and finally walk out of my little box. Bubby wraps his arm around my shoulders while they shake.

  “Was it a drill?” I ask.

  “Not this time. Are you all right?” he asks. Before I can ask what happened, I remember that I wasn’t alone.

  “There’s someone else in here.” I walk up to the stall next to mine and knock. “We’re safe now. Come out.” No sound comes out of the stall. No feet finally climb off the toilet.

  “Really, it’s okay, come out,” I try again. Still nothing. “Come on!” I push the door, and it flies open.

  The stall is empty. There’s no girl hiding inside. A fresh patch of paint covers the place where the writing on the wall used to be.

  Bubby clears his throat behind me. “That’s all right, Hannah. Let’s get you out of here.”

  In stories there are moments called revelations. I think I’m having mine. Maybe I do have magic inside me, but it’s not the type that brings stuffed animals and objects to life. It was just me all along, leading myself to where I am now, showing me what I have to do.

  I don’t know what danger is out in the halls, but I’m running. Away from the bathroom. Away from the thoughts that tell me to stop. All the way to Ms. Meghan’s office.

  She is typing furiously at her computer.

  “Ms. Meghan?” I say. She looks up at me with a moon-white face.

  “Hannah?”

  “I have to talk to you about the notes,” I say.

  “Hannah, we don’t have to talk about that right now. There’s just been a situation,” Ms. Meghan says.

  “Please, I have to. I have to tell the truth.”

  “What is it?”

  I take a deep breath. I blow out the part of me that keeps everything in, that can’t talk about how I feel, that would rather write painful notes about the thoughts piled up in my head than just say the words out loud.

  “I did it. I wrote them.”

  From Hannah’s Pages of “Lost in the Funhouse”

  For all a person knows the first time through, the end could be just around any corner; perhaps, not impossibly it’s been within reach any number of times.

  Confession

  I wait with Ms. Meghan in the office for my parents. Officer Riana walks in with her sights set on Principal Jenkins’s door. I know she’s not here for me. My crime has been overshadowed by whatever sent the school into lockdown. Ms. Meghan won’t tell me anything about it.

  “I’m proud of you, Hannah,” Ms. Meghan says. I’m surprised enough to look away from the door.

  “Proud?” I ask.

  “I can only imagine how hard it must have been for you to tell the truth.” One police officer comes out of the office. Then a second one. I can’t see until they’re close to the door, but there is someone walking between them with her head down, tears streaming down her cheeks. Kimmy.

  Like so many other times, the first thing I think about is “Lost in the Funhouse.”

  If you knew all the stories behind all the people on the boardwalk, you’d see that nothing was what it looked like.

  I turn back to Ms. Meghan.

  “I think it will be easier to tell the truth now,” I say.

  “Are you ready to test that out?” she asks, and nods her head toward the door. Mom and Dad are walking through.

  “Yes. I’m ready.”

  • • •

  I sit on the living room couch with my parents in front of me. Their faces are wrinkled like bewildered raisins. Dad looks at the ground as if something has died. My heart aches because I disappointed them, but it aches even more to finally tell them why.

  “I’m sorry,” I start. This only melts the ice in their eyes a little bit.

  “Why, Hannah? You had so many chances to tell the truth. Why would you do something like this at all?” Mom says.

  “I needed . . . attention.” It’s not a good enough explanation. It sounds like a tantrum.

  “This is how you want to get attention? By bullying yourself?” Mom continues.

  “When you were worried about me, you stopped fighting. I just wanted to stop the fighting. You never talk to each other anymore. You just yell.” My parents sit next to me on the couch.

  “You couldn’t tell us that?” Dad asks.

  “It’s hard for me to say how I feel. It’s easier to keep it all locked up inside.”

  “Adults fight, Hannah. Everyone who loves each other fights,” Mom says.

  I take a breath. I have to say the hardest words, the ones that hurt the most.

  “So much that they almost hit each other?” I ask.

  Dad makes a sound in his throat like a sob that got stuck.

  “I never should have done that, Hannah. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and put you through too much. Both of you.” Dad’s cheeks are red, but not the angry red, the rosy red that comes from crying. I have never seen him cry. It makes me feel embarrassed, because I did this.

  “Don’t cry, Daddy.” He pulls me in close. Mom wraps me up from the other side, and the three of us stay that way for a long time.

  “I want us to be happy,” I whisper into our tangled-up hug.

  “We will be. You’ll see,” Dad replies. From my place between my parents, I see him look at Mom. “No more taking work out on you. Nothing is more important than home.”

  Mom smiles with watery eyes.

  Dad mumbles “I’m so sorry” a few more times, and then we are quiet.

  “Am I still in trouble?” I ask when the hug ends.

  “Oh yeah,” my parents say together.

  Mom takes the bun out of her hair and reties it. It looks perfect.

  Sunlight gathers on the windowpane, the one that looks to the backyard. The grass still slopes the same way. The trees are the same ones that have grown beside me. But I feel in my healing heart that now my family will be different.

  Counselor’s Notes: Friday, November 6

  Name: Kimmy Dobson

  Grade: Five

  Reason for visit: Kimmy visited several empty classrooms and stole money, expensive clothing, and cell phones. Did so while wearing a Frankenstein mask. Dropped a backpack in the hallway. This was seen on the security cameras and prompted a lockdown. She proceeded to run out of the school and hide in the woods when lockdown was announced.

  Demeanor: Kimmy was extremely distraught. Expressed significant regret over decision. Was inconsolable to the point of physical sickness. Unresponsive to conversation for several minutes before settling down enough to talk.

  Visit: Transcript follows.

  COUNSELOR: Kimmy, please, settle down and talk to me. We’re just talking.

  STUDENT: I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.

  COUNSELOR: I know you are. Why were you stealing?

  STUDENT: I thought I was going to go to the national spelling bee. I thought I would win the prize money. But then I lost. I just wanted to help my grandma. Oh, Grandma, I’m so sorry!

  COUNSELOR: Your grandma loves you, Kimmy. She begged to take care of you when your mom died. Do you remember?

  STUDENT: She won’t love me now. No one is ever going to love me again.

  COUNSELOR: That’s not true. You are always going to be more than the mistakes you make. This is going to pass.

  STUDENT: I swear I was going to give everything back. I don’t know what I was thinking. I couldn’t really steal.

  COUNSELOR: Is that why you l
eft the bag behind in the hallway?

  STUDENT: Yes. I just wanted to give it all back before anyone could know it was me. I wasn’t thinking, I wasn’t thinking at all.

  COUNSELOR: I believe you, Kimmy.

  STUDENT: You do?

  COUNSELOR: Yes.

  STUDENT: Am I suspended?

  Next action: School will suspend Kimmy for action. I can tell that she is sincerely apologetic. This action was a buildup of extreme emotion that she could not get a handle on. Kimmy will meet regularly with therapist before being readmitted to school. I hope that a fresh start will be waiting for her when she returns.

  Life Goes On

  I’m grounded for two weeks, the length of my suspension. I spend the time reading and thinking about my powers. Ambrose sits on the bed with me, but I don’t try to wake him up. I still believe there’s magic in sounds, but it doesn’t come from pennies or stop signs or coffee mugs. The magic comes from listening to yourself.

  Two days before my suspension and grounded-ness ends, my parents decide I can go to the park with Courtney. We sit on the seesaw and push ourselves up and down.

  “Ryan and I miss you,” Courtney says. I jump, and my feet are lifted into the air.

  “I miss you both too. Who got to be spelling bee champion?”

  “Rebecca.”

  Losing my place in the citywide spelling bee was one of the worst parts of my punishment. It felt like dropping back down to the ground on a seesaw; your stomach gets left at the top.

  “Does everyone know what happened?” I ask.

  “You were officially overshadowed by Kimmy.”

  “Why do you think she did it?”

  “Why did you write the notes? Why does anyone do anything?” We seesaw in silence for a minute.

  “It’s those other struggles that Officer Riana told us about. Everyone’s hurting from something.”

  Courtney hops off the seesaw and picks up her pink purse. She pulls out a plastic bag and then one of the rolls of pennies.

  “Let’s do something about that, then.”

  We climb on top of platforms and crawl in the grass, even though our clothes get muddy. Anything to plant the heads-up pennies without being seen. I’m preparing to put one inside the tire swing, when I see someone sitting under the oak tree, headphones in her ears. The wind blows her green checkered shirt. I keep the penny in my hand and start to walk over to her.

  “Hannah, no. Are you crazy?” Courtney comes up behind me. She looks around and then places a penny on the ground by our feet.

  “She’s alone,” I say.

  I leave Courtney behind and cross the open field to the oak tree. Kimmy doesn’t hear me when I approach.

  “Hey,” I say. She looks up and pulls the headphones out of her ears before standing. She takes a step toward me but then retreats, like for a second she can’t remember why she’s supposed to hate me.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “I’m sorry you got suspended.”

  If this were a story, a spontaneous hurricane would break out across the park. The kind that rips up trees and knocks down the playground and sucks cars up into the wind with passengers still inside. Then, all of a sudden, it would just stop. Life would go on.

  “Me too,” Kimmy answers.

  “And I’m sorry if I had anything to do with what you did. I shouldn’t have blamed you for the notes.”

  Kimmy digs a hole in the ground with her boot.

  “I think it would’ve happened anyway. I think I wanted other people to feel just as hurt as I was. But it was a mistake, and I regretted it right away.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Her cheeks turn a shy kind of red.

  “I did write one note about you,” she says.

  “You did?”

  “During the kind words activity. The one that said you were a good person.”

  Maybe it is true that one kind act can fix everything.

  “I wrote that you were a good speller,” I admit.

  “That is so true.”

  I laugh and reach into my pocket for a roll of pennies. I hold them out to her. “Do you want to come spread some good luck with us?”

  Kimmy smiles, and her face breaks open like she was wearing a mask this whole time. She is unrecognizable when she reaches into her backpack for a tattered coin purse.

  “I have my own.”

  We meet back up with Courtney, who explains the rules of coin-dropping to Kimmy. Then we run together through the park, three friends on a mission.

  In “Lost in the Funhouse” Ambrose wishes he had someone in the funhouse with him. The two could work together to get out of the dark, learning about each other and themselves along the way. When they finally made it out of the funhouse and into the sunlight, he would see that the friend he’d made in his darkest minutes was not who he had expected. It might even be his enemy.

  “Where should we put this one?” Kimmy asks. She lifts a penny from her coin purse. It looks like every other penny on the face of this earth, but I know it’s her. Penny. She was with Kimmy this whole time.

  “Let’s put her on top of the tower,” I suggest.

  “Her?” Courtney asks.

  I run away from the question, and Kimmy and Courtney follow. We put Penny at the highest point of the wooden tower.

  “How’s this?” Kimmy asks.

  “Perfect!” I shout in a Penny voice.

  Penny can see everything from here. She can see the trees and the grass and the swirl of blue-gray sky. I hope she can see that everyone is going to be okay.

  Last Letter

  The morning before my suspension ends, Ms. Meghan comes to see me at home.

  “Can we talk for a minute? I have something for you.” She pulls a white envelope from her coat pocket. My name is written on the outside. I put a jacket on over my pajamas and sit with Ms. Meghan on the front steps.

  “What is it?” I ask her.

  “It’s a letter from your pen pal. I thought you might like to read it.” She hands the envelope to me. I must not look as happy as she expected, because she asks, “What’s wrong?”

  “The funhouse in the story wasn’t really a funhouse, was it? It was life. Ambrose was lost in life.”

  Ms. Meghan looks out into the distance.

  “I’d say that’s up to the reader. But I would agree that the funhouse was Ambrose’s life.”

  “I think he found his way.”

  “I think so too.”

  We sit in silence for a moment.

  “Do you remember Riley Jones?” I ask.

  “Of course. Why?”

  “I was thinking we could plant flowers around his tree. In the spring, when its warm again. I want him to know that we still remember.”

  Ms. Meghan leans her head against her palm and looks at me with soft, puzzled eyes. I think she’s getting used to the way my mind connects things, how a letter from my pen pal can lead to revelations about “Lost in the Funhouse” and flowers for Riley Jones.

  “That’s a great idea. I’ll see you soon, Hannah,” she says.

  When Ms. Meghan leaves, I take my letter to the hill in my backyard and sit in the grass. With shaky hands I tear the envelope open and start to read.

  Dear Hannah,

  I’m sorry I wasn’t the pen pal you expected. I can honestly tell you that I didn’t mean to be a disappointment. Being thirteen is a lot like being ten. It’s confusing. It seems like the more you get to know about yourself, the harder it is to be that person. You start to wish you could be someone else. And then things get messy. You were right about what you said. I don’t know how you figured me out so quickly.

  You’re different, Hannah. I can tell. You know yourself in a way that is going to help people. You make others better because you truly accept them, no matter what. Even me. Even after I let you down.

  Shelby’s brother goes to your school, so I heard about what happened with the notes. If no one has told you this already, I want you to know I
understand. It’s hard to speak up when things are going wrong in your head. Sometimes you just want someone to notice that you’re not okay. That feeling can make you do some pretty dark things.

  Promise me you’ll try really hard not to focus on the bad stuff. You have too much other, amazing stuff in your brain to get all blocked up with what hurts. I know it’s hard to see all the good inside yourself. Maybe the hardest thing there is. But I know you can do it.

  Just be you, Hannah. Spell your words and drop your pennies all over the place.

  Look for me when you get to high school.

  XOXOXO, Ashley

  The first drops of snow fall from the sky above, and the air smells like new beginnings.

  I gather a few flakes on my sleeve and let the crystals sparkle in the gray light.

  “You are all special,” I say.

  “So are you,” the flakes chime back to me like a choir, before melting away. But I know it wasn’t really the snow telling me that.

  If this were a story, then the main character would lie in the grass in her backyard and reread the letter from her pen pal, feeling full of her own kind of magic. It’s not quite a happily ever after, but it’s her ever after, and that’s good enough.

  Acknowledgments

  I want to thank my amazing agent, Zoe Sandler, at ICM for believing in this story; and my editor, Krista Vitola, whose guidance made this book a deeper version of itself. I’d like to frame all of your emails and hang them on my wall for inspiration. I’m so grateful for the chance to work with Simon & Schuster, and with both of you.

  Thank you to my big family for their incredible support. Mom, Dad, and Crissy: This dream never felt impossible because I had you. Peace be the journey.

  To my MFA colleagues, Writing Center family, and irreplaceable friends at Western Connecticut State University, there aren’t words for how much you helped me grow as a writer and a person.

  Zoe and Jess, thank you for being two of this book’s first readers and for just about everything else. Ryan, everyone deserves a friend/personal hype-woman like you. Leo, thank you for coming to visit in that snowstorm and sitting there while this story spilled out.