The Arrival of Someday

by Jen Malone

  Will laughs, then raises his box of macarons in salute. “Good seeing you, Decker.”

  “Back atcha, Will Srisari.” I jog lightly up the steps and wave bye as I unlock the door. He answers the gesture and turns away.

  For a second I wonder if he rode the T here and whether I should offer him a ride across the river; Mom’s car is right there in the driveway. But I decide to let tonight end on this note and be happy with what it was: a chance to spend time with an old friend and, more important, with the missing pre-diagnosis Amelia.

  Aside from the tiny hiccup at the end, as Saturday nights go, definitely not the worst one I’ve ever had.

  Words With Friends notification for QuitWithTheT-rex:

  AllHaiL(ia)TheChief played GALL for 14 points

  9

  FRANCIA, WHOM I’VE BARELY TALKED TO SINCE WE HAD COOKING class together in freshman year, is leaning over my desk in the minutes before English Lit starts on Wednesday.

  “I’m sure he’d be happy to talk to you, if you want me to ask him,” she tells me, referring to a great-uncle of hers who had a heart transplant in 1978.

  1978.

  My mother was barely even alive then, let alone me. I’m guessing the procedure has changed a teensy bit since. Also, Anatomy might not be my strongest subject, but even I know that a heart is not a bladder is not a kidney is not a liver. Pretty sure the operations differ a smidgen.

  I usually pride myself on my witty comebacks, but I’m finding out fast that everything’s different when the subject matter is so intensely personal.

  Instead, I fumble an answer. “Um, thanks, but, uh, there’s a private Facebook group of people who’ve had liver transplants, so I can, um, find lots of people to talk to there.”

  This is true. I even went so far as to request membership just after I got home from the hospital, before I changed my mind and decided being on there would not fit in well with my plan for keeping the darkness away, which consists of one step only: don’t even look sideways at the darkness.

  Of course, Francia doesn’t need that extra info.

  Bryan tips his desk on two legs to lean closer to us. “I saw this one episode of Grey’s Anatomy where the guy has this liver condition, right? And—”

  My friend Jemima turns around in her seat. “I never would have pegged you for a Grey’s Anatomy fan, Ty.”

  “Shut up. I have sisters, okay?”

  “No shame. Guys should be more in touch with their sensitive side,” she replies. “So, which is it: McDreamy or McSteamy?”

  Jemima winks at me, and I reply with a grateful smile. I don’t know whether she jumped in specifically to save me or is simply gleeful about the chance to give Bryan crap, but man, I wish there were a thousand Jemimas to follow me around school and run interference.

  Those few hours of relief with Will Saturday night are already a distant memory. I know my classmates are (mostly) well-meaning and sympathetic and curious, but it’s been two and a half solid days of questions and anecdotes, and it doesn’t seem to be easing up at all.

  What might be worse are the conversations that stop the minute I come into sight.

  Or the people I’ve known forever who suddenly can’t seem to make eye contact with me. Like they’re worried I’m contagious or something. Or as if I’m somehow to blame that they have to feel uncomfortable for the five seconds it takes them to pass me in the hallway.

  How am I supposed to remain calm and optimistic when the entire world is conspiring against my plan to get through this the one way I can envision being able to handle it?

  “I’ve been bingeing reruns of that show! McDreamy gives me life,” Francia says. “What about you, Amelia?”

  Sibby’s books hit the desk next to mine with a loud CLAP! “McDreamy’s a pig. All men are pigs. Screw the whole lot of them.”

  Bryan opens his mouth to mount a defense and Sibby snaps “Get stuffed!” before he can utter a word.

  He and Jemima exchange glances, then turn around in their chairs just as the bell rings. Our teacher isn’t in the room yet though, and I continue to stare at Sibby.

  “What?” she asks, busying herself searching for a pencil in the black hole of her backpack.

  I dangle an extra of mine in her face. “Uh . . . ? What do you mean ‘what’? Spill! What happened to bring on the mood?”

  Please don’t let it be worry about me. Please don’t let it be worry about me.

  Things between us are mostly back to normal, I guess, although I still can’t bring myself to share my real feelings about the assembly, partly because it doesn’t seem worth getting into a big thing with her when I know at least some of my feelings about her role in it are irrational, and partly because it would mean reliving that afternoon. No thanks.

  She swivels to face me, snatches the pencil from my fingers, and whispers, “It’s that creeper Dormer. He gave me detention last period because my shorts are ‘inappropriate.’”

  I peek under her desk. Her shorts are noteworthy only for the fact that she’s wearing them in March. In Boston. The freakish warm spell Alex talked about has miraculously made its way north to us this week and it has everyone dreaming of spring. I’m the one always cranking up the thermostat and even I couldn’t resist wearing my favorite lightweight tee, bright orange with a tiny print of girls in sunglasses riding Vespas. While it’s not bare legs weather per se, try telling that to an Australian beach bum.

  “How are they inappropriate?”

  “Oh, he reminded me coolly of the fingertips rule in the dress code, before telling me they were ‘a distraction to my classmates’ and giving me detention. Classmates, my arse. Perverted jerk.”

  My jaw drops open. “I’m sorry, what? He said that to you?”

  She nods and her shoulders slump. Which is just . . . no. No way am I going to let her feel crappy over this ignoramus’s comments.

  “WTF, Sib!”

  Mrs. Aguilar enters the room and calls everyone’s attention to the front. “I know this change of temperature makes graduation feel all that much closer, but you’re still mine for the next few months, so I trust you’re all up to date on your Anna Karenina annotating. Bitter Russian winters are the perfect antidote to this cheerful spring weather, don’t you think?”

  Sliding a blank sheet of paper from my binder, I write in all caps:

  WE ARE FIGHTING THIS!!!!!!!!!

  I angle it toward Sibby, who reads it and shrugs. I can guess how she’s probably feeling: embarrassed and icky. She’s likely still in shock. But that’s gonna fade fast and when it does, I’ll be ready and waiting to match an anger that’s going to be epic.

  Mrs. Aguilar clears her throat significantly and I glance up to find her eyes on me, so I spend the rest of class pretending to focus on her. But I smile inside when, in the edges of my vision, Sibby’s posture transitions from slumped to sharp and her foot goes from still to jiggling.

  And I scheme.

  My motives are pure, but I’d be lying if I said I don’t also welcome any opportunity to be consumed by something that has nothing to do with livers or prognoses or intrusive questions. It’s different from the flirty fun I had with Will; it’s the “take charge and handle shit” attitude I love and miss about being on the derby track—the one I thought I could recapture at the assembly.

  That plan turned out to be . . . misguided. But this?

  This I can slay!

  I’m actually a little surprised we haven’t had occasion to take on the dress code before the bitter end of senior year, but I’m all for getting it in under the gun. The minute the bell rings, I bolt from my seat and grab Sibby’s arm.

  “I have a plan. Come with me.”

  I’m reassured she’s hit outrage level when she doesn’t utter a peep of protest.

  “Where are we going?” is all she asks, followed by, “Am I gonna miss Spanish?”

  “Art room and yes,” I answer, tugging her into the hallway.

  “Don’t you have Anatomy now? Isn’t tha
t your hardest class?”

  “I would rather fail Anatomy than fail my best friend.”

  “How noble. You’re not gonna be saying that when Amherst pulls your early admission.” She gives me a look. “Also, you’re full of crap.”

  I stick out my tongue as I dodge a locker door that swings open. “Okay, fine, I might not be heartbroken about missing Anatomy, but I can also be incensed on your behalf, can’t I?”

  “Which is why I love you so much. Hey, do you reckon Rindge is obligated to report any disciplinary action they take against me to Tufts, even this long after I submitted my application? If this one detention means I won’t get my fair go with them, that’d be crap.”

  I pick up my pace, dodging a cluster of kids huddled around a cell phone. “I don’t know, but it’s not gonna reach that point, Sib, I promise.”

  She nods and quickens her pace to match mine.

  We luck out to find the art room empty and a sign on the door instructing all students to meet behind the gym for outdoor classes today. Miss Leekley (“But you guys should call me Skye”) is the kind of person you’d expect to live in one of those hipster tiny houses and uses words like “chakra” and “aura,” so I’m not surprised she’d want to be one with nature on the first nice day of the year.

  “Grab some markers,” I tell Sibby. “If you can find fabric ones, all the better, but otherwise any will do.”

  I cross the room to the wall of cabinets in the back and yank open the far right one, where I know I’ll find a bin of extra-large men’s white T-shirts, which Miss Leekley keeps on hand for students who find themselves in need of makeshift smocks. I pull a bunch from the pile and shake them out, looking for those with the fewest wrinkles. When I have two viable candidates, I present them to Sibby.

  “Voilà.”

  “Okay, I’m all in for this, whatever it is, but . . . what is it?” she asks.

  This, dearest Sib, is a chance for us to take on the world on equal terms, instead of that lopsided dynamic at the assembly. A chance to get back to our regular relationship, with zero conflicted feelings.

  I spread a shirt on the paint-speckled table in the center of the room and uncap a marker. It’s green-apple scented, which reminds me of the one I drew at the bakery on Saturday and makes me smile. Well, that plus my scheme. I’m not going for aesthetics, but I have to confess my hand lettering skills come in handy as I shape the words WHY ARE YOU STARING AT MY LEGS ANYWAY? down the front of the shirt in loopy letters.

  Sibby grins. “Ah. Got it!”

  “We need something about the dress code for the back.”

  “VIVE LA RÉVOLUTION?”

  I wrinkle my nose and she tries again. “DOWN WITH PERVERTS?”

  This time I hold my fingers an inch apart. “Maybe a teensy bit much?”

  “Not where Dormer’s concerned. Right then, have a go at OUR DRESS CODE NEEDS RE-CODING.”

  “Perfect! You’re brilliant!” I block out the letters, then hand the tee to her with a triumphant smile. She drops her backpack and tugs it on over her outfit. My girl is tiny; it hangs almost to her knees. While she models, I write the same message in strawberry-scented marker on the other smock and pull it on. I’m not nearly as short and the skirts I favor are all vintage, which means they tend to run longer, so I have to roll my waistband several times to make my hem disappear underneath. When we’re situated, Sibby and I clutch hands and giggle.

  “Should I ditch my tights?” I ask. “Before you answer, I’m gonna mention that I haven’t shaved my legs in a couple of days.”

  Sibby backs up and assesses me. “Nah, you look like an adorable chicken with the white shirt and bright yellow legs.”

  I sigh in mock despair. “No one ever said revolutions were glamorous.”

  Sibby snips a few fashionable little triangles out of our necklines, then drops the scissors into a bucket, where they hit the base with a clink. “Shall we go take on the patriarchy?”

  I throw a fist in the air in solidarity. “Down with the patriarchy!”

  It feels good. I feel good.

  This is what I thought last Friday’s assembly could give me—that sense of purpose that drives me. I love challenges and targets and feeling like there’s a force pushing me on. I actually felt a tiny bit let down when I got into Amherst early admission because so much of my high school career up until then had been focused on building an impressive transcript for my college application and I wouldn’t have that to occupy me anymore. I adore that pre-scrimmage derby locker room talk where we get each other pumped up beyond belief and fill our chests with fierce desire and motivation.

  Obviously the assembly didn’t go as planned.

  And other than that doomed attempt, my only task lately has been waiting. Waiting for the call telling me they’ve found me a liver. Waiting for temperatures to be consistently warm enough to begin my mural. Waiting for high school to end so my future can begin.

  Waiting to see if I get to have a future.

  I brush that last thought away as fast as it forms.

  Taking on the school’s antiquated dress code policy can be my new purpose. I feel it! A gift to future generations of Rindge students!

  Sibby heads for the door, but I grab her arm. “Hold on. Always come to battle armed with facts, right? We need ammunition,” I say.

  It may have been tough to recite the organ donation statistics at the assembly, but I can’t deny: cold, hard figures have the ability to sway hearts and minds.

  She tugs off her smock and tucks it into her backpack. “Definitely. Okay, we hit the library through the end of this period, conquer the internet, then storm the halls between bells when we’ll get maximum exposure.”

  I gesture to her legs. “No pun intended?” I couldn’t call myself Jeff Linehan’s daughter with my head held high if I let such an easy one pass me by.

  Sibby groans appreciation, but then I catch her exhale.

  “What?” I ask, trying to interpret the expression on her face.

  She shakes her head and fixes her attention on tightening her backpack strap. “This coming weekend is when we were supposed to be driving to DC for the climate change march, you know.”

  “Yeah,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

  Her eyes jump to mine. “No! I wasn’t reminding you to make you feel guilty. For fuck’s sake, it’s not like you had any say in the matter, Lia! I was trying to say that I’m happy we’re doing something like this. Together, I mean. It’s seemed a bit like you—yeah, nah, that’s it. Just . . . I’m happy.”

  I press my lips together with relief and nod several times. “Same.”

  “Well, c’mon then!” She gestures for me to shove my own smock-slash-protest-piece into my purse and links her arms through mine as we exit the art room.

  While I would never wish detention on Sibby, I don’t know why I didn’t think of something like this sooner. I’d been praying for the next drama to pull everyone’s attention off my BA; it should have occurred to me to create it myself. The attention will still be on me, but not as Amelia Linehan, Dying Girl.

  Amelia Linehan, Sexist-Dress-Code Slayer, has a far, far better ring to it.

  I am very okay with that kind of notoriety.

  In fact, it gives me life.

  We wait just inside the double doors of the library for a good ten seconds after the next bell rings, allowing the hallways to fill, before we simultaneously burst through them like the warrior goddesses we are.

  There are some curious glances to start, but once we twirl to allow both sides of our shirts to be seen, our mandate becomes clear.

  “You go, girls!” a boy calls.

  “Shake it, sisters!” a girl from my French class last year says.

  I relish the attention.

  Two girls step in front of us to act as bodyguards, parting the crowds so our two-person parade can sashay down the hallways unimpeded. One of them starts a chant of “Down with sexist standards!” that quickly catches on and bounces off th
e walls.

  Sibby and I make eye contact and her grin is every bit as wide as mine. We skip up to the first landing of the stairwell. But perched at the top is Mr. Dormer himself.

  “Do you two need an escort to the administration wing or can I trust you to find your own way there? Immediately.”

  Sibby fixes a death glare on him, so I answer for both of us.

  “We’re good solo,” I say, giving him my most angelic smile.

  No big deal. All part of the plan.

  I do miss the energy, though, once we’re in the hushed cocoon of the waiting area outside Principal Kurjakovic’s office, where we fidget in too-straight chairs well into the next class period, before she ushers us inside.

  “Have a seat, girls,” she says, waving at the couch along one wall. I move aside a needlepoint pillow that reads I AM SILENTLY CORRECTING YOUR GRAMMAR and plop down. My shirt rides up and exposes the bottom hem of my skirt and I have to fight my instinct to pull them both down. Instead, I let them creep higher. Sibby balances on the edge of the cushion beside me.

  We’ve planned ahead of time to let Kurjakovic steer the conversation to start, so she’ll think she holds the power. She must be onto us, though, because she simply leans back in her chair, waiting for one of us to speak.

  Our game of chicken goes on for a good twenty seconds before she finally breaks down and asks, “Why don’t you tell me what led to all of this?”

  Her hand swishes through the air to indicate our shirts.

  “Total humiliation,” Sibby responds, and the principal’s eyebrows rise. “It’s utter embarrassment to have a male teacher give you detention and say that your shorts are distracting to your classmates because they’re riding too high on your thighs. And it makes me wonder: Why was Mr. Dormer looking and where must his thoughts have gone for him to come to that conclusion? It’s totally inappropriate.”

  I’m so proud of Sibby for getting all that out in a strong, clear voice.

  Kurjakovic’s face turns a little green and I almost giggle. I’m sure she’s imagining how tiny Sibby’s sweet, round face would play to cameras if we were to take this issue to the court of public opinion.