Carry Me Home

by Jessica Therrien

  “Thanks girls.” I get up to shut the light off. “I love you so much,” I tell them, and they can’t see just how much in the dim light of that vacant room, but it’s eternal, my love for them.

  “Nobody loves like you, Mom,” Lucy whispers as I lay down next to her in the dark. “Nobody in the world.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Ruth

  GLENDALE HIGH HAS THIRTY times the number of students as my small town school. I’ve been with the same twenty-five kids my entire educated life. It’s my senior year. I’m new, and there are seven hundred in this year’s graduating class alone. Three thousand total in attendance. I do the math in my head as Lucy and I walk the five blocks of busy city street from our apartment to the entrance.

  It’s the first day of the school year, so I should feel comforted that I’m not the only one figuring out my schedule, but it’s still overwhelming. The campus is huge. Multiple buildings surround an open quad that students cross and gather in as they make their way to class. Each section is at least three stories high, and I’m instantly lost in this massive penitentiary of learning. I watch as they lock the gate after the first bell, and keep my eyes on the tall fence locking us in.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Lucy asks a passing student. “Do you know where the office is?”

  I let her do the talking and follow in utter silence as my sister gabs with the rosy-cheeked brunette pointing us in the right direction. I wait for a while outside the admin door, marveling at her keen ability to make friends, but eventually go into the office on my own. I come back with our schedules and a map of the classrooms, but Lucy’s gone.

  It doesn’t surprise me, so I head to class alone.

  I come in late. Hardly anyone notices, including the teacher. I imagine new students are a dime a dozen here. There’s an open seat next to an Asian girl who is taking notes on graph paper. I sit next to her and smile. She smiles back, but that’s about all I get. From anyone. All day.

  That’s how it plays out for at least a week at this new school. I sit in the back. I watch. I listen to the symphony of Armenian conversations that bleed together around me. But I don’t talk. I’ve tried. It gets me polite superficial conversation, but I haven’t made a single friend.

  It doesn’t take me long to resign to the quiet, invisible world my social anxiety traps me in. At least it’s peaceful.

  “Did I tell you I made the basketball team?” Lucy gushes on our way to school the following week. “Lindsey convinced the coach to watch me play even though I missed the official try out.”

  “That’s awesome,” I say, appreciating her company for that first fifteen minutes of my day. “When do you practice?”

  “It’s sixth period so we can keep practicing after school is out. Can you believe that? They actually made it into a class. Did you know they have dance class, too? They never had anything like that at Massack.”

  “I know. I think I might try and switch out of Spanish and take that. The teacher is always calling on me to try and get me to participate. It makes me sweat the whole class worried he’s going to single me out. I can’t take it.”

  “You should.”

  I figure that’s the one good thing about this huge school. I might be completely overwhelmed by the amount of people, but at least I can fill my schedule with drama, choir, dance, and modern English. “It doesn’t even feel like school. It’s like summer camp or something.”

  “It’s weird you like drama. You get all nervous around new people, but you’re willing to go on stage and perform in front of crowds? That doesn’t make sense.”

  I laugh. “Well, I guess when I’m pretending to be someone else, it’s different.”

  “So just pretend to be someone else all the time.”

  “It’s not the same. People judge you in real life. When you’re acting, they judge the character. Who cares if they like the character or not? The person isn’t real.”

  “I don’t get it. Who cares what people think either way?”

  “Whatever. It’s hard to explain, okay?”

  She leaves me in the quad and takes off with a group of girls waiting for her by the gym. I head to class feeling annoyed with myself for not being more like her.

  By the time school lets out for lunch, the air outside is cool with the chill of oncoming rain. The clouds stir in dark clusters, threatening to release their downpour and I completely forgot a jacket.

  I huddle under an overhang near the art quad, which is separate from the main quad and nearly half the size. The cement is cold on my thighs, but the brick wall blocks the wind. I unzip my navy Jansport backpack and hug it to my chest for warmth as I eat my sandwich. Teens collect in tight circles, talking amongst their cliques and sharing headphones.

  I don’t even look up when a pair of shoes stops in my line of sight. Only when the black suede Vans linger do I make eye contact.

  “Hey.”

  I can’t tell if the greeting is accusatory or curious. His narrow eyes are almost Asian, but not completely, and I wonder if he’s glaring at me or if that’s just the way he looks. The drizzle of rain has made his already curly black hair a little frizzy. His large lips pout at me as he sits down.

  I start to get up. “Oh sorry. Is this your spot? I can—”

  He laughs, a quiet gentle laugh, revealing straight white teeth. “No.”

  I sit back down, confused and flustered. I don’t know what to say to him.

  “I’m Josh,” he says while I flounder in my head.

  “Hi.” I give him my timid, closed lipped smile. It’s my first gut reaction when I meet someone, but it always comes off bitchy. It’s meant to say: Hi I’m shy. I don’t know what to say to you so I’m going to smile. Most people read it as: What do you want? Please don’t talk to me.

  “So you’re new?”

  My eyebrows furrow. “How’d you know?”

  He opens a wrinkled up brown paper sack and pulls out a leftover burrito wrapped in foil.

  “It’s the art quad. If you’re not a freshman and we don’t know you, you’re new.”

  We eat our lunches in an awkward silence that makes me so uncomfortable I try and think of reasons to get up and leave.

  “So are you in band?” I ask, forcing myself to be social.

  He tugs on the harness he has strapped to his upper body, kind of like a gun holster but with a clip in the center of his chest. “Baritone sax.”

  I don’t know what the strappy thing has to do with a saxophone, but I use the focal point as an excuse to look at him. He’s wearing a white polo beneath a forest green unzipped hoodie and blue Dickies that are too short. I glance at his face, then away again.

  “That’s cool. I wish I could play an instrument.”

  “Choir huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  I shove the remnants of my lunch into my bag and pretend to look for chapstick, though I know I don’t have any.

  The bell rings, and I’m so grateful for the escape. Not because I don’t like him. He’s seems sweet, and he’s cute, the kind of cute you might miss if you weren’t looking for it. But it’s too much pressure. I’m in flight mode.

  “Wait,” he says as I throw my backpack over one shoulder. He shrugs off his forest green sweatshirt and hands it to me. “It’s why I came over. You looked cold. You should take this.”

  I stare at his outstretched hand, shocked by the gesture. “Thanks,” I say, accepting it.

  I slip it on and the cedar wood smell of him emanates from the warmth he’s left behind.

  “See you around.” I smile before taking off in a rush.

  The rest of the day I obsess over the sweater. It makes me smile to myself when I glance down in class. I analyze the fibers of the pockets, the imperfections. I breathe through the sleeves, trying to memorize the smell. It’s the sweetest thing a boy has ever done for me.

  I don’t see him during break or after school, even though I look for him, but I replay the moment in my head again and again.

&n
bsp; And I take the memory home with me.

  CHAPTER 21

  Lucy

  BEADS OF SWEAT COLLECT on my nose and drip from my hairline. My breath is labored, and my lungs burn as I work my leg muscles into a sprint. For the first time in a while it feels good to sweat and ache from something that isn’t fighting or fleeing.

  The squeak of sneakers ricochets off the gym floor as my new team runs a scrimmage, practicing different plays. It’s been a week, and I’m getting my groove. I’m lucky to have come from a small school where anyone gets on the basketball team if they want in. It gave me experience, and I’m actually good. Really good.

  I tuck the short sleeves of my dampened grey t-shirt into the straps of my sports bra to give me more mobility. The short stocky blonde girl I’m blocking is Riah. She doesn’t mind me pushing on her as we move toward the basket, because we’ve become pretty good friends since I joined the team. I give her a look as Heaven, the black superstar point guard, charges forward, despite the fact that I’m completely open, and misses her shot.

  Riah smiles and throws the ball in from the sidelines.

  I steal it, dribble in a focused rush to the hoop and make my layup.

  “Nice,” Riah shouts, and we low five as she passes me.

  As I go to take my position I almost bump into Heaven. Instead of moving aside to dodge the collision, she shoulder checks me.

  I huff, a little surprised by the blatantly intentional hit, but let it go and glare at her back.

  We practice for another thirty minutes, and I’ve completely forgotten about the shoulder check. Until, she “passes” the ball to my face when I’m two feet away. The pain is jarring because I’m not expecting it, and my nose instantly bleeds.

  The girls gasp and stop the game, watching.

  “Sorry,” Heaven says, faking an apology.

  And it’s not the fake apology that gets me. I’m pissed, but I know the girls will give her shit. It’s the smug smile she gives me when I hear the word bitch under her breath.

  I snap.

  I charge at her and she doesn’t even move, doesn’t run, because she has no idea what I’m capable of. The force of my body knocks her to the ground, and I grab a fistful of the tiny tight braids that have been loosened from her ponytail. Blood from my nose drips onto her milk chocolate skin. She squirms and curses and none of the girls try and stop me. I’m sure they’ve seen a hundred of these catfights, but I’m pretty sure they’ve never seen anyone bust a person’s face open.

  My fist slams into her nose, returning the favor. Once I’m over the edge, there’s no coming back. I block out the squeals of fear that surround me, and ignore the looming guilt, the shadow of regret as I hit her a few more times.

  When her eyes close, the coach is on me, yanking at my back, but I’ve already woken from my rage. The girl from the park has followed me here. It’s her I see on the gym floor, lying motionless.

  The coach hauls me away, and leaves me outside the propped-open gym door, not bothering to send me to the office. She tells me to stay, then rushes back in a panic, but I can already see Heaven groaning and rolling on the floor.

  I sit on the cement stairs, staring at white clouds as they drift peacefully across a perfect sky, and almost start to spiral. My throat burns. Disappointment makes itself a little nest of self-hatred in my chest. Then the bell rings and swarms of students descend on the quad, sweeping by in a rush of sound and energy.

  I wipe my bloody face and hands on the hem of my grey shirt, not bothering to be thorough, and walk off campus. I just need to get away from here.

  Across the street is a restaurant called Taco Azteca. It’s a little yellow barn-shaped hut with a take-out window for ordering. Red barstools line the outdoor counter along its front. I head for one, needing to sit alone and unwind.

  The smell of the food is overwhelming. After a few minutes, I end up at the window, staring at the menu.

  “Are you in line?”

  I glance back at the vague image of a girl with a high dark ponytail. “No.”

  She steps up beside me, and I can feel her staring. “What?” I snap, turning to face her. My day is shit, I don’t have patience for judgers.

  She laughs at me, like she’s not the least bit intimidated by the blood on my clothes. Her smile reminds me of the Grinch, stretching high into her dimpled cheeks. She’s tiny and short, but has enormous boobs.

  “Want me to order for you?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “I’m not getting anything.”

  “You can order in English. They don’t care.” She waits for me but I ignore her. She steps up to the window and orders in Spanish.

  “I got you a chicken burrito,” she says, sitting on one of the barstools to wait. “You’re welcome.”

  “You didn’t have to.” I sit down next to her. “But thanks.”

  “Looked like you needed it.” She raises her eyebrows at me.

  They call her number, and she nods for me to follow her after grabbing the bag of food. “Come on. School just got out. This place is about to be mobbed.”

  I walk with her, feeling strangely comfortable, like I’ve known her for years.

  She picks a tortilla chip from the top of the bag. “I’m Dani,” she says as she crunches.

  “Lucy,” I return.

  “So’d you get your ass beat or what?”

  She was right. Waves of students fill the space of the sidewalk. We hug the street trying to avoid them.

  “No,” I answer. “Kind of the other way around. It was stupid. I lost my cool. Got kicked off the basketball team.”

  “Eh. Fuck those girls anyway. They think they’re such hot shit.”

  I crack a smile, and blindly follow Dani as she unknowingly leads me back down the rabbit hole.

  We end up at a park. There’s a homeless man murmuring to himself, sitting below a distant tree, but nobody else. Dani heads for the swings. We sit side by side in them, and she hands me my wrapped burrito.

  “So what are you going to do now that you’re off the team?” she asks as we eat.

  “I don’t know. Get another class I guess.”

  Her feet hardly reach the ground, but she pushes her toes against the dusty woodchips and sways. “You should take cosmetology.”

  “That’s a class?” I ask through a mouthful.

  “Yeah,” she laughs. “It’s ridiculous. I take it sixth period because the teacher doesn’t care if I ditch. She gives everyone A’s. It’s just a bunch of Armenians putting on lipstick.”

  I laugh with her, and swing. She asks me more questions and gets the whole story of where I’m from. Never once do I feel like she’s judging me. She doesn’t mention the fight again, or the blood on my face and shirt. I forget about all of it, and we end up hanging out at that park until dark.

  “So are we ditching sixth period tomorrow or what?” she asks, as we walk home. Apparently we only live three blocks away from each other, something she decides is fate telling us to be friends.

  “I’ll see if I can change to your class, but I don’t know about ditching. What happens if we get caught?”

  “We won’t. I’ve done it a hundred times.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Ruth

  AN ENTIRE WEEK PASSES and I don’t see Josh. I carry his hoodie with me, my proof that he exists, and wait for the excuse to approach him when I find his face amidst the three thousand strangers I see every day.

  I keep my head down on my walk home from school, studying the cracks in the sidewalk and subconsciously stepping around their pattern. My anxiety keeps me from making eye contact with people on the street. I have this terrible fear that if I encounter the wrong person, they’ll mug me or try and pull me into their car. Sometimes all it takes is eye contact. Sometimes a little more. Like the time Lucy flipped off a car full of dark-skinned men in Reno. I’ll never forget the frantic way my mother drove as they chased us down for miles.

  So when I hear someone yelling at me from the wind
ow of their car, I don’t look up.

  “Hey! Ruth!”

  Not until I hear my name.

  Josh is waving me over, urging me to go fast as he waits at the red light. I dash through the stopped vehicles, feeling a little reckless as my heart flip-flops over my new crush.

  “Hey,” I breathe, shutting the door of his sky blue VW Golf. The light turns green as I slide my backpack onto the floor.

  “Here,” he says, reaching across my lap to grab the bag. The feel of his forearm against my thigh doesn’t go unnoticed. In fact, it goes very, very noticed.

  He lifts my backpack and throws it behind my seat so I have more legroom.

  “Thanks.” I smile. “Oh,” I stammer, too loudly, “and here’s your sweatshirt.”

  I hand it to him while he’s driving, which is dumb because what’s he supposed to do with a sweatshirt while he’s driving? I should have waited.

  He takes it and throws it in the back seat like it’s trash.

  “Sorry I’ve had it so long,” I say, still watching the sacred hoodie I’ve been carrying around like a swaddled baby. “I tried looking for you.”

  “Oh. I had the flu. I’ve been out for the whole week.” He coughs a little, and I hear a light rattle in his chest.

  “That sucks.”

  Then I run out of things to say and an uncomfortable silence ensues. My weeklong fantasy of our instant connection and the easy way we’ll be around each other dissipates in that silent, real-life moment. Soon, he’ll see me for what I really am. Not some intriguing new girl shrouded in mystery, but a shy, awkward teenager who has nothing to say. I’m convinced this will be the last time we speak.

  “So, where do you live? I’ll drop you at home.”

  My eyes widen with embarrassment. “Shoot.” I hadn’t been paying attention at all. “We passed it a while ago.” I look around at the unrecognizable streets having no idea how to navigate back to my house.