by Ginger Scott
“You’re welcome, Emma,” he says, his mouth a hard, flat line and his eyes cloudy with what I’m pretty sure is regret.
We stand in our little pocket of silence with our eyes locked for a few seconds, and it’s like he’s memorizing parts of me he’s forgotten while I’m counting how many parts of him have changed—nearly all of him has as far as I can tell.
“Please join us,” Lindsey startles me, her hands wrapping around my bicep. I jump, and she laughs. “Sorry. Really, though, I was about to text you to tell you he was here, and we made dinner. It’ll be fun. We usually eat sandwiches or microwave meals, Drew. This is a big night out for Em and me. Ha…and we didn’t even go out.”
I manage to keep my attention on her, even though I can see Andrew standing in the same place behind her, his eyes never once leaving their hold on me.
“Please?” she begs, making tiny jumps on her toes as she slides her grip down to my fingertips. This is how a toddler begs for a toy. It’s effective.
I breathe in slowly through my nose and nod a few times.
“Sure. I just need a minute,” I say. I need several minutes. I need hours, maybe days. But minutes are better than nothing.
I carry my bag to my room and fall into my bed, crawling up to the pillow and pushing my face into the folds of the material. All I want is to stay here. I indulge in the coolness of my bed for a full minute, breathing in and out until I convince myself my anxiety isn’t going anywhere.
I sit up and look at my reflection in the mirror above my dresser, my hair now knotted in twists and tufts around my head. Leaning forward, I grab my brush, holding my hair near the base of my head and tugging it through the long strands until I look a little less wild.
I kick off my old clothes, putting on a clean pair of jeans and the purple sweatshirt slung over the end of my bed—throwing it over my head without even thinking until I step back out into the living room and Andrew’s eyes fall on me, registering the familiar shirt. His expression tells me he recalls the memory that goes along with it. I usually think of it, too. And I don’t know why I didn’t tonight. Maybe, my mind wanted to fool me into wearing it just to spite me, my subconscious in cahoots with the boy who built up the memory in the first place. I wore this sweatshirt when Andrew taught me how to ice-skate. It was new then, and I’ve thought about throwing it away or donating it so many times since. I could never seem to part with it, though.
“You look nice in purple,” he says, stepping closer to me on his way to the dining area, his voice low enough Lindsey doesn’t hear as she finishes setting the table for our awkward dinner-for-three. He doesn’t linger, and he doesn’t look at me, not directly anyhow. His eyes hover along my shoulder, tracing a line down to my fingertips, to my hand—the one he held when I was sixteen and unsteady on my feet.
When we were young, and nothing bad had happened.
My fingers tingle as a short burst of adrenaline runs through my body, and I flex my hand wanting to force the feeling away. I remind myself to breathe, repeating a mini version of my useless calming exercise from earlier, and I follow Andrew to the table, noticing his hand down along his side, flexing just as mine did.
Our table is a circle, a small one, the space not made for anything large, meaning we’re all technically sitting next to one another. I wish it were bigger. If it was, there would be more too look at. I hyper-focus on my spoonful of noodles, on the sauce I drizzle from the hot pan over them, on the salad I put in the bowl—I spend as many minutes as I can making my plate perfect, ignoring the laughter and banter between Lindsey and Andrew.
“Here, you didn’t get enough,” Andrew says to me after everyone’s plate is full. He stands, and my eyes catch the frame of his body, the tight gray shirt he’s wearing, how it clings to his waist, his stomach and the expanse of his chest underneath the thin fabric. I look up to see him watch me take him in, and his cheek dimples as he raises the corner of his lips, careful to keep his attention on my plate the rest of the time.
“Thank you,” I say, and he chuckles.
“You’re still welcome,” he says, this time a little bite to his tone.
I drag my fork through the noodles, wrapping them around the prongs and lean forward to take my bites, doing my best to become small. I’m taking mental measurements of the amount of food on my plate, cross-referencing it with the amount of time it’s taking me to swallow each and every forkful, and I grow discouraged. I feel like a child with a bowl of broccoli—no dog to feed it to.
“Oh, you missed it earlier, Em. I was telling Andrew about how we met—me and you?” I choke when Lindsey speaks, reaching for my glass of water while I wave them both off that I’m fine.
I’m fine—only that I met Lindsey in perhaps the worst way possible for this very moment. We met at driving school. It was the summer before our freshman year. I had run a red light near campus, trying to make it to the admissions office before a deadline. When the officer pulled me over, I had a panic attack—to the point that he had to help me lie down on the side of the road so I didn’t collapse and crack open my head. He still gave me a ticket. Just the flash of his lights brought so many feelings back, but I never told Lindsey that. And I don’t think Andrew’s interested in that part now.
Lindsey was in my class for blowing a stop sign. We were the only two people in the class under fifty, and when we both found out we were going to Tech and would be freshmen pre-med, we decided to room together.
“Lemons out of lemonade,” Lindsey said at the time.
It goes down like venom now.
“Yeah, Linds tells me you’re quite the speed demon,” Andrew says through a mouthful of food. He’s remaining aloof, but I know better. I can see the truth in his eyes.
I open my mouth, partly to defend myself, and partly to explain, but the way he pauses—leaning with one arm along the back of his chair and his body to the side, so he can hold me hostage with the look on his face—makes me forget the words to say. Not that I had the right words ready. I don’t. I never have.
“Hey, I didn’t say that,” Lindsey says, the laughter escaping her teasingly and sweet as she swats at his thigh with her hand. He catches it and holds it, his lips curling into a grin as he brings her hand up to his face so he can kiss the knuckles, his gaze shifting to me as he lowers her hand back down, never letting go.
I look down at my plate, admonished. I’m struck with an overwhelming sense of shame, but it’s more than that, too. I’m hurt, and I’m jealous, and I don’t understand what any of this is about. Why are we keeping our history a secret? Why am I allowing it?
“So, Lindsey says you two have lived together for three years now. And you’re both…med students?” he asks.
I find myself spending too much time studying him, trying to find the next double meaning so I can be prepared for it. But he doesn’t look up again, instead, going back to his dinner plate.
“She’s my best friend,” I say, smiling at her quickly, genuinely, but returning my attention back to the table in front of me. I don’t know why those are the words I say. There’s a part of me that wants to make sure he realizes what he’s messing with, I guess—that he’s being personal. Lindsey is personal.
“Med school is so hard, and it takes so long. It’s just kind of nice to have someone by your side who gets it,” Lindsey says. I smile at her again, catching Andrew’s eyes as I look away. It’s like he never really stops watching me.
“You two should open your own practice when you’re done,” he says, pushing his plate a few inches forward. He’s done eating, I guess, though his plate is still full.
“I wish,” Lindsey says, picking up a tomato from her salad with her fingers and popping it in her mouth. “But Emma here is all about cardiothoracic. She was hand-picked by the goddess of surgery herself.”
“Linds,” I say, my eyes begging her to stop from saying too much. Why I got into Tech, why I’m studying here with Miranda Wheaton, is a story I don’t really want getting around.
My being here looks like pity to the outsider—a lot of things in my life look like pity and charity. But it’s not. I earned my spot here just like every other student.
But Andrew won’t see it that way. He’ll see it as selfish. He’ll see it as selfish because he’ll put it all together, see how it fits with that night and what I let him do for me. And then, quite possibly, he’ll hate me even more.
Andrew grows quiet, his eyes studying both of us as we have our silent exchange. I can tell he’s unsatisfied. To punctuate things, he pulls his hand—the one holding Lindsey’s—up to rest on the tabletop, putting on a show of his fingers caressing against hers, his thumb teasing along the top of her hand and then around her wrist. I hate that I’m looking at it, but I can’t look away.
I’m weak.
“So you’re gonna be a surgeon, huh?”
The way he says it, it’s both innocent and dripping with contempt all at once. I smile despite him, and nod yes. But my lips can’t hold their form for long. I feel his leg slide forward, and I wish for it to be a coincidence, hoping he just doesn’t realize how close he is to me. I say it isn’t so over and over in my head until his foot comes to rest against the outside of mine, his shoe perfectly matched against my bare foot, my toes recoiling as he taps against them twice, a gentle reminder—a threat.
I back away from the table abruptly, my hands gripping the front of the table hard. Realizing how crazy I look, I tap the tabletop twice and grin at my friend before forcing a pleasant look to remain on my face as I answer Andrew’s question.
“I am,” I say, standing and pulling my plate into my arms. The food is delicious, but I wasn’t hungry when I walked in; I’m certainly not hungry now.
“Is that so you can cut people’s hearts out?”
My back is to him when he speaks, and I’m so glad, because I wouldn’t be able to hide my reaction to his words. Lindsey has already interrupted, telling him he’s being gross. She’s laughing, and he laughs with her, apologizing for being graphic. He’s playing along with her, like the words he said were just for morbid shock value. And they were—just not for the reason Lindsey thinks. I keep moving forward, one foot in front of the next as the tear falls down my cheek, thinning as it reaches my chin. I lean my head to the side, rubbing it dry along my shoulder.
“I’m still not feeling well, Linds. If it’s all right with you, I’m going to lie down for a while,” I say from the kitchen, pulling a sheet of foil from a drawer and covering my plate with no intention of eating it later. Two of my favorite things now ruined—pasta and oatmeal cookies.
“Okay,” she says between flirtatious whispers and laughter.
I tuck my dish inside the fridge and walk to my room, closing the door behind me, and letting my hand rest on the handle—feeling like I need to hold it to keep the bad stuff out like they do in those zombie movies. After a few seconds, I loosen my grip and backpedal until my legs hit the edge of my bed, forcing me to sit.
I pull my sleeves low into my palm with my thumbs looped on the inside and bring my fists to my face, inhaling the fabric, searching for any trace of a scent from years ago. I know it’s futile. I know it’s gone; he’s gone. I sent him away.
Another tear is threatening to come, so I run my sleeve along my eyes, wiping what’s left away with my thumb. I move my thumb over my skin twice, imagining it’s Andrew’s thumb the second time. I bring my hands to my lap, and lock my fingers together, imagining one is his, before closing my eyes with a single laugh of pain. My hands look nothing like his and Lindsey’s, and I’m being foolish.
The sound of the television comes on soon, and I pull my biology book into my lap as I scoot all the way to the back of my bed, sliding my laptop out to review our lab assignment in the morning. I read the same page for an hour, listening for clues on the other side of the door. I’ve kept the earbuds in my ears the entire time, never once playing any music. When Lindsey raps on my door and opens it, I fake startle, pulling them from my head as if I’ve been listening to music the entire time.
“Drew go home?” I ask quickly, realizing how anxious I sound about it, so I start to busy myself with papers and my backpack and my computer screen angle.
“Uhm…” Lindsey says.
I know.
I keep my eyes down so she can’t see the truth, but I let my sigh fall out in a heavy breath.
“I asked him to stay…but he’s such a gentleman, he wanted me to make sure it was okay with you,” she says.
My body jerks with a slight laugh. Shaking my head, I lift my gaze to her as I swallow.
“What’s that look for?” she asks.
I have a look. Of course I have a look. Why is he doing this?
“Emma Brooklyn Burke, I’m a grown woman; if I want to sleep with a guy after the second date, then I’m going to,” she says, stepping to my door, gripping the side of it as she turns to face me. “I’ll tell him you said it’s fine.”
She glares at me as she shuts it behind her hard.
Time stops for a full minute. I don’t blink. I don’t breathe. There isn’t a sound to be heard, until the familiar click of her bedroom door across from mine.
I kick my things from my bed and let out a battle of grunts I try to keep quiet—my papers, computer, pens, and notecards all scattering around the foot of my bed into a mess below. The sensation doesn’t satisfy me, so I rip my blankets away too, crawling up on my knees as my fists grab at the sheets, pillows, and mattress pad, tearing the corner as I yank so hard it pulls up the corner of my mattress.
I wad everything into a ball and push it on top of my papers, leaving me in the center of my empty bed, breathing hard and numb, not knowing how to feel. I feel angry—angry with Andrew, and angry that I feel anything at all.
He left. He’s the one who left.
And now he’s here. And he’s gone. The boy he was…he’s gone.
I scramble to my feet, cramming my papers and computer back into my bag, shoving and kicking my pile of blankets out of the way. Stuffing my feet into my shoes, I pull the purple sweatshirt from my body, switching it out for a Tech one hanging on a hook behind my door. I grab my headphones, keys, and phone, then grab the purple sweatshirt and carry it with me out the door, pausing in the kitchen to step on the trash lever and throw the fucking sweatshirt away.
I let the main door slam closed behind me, locking up with a hard twist of my wrist as I bang my bag against the hallway wall on my way to the elevator. When I get outside, I look up and see a light still on in Lindsey’s window. After a few seconds, it goes out.
And all of my breath escapes me.
Chapter 9
Andrew Harper, Age 16
Dear Emma,
I’m losing myself. For the first two months, I swore that wouldn’t happen. I said it every night before sleep; I woke up reminding myself of who I was.
I haven’t done that in days now…maybe weeks.
I’m letting go, whether I want to or not. I don’t care, and that scares me a little. Not caring? It’s liberating. It’s lonely.
There’s a guy here; he’s 18. His name’s Kingston, but most of the “students” here call him King. They say he was in some gang or something; that he used to sell drugs. He has tats all over his fingers and the rumor is he drove a getaway car for his older brother during some armed robbery over in Rockford. I’m not sure if he was really all that tough before he showed up here, but he sort of took the lead. A lot of the other guys let him. They buy the stories—his self-made hype.
He doesn’t like me.
I don’t like him.
Apparently, he’s not used to people telling him no. I tell him no a lot. Last week, when I told him no, he snuck into my room at night and put a pillow over my face. He’s pulled shit with me before, tripping me at lunch and sucker punching me around corners. This time, though…I was ready. I stabbed him with a pen, dug it into his side and held it there. I thought that’d make him stop right away. But he just pushed the pillow into my face har
der. The harder I fought, the stronger he was. And for a moment, I was losing.
I almost gave in. Just…let him take me. But something made me keep fighting.
I struggled enough to wake someone across the hall, and then the guard set the alarms off and another person pulled him from me. I lost my phone privileges for an extra month for stabbing him. I got extra therapy sessions too, to talk about my aggression. Fucker tried to kill me; pretty sure aggression was the only way to go with that.
King got a trip to the emergency room and an overnight at the hospital. Funny thing, it was phone day today, and I saw him making his calls. I guess a pen weighs more than a pillow in this fucked-up court of justice I’m stuck in.
I hate them all. They pretend like they’re teaching us lessons, reforming us to become better men. We go to these sermons, and there’s an old man who gives us these long stories that we’re supposed to identify with and recognize our weaknesses so we can improve. Nobody listens. I tried to last week, but the longer he spoke, the more I focused on the lack of passion in his voice, the way he really didn’t care if he made a difference, or if we changed—just as long as he got a paycheck.
I looked around at the room of these forgotten kids. That’s why we’re here, because we’re still kids according to the state. Worth saving. Our offenses forgivable. I was a better person three months ago, before I got here. Whatever I am now, I’m not so sure it’s good.
I’ve had a few fights. Nobody knows except my brother’s girlfriend. She knows. She visits. She convinced everyone that she’s family. She threw around stories about my grandfather. Everyone bought it. I like it when Kensi comes. Sometimes we just sit without talking. It’s nice. And when I have things I need to hide, like bruises or…other things…Kensi helps. She doesn’t like it; I can tell. But she understands.
