Standing Sideways

by J. Lynn Bailey

  Alicia Abbott is in front of one of the stalls with Bridget Peterson. Alicia hurries by, pushing her hair behind her ears, hiding her face.

  I’m pretty sure she squeaks, “Hey, Liv,” but I’m not positive.

  I shut the stall door behind me, the water from her handwashing still running.

  And running.

  And running.

  How clean do her hands need to get?

  I glance at the clock, knowing I’ll be late to class. Again.

  The water stops.

  And there’s a long pause.

  Footsteps come toward the door, and then she murmurs, “Gabriel Struvio…” And then, “High as fuck.”

  Now, Alicia Abbott, the quiet type, doesn’t usually use a phrase like that. But then again, I was a virgin three weeks ago, so things happen.

  I remove the airplane bottle of vodka from my backpack that I took from the shed, one of my dad’s old hiding spots. I imagine he probably forgot where he hid most of his stash. When I ran out of pills, I needed a quick fix, so I took it. I crack it open and hold my breath.

  I take a sip, my lips tight. I swallow, and I want to throw up. But I don’t. Because I know, the moment I throw it up, it won’t do its job.

  And I need it to do its job.

  I take another sip, this time bigger.

  I gag.

  I swallow.

  I take another sip, this time even bigger than the last.

  I gag.

  I take the rest of it and push the bottle back into my backpack. I take three pieces of gum from my backpack and shove them in my mouth, trying not to throw up.

  I wash my hands.

  I leave the restroom.

  I make my way to Mrs. Etter’s English class. But not without walking past Mr. Joe’s classroom. His door is open, and he’s giving a lecture on Raymond Carver’s short story, Neighbors—one of my favorite pieces.

  Mr. Joe and I have discussed the story before when he asked about my favorite writers.

  “Why?” he asked.

  Simply, I liked Bill. As strange as he was, I could relate to him.

  “I think,” I told Mr. Joe, “he did what most people want to do when they’re in a strange apartment, but the fear of getting caught far outweighs the will to do so. And, when the Millers got caught, I rooted for them, that, somehow, they wouldn’t get caught.”

  Mr. Joe probably won’t ask his class if they liked Neighbors because chances are, they didn’t. But he’ll push them to question Carver’s writing style, to think critically about the piece. And then have them write an essay on it, which I’d love to do, only if I could stop making bad decisions.

  And, before I know it, I’m standing in the doorway of Mrs. Etter’s class, the entire class staring back.

  The alcohol has made it to my stomach and explodes.

  “Sorry I’m late.” It’s just a gesture, a saying. I don’t think I’m all that sorry. Because, right now, I’m not really sure I care.

  I take a seat between Mark Pattison and Luciana Martinez, who is currently in the running for valedictorian, which I’m sure is against me. But I’m almost positive I lost my spot in the running when I dropped AP English, worth four credits and a lot of grade points.

  Right now, as my head begins to fill with warmth and fuzziness, I’m not sure where I stand on abortion rights, gay marriage or straight marriage, our current president, social media and the dummying down of our society as a whole, the cost of college, or the environment. I want to yell.

  My head cloudy, I try to focus and pull out my notebook as Mrs. Etter turns to the smart board and continues her lecture on…whatever. I’m trying to pay attention, but all I can focus on is a little piece of Mrs. Etter’s hair that’s sticking straight up.

  I lean over to Luciana. “Do you see that? A piece of her hair is sticking straight up.” It’s not funny. It’s quite serious, and I want to fix it for her.

  I don’t think Luciana and I have ever had a conversation. I bet Luciana makes great decisions. I bet she hasn’t lost any of her siblings, and I know she has three. I bet her parents are strict, and I bet she doesn’t take anti-anxiety medication at school. Or drinks. I bet she’s going to a big school. A smart one. For smart kids.

  Smart kids. That sounds funny.

  This leads me to think of Daniel.

  I wonder how Daniel would say, Smart kids.

  I feel good.

  I feel comfortable in my own skin. Finally.

  I’m not sure that Luciana heard me because I haven’t heard her answer my question. But maybe I wasn’t listening. Maybe I didn’t really care in the first place. Maybe I didn’t expect her to answer. Was it a rhetorical question? I should know. I was the asker.

  God, I feel so much better.

  Luciana, I say to myself.

  That’s like two names in one. A two-for-one special. Lucy. Ana. Maybe her parents couldn’t agree on a name. Her mother wanted Lucy, and her father wanted Ana. I bet that’s it. I should ask her.

  I feel the blood gush in my ears as I watch Mrs. Etter use the smart board. In many ways, Mrs. Etter has always reminded me of Angela Lansbury from Murder, She Wrote, a show that started in the 1980s.

  When Jas and I were little, we would pile into Poppy’s old recliner every Friday night and watch back-to-back episodes. Jasper used to make toast with a layer of butter, then sugar, and then sprinkles.

  Every time, he’d say, “Liv, just try it. It melts in your mouth.”

  But I’d always want to gag, like I just did with the vodka.

  One particular Friday night, I was feeling extra brave, so I tried it. I didn’t puke, but it wasn’t good either. “Tastes like sugar,” I said, chasing it down with a glass of milk.

  Jasper wasn’t really into eating the right stuff. He didn’t have to for two reasons:

  1. He had a high metabolism.

  2. Eating healthy didn’t save his life

  I come to the conclusion that it’s Mrs. Etter’s bumpy hair and her age that make her a dead giveaway of Angela Lansbury.

  Everyone stands.

  Lucy-Ana looks down at me. I think she sees the confusion on my face.

  “The bell rang,” she says and throws her eighty-pound backpack on her shoulder.

  “Oh.” I put my notebook back in my bag and make my way out the door.

  “Livia?” Mrs. Etter—aka Ms. Lansbury—calls behind me.

  I could pretend not to hear her. She’s a Have-Not, and I really don’t want to hear the I’m-so-sorry-for-your-loss dried-up, old statement that everyone uses. It’s uncomfortable because all I can think to say is, Thank you. And then the awkward silence comes, and I’m not sure if I should walk away or stand and make small talk, which is a total waste of time. And stupid.

  I turn back. The good Livia, the one who makes good decisions, is somewhere in this messed up body, and she turns back around and into the classroom.

  Mrs. Etter, standing at her desk, slides the envelope across it. “I thought you’d like to read this. It’s Jasper’s Hope letter he wrote just…beforehand,” she says. “I’m pretty sure this is you.” She points to the name on the envelope.

  I nod and deflect every single emotion that tries to pry its way through my throat and to my head.

  We had an assignment the beginning of our senior year to write a letter to our best friend about where we saw our lives going in the next five years. A letter that was supposed to bring hope for our future. I thought Jasper would have written it to Simon.

  But it’s addressed to me.

  My eyes fill with tears, and I’m not sure if it’s because I see his handwriting or the fact that he addressed it to me or that he’s not here anymore to see my reaction as I read it.

  “Thank you,” is what I manage and turn to leave.

  I stare at the letter as I make my way to second period, my head still fuzzy from the alcohol. Feelings begin to seep through the wall of protection I’ve created. The ball of pressure that sits at the base of my
throat expands, making my body feel insignificant.

  Am I ready to read it?

  I stare at his handwriting, his chicken scratch, that is scribbled across the page. I run my fingers over it, knowing that he wrote this a mere few months ago. Knowing his hands touched the envelope where my hands touch now.

  But it doesn’t say Livia Stone.

  Sophomore Year of High School

  “Mimi, come on.”

  He drags me from the party.

  We’re sophomores.

  “But I don’t want to leave, Jas.” Voice slurs.

  I try to push his hand away.

  It’s fruitless.

  “You’re drunk. Time to go.”

  He pulls.

  I push.

  “Just go away!” I yell.

  But he doesn’t let go.

  “You don’t need to save me, Jasper!”

  The letter says, Mimi Stone.

  I head to my car and debate on whether I’ll read it or not.

  I need to read it.

  I need to wait.

  I shouldn’t read it at school.

  Who cares?

  I need to read it.

  It’s going to hurt, Livia.

  Don’t read it.

  Read it. Now.

  “Miss Stone,” Mr. Marty, our Disciplinarian, says, “where are you headed so early in the day?” He approaches me.

  His khakis are hiked way too high above his hips. I bet he was more of an Anthony Cartwright in high school. Picked on because of his brain and his style of clothing. I bet that’s why he takes his job so seriously. I bet, if he got rid of the fanny pack he wears, he probably wouldn’t be the eyesore that he is.

  “Nowhere,” I lie. Comes so easy. I casually shove the letter in my back pocket, praying to God he doesn’t smell the booze.

  “Do you have permission to leave campus?” He uses a toothpick to pick the leftover egg in his teeth. His Hawaii Five-0 glasses are upon his face but with no sun in sight.

  “Not leaving.” My brain somewhat returns to normal function again.

  The less words spoken, the less he has evidence to analyze. And then I think about the empty bottle in my backpack. What if I get caught with it? My face begins to grow warmer and warmer, my head becoming a bit clearer.

  “Just exchanging a few books at my car,” I lie again, making sure to keep my distance.

  “Don’t you have a locker for that?” He puts his hands in his pockets, but they’re at his stomach because of the level of his pants, too high, way too high, and extremely uncomfortable—for both of us.

  “I forgot a book in the car.” Lies. Lies. Lies.

  And, one day, you’ll get caught, Livia, I tell myself.

  “Come on, I’ll walk you to your car to get the book.”

  I follow, my head still trying to clear away the clouds. Christ, don’t panic, Liv.

  My breathing quickens.

  I swallow, but all I feel is sandpaper as I peer into my car.

  Thank. God.

  There is a book—a fiction book nonetheless, but my favorite book—sitting between the driver’s side and the passenger seat.

  I turn proudly to Mr. Marty. “See?”

  Mr. Marty looks in, still skeptical. His eyes dance around my car like he’s looking for a murder weapon.

  I open the car door and grab the book.

  I slide open my front zipper to shove my book inside, and there, on top of everything else, is the empty bottle of alcohol.

  Oh, God.

  “What is that?” Mr. Marty asks.

  My insides disintegrate, and I plan the next twenty years of my life behind bars in the next ten seconds.

  I look up, anticipating his beady eyes, as my mind tries to drum up excuses. And lies.

  But he isn’t looking in my backpack. He’s looking in the backseat.

  And in the backseat is a pill bottle.

  A pill bottle that says, Gabriel Struvio.

  I feel as though I’m on an episode of COPS.

  When the drug dog finds the drugs, the perpetrator always says, They aren’t mine. They belong to my neighbor. I gave him a ride. He must have left them.

  Likely story.

  “I didn’t take them,” I say.

  “Why are they in your backseat?” Mr. Marty asks, still picking his teeth, the pill bottle now in a baggie in his possession.

  “I don’t know how they got there,” I say.

  By this time, I’m in Principal Lundberg’s office. Her long red fingernails are drumming on her desk as she peeks over the top of her sophisticated round red glasses. Tracy and my father are here. And Mr. Marty, wannabe FBI agent, is leaning against the side of the principal’s desk, still picking his teeth.

  What’s left to pick? I want to scream.

  His sunglasses are now folded over the middle of his shirt.

  I twist awkwardly in my chair. I’m almost certain my parents are at a loss. My behavior lately has been totally out of character. But they don’t share this with my interrogators.

  The pills in question, the evidence, is on Principal Lundberg’s desk.

  “Look, Livia,” Ms. Lundberg says.

  Her lip gloss forms a gob when her lips come together. I find myself trying not to dab my lips together. Her impeccable fashion has always made her stick out. She grew up in Belle’s. Graduated with my parents. Moved away to go to college and came back as some sort of fashionista.

  “What else are we supposed to think? How did the pills get in the back of your car?” She folds her hands in front of her and leans back.

  I see the empathy in her eyes. What we’ve been through.

  I look at Tracy and my dad. Tired. Weary eyes.

  Daniel has been the only one in the back of my car.

  “I don’t know.” My voice is impatient.

  Tracy stares at her feet.

  My dad looks at Ms. Lundberg. “Anna, look”—his lawyer voice is in full throttle—“the car was unlocked. Liv is saying she didn’t take the pills. Matt”—must be Mr. Marty’s first name—“even said Liv didn’t have to unlock her car. That it, indeed, was already unlocked. She has answered your questions. So, unless you have evidence of my daughter stealing the pills, we’re done here.”

  It must be hard for my father to walk such a fine line. Not enabling his child. Having to trust me, even at my worst. My track record is unbelievably horrid right now, my own hidden issues in my backpack.

  Tracy and I follow suit. My dad allows Tracy and me out first but turns back to Ms. Lundberg and Mr. Marty.

  “Here’s my card. Call me when you get some real evidence.”

  The silence between the three of us right now as we walk back out to my car puts us thousands of miles apart. By this time, it’s three p.m.

  Tracy turns to us. “I’ll see you guys at home. We’ll talk there.”

  “I’ll walk Liv to her car,” my dad says.

  Silence follows us.

  “I didn’t take the pills.”

  My dad kicks a rock on the ground, casually yet methodically. His mind is probably twisting and turning in every direction. Weighing every what-if scenario.

  “I trust you, Liv.”

  I want to sigh. I want to sigh away the lies I’ve told. Come clean. Because, if he knew the person I was becoming, he wouldn’t trust me. Even though I didn’t steal the pills, he shouldn’t trust me.

  “Thank you.”

  The rock still somersaults across the broken asphalt of the parking lot.

  Again, he’s staring at the ground. “No matter how mad you get at me, Liv, I’m still your father. You are part of me. I made a lot of mistakes, but all I have is today. Clean and sober. So, I’d like to try to make the best of it, if that’s okay with you?” My dad peers through the corner of his eye. He stops.

  I pull open the car door and check the backseat first. My dad goes to the passenger door. His face, the lines of a forty-five-year-old’s face, reflects untold stories. His nose and cheeks are a so
ft pink due to his years of drinking. I’ve Googled it.

  I’m honest in a dishonest way. “Can you drive?”

  He tilts his head to the left. “Of course.”

  But I don’t let him get too close, for fear of him smelling what I did this morning. Truth be told, I wasn’t quite particularly in the mood for a DUI today.

  I feel like I’m drowning in a pot of lies.

  This thought reminds me of when we were nine.

  We were at the Willits KOA, just two hours south of Belle’s Hollow, on a family vacation. We took one every summer. The swimming pool was packed with kids and floatation devices. No lifeguard on duty. While Tracy read a magazine and my father was sleeping, probably passed out, next to her—whichever you prefer—a humongous hippopotamus was launched through the air and landed on my head while a kid jumped on top of it, not knowing I was under the water, struggling to reach the surface. I don’t remember how long I was under, but I blacked out.

  I came to, coughing and gagging on the taste of chlorine, lying on the hot cement of the sweltering Willits summer heat, while Jasper loomed over me, on his knees, dripping wet, terror written all over his mouth, eyes, and cheeks. His hands on his thighs, he heaved air into me. Tracy was panicked, and my father was swaying to an unheard tune, his eyes glazed over me.

  Jasper said to me, “You need to be safer, Mimi. God, you scared the shit out of me.”

  What I wanted to say was, You have a twenty-pound hippopotamus land on your head, and you try to swim your way out.

  But he’d just saved my life, so I figured I owed him some silence and not a smart-ass rebuttal. Plus, I knew what he meant to say.

  You can’t die. Me and you, not one without the other. That’s always been our agreement.

  He was older by a minute and thirty-three seconds after all.

  His words: “The older sibling is always supposed to die first.”

  “What are you thinking about?” my dad asks as we make our way inside the house.

  “The day Jas saved me from the gigantic hippo.”

  I can see my dad’s face change, the guilt prickling at his lips and then moving to his eyes. He doesn’t remember firsthand.

  And then I think, If Jas hadn’t been there, what would have happened to me?

  What does the rest of my life look like without him?