A Thousand Reasons

by Mariah Dietz

  I should eat something, but I’m not hungry.

  As I head outside, I hear a squeal of laughter across the street. It’s Derrick’s house, where a scene I’ve watched a hundred times over the past five years plays: a girl is climbing out of his bedroom window. Derrick’s bare arms and chest are barely visible as he helps lower her to the ground. Her dress slides up, exposing her underwear—the reason for her giggles.

  My eyes fill with fresh tears. Not because Derrick isn’t pining for me, but because I’m being accused of turning my back on my family and friends, when he was never seen as a villain for all the pain and embarrassment he caused me.

  “Leela!” he calls, his gaze meeting mine.

  I quickly get in my Jeep to avoid him, and see a sticky note that Wes had scribbled my name and the word breakfast with a question mark. It seems silly that I’d kept the note, yet, I’m careful as I trace over it with my fingers. My crying turns into sobbing as I picture his quick smile. His dimple. The kindness always present in his gaze. The width of his chest and the sound of his voice when he says my name.

  Pulling in a deep breath, I focus on the fullness of my lungs, the coolness from the early hour against my skin. I release the same air in a large puff that I send my thoughts away with. I roll down my window, wipe tears from my cheeks, and push my shoulders back. I can do this.

  Derrick calls my name again, and my response is to peel out of our driveway without looking back.

  Once parked on campus, I reach for my phone. My fingers are clumsy as I tap muddled thoughts into a coherent message to Ace and Kendall, asking if they can meet for lunch. I know they have work and school, so I don’t wait for a reply. Instead, I check my reflection in the rearview mirror before applying some tinted lip balm and mascara. The traces of my emotional evening and morning are nearly gone, and I smile to hide the remnants.

  My smile transforms from something I’m actively working to maintain to automatic when I step into class and see a coffee and small pink box on my desk—a pink box that Wes has delivered to me numerous times over the past couple of weeks. It’s filled with thoughtfulness and slightly sweetened pastries.

  Wes’s dimple becomes more pronounced as he adopts my expression of excitement. I want to kiss him and propose we spend the rest of this day in his apartment, but Professor Kline closes the door, silencing the class.

  “Today we’re going to be discussing your acceptance of being human.” He walks toward the podium, his customary too-big of jacket is crooked and the sleeves reach his knuckles. But it doesn’t look silly anymore. It’s just him. Once he begins talking, his bizarre wardrobe and bushy eyebrows aren’t noticeable, and I am again reminded how this reclusive and strange man is teaching us valuable life lessons—ones I’m fairly certain he’s learned first-hand based upon the shadows of pain and regret that often follow him.

  “You’re all going to have a day a patient comes in with the most impossible circumstances, and you’re going to have a team of your co-workers looking at you with one of two expressions.” Professor Kline leans his hip against the podium and lifts a finger. “They’re either going to look defeated, as though they already know the losing outcome, or,” he lifts a second finger, “fierce determination. They’re going to look at you to open the skies and produce a miracle.” His eyes become downcast as he shakes his head. “And there will be days when both of those outcomes occur. The miracles where you make the perfect incision, and though you only have a twelfth of a second, and a thousand contributing factors against you, you’ll save the patient. And afterward, you will be numb and dazed, thinking of all those thousand reasons that patient should have died and somehow didn’t.

  “Then, you’re going to be in that same situation again. But the next time, everything is going to go awry. Things that shouldn’t go wrong will. An allergic reaction. An unforeseen trauma. Age. And you will be you numb and dazed for even longer because you’ll think of a thousand things you could have done differently. Could have changed. Would change if you could do it over again. But you’ll be faced with the reality that this patient died on your watch, and you’ll have to move past it. Let go of guilt. Or it will eat you up inside, and you’ll never be able to practice medicine again.”

  He pauses and turns his gaze out the large window at the far end of the room, like he has so many times before when he reflects on losing a patient. This class is more than his occupation, it’s his passion.

  “Being a doctor will make you question everything, including your sanity and abilities. But it is your responsibility to never, ever step into a patient’s room with the anticipation of losing or them. You listen to the facts being thrown at you like boulders maiming you, and you don’t let them hit your faith, your belief, or your confidence.” He looks over us, stopping on several faces before our eyes meet. “You are human. You can only run so fast, hold your breath so long, and be awake for so many hours, but while practicing medicine, you become something more. You find that memory that led you to this class and you remember these words: stay strong, you’re making a difference.”

  All around me, there is a palpable transformation of my peers views, as Professor Kline’s powerful message has us believing in the impossible.

  “You want to grab some lunch? I’ve only got ninety minutes, but we can pick something up really fast and eat here,” Wes says as we pack up our things.

  “I can’t,” I begin. “I actually made plans with Ace and Kendall.”

  Wes’s eyes widen and his lips tip upward. “Really?”

  I nod, feigning confidence.

  “That’s great!” he says, turning to Max.

  Max retrieves his phone, glancing through his messages. “I’ll go with you. I don’t have a class until four.”

  Wes leans forward and kisses me. The warmth and gentleness serves as an assurance, a comfort that has me ready to face all these fears and obstacles that have been building far longer than I’ve known Wes are deep enough for me to drown in.

  I meet Ace at a pizza restaurant close to campus that I drive by daily. I have the same twelve bucks in my bag that’s been there for two weeks.

  “Hey!” Ace’s voice is loud and cheery, and her cheeks are pulled into a smile that no longer looks as threatening as it had when I first met her and saw her as everything I had always wished to be and have. She hugs me, and surprisingly, it’s easy for me to wrap my arms around her and return the gesture.

  “Kendall said she’s going to be late, but we can sit down, or walk around, or whatever?”

  “Do you mind if we walk?” I ask, hoping it will be easier to hold a conversation without having to sit across from her where the awkward pauses would be more pronounced.

  “No! I’ve been sitting all morning in classes! I’d love to walk!” She waits until I move before following suit, matching my pace. “How’s school?” she asks. “Is it really hard? I’m starting to get nervous.”

  Shuffling my thoughts, I look at Ace. Her skin looks completely void of makeup and still flawless. She’s unaware that I am staring, seeking out a single blemish. Ace’s eyes grow wide, as if she expects my delay in speech to mean bad news is coming.

  “No!” I cry. “I mean, yes.”

  She laughs, erasing the tension as I shake my head.

  “Sorry. I mean, yes. There are times when it’s really difficult and seems impossible, and then there are times where it’s exhilarating and you feel like you could take on the world.”

  “Gosh, if that isn’t the definition of life.” She smiles at me, and I recognize the expression immediately—have seen her bestow it upon others in the busy house she shares with the people who I’ve begun to consider friends. The jealousy that has been haunting me ebbs, and my trust in Wes grows.

  It’s an alarming feeling. One that scares me. I don’t know how or when he started to mean so much. When trusting him became an unconscious decision.

  30

  Leela

  “Lala, why you lookin’ so tired, girl?�
� Jamal playfully shoves me.

  I scowl at him, not able to muster enough energy to respond. I’ve consumed four cups of coffee and still my eyes are half shut. This is going to be a long day. It’s been a week since I went to lunch with Kendall and Ace, and my feelings for Wes continue to weigh heavily on my thoughts as I continue to make excuses to my parents, him, and myself as I work to balance my time.

  “You and Wes stay up too late?” His eyebrows dance up and down suggestively.

  Though sex doesn’t embarrass me, I want to punch Jamal. Hard.

  “How come you never talk about him?”

  “Because you pay me to tutor you, not tell you about my personal life.”

  Jamal cocks his head to the side. “I tell you about my personal life.”

  “I never ask.”

  “Are you trying to tell me we’re not friends?” He clutches his chest. “I’m hurt!”

  “Why are you being obnoxious? It’s too early for you to be acting so annoying.”

  Using one of his large hands, he shoves me again, this time gentler, but still making my upper body sway. “You need some coffee?”

  “I’m fine.” Reaching for his textbook, I flip open to the chapter we’ve been covering. “Let’s do a quick recap, and then we can continue.”

  “Boom!” Jamal cries, dropping a stapled set of papers on top of the book.

  I flip it over and see it’s a math test with a giant red B- across the top. If this was a test I’d taken, I would be losing my shit to see that grade, but he’s proud of it, and rightfully so—he’s making great progress now that he’s applying himself and cares.

  “See. I don’t need a tutor anymore. I’ve got it all figured out.” He points to his temple.

  “Or you might want me to help you so you can continue to get B’s and A’s on other tests.”

  He waves a hand, dismissing my suggestion. “I’ve got this.”

  “Then I’m going to nap in my Jeep.” I push my chair back.

  “Why don’t we get some more coffee so you can tell me what’s really bothering you?”

  “No!” I cry. “I want to talk to you about equilateral triangles and other things that have rules and reason, and ignore everything that doesn’t make sense.”

  Jamal pulls his chin back and his eyes grow big as he looks at me. “But you don’t need to unload or anything, right? I mean, you’ve got this all figured out. Handlin’ it.” His long fingers wave in front of my chest. Though he’s being sarcastic, his words aren’t hurtful or rude.

  “You don’t know what you’re even asking me to talk about.”

  “Not even a clue,” he admits. “But I grew up with my mom and three sisters, so I deserve a little credit.”

  I pull in a deep breath, and though I haven’t said anything, I surprisingly feel better simply by acknowledging that something is wrong. “You know how we were talking about the worlds we grew up in being so different from others we go to school with?”

  Jamal nods. He moves a pencil between his fingers so quickly my eyes can’t follow each move and pass.

  “My family doesn’t want me dating Wes.”

  The pencil stops. “Why the hell not?” His eyebrows furl and his lips furl and even his hands seem to furl.

  “You know…”

  “No, I don’t.” He pulls his chin back again, looking at me like I’m the bad guy.

  “We come from different worlds. He comes from money, his parents are doctors. Even his friends are rich. He lives in an apartment nicer and bigger than my house.”

  “Are you telling me the reasons you don’t want to date him or the reasons your parents don’t?”

  My chest aches, wondering which side my mom falls on. “Them!”

  “Cause they’ve seen his house?”

  “You know what I mean. He comes from privilege.”

  “So?”

  “What do you mean so? You know what it’s like to be the outsider. To be judged based upon how much money you have.”

  “Sometimes they’re right.” His nonchalant shrug infuriates me.

  “What do you mean sometimes they’re right? Sometimes they’re very wrong! It’s offensive when someone thinks they know me because I’m poor.”

  “So why’s it okay that you’re doing the same and judging him?”

  “I’m not!” I say automatically.

  “You are. You’re talking about how money makes him different than you. How that causes conflicts. Does he brag about his money? Does he tell you if you don’t have it you’re not worth anything to him? Does he laugh about you not having any?”

  “You know,” I say. “You know his life is different than ours.”

  “Ours?” The skin between his eyes wrinkles. “Girl, you and I grew up in different worlds. My mom was a drug addict for the first ten tears of my life. I saw her shooting shit in her arms and then passing out for days on the couch. I lived in shelters and on the floor of strange men’s houses. I waited in lines for every meal I had from the time I was twelve to fifteen. You don’t know a damn thing about my world.”

  Blood drains from my head and limbs, making me feel chilled as I try to imagine the life he’s just shared a glimpse of. Though I’ve always been poor, I’ve always had food and a bed, even if I had to share it.

  “You have to stop comparing yourself to others. What they do or don’t have doesn’t define them. Do people judge me because of the color of my skin? Or because I’m broke? Or because I play football? Sometimes. And I’ll be honest—it really pisses me off. But we live in a society where everyone judges. We have to get over ourselves. We have to be happy with who we are, and we have to be strong enough to not be blinded by other people’s opinions. You have to be happy with yourself before you can be happy with someone else. Don’t let anyone’s ignorance define you.

  “Until we stop judging, or at least admit there’s prejudice and that it’s a problem, it’s going to continue. You like Wes. I saw it—I know it. He might be rich, but that doesn’t mean he had an easy life. Will he have more opportunities than you? Sadly, yes. He’s a white male. The deck is stacked in his favor. In some ways, I’ll have an easier time than you, too, because I’m a guy, and I’m awesome at football.” He flashes a winning smile. “People don’t give a shit if I had to eat cat food once because I was starving.” Jamal shakes his head. “People see me getting attention from NFL scouts and getting attention on TV and from girls, and they think my life is a piece of cake.

  “Don’t judge people based upon how much shit they have or make, that’s not your job. Your only responsibility is to make sure they’re around you for the right reasons. Not because they want something from you, but because they want to be around you. They’re willing to walk through the dark with you and come out on the other side. If that isn’t Wes, then by all means, run. But if you’re going to constantly compare the two of you and have a chip on your shoulder, he’s going to end up running from you.”

  He’s right. And I hate him for it.

  “If your family can’t support you, you don’t need them. They’re supposed to support and love you. That’s it. That’s their only job once their kids become adults.”

  “Love isn’t conditional like that. You can’t expect someone to stop caring about things because you turn eighteen.”

  “It’s not about not caring, it’s about respect.”

  I’m afraid to ask, but I do it anyway. “But what if your grandparents had cared enough to intervene when your mom got involved with drugs?”

  He shrugs with indifference, sending that growingly familiar pang of anger through me again. “It is what it is. If they had, she wouldn’t have been able to change. People don’t change unless it’s their choice. My mom had to recognize that she needed help.”

  “But you didn’t have a choice! Kids aren’t supposed to have to know how hard life is. They’re supposed to be sheltered and protected.”

  “In a perfect world. But our world is far from perfect, Lala.”

>   I shake my head, too angry to verbalize all of the reasons and ways he’s wrong—or at least should be.

  “My mom screwed up. She put my sisters and me in the way of danger too many times, but that’s what I believe is what finally made her realize she wanted to save herself—it was because she wanted to save us.”

  Tears burn my eyes. It doesn’t seem fair that he had to sacrifice so much of his innocence and childhood so that his mother could recognize she needed help. It doesn’t seem fair that no one intervened. It doesn’t seem fair that she’s still allowed in his life though she caused so much pain.

  Staring into Jamal’s wide brown eyes makes me realize he’s just taught me way more than I could ever hope to teach him. He’s allowed me into his life and shared a past that I’m sure are hard to share, and he did so without expecting anything in return. I don’t know that he’s fully right. Maybe there isn’t a right or wrong, yet hearing that he’s capable of so much forgiveness and trust opens my heart. Knowing he can withhold judgement and animosity after everything life threw at him gives me hope that I can move past the anger and pain, and maybe, just maybe, my family can as well.

  31

  Leela

  I glance at the green light flashing on my phone, and my shoulders fall with guilt. I went from seeing Wes three to five times per week to only seeing him once outside of class in the past ten days. I’ve been working to pick up extra shifts and spend more time at home.

  “What’s wrong?” Jasmine asks, filling the empty bell peppers with a new tub. We just completed a lunch rush and are trying to get things organized and re-filled for the steady flow that will be making their way in soon.

  “Nothing,” I say automatically

  “Are you and Wes fighting?”

  I shake my head. “What makes you ask that?”