“That’s just what we need,” Andy says. “Fucking gossips.” He lets out a sigh and then shakes his head. I can see he’s fighting back tears. We both simultaneously sit on the wide windowsill at the end of the hall.
He starts talking, head down, choking on his own words. “Cops came to my house last night. Asked my parents all kinds of questions about Jonas. They’re getting me a lawyer.” He pauses and then lets me have it. “Jonas was arrested.” He exhales slowly. “Drug charges. Some guy at a convenience store saw the pic of Hannah, and said she’d been in there with Jonas. Guy knew Jonas by name. Police went over to Jonas’s apartment and the fucking dumbass prick had shit all over the place.” At this point Andy is crying. Two freshman girls walk by and grab on to each other as they catch wind of what Andy is saying.
Andy raises his coffee to take a sip, but then just stares at the muddy liquid. Did the cops consider Andy a drug dealer too? Andy must be thinking along these same lines, because his hands shake, spilling his coffee over the sides of the Styrofoam cup. He wipes his shirt cuffs on his jeans and shakes his head. He looks not just thin, but emaciated; his blue-and-gray flannel shirt hangs off him, as does the white T-shirt he has on underneath. Andy’s the kind of guy who misses a single meal and evaporates.
“I’m sorry, Andy,” I say. And I am, really sorry. I’m sorry for him and for me. I’m sorry for my parents and his, for Elise Scott, even Chuck’s mom with her perfect hair and middle-of-the-day pumps. I want to blame Senna for everything, but is that fair? Or is it just because Senna scares me? I’ve never connected with Senna, but does that mean there’s something actually wrong with the guy? Wrong enough that he’d hurt Hannah?
I put my hand on Andy’s thigh. “What can I do, Andy?” I ask. “I want to help.”
Andy rests his chin in his palm. I watch his face. I’ve never seen him like this. The ends of his eyelashes are damp with tears and his nose is running. His mouth is twisted-looking, and his cheeks are sunken in.
“They’re going to ask you questions, Marci. They’re coming to interview me, too. Just tell them what you know. It’s what I’m going to do. Don’t tell the others anything about Jonas. Senna, Chuck. Act like we didn’t talk.”
I move closer to Andy to signal he’s the only one I trust. “Do you think Jonas will go to jail?” I half whisper. Andy shrugs. “I know he’s my brother, and I messed up too, but if Jonas weren’t such a lazy, greedy fuck, none of this would have happened. I wish he had just gone to college.” Andy takes a sip of his coffee, then puts the cup down and buries his face in his hands. His hair is mussed on top, the ink-dark spikes dotted with dust. I want to tell him to go home, take a shower, get some sleep, but none of this is possible.
There’s nothing I can say to Andy that will change anything. There’s no way out but forward. Jonas is over eighteen, but Andy is only sixteen, and he really hasn’t done much more than hook his friends up with his brother. But given the fact that Hannah is missing, it’s doubtful any of us will get off easy. The best thing we can do, the only way we can help anyone, including ourselves, is by helping find out what happened to Hannah.
Kids start to spill out of the cafeteria and into the hallway. My free period is over and I have Spanish next. In another minute, the hallway will be packed with kids, and Andy and I will be swept along with the tide of people pushing and shoving, heading to class. I give Andy a squeeze on his thigh, and to my surprise he stands, pulls me up, and puts both his arms around me in a full-on hallway embrace. “I miss you,” he mumbles into my neck, and holds me tight. I rest my head on his shoulder, not daring to move.
It feels useless to go to Spanish, but there’s nothing else to do, and if I don’t go, I’ll be called out for cutting. I feel like everyone I pass is looking at me—the tiny freshman boys with huge backpacks, the long-haired senior stoners with their Phantasy T-shirts, the packs of sophomore girls whispering with their heads together. But are they really? Or is this some paranoid delusion?
A part of me wants nothing more than a cold six-pack of Heineken. I can almost picture myself hauling ass home, letting myself in the basement, and raiding Dad’s beer fridge. But those days are over. Dad keeps his beer locked away. There’s never more than one or two in the fridge.
Somehow, I get through Spanish and then the rest of the day. I don’t see Andy or anyone else all afternoon until, miraculously, it’s time for Dad to get me and take me to the Center. I stand in front of the guidance office with just my flannel over my T-shirt and overalls as the clouds gather and the air gets cooler. For once, I’m eager to get to the Center. I’m not thrilled that Chuck is there, but today the Center seems like the only place I’m likely to get the answers I need.
Thirty
DAD PULLS UP to the building right at three, and his is the first car in the long line of parents picking up kids. I’m relieved that Dad is listening to the radio, and that it is not the local news but a public radio show about a controversial movie showing somewhere in the city. You can hear protestors in the background yelling. It sounds like chaos, but also like nothing. “Hey,” Dad says, and shifts into drive. He gives me a cautious glance but says nothing more, and we drive out of the school parking lot in silence.
Finally, when we’re out on the Post Road, I open up. My voice sounds strange and seems to come out of a deep, unknown place inside me. “I feel like a freak show, or a criminal,” I say. “I feel like everywhere I go people are staring at me, like I should know something, like I do know something.” I don’t plan to say this, but the words fly out of my mouth. Dad slows the car.
“Did something happen?” He sounds stricken. What more would need to have happened?
Then I tell him about the graffiti about Hannah. Dad doesn’t say anything until we get into town and pull into the Center parking lot. He parks the SUV awkwardly, too close to the car next to us, and turns to me. “Listen very carefully,” he says. “You do not speak to anyone. Anyone. About any of this until you speak to the lawyer Mom got you. Then, you do exactly what she says. Got it? She makes the decisions. Period.” I sigh, wondering if I’ll be able to squeeze out of the passenger-side door, or if I’ll have to ask Dad to repark the car.
“Barbara Fine is my brain. I get it,” I say. I’m not being a smart-ass. I’m trying to think. Dad shakes his head. No. His face darkens and his brows come together in concentration. He’s trying to control himself. I wonder what it is he doesn’t want to do—yell? Or actually slap me? I wouldn’t blame him for either. Neither of my parents has ever hit me, but I almost want him to now. I want him to lose it on me. I want screaming, crying. I want mayhem. I want the rest of the world to feel like my own mind—fear-filled, confusion-filled, and inescapable.
Dad sighs, then speaks precisely. “Barbara Fine is an expert in criminal law and witness rights. You need her expertise. To get her expertise, she needs you to tell her everything you know. It’s simple. Nothing you say to her will be repeated to us. Nothing is repeated to the police, or Elise Scott. Got it? You are not to decide what’s relevant, good or bad, right or wrong. Above all, you don’t say a thing to any of these people. These . . . friends of yours.”
“I get it. I understand. It makes sense. Trust no one.”
Every time I got drunk, I felt beautiful. Not like Hannah or a model in a magazine or a movie star, but like a tree or a mountain or the moon at night. I want to explain this to Dad, that I am good, deep down, and that what I want is simple, something anyone could understand.
For several minutes, Dad and I just sit there with the engine running, waiting. But the silence is not uncomfortable. I’m glad for it, and even thankful to him for not saying something to fill it.
Finally, I wipe my face on a crummy old tissue I find in the jacket pocket of my shirt, and I lean over and give Dad a kiss on the cheek. He says, “I’ll be back by five thirty.” I nod, and open the car door, which bangs into the blue Mercedes next to us. I’ve forgotten how close we are, and the door of the SUV has left a la
rge white mark on the silver-blue sedan. I glance at Dad, who shakes his head and looks away while I squeeze myself through the space between the two cars.
At the Center, things are quiet. I say hi to James, who is pouring pretzels into a large lime-green plastic snack bowl. “Hey, Marcelle, how are you?” he says. I shrug. “Okay, I guess,” I answer, remembering what Dad said in the car, about not talking about Hannah with anyone other than the lawyer. Did that mean here, too? I wonder. Did that mean I’m supposed to sit in Group and say nothing? It’s not that easy, here, to keep quiet. Keeping quiet is actually sort of against the rules, and I have my accountability letter to present today—something I have to do, and that letter has to mention Hannah.
Down the hall, near the Group room, Cyndi is at the cubbies putting her book bag away and changing into her stupid fuzzy slippers. She leans over and pulls her hair to the side, so you can plainly see the half-shaved part. She has four gold hoops in one ear. I think she had an eyebrow piercing, too, but those aren’t allowed at the Center. I wonder how Kevin feels about the snake tattoo Cyndi has coiled up her middle finger. That’s something she can’t undo.
It isn’t only me. The other kids here have fucked up too. They have the scars, the tattoos, the angry, exhausted parents. But Cyndi, James, Ali, Martin, and even little Maria all have each other. James kicks people out of Group, but they come right back, or they come back after a day or two. Is accountability all about getting slapped down, then getting back up and trying again? Or is this all some kind of game, with kids like James and Cyndi acting self-important and everybody else just bouncing around, doing our time, waiting for someone to say we’re okay again because we’ve done what we were told to, finally.
I smile faintly at Cyndi as I put my bag in my cubby. Cyndi’s cubby is decorated with stickers with sober-living messages like One Day at a Time, Easy Does It, and Do the Next Right Thing. My cubby doesn’t even have my name on it yet, and it won’t until I get my accountability letter accepted by the Group. I pull my black-and-white marbled notebook out of my book bag. Last night, I printed out my accountability letter and slipped a copy in the front of my journal. I check to make sure it’s still there. I can’t afford not to be on top of things today. Cyndi barely looks my way. So far, there is no sign of Chuck. What will it mean, I wonder, if Chuck doesn’t show up? What will it mean if he does?
Kevin is in his office with the door open, calling something out to James, who is still in the kitchen. I envy the way James and Cyndi are so at home here. I’m supposed to have a check-in with Kevin again this week, since I bombed my last one, but I haven’t scheduled anything so far. I have to start initiating. Initiating in Center lingo is doing what you’re supposed to without someone telling you. I’m supposed to be able to figure out what’s important on my own. I’ve always been bad at this.
I pause outside Kevin’s office, unsure what to say. He looks up. His eyes have a strange intensity. The brown part is too bright, and there is too much white altogether. “Hey,” I say quietly. Kevin doesn’t say anything back, but waits for me to go on. “I think I need a check-in,” I say.
Kevin stops what he’s doing and eyes me. I know I’m doing this all wrong. “You think you do, or you know you do? You want to, or you think you’re supposed to want to?” He’s not speaking in an angry way, but I feel like I have tripped over an invisible wire.
“I need to?” I say. Then I correct myself. “I mean, I know it’s part of the program to do it, but I would also like to speak to you.” Kevin nods. Then he gestures toward the sign-up sheet taped to his office door. Why did no one ever point this out to me? Everything at the Center is supposed to be done a certain way, but no one ever says how or why. It’s like a scavenger hunt. It’s like somewhere in that building they’ve hidden all the clues to getting through the program, for being sober, for finding meaning in an empty universe, but you have to put the pieces together alone.
I sign up on Kevin’s sheet for a meeting tomorrow. This is an eternity. By tomorrow, Hannah will be found, I tell myself. If she isn’t, I’ll have to live with all of my questions, all of my fears, and all of my regrets, maybe for the rest of my life. I’ll have to go on anyway.
I push Hannah and Andy and the meeting tonight with Barbara Fine out of my mind. That’s what I do now. I get through stuff, not big stuff like days, but small stuff, like minutes.
“But Marcelle?” Kevin stops me. “Love to have you sign up for a meeting, but you’re in as of today. James, Cyndi, and I all approve the AL you posted last night. You can talk about it when they call on you today in Group.” I breathe a sigh of relief.
Chuck must have gotten here while I was in Kevin’s office. He sits next to James, drinking a Coke. Maria sits at the end of the table with her owlish eyes and narrow chin poking out of a black turtleneck. She has on leggings and she curls up, cat-like, in her seat. For the first time she looks like a teenager to me and not a child.
Martin starts the meeting off. He’s next to Cyndi, slouched down, eyes half shut. He looks at Cyndi before he begins, and she nods, like she knows all about whatever he’s going to say. I feel angry for no particular reason. Maybe it’s just Cyndi, and the way she runs the meeting. At least James sometimes smiles.
Martin clears his throat twice. “I guess I just have to fess up,” he says. He’s almost crying. We’re supposed to give each other eye contact at the table, but it’s too painful for me to watch Martin dissolve. Martin struggles to get his words out.
“I fucked up yesterday, for real. I didn’t go right home after Group, like I was supposed to. I knew no one was there. I went to a bro’s house, instead, guy I used to hang with. I knew it was kind of a problem that I was going there, and I didn’t really check in with myself about what I was doing, and a bunch of other guys were there doing bong hits, and someone passed the bong to me.” He stops, takes a sip of his Sprite. “So that’s it, man. I don’t know why I did it. Couple other times I hung out and let it go, but something about being with this particular brother, you know, I didn’t care about anything. I blew it.”
There is a heavy silence.
James narrows his eyes at Martin. My heart pounds. I start to sweat. I hardly know Martin, and yet I feel myself begin to panic for him.
“You know what you’ve got to do?” James says. Martin nods, and a large tear forms in the corner of his right eye and slides down the smooth dark of his cheek. “Checking outta this joint,” Martin says with a nod. “But I’m coming back.” He stares at Cyndi, and I wonder about the two of them, once again. Dating each other is against Center rules, but there’s clearly something simmering there. “It was a slip,” Martin says. “That’s all. A fucking slip.” Martin pushes the door open hard so that it bangs the outside wall on his way out.
Martin’s main issue was Percocet. He got caught dealing, but just by his school and parents, so he isn’t mandated by the court to be here. He told me his story one of my first days at the Center, how his dad found his stash of weed and fake Percs he got online when his prescription for his football injury ran out. That night, his Dad grabbed him by the shirt collar and slammed him against the wall, not once, but three times, until Martin was actually scared, breathless, until his mom threatened to call the police. Then his mom hit the internet and found the Center. He’s been coming to the Center since June, sober the whole time.
Cyndi looks around the room. “Wow,” she says, shaking her head. “That was fucking hard.” I stare across the table and catch Chuck’s eye, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Maybe he has too much on his mind to care about the drama unfolding in front of us. In spite of everything, I want Martin to come back. I hate the idea of anyone else I know disappearing.
James looks thoughtfully at the door. “He’s coming,” he says cryptically.
The door opens quietly, and then Martin, tears on his face, works his way back around the table, pulls out his chair, sits down, and folds his arms in front of him.
“A. Fucking. Slip,
” Martin says. “That’s it. I didn’t have to say anything about it. I came clean. It’s not happening again. I’m in control. That’s it.”
James and Cyndi exchange glances and I think I see a shadow of a smile on James’s face. Cyndi, though, is all chin up and staring straight at Martin. Maybe she’s proud of her man, putting up his fight. I’m waiting, getting more anxious by the second. The longer the Martin show takes, the longer I have to wait to give my own accountability talk, the speech that tells the world just what sort of fucked-up people my friends, including Chuck Glasser, really are.
Cyndi sighs. “Martin, you know the rule. This is a zero-tolerance program. One strike and you’re out. You need to sign your release papers. You can reapply when you’re approved. It’ll be really fast, if you do it right, I’m sure of it.”
Martin shakes his head. “No can do. I belong here. I fucked up, I know that, but this is my place.” He sits up straight and opens his notebook, and puts his hand under his chin in an elaborate show of attentiveness.
“Yo,” Ali interrupts. “Man, I can see where you’re coming from, and I’ve got your back one hundred percent, but you are jeopardizing your return right now. You gotta pack it in, do your time, and we’ll be here for y’all.”
There’s silence around the table. I want to scream at the whole group of them to listen to me, to my story. But at the Center we don’t freak out and put our shit ahead of anyone else’s shit, and for now we are stuck on Martin, who still hasn’t budged.
The tension in the room is electric. I think someone will finally run out and get Kevin, get Security, but that’s not what happens next. It never ceases to amaze me how alone we are in here, in this room. How in charge of things James and Cyndi really seem to be.
The First True Thing Page 15
