He did hate me.
“Bishop,” I whimpered. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t even react to the sound of my voice.
“Do you want to break up?”
No reaction.
“You do,” I breathed, doing my absolute best to ignore Laurie and Henny.
Ever-so-slightly, he pressed the tip of his pencil deeper into his paper.
I couldn’t breathe. I could feel the burn of panic in my lungs. The crumbling beneath my feet. My hand shot up. “Miss Barter?” I called, trying and failing to keep the wobbling out of my voice. “Can I use the bathroom?”
She paused writing and pointed her pen at me. But she must’ve seen something in my eyes because she saved the beratement and pursed her lips. “Hurry back.” She put her head down.
I used the opportunity to take my things with me while she wasn’t looking. I hurried out. On my way, Henny reached for my arm, but I averted her touch and slipped out the door.
I didn’t want to panic. I didn’t want to give in to the pressure of losing my breath and my stability. So, I did what I always did. I ran. I ran all the way out to the baseball field. I crawled to the top of the bleachers and raised my face to the sky. It was gray today, and thick clouds promised more snow. It had been light so far, but I could feel the pressure in the air of a storm coming.
It stormed down on me.
When the bell rang after school, I still hadn’t moved.
I was numb from the cold and maybe just numb from myself.
To add insult to injury, when I looked at my cell phone, the only person who’d called was my father.
The irony was insulting.
I called him back.
“Hey,” he said, sounding distracted. “Your mother said you wanted to talk to me. What’s up?”
You’re never around. You left me and Mom and you don’t even care. Doesn’t even pretend to care. “Why did you take the couch?”
“What are you talking about? I have a column to write and then a flight to catch. I’m broadcasting a game in Canada. I don’t have time to play games.”
Was that what I was doing? Playing games? While I couldn’t breathe? “When you left us, you took the couch. Why?”
“I didn’t leave anyone. And I took the couch because I’d miss it. It’s comfortable.”
I laughed humorlessly. “You know what, Dad? You’re right. You didn’t leave me. You lied to me, tricked me, and then abandoned me. I hope you enjoy your couch. I’m done letting you ditch me. You’re the reason I can’t trust anyone. You’re the reason I may’ve lost the first boy I ever loved.”
“Ava—”
I hung up, not feeling any better but somehow feeling better. Considering my emotions hardly ever made sense, I went with it. I drove to Amore Eterno and covered the new hole in my heart with pasta. And I used the emergency credit card Dad gave me to pay for it.
Mom was waiting for me when I got home, hand on her hip, eyes sad.
I bypassed her and went straight for the stairs.
“Ava. Your father did not abandon you. And I got a call from school today that you cut class and that this isn’t the first time. What is going on with you? This can’t all be about your father and me. Or even Bishop.”
I went up the stairs.
“Ava, I am talking to you.” She followed after me.
I closed my door and locked it.
She pounded on the other end. “Where’s the spare key that was over your door?” The handle shook. “Ava, open up. I want to talk to you!”
I sank onto my reading couch and stared off into space. There were no galaxies or stars. Just a black hole sucking me down.
And I was sick of it. I wanted to get my life back. Or maybe that wasn’t true. I never had one. Never really knew myself, my parents, or my friends. I had lived in a bubble and now it was time to pop it.
Violently.
I called Bishop, unsurprised when he didn’t answer. His voicemail was the standard computer reading his number.
I texted him. I’ll miss you. Every day. But if this is what you want, I’m not going to push you anymore. I’m not going to push anyone ever again.
That night, sleeping was futile. Every time my eyes closed, I saw Bishop’s cold, hard gaze searing into me like I’d done something horrifically wrong, only I didn’t know what.
At school the next day, the first place I went was the office. I was super early, since I’d wanted to avoid everyone I knew. The office smelled like coffee and paper. The secretary smiled tiredly when I came in.
“How can I help you, sweetie?”
I pasted on a smile. “My life is falling apart, and I can’t talk to anyone I know. Is the counselor in?”
She stared at me weirdly, like her brain was on lag. “What’s your name?”
“Ava Mackson.”
Her fingers moved to the keyboard. “M’s… M’s… Ah, here we are. Your counselor is Mrs. Caleb. Give me a minute. I’ll check if she’s in.” She got up. “Take a seat.”
I sank down in the waiting area. The secretary came back a minute later and said that Mrs. Caleb wasn’t in yet, but Mr. Spencer was, if I didn’t mind talking to him.
She led me back and knocked on a door. “Mr. Spencer?”
“Come in,” came a male voice.
She nodded me along.
I opened his door and poked my head inside. Mr. Spencer also taught English freshman year, so I was unsurprised by his long, gray hair held back by a white bandana. He wore a suit with a vest and had these wide-rimmed glasses that magnified the size of his eyes. His smile was sweet and polite.
“Ava Mackson.” He stood up and held out his hand, shaking mine gently. “I remember you. What can I do for you this Thursday morning?”
I blinked, realizing what I was doing. What was I thinking, coming here? Oh, right, because I had no idea where else to go. “I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Myself.”
He picked up a pen on his desk and stood it up, balancing it. “It says in the call log that you got one yesterday from attendance.” He squinted at his computer. “You cut out of home ec and didn’t come back. Looks like there’s been a few absences. Do those have anything to do with it?”
“They might.”
“You can talk to me, Ava. That’s what I’m here for. Think of me as an empty well. Toss your problems in.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“Try me. It’s sometimes hard to start, so try at the beginning.”
The hardest part wasn’t starting. The hardest part was stopping. I started with how the idea of having a baby consumed Mom. How Dad went along with it even though I never thought he was onboard. I told him about the miscarriage and then the complete annihilation of their relationship. I finished with my panic attacks and tried to leave Bishop out. I’d done enough to him without dragging him into this mess, too, but he was a part of my life and I couldn’t overlook him entirely. My heart wouldn’t let me.
When I finished, I felt empty and exposed. Like a used piece of gum that had been trampled on by a million different shoes.
Mr. Spencer dropped his foot to the floor. It had been resting on his other knee the entire time I talked, and his eyes had looked ahead of him, and not on me, which I had appreciated. “Thank you for coming to me. That was very mature and brave. Frankly, I think the two people who need to be sitting here are your parents. But you’re seventeen and something tells me you’re having a hard time accepting that you may have to start figuring out who you are on your own now, am I right?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“I think we need to work out a game plan. Whatdya say?” He grabbed a notepad off his paper and picked up his pen. “First thing you need is to stabilize your mental health. That’s the most important part to a healthy self. Mental health. Say it with me. Mental health. To do that, I think you need to talk to someone who specializes in that and let them know how you’re feeling. M
aybe you need medicine or maybe you need someone to better understand your responses.” He jotted down a number. “Give this number a call and take a listen. Now, as for your boy problems. Sorry. I don’t specialize in that area, but it sounds like you both care about each other. Boys are pretty dumb, Ava. We need a good knocking over the head.” He gave me a smile as he tapped his knuckles gently against his skull. “Now, the hard part. Your parents. I know it may feel like they’re your responsibility, but if they’re compromising your happiness, then you’re obviously not theirs. You have to be your own ambassador. Ask yourself this question when you’re spiraling out of control: Am I putting myself first? If you don’t think you are, then keep trying until you get it right.”
I fisted the number he gave me and thanked him, too numb to say much else.
Am I putting myself first?
What a terrible question to ask yourself. What did it even mean? It wasn’t possible to put yourself first in every situation. Doing so could create a brand-new problem. One where I was first, but completely and utterly alone. I wasn’t sure how much give and take there was supposed to be, and it made my head hurt.
Everything made my head hurt.
The halls were full when I came out of the office. Some faces I knew, like Josh. Most faces, I didn’t. Josh gave me a disgruntled look that really scraped my spine the wrong way.
I stopped in front of him, no longer willing to take his crap. “What’s your problem?”
He looked around and curled his lip up at me, his locker door hanging open. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the way you always give me rude looks.”
He laughed nervously, eyes skirting around over my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I stepped closer to him. “I know what I’m talking about and so do you, Josh. Listen, we dated for six empty months. Get. Over. It. And stop looking at me like that or I’ll tell everyone why we broke up.”
He looked so small and pathetic standing there, looking around in fear at his peers. “We broke up because you’re a prude.”
I raised my chin. “We broke up because you ignored the word no. No means no, Josh. It means don’t stick your hand up my shirt when I don’t want you to. It means stop touching my thigh when I ask you to. It means stop pressuring me to have sex when I don’t want to. It means get your filthy hands off me! If that makes me a prude, then so be it.” I was screaming by the time I finished.
The hall had stopped. Everyone had their eyes on us.
Before Josh could respond, his eyes peeled in shock, a fist came down on his face. Whoever it was bumped into me and shoved me away, laying into Josh’s face like it was a punching bag. Office security ran out and some huge guys from the football team helped peel the guy off.
When they hauled him up, and his icy, brutal eyes met mine, I felt my axis shift. “Bishop,” I gasped.
Josh lay on the ground, holding his face. Blood dripped from his face. Office security dragged Bishop away.
“What the hell!” Josh exploded.
A girl walked over, blonde like me but smaller. She kicked Josh’s leg. “That’s what you get, creep.” She gave me a proud smile and then tried to scamper off.
“Ava!” Mr. Spencer snapped, coming up behind me. “You too, Penny.” He waved the blonde over. “Josh, go to the nurse and then come to my office. We’re all going to have a talk with the principal.” He waved a security officer over. “Make sure this gentleman gets to my office, would you?”
“Yes, sir.” He grabbed Josh up roughly and dragged him down the hall for the nurse.
It was like an episode out of a teen drama, all of us crammed in the principal’s office. Bishop was stewing in his seat and Josh was covering his nose with an ice pack. Penny and I sat together, something of a united front as we both told our sides. Josh was a handsy, rude, disrespectful boy, and Bishop had given him what he deserved. I loved him for that. So much. But he wouldn’t look at me. He was darkness and fury and I knew this moment had probably cemented his distaste for me.
“I’ll handle him,” Mr. Spencer offered, eyeing Josh with disgust.
“As for you,” the principal said, turning to Bishop. “I understand why you did what you did. I don’t condone it, but I understand. However, we have a no-tolerance for physical altercations at this school and I’m going to have to suspend you for two weeks. Same goes for you Josh. We also have a no-tolerance for sexual misconduct that takes place on school grounds.” He gave Penny a sympathetic stare because she’d said Josh had forced his hand up her skirt at lunch two months ago when she denied him. “We’ll need all your parents in here.”
Bishop’s head snapped up. He didn’t have parents or even foster parents anymore. I wanted him to look at me. I willed him to, staring at the side of his handsome face, but he made sure not to even look my way.
Soon, the room was crammed pack with parents, and there was sobbing and screaming and my mother—my dad wasn’t there (shocker)—was looking at me like she didn’t even know me anymore.
“Are you sure suspending Bishop is the right thing? He was protecting, Ava. That’s not a bad thing.” Mom kept looking between Bishop and I in concern.
The principal stared at her. “He broke another boy’s nose.”
“Well that boy,” she sneered at him, “made my daughter uncomfortable. He deserved it, if you ask me.”
“Look, Mrs. Mackson, I get it, okay? But Bishop isn’t absolved of the crime because his crime was defensive. Rules are rules. Without them, this place would be anarchy.” He looked around and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I’ll need to have private conversations with all of you.”
We all piled out into the waiting room. Bishop stayed behind and when he was done, he busted out of the room, raging, fuming mad. He almost broke the office door as he left out of the school.
I sunk lower in my seat, burying my face in my hands.
Mom rubbed my back. “He’ll come around.”
“No, he won’t.”
And he didn’t.
I called him once and I texted him once more after Mom took me home and chewed me out for not telling her about Josh, but there was no answer and no reply. My heart hurt. It felt sore inside my chest all day and all night. I rubbed at it constantly, but the cure was a boy who no longer wanted to heal me.
Mom got a call from Mr. Spencer later that evening and she spent the entire night grilling me, and when I didn’t want to talk to her, she flipped.
“If you’re not going to talk to me, you’re going to talk to someone.”
My psychiatrist was a lot younger than I anticipated. I pictured some weathered, wise soul. What I got however, was someone in her late twenties. She was really pretty with freckles and curly brown hair and a nice smile. She didn’t make me feel like I was going to upchuck the cereal Mom had forced me to eat for breakfast. She made me feel like I could be a total basket case, so I was.
I hadn’t bothered to dress for the occasion, but I had showered after Mom physically pulled me into it and closed the bathroom door. I was wearing sweats and a baggy sweatshirt, and my hair was a damp mess. I’d been crying all the night before, staring at Bishop’s team picture from his roster. I’d looked him up online. He had a following. My hockey boy.
“So, Ava, what brings you here?” Sara asked, her eyes looking me over.
I smiled sadly. “My entire life is a mess.”
“Name one mess.”
“Bishop.” Just saying his name was hard. I cleared my throat and nodded. “Bishop is one of my messes. He used to be my safe place. Hockey is his safe place. He plays for the Loons.”
“Name another mess.”
I was tired of naming my messes, but I did so once again, promising myself that was the last time I named my messes, and it was time to start making order.
“I’m hopeless, aren’t I?”
Her laugh was soft. “Quite the opposite. You’re taking a huge step coming here. That’s hal
f the battle. Talking about your problems. Now, there are some pretty deep problems I have with a few things you’ve mentioned. There are untouched trauma’s, like finding your mother miscarrying and your father’s shift in attention. These trauma’s take time to work through. But that’s what I’m here for. To help you. Where do you want to start?”
“Bishop.”
She blinked. “I’m not sure Bishop should be your main focus right now, honey. He can be a focus, but not your main one.”
I wiped my nose. “But I think I love him.”
“Of course,” she soothed. “But your emotional turmoil isn’t because of him. It’s because all the others have left you empty, and he made you forget. Can I ask you some things? No judgement, no wrong answers?”
I nodded.
“Have you ever tried alcohol or drugs?”
“No.”
“What about sex? Are you sexually active?”
“No.”
“Do you talk to anyone about your problems?”
“No.”
“Do you hold things in?”
“Yes.”
“Do you ever feel hopeless?”
Tears fell silently down my face. “Yes,” I admitted in a pained whisper. “Is that bad?”
She didn’t answer. “Do you ever think about maybe hurting yourself?”
“No! Of course not.”
No reaction. “Do you ever lose your appetite or have a hard time feeling what you think you should be feeling?”
I frowned, my heart pounding. “What are you getting at?” I thought I was giving her all the right answers. Not the recipe for a bomb.
“Ava, it sounds to me like you may have depression. Your mother’s miscarriage and your parent’s tumultuous relationship looks like it was the catalyst, but I suspect you’ve been dealing with these feelings for a lot longer than a year.”
“Nope, everything was perfect.”
“Ava, perfection doesn’t exist.”
I let her statement hang there as it sunk in. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.
The Rarity of Falling Page 22