Take My Advice

by Tristi Pinkston

  A few minutes later, an email came in from Colby with the newspaper included as an attachment. I downloaded it and began to read, noticing, as always, the letter from the editor on the front page. Colby slaved over that thing. He was making a portfolio for college, and he wanted every word and every comma to be exactly right.

  When I came downstairs for dinner about two hours later, I brought with me a stack of articles I’d printed off the Internet after I finished reading the paper. I might not know what to do about my mysterious note, but I did know how to help my parents. I paused in the kitchen doorway—I smelled spaghetti and chocolate cake. Mom had made my favorite dinner. Is that normal when telling your children you’re getting a divorce, softening the blow with food?

  “Jill, we need to talk this over,” my dad began as soon as I sat down. “Your mother and I are worried that you weren’t really listening to us earlier.”

  Now that I’d turned in my proofreading notes for the newspaper, I was ready to dive back in to the bigger issue at hand. “I was listening, and what I heard is that you feel you’ve fallen out of love. I did some research this afternoon, and I found some great articles on how to rekindle those old flames.” I passed them around, and my parents took them with strange expressions on their faces. “The first article, and my personal favorite, talks about re-creating your first date. It says that we get so caught up in the monotony of everyday life that we forget those magic moments. What do you think, Mom, Dad? Monotony got you down?”

  My dad cleared his throat. “We appreciate what you’re trying to do, but Jill, we’ve already tried all this. We’ve met for lunch and we’ve taken walks together and we’ve met with an additional counselor. We’ve even done stuff that’s not on this list, and it’s just not working. Believe me, we’ve tried.”

  “Honey, people grow apart,” Mom said from the other side of the table. “It’s not anyone’s fault—it’s just how it is sometimes.”

  A suspicion crossed my mind, and while I had no proof and certainly didn’t think it was possible, I had to ask. I softened my voice and my tone so I wouldn’t sound accusatory. “Did either of you have an affair? I know things like that happen, and—“

  “Of course not.” My mom looked shocked.

  Her answer didn’t surprise me. I don’t think there’s necessarily an affair-having type, but if there were, my parents would be about as far away from it as you could get. “Then maybe this won’t be hard to fix.” I flipped through my stack and pulled out another article. “Dr. Leon Horowitz says that infidelity is the hardest thing to overcome in a marriage—followed closely by financial stress—but cheating can be forgiven. He also included a list of books for every type of marital problem. See?” I needed to get them to understand—maybe then the knot in my stomach would go away.

  “Jill, it’s time to stop.”

  I looked up at my father’s firm voice.

  “You’re seventeen and nearly an adult. You’re old enough to understand that life doesn’t always turn out the way we hope. We need your support in this, and the longer you spend in denial, the more difficult it will be all the way around.”

  Logic was probably going to be my best defense. “I looked up the cost of maintaining a separate household. Check out these utility estimates alone, Dad. I’m not sure I can support this decision.” I slid the piece of paper across to him. He didn’t look at it.

  “I shouldn’t have said ‘support.’ What I meant was that we need your cooperation, whether or not you agree with what we’re doing. Jill, are you listening to us at all?”

  “Of course I am. Listening is what I do best.”

  “Then please hear us,” my mom pleaded.

  I didn’t have an answer for that. It was probably in there somewhere, but I didn’t know how to bring it to the surface.

  I woke up the next morning with a vague feeling of dread, like my subconscious had been mulling something over in my sleep and I hadn’t been able to escape it. The situation with my parents flitted across my brain, but I pushed it to the back and allowed the mysterious note to take front and center.

  When I got to school, the hallways were quiet except for the occasional clicking of a teacher’s high heels on the floor. I entered the newspaper office and found Ms. Young at her desk. After glancing around to make sure we really were alone, I handed her the note without comment.

  She read it over once, and then read it again with a worried look on her face. Then she lowered the paper and looked at me over the top of her glasses. “Thanks for bringing this to me, Jill. You did the right thing.”

  “What are you going to do with it?” I hoped she wouldn’t ask me to respond to it in the column. I had no idea what to say, and I didn’t think I could take responsibility for something so heavy. I was just a kid.

  Ms. Young took off her glasses and laid them on her desk. “According to the law, I have to report it.”

  “You do?” That made sense, but it also made the whole thing become real. In the back of my mind, I’d been hoping that she’d read the note, see that it was a joke, and we’d laugh it off. But there really was a hurting kid somewhere in this school.

  “Yes. The trouble is knowing what to report. There aren’t a lot of clues here.”

  “Yeah, I was pretty stumped by that too.”

  “Leave it to me—I’ll ask some questions and see what I can figure out. I’ll bring Mr. Leffert in on this too—he’s the one with the most experience, and he’s had all the training to know what to do.”

  While not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, Mr. Leffert was an awesome school counselor, and I nodded. We could trust him.

  “You’d better get to class.” Ms. Young smiled at me. “You’re doing a great job, Jill. I enjoyed reading this week’s column—you’re really developing a flair for words.”

  “Thanks.” I blushed a little under her praise. If I were to make a list of all the people I wanted to emulate—and really, I should do that, like a goal sheet or something—Ms. Young would be among the top five, easy. She was pretty and confident and smart and nice—and she had a great shoe wardrobe.

  Amanda caught up with me as I was leaving the newspaper office. “Hey, you’re here early.”

  Yeah, it was surprising—most mornings, I got there just in time to dive in. “I needed to talk to Ms. Young about something. I’m sorry—I can’t say more about it. Confidential newspaper stuff.”

  “No worries.” Amanda was awesome—she really did understand. “So, I texted you last night. Where were you? I thought you’d be doing homework.”

  “I did that as soon as I got home.” For a second, I considered telling her about my parents’ announcement, but decided against it. Once they had a chance to read those articles, they’d change their minds, and it would be awkward having to take it all back publicly. The fewer people who knew about it, the better.

  Amanda didn’t comment on my change in routine. “Okay. Well, what I wanted to ask . . .”

  “Good morning, ladies.” Dylan came up behind us and fell into step. “I’m ready for another awesome day. How about you?”

  “Sure,” Amanda said with a giggle. “I could go for one of those.”

  “And how do you arrange that?” I asked. “Is it like calling for pizza?”

  “No, it’s easier than that. You decide to make it happen.” Dylan grinned. “Yesterday I decided I was going to make two friends, and I did. I hadn’t planned on you both being so smokin’, but that was just a very nice added bonus.”

  I rolled my eyes. Someone needed to take away this guy’s happy pills.

  “Today I think we should all conquer something difficult. We should choose something that scares us, leap in, and just do it. What do you say?”

  “I’m in,” Amanda said. “How about you, Jill?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll think about it.” I paused by the doorway to my classroom. “Bell’s about to ring. I’ll catch you guys later.”

  I sat through first-period economi
cs with far too many thoughts running through my mind, and when I walked out of the room an hour later, I realized I hadn’t heard one word Ms. Jenkins had said. I must not have gotten enough sleep—I’d have to be sure to go to bed a little earlier that night. Then I’d be back to normal.

  Chapter Four

  I waited for what seemed like forever in the hallway for Amanda after economics. She had French first period on B days, and we always met up by the blue lockers where the big hallway joined the smaller side corridor, which was halfway between our two classes. She was nowhere to be seen, and I wondered if she’d been abducted by aliens or something. Probably not—that was too cliché.

  “Victory!” Dylan called out, walking toward me with both arms up in the air like he’d just scored a touchdown or something. That was an odd visual because I couldn’t imagine him playing football at all, let alone being good at it. “I have accomplished my difficult task.”

  “Already?”

  “Yep! I walked right up to Mr. Bell and said, ‘Hi, I’m Dylan. I’m a fantastic actor, and I’d like to audition for the lead in your next play.’”

  “And what did he say?”

  “Well, it could have gone better, to be honest. Turns out the next play is Anne of Green Gables, and it would appear that I’m not quite suited for the role of a little redheaded orphan girl. But he gave me a script and said I’d be perfect to play Gilbert.”

  I tilted my head to the side, considering him. You know, I could see that. He had just enough nerve to pull it off, too. “When are tryouts?”

  “Not for three weeks, so I’ll have a lot of time to prepare. This is definitely going to be the best year ever.”

  “I sure hope so—I mean, it’s our senior year, and if we mess it up, it’s not like we get another chance.”

  “Sure we do—don’t forget about college. We get freshman year, sophomore year . . .”

  I sighed. “Are you always this happy?” I didn’t have it in for happy people, but I had so much going on inside me, threatening to squeeze me until I turned blue, that I couldn’t handle all this sunshine-and-fluffy-bunnies stuff.

  Dylan surprised me by dropping the smile and leaning up against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. “No, not always. I used to think I had to be in control all the time, take care of everything going on around me. See, my dad’s an alcoholic, and he left us a long time ago. I thought if I stepped it up, became the man of the house, I could protect my mom and stop other bad things from happening. And then I learned I was wrong.”

  His dad was an alcoholic . . . could Dylan have sent me the note? No—it sounded like his dad hadn’t been around for a while. “So how did you get over it—wanting to control everything?”

  “I realized that my mom was actually a lot tougher than I thought, and she was handling it pretty well. Oh, and the long lecture she gave me about just being a kid really helped.”

  “And so now you’re all happy and cheerful?”

  “I choose to be happy and cheerful. There’s a big difference.”

  I groaned. “Oh, no—don’t tell me you’re one of those ‘happiness is a choice’ people.”

  He grinned. “Is there something wrong with that? It’s true, you know.”

  “It might be true, but it’s a great way to end up eating lunch alone every day.”

  I was just about to give up on Amanda when I finally saw her weaving her way through the throng of students. It’s not like we had forever before the next class.

  “I did it!” she said breathlessly. “I sat down next to Mario in French, and I said hi to him. And then later, about halfway through conjugating verbs, I smiled at him.”

  “You are the queen of awesome!” Dylan gave her a high five, and she blushed.

  “I was pretty awesome. I mean, he didn’t ask me out or anything, but now he knows I exist, right?”

  “Exactly. And knowing someone exists is sort of helpful when it comes to asking them out.” Dylan nudged her with his elbow.

  “Who’s Mario?” I felt distinctly left out of this conversation.

  Amanda turned to me and rolled her eyes. “Mario? From French class?”

  “Yeah, you just said that. I still don’t know who he is.”

  “I’ve been talking about him almost nonstop for a month now.”

  I paused to think. “Are you sure? I don’t remember that.”

  “That’s because you’re always so busy talking about your own stuff that you don’t listen to mine.”

  The bell rang before I could form a reply. What did she mean by that? Probably just being melodramatic—she did that sometimes. Of course I listened to her. That’s what I did, after all. That’s why people came to me. Speaking of that . . .

  My mind flitted to the letter I’d found in my backpack. What had Dylan just said, that his father was an alcoholic? Could he have sent me that note?

  I didn’t think so. In the first place, he said his dad left a long time ago, and the note sender had definitely said that his situation was current. In the second place, Dylan wasn’t acting like he was in pain. He’d crossed his arms over his chest, and if his ribs were bruised, wouldn’t he be wincing or something?

  No, it couldn’t be him. It didn’t make sense. I hoped Ms. Young and Mr. Leffert would figure it out soon—I needed to know so I could get rid of this ache in my stomach.

  “Hey, Dr. Jill! Shrunk any heads lately?” Bruce called out as soon as I entered the lunchroom.

  I spent the hour before lunch every Thursday helping put the final touches on the newspaper, and that always wiped out my blood sugar. I needed food, and fast.

  Bruce sat at his usual table, surrounded by his usual cronies. For once, he wasn’t arm-wrestling with his buddies or doing something else to show off his manly prowess—instead, he was holding hands with a girl. A girl? I did a double-take. Huh. It was Gina—I knew her from chemistry. And they looked somewhat happy together. I never would have guessed.

  I waved my hand in acknowledgment of his unconventional greeting and grabbed a tray. I was still smarting from Amanda’s little comment earlier and knew that only Mrs. Hansen’s baked macaroni and cheese could save me now. I sat and started to eat, wondering where Amanda was. We needed to set this right, whatever it was.

  Dylan plunked down next to me, his tray piled high with just about everything imaginable. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I grunted. Hadn’t he learned anything from yesterday, like, don’t talk to me while I’m eating?

  “Where’s Amanda?” he asked.

  I glanced around, even though I knew she wasn’t there.

  “She seemed a little upset earlier,” he continued.

  Amanda had been upset? What about me? I’m the one she practically attacked right there in the hallway. I shrugged, deciding not to get into it. Dylan would probably tell me that I should choose to be happy about it, and I definitely didn’t need to hear that right now. I just wanted to find a way to resolve it so we could get back to normal.

  A few minutes later, after much chewing and swallowing and not a lot of talking at my table, I got a note from the office. I took care of my garbage and left the lunchroom, noticing as I did that Bruce was right behind me. I figured he’d peel off and go into one of the side classrooms, but he didn’t—he followed me all the way down the hall. Just before we reached the office, I turned around.

  “I’m sure you have better things to do than playing my shadow. What gives?”

  “I got a note to come to the office.” He held up a scrap of paper very similar to mine.

  “Oh.” I felt a little stupid. Why had we both been asked to come in? We weren’t getting in trouble for our little daily lunchroom banter, were we? He didn’t mean anything by it, and neither did I. We just mutually disliked each other and chose to express our true feelings rather than pushing them down, where they might fester and turn into some kind of flesh-eating disease. That was the healthiest way to deal with our emotions, after all. We should never be afraid to share
how we feel.

  Ms. Young and Mr. Leffert were both waiting in the office, and they looked back and forth between us with a bit of alarm. Ms. Young took me by the elbow and guided me off to the left, while Mr. Leffert asked Bruce to join him in his office.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Ms. Young as we took seats. “If this is about the ketchup I put in Bruce’s notebook last week, it was just a silly prank and I already apologized. Sort of.”

  She took a deep breath. “You and Bruce weren’t supposed to be summoned at the same time—the office must have misunderstood. I need you to do something for me, Jill. Forget you saw him in here, all right?”

  “Forget . . .” All of a sudden, I realized what she was trying to tell me. Bruce had sent me the letter—he had a notebook with the same kind of paper (although to be honest, notebook paper does pretty much all look the same), and he did seem to be moving a little carefully. That whole not-palling-around-with-his-pals thing at lunch—he was trying to rest his ribs.

  “I won’t say anything,” I promised. “That’s his business, not mine.”

  Ms. Young let out her breath in a whoosh. “Thanks, Jill. You really are a professional. And a good friend.”

  I felt a stab of guilt thinking about Amanda, even though I knew that wasn’t what she meant. “Bruce and I aren’t friends. We’re kind of the opposite.”

  “Regardless, I appreciate what you’re doing.”

  I shifted a little in my seat. “What did you need to see me about?”

  “I just wanted to let you know that we’d figured out who sent you the letter. I thought you’d be worried.”

  “I was. Thanks.”

  We chatted for another minute or two about newspaper stuff, and then I rose to leave. I was just about to step into the hallway when Bruce came charging out of Mr. Leffert’s office, anger roiling off him in waves of steam. Once we were down the hall from the office, he grabbed my arm, his teeth clenched. “We need to talk.”

  “And you need to take your hands off me.” I glared up into his face until he let go.