by L V Chase
The principal’s door squeaks open and Mr. Clarkson sticks his head out. “Miss Blair?”
She nabs her backpack and forces on a smile for Mr. Clarkson.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Clarkson,” she says, walking over to him. “It was—nothing went like I thought. Senioritis is hitting everybody a bit differently than normal.”
As the door closes after Mr. Clarkson and Sadie, I slump into my chair. I sit and wait for an answer to come to me, but all I find is a fucked up head filled with fucked up emotions that cater to fucked up thoughts.
25
Sadie
“Teenagers often have trouble communicating,” Mr. Clarkson tells me. “Teenage boys, especially.”
For the first half of this lecture, I couldn’t figure out why this office felt familiar. But as he points out all the shortcomings of boys, I remember this is the location from the second memory that came back to me.
After the memory of the one with blood-stained gloves, I had the memory of him and me in the principal’s office. I’d sat down on this desk, tempted him, and he’d touched me in a way that was awestruck and reverent. He had joined me on this desk, and we’d had sex on it.
At the time, that memory was my form of liquor—under the influence and striking a heat in me. But after Saturday night, that memory is distant. Now, my mind is drunk on having sex with Klay in his Jeep.
“Testosterone can make boys act and react irrationally. Mr. Miller has informed me of the circumstances of what he witnessed, and, from that testimony, I don’t believe anyone had malicious intentions. I would hope that you wouldn’t feel inclined to create a public spectacle of this event.”
“You’re worried about other people finding out about what happened?” I ask.
I uncross my legs in the chair across from him. “There’s…half the class knows what happened. It’s going to spread to everybody else once they leave class.”
“I’m certain Mr. Miller will also implore them to not spread any rumors. At Marshall High, we are very proud of our values, our spirit, and our outstanding students. We wouldn’t want anything to make our school look violent or cruel. Because that’s not who we are. You know that, don’t you, Miss Blair?”
“I’m not going to tell anyone,” I say, standing up. It hadn’t crossed my mind before. Now, it’s almost tempting.
“Thank you, Miss Blair. Send Mr. Harrington in next,” he says, handing me a note.
I take it. It’s a late pass. I stand up and open the door. Klay is gone. I shouldn’t be surprised.
“Klay is gone,” I say, turning to Mr. Clarkson.
His eyebrows shoot up, but he quickly replaces it with a smile.
“I’m certain I’ll catch up with him later,” he says. “Fourth period is about to start, Miss Blair. You should get going.”
I force a smile. When I step out of the administration office, I find Emmy waiting for me. The hallway is filled with students.
“I heard about everything!” she exclaims, grabbing onto my arms. “That is insane. You’re in the middle of a war between Klay and Roman. You’re Helen of Troy, and Klay fought for your honor.”
“Klay only fights for himself,” I say.
“That’s not true,” she says. “He likes you. He’s just…he doesn’t know how to show it.”
“Why are you defending him?” I ask. “Are you interested in him?”
“Oh, no, definitely not,” she says, laughing. “Not that he isn’t fine as hell, but he’s not my type. I like my men to be like mochas—steamy, sweet, and not prone to strangling people. But if that man was strangling people for being mean to me, I might change my mind. I mean, it’s crazy, but it’s a good crazy. We already went through the bad type of crazy when the school mascot threw himself off of the roof because he was convinced he was truly an eagle.”
I frown. “Our school mascot is a bulldog.”
She blinks slowly, her mouth opened, but nothing comes out. It’s the first time I’ve seen her speechless since I’ve remembered her. Her tongue flicks out, and she smiles again.
“Oh. Right. I’m thinking of my old high school,” she says. “Forget about it. What class do you have next?”
“Algebra,” I say. “But…I thought we’d been friends for years. You went to a different high school?”
She tugs on her hair, glancing down the hallway. “Oh, just the first year. It’s a long story, and I’ve got to get going to English. I’ve got to take a make-up test during lunch, but I’ll see you later.”
She quickly squeezes my arm before skipping down the hall. Near the end of the hallway, she turns, looking back at me. I wave. She gives a hesitant wave back before sprinting up the stairs.
I take slow steps walking to my locker. I have the late pass, so I have time to go to my locker before algebra. I don’t need to go to my locker. I just need time to think.
Klay evokes feelings in me I can’t label or contain. Saturday night, the way our bodies became conductors of euphoria, the way he made me feel brand new repeats in my mind over and over. If he loved me back, I could take all of his baggage and love every piece of it. I’d certainly put him in his place when I needed to, but I’d accept the bad parts as proof that he’s not as flawless as he sometimes seems to be.
But with Ethan, I don’t need to struggle for anything. He was wrong to laugh about what Roman did, but his mistake is nothing in comparison to all of the treacherous and traitorous things Klay has said. And he actually likes me, which happens to be a necessary aspect of relationships.
I unlock my locker. As I open it, a small square of red construction paper falls out to my feet. The sensation of picking up the note feels familiar. I flip it over.
When you’re ready, come to the parking lot.
A chess piece is drawn on the bottom. From the way that the top is wavy with a circle in the middle, I assume it’s the queen.
It has to be from Klay. I mentioned not wanting to be a pawn.
I shouldn’t be tricked so easily. I shouldn’t pursue a man prone to violence. I should go to class.
But, like he said, mental instability runs in my family.
I shut my locker and walk back to the entrance of the school. As I’m walking, I recall picking up the note, but this time it’s blue cardboard paper.
Meet me at the hospital.
This isn’t the first time Klay has left me a note.
When I step out, the sun is glaring down. For a moment, the Jeep looks like a mirage, but Klay is unmistakable while he’s leaning against it.
“Ferris Bueller is one of my favorite movies,” I call out, starting to walk toward him. His head tilts in a way that’s hard to not adore.
“I know,” he says. “You consider it a cinematic masterpiece. You always wanted someone to break you out of school and take you out all day”
“It is a cinematic masterpiece. And skipping class wasn’t the part I loved, it was the—”
“Ferris was willing to risk his whole scheme for Sloane. I know.”
As soon as I’m in front of him, I shove him as hard as I can. He bumps against the Jeep, but otherwise, he barely budges. I throw his crumpled note in his face.
“The only flaw in your plan is that I’m not going anywhere with you,” I snap. “You are a massive asshole, and I’d prefer if you never talked to me ever again. Don’t talk to me. Don’t attack Roman for me. Don’t remind me of things I’ve told you and forgotten about. And don’t ever, ever touch me again. Got it?”
“Sure,” he says. “But your grandmother is going to be very confused.”
I stop myself from turning all of the way around. I face him again. “Why would my grandmother be confused?”
“I made some arrangements for you to see her. My father owns the hospital that she’s being treated at.” He shrugs. “I’m sure she’ll be disappointed when you don’t show up, but disappointment is good to experience for personal development. It keeps people humble.”
Meet me at the hospital.
<
br /> “You realize that way you’re trying to manipulate me makes you a bigger asshole than I already thought you were?” I ask.
“I don’t take second place in anything, so it’s good to know that I’m improving my asshole rank,” he says. “So, is that a no?”
I don’t know what’s going on at the hospital. They tell me she’s not adjusting well, and I can’t talk to her until she’s adjusted. If they won’t even let me talk to her, it could be much longer until I see her. As much as I hate it, I need Klay in this moment in more ways than one.
“Fine,” I say. “But we’re going back to your original rules. We don’t talk at all during the drive. No talking, no touching…and no looking at me with that…that look you get.”
“That’s not very specific,” he says. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll give up on each of these rules just like you gave up on them when I set them last time.”
“I’m not going to give up on them.”
“We’ll see,” he says.
He moves around his Jeep to get to the driver’s side. I open the passenger door.
My underwear is folded neatly on the seat.
26
Sadie
As soon as we step out of his Jeep, Klay stays close to me. We walk side by side through the parking lot.
He’d abided by the rules, but being in that Jeep with him, I might as well have been accompanied by R&B ballads, subtle touches, and dirty talk. Being a few inches away from him, and the way my body thrums for him like a plucked string on a violin, makes it feel like I’m trying to prevent a natural reaction. It feels like I’ve been through a famine, and Klay is a porterhouse.
Now, walking beside him, the only thing stopping me from begging him for some friction is the knowledge that we’re here to see my grandmother, who was under an immense amount of emotional turmoil that I never noticed.
As we step through the sliding doors and my fingers start to pick at the skin around my nails, his hand touches the small of my back. It spreads heat through me, but more than that, some of the fear dissolves.
He knows my fear of hospitals.
I've never talked about it to anyone as far as I know, but, somehow, he knows it. Either I felt comfortable enough around him to confide in him, or he noticed my increasing agitation.
I’ve moved through life, avoiding any genuine connection with anyone, including my grandmother. The idea that I’d trusted him that much or that he’d notice what nobody else ever saw is overwhelming. I’d thought it would be something I would want, but trusting someone and having them consider you to be worthy of their undivided attention is terrifying. It’s easy to be betrayed. It’s easy to be considered undeserving.
The ground floor of Campbell Hospital demands respect in the same way a Fortune 500 company does. The floors are so glossy, they reflect the hanging lights. Lush armchairs and couches revolve around glass tables. Towering money trees and smaller plants add color to the interior of the building, but everything else is steel, white, black, or gray. It would seem cold and calculating if it weren’t for the people sitting on the furniture, their bodies rigid with tension.
Klay turns toward me. He puts his hand on my shoulder and gazes straight at me, the intensity of his dark eyes startling me. “Sadie, take a breath. You’re going to give yourself a mouth ulcer.”
My tongue runs over the inside of my cheek as I realize I’d been chewing on it. I take a breath.
“Are you ready?” he asks, his thumb brushing against my cheek.
It’s a gesture of comfort, but it takes all of my self-restraint to not turn my head and kiss his palm. As Klay and I walk to the elevator, his fingertips keep brushing against my wrist. It may not be intentional, but the smallest pressure of that touch releases an electric charge in my bloodstream. It makes me want him. It makes me crazy.
We step into an elevator. He presses the button for the fifth floor. I start biting the inside of my cheek again as the door closes. He looks over at me. I stop. Inside the elevator, it’s so shiny, hazy versions of us are reflected on all four sides of us.
“I hate hospitals,” I say. “But you seem to already know about that.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, looking straight ahead. “I’m aware of it. I’m sorry. I know it’s not optimal.”
“How do you know about it?” I ask. “Did I tell you?”
“You didn’t need to tell me,” he says. “It’s obvious from your behavior.”
“That doesn’t mean I didn’t tell you.”
He looks over at me again. “Does it matter if you told me or not?”
“It will tell me if I trusted you before,” I say. “Which could help me determine if I should trust you now.”
The elevator doors open. He leads me out, but he stays closer this time. Our arms brush against each other as we walk. It should feel like a violation of personal space, but I don’t mind our spaces merging. It’s a soft intimacy, nearly meaningless, but in this ugly, vicious place where people are locked up or die, I’ll hang onto that intimacy as long as I can.
A tall man in a white coat walks over to us. He holds his hand out to me. He’s unmistakably Klay’s father—the sharp edges to his face, the dark hair, the calculating nature of his eyes. But as I see him, instead of my instinct with Klay—to get as close as possible, to let him take control—my legs tense and push me to run.
“Good afternoon, Sadie,” he says. “I’m Dr. Harrington, Klay’s father, and the one who helped get you in here. I hope you’re doing well.”
I look over at Klay. He’s not looking at either of us. He’s concentrating on a poster about domestic violence that implores victims to call a hotline. The two of them don’t acknowledge each other at all.
“I am,” I say, shaking his hand. His hands are uncomfortably clammy. “It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Harrington. Thank you for doing this.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” he says, his voice catching on the second word.
Klay and his father exchange a look. I barely catch the sneer on Dr. Harrington’s face, but I only see Klay look away. His hands are clenched.
“Sadie, your grandmother is down the hall,” Dr. Harrington says. “If you’d like to follow me, I’ll take you to her room.”
I look over at Klay. He’s returned to staring at the poster. Dr. Harrington is already moving down the hall. I take quick steps to keep up with him. I’m relieved when I see that Klay is following us, though he remains several feet behind us.
The psychiatric ward isn’t like what I thought it would be. It’s predominantly one long hallway. Dr. Harrington explains that one side has the psychologists’ offices and the other side has the rooms for the patients. But his words are barely reaching through to me as I watch Klay in my periphery.
He keeps his head bowed and his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t want to be here, but his demeanor doesn’t exhibit fear or anxiety like mine does in hospitals. He watches his father and me, his shoulders tense as if he’s ready to pounce between us. It’s eerily like the way he acts around Roman and me, but his father isn’t stalking around me like Roman does. Klay must have called his father to help him with this favor, and Dr. Harrington appears much less volatile than Klay. Klay’s hostility around his father comes across as entitlement.
But as logical as this is, I can’t quite buy it, and I can’t move past the paranoia that whispers to me that Dr. Harrington is just as malignant as anything in this hospital.
My emotions must be mirroring Klay’s emotions. I don’t know Dr. Harrington. There’s no reason for me to see him as an enemy.
Dr. Harrington stops at the last door in the hallway. He turns toward me.
“Here she is,” he says. “I should warn you that her doctors told me she’s still suffering from mental distress, agitation, and denial of her mental illness. They’ve been hoping for a breakthrough, but her denial is causing her mental distress to worsen. Maybe your visit will help her to accept her psychiatric diagnosis.”
; “I hope so too,” I say, chewing on the inside my cheek again before I remember to stop.
“I’ll leave you two alone for half an hour,” he says. “But I can’t give you much more than that. You’re lucky that my son cares about you. I wouldn’t overrule the doctors’ decisions for anybody else.”
He slides a keycard across a black rectangle near the door. The rectangle beeps, flashing green.
“It’s unlocked,” he says. “Good luck.”
He gestures to Klay to follow him. I reach forward without thinking. My fingertips brush against his arm. He grabs my hand.
“Just remember to breathe,” he says. “She’ll be happy to see you. Hold onto that.”
He turns around to follow his father down the hall. I don’t know why I thought he’d accompany me while I talked to my grandmother. Worse, I don’t know why I wanted him to. This is a private matter. He’s a man who has proven himself to be untrustworthy and malicious.
I hurriedly grab onto the door handle before it locks. I pull it open and slip into the room. The door clicks shut behind me.
I almost expected my grandmother to look psychotic—messy hair, eyes wide with paranoia, mumbling angrily to herself—but she looks almost exactly like I remember her. Her short gray hair, neatly combed, and her robust body brings me back to dozens of memories I have of her. The only thing that’s changed is she seems more fragile, and her skin seems looser on her body, but that’s expected after two years of lost memories.
“Sadie!” she calls out, jumping up from her bed.
She runs over to me, hugging me tightly. Her usual fragrance of baby powder has been replaced by a scent that makes me think of a musty laundromat.
“What are you doing here?” she asks. “Are they locking you up too? Don’t let them, Sadie, don’t let them lock you up. You have to get out while they’re processing you. You need to get out. You need to run as soon as—”