Hey Jude

by Star Spider

  By the time the bell rings, I’ve managed to pull my attention back to work. I quickly whip through the exercises and write down the homework assignment. I mean, it’s the bare minimum, but it will have to do for now. On the way out I slow down because I can see that Jack is still packing up. I’m hoping our paths will cross again. I even go so far as to drop my notebook, a totally obvious move. But it works. Jack falls into step next to me just as I get out into the hall.

  “How was class?” he asks. He sounds a bit cheeky. He probably knows exactly how class was, with me staring at him the whole time. He’s just trying to bug me.

  I flush and shrug. “Good,” I manage to say.

  He runs his hand through his mohawk, and I try not to wish it was my hands in his hair.

  “So I’m new…” he says, his words drifting off.

  “We did establish that,” I reply. I meant it to sound joking, but it comes out a little bitchy. He laughs nervously, and I instantly feel bad.

  “Well, yeah, so I’m wondering if you wanted to show me around?”

  I want that more than anything, but I have another class to get to. Then I have to meet Jude for lunch in the pit. The pit is the gross, slightly indented dirt area behind the school where most of the upper-grade kids go to smoke and eat lunch. Jude and I have a picnic table that we have claimed as our own. It’s the place we always meet, sometimes with a couple of other friends, to check in.

  “Sorry, I’ve got to get to class,” I say, pointing down the hall. English is next. “And I have to meet my sister at lunch.”

  “Oh, yeah, me too. Get to class, I mean,” Jack says.

  “But you could join us, if you want, for lunch? At the pit?” I finally risk looking over at him. I had been trying to avoid doing that because I know the look on my face will give my feelings away.

  “The pit?” He raises his eyebrows in the most adorable way.

  I want to reach out and grab him and drag him to a dark corner to make out. But I take a deep breath and restrain myself like a champ.

  “Yeah, it’s behind the school. Kind of nasty, like a giant ashtray.”

  He laughs. I look down the hall toward my English class. I’m kind of tempted to ask him to skip with me. But I’ve never skipped a class in my whole high-school career, and I can’t afford to start now.

  “Anyway, lunchtime. The pit. I’ll be there.”

  “Cool. Yeah. Sounds good,” he replies.

  It hurts to pull myself away from him. As I walk toward my class, my brain starts to whirl. What the hell am I thinking? This is the first day of my final year. I have to focus if I want to keep up my grades and get the scholarships I so desperately need. I can’t do the getting-distracted-by-hormones thing. I’m better than this. But the second I think about Jack’s amazing gray eyes and lopsided smile, my good intentions fade. Damn it. I’m only one class into twelfth grade, and I am already screwed.

  Chapter Five

  I leave class early because I’ve finished the work Mr. Sandeep assigned. I’ve had him as a teacher before. I’ve loved him since ninth grade and have even switched classes a couple of times so I could have him as my teacher.

  The first day is always the same. He asks us all for our input in building the reading list for the class. He actually pays attention to what his students are interested in. I have some go-to favorites. I love the Marrow Thieves by Cherie Dimaline and Son of a Trickster by Eden Robinson. And modern plays are great, like Tompson Highway’s The Rez Sisters and A Raisin in the Sun. Plus I love long-form poetry. Dante’s The Divine Comedy has been one of my favorite poems since I first read it in grade ten (really). Today I try to switch it up so Mr. Sandeep knows I’m making an effort. I add in a couple of children’s titles for good measure: Alice in Wonderland and Charlotte’s Web. People think kid’s books are shallow, but they can actually be really deep and meaningful.

  The halls are empty as I head to my locker to grab my lunch and walk out to the pit. When I push through the back door of the school, I spot Jude immediately. She’s sitting at our table. It’s been made ours by the sheer amount of art Jude has carved into its surface. She’s got her back to me, but I see a curl of smoke rising above her head. She’s bent over, clearly concentrating hard on something. I feel a small swell of rage. She shouldn’t be smoking. I’ve talked to her about this a million times. I march over and grab the cigarette out of her mouth, toss it to the ground and stomp on it. I’m so distracted by my anger I almost miss her quickly pulling her pant leg down and palming something that looks like a pen. I figured she had been drawing, or carving into the table again, but this is new.

  She looks at me with narrowed eyes, then glances down at her smoke, crushed on the ground.

  “Hi, Mom,” she says with a sly smile. She always calls me that when I do something particularly Mom-ish. I hate it and love it at the same time.

  “When did you start smoking again? Also, what the hell is that?” I make a grab for the hand she hid the pen in. She squeezes it shut, and I pry it open. It’s definitely a pen, but it’s been retrofitted with a needle on the end of it.

  “What the fuck, Jude?” I ask. Then I go for her pant leg. Her reflexes aren’t fast enough to catch me. I pull it up to reveal a fresh, still-bleeding blue tattoo of a phoenix. I open my mouth, then close it. It’s beautiful obviously. All her art is perfect. But the tattoo looks painful, and the fact that she is using pen ink makes me want to puke.

  “Jesus Christ, Jude! What’s wrong with you?” I don’t know what else to say. This is a whole new level for her. Although maybe it’s not. On closer inspection, I can see that parts of the tattoo are not fresh. The blue is a bit worn and faded.

  “Um, I’m fucking nuts?” Jude replies.

  I shake my head. She promised me a long time ago that she wouldn’t diminish her mental illness like that. She also promised she wouldn’t use it as an excuse when she did stupid teenage shit.

  I look down at the pen. I don’t know what to do with it. It’s clearly a biohazard.

  Just then the lunch bell rings. I sigh.

  “I mean, it’s nice and everything,” I say. “I mean, the phoenix, but pen ink isn’t tattoo ink. It’s toxic, horrible. So dangerous, Jude.”

  Jude shrugs, shakes her head and lies back on the bench. She stretches out like a cat and closes her eyes. She looks tired but still stunning. It breaks my heart that she might be crashing again. And it scares the crap out of me.

  I look over all her drawings and carvings on the table as I hear the low murmur of people in the distance. Kids are pouring out of the school, talking, laughing, lighting smokes. Her drawings are amazing, some of them fragile, delicate, some of them sad and dark. Just like her. I want to support her art in any way I can. But I can’t support her poisoning herself or piercing herself repeatedly without proper disinfectant.

  “Um…hi?” I hear a familiar voice behind me.

  I whip around and there is Jack, in all his mohawked, suspendered, Yellow Submarine T-shirted glory. I flash him a quick smile, and his eyes travel down to my hand. I’m still clutching the pen, and the needle is gleaming a little in the light.

  “You making a shiv or something?” he asks, nodding at the pen.

  “Nope, she’s confiscating mine,” Jude says from behind me. I turn to throw her a glare. She’s sitting up now, her pant leg still rolled above her knee. It looks like she was studying the tattoo, but now her intense brown eyes are focused on Jack. My heart seizes. I didn’t think this through. I’ve never had a real boyfriend or girlfriend that I brought home. Only occasional flings and definitely not at my house. So I never had to worry about Jude enchanting any of my crushes. But the way she’s looking at Jack, like she’s just been delivered a delicious meal, makes me want to melt into a sad puddle on the ground. Beautiful Jude, mysterious and temperamental. How could I ever compete?

  Jack narrows his eyes at my sister. I see him taking in all of her. Her lush brown hair piled up in a perfectly messy bun. Her wide dark eye
s outlined in charcoal black. Her full lips coated in deep crimson lipstick. She’s a manic pixie dream girl, a vision. Beside her I am plain. But she’s the most important person in my life, so that has never mattered. Until now.

  I hold my breath.

  “Cool tattoo,” Jack says.

  “She did it herself,” I reply, my voice proud. Oh my god, why did I just say that? I’m so used to defending her and lifting her up. Making her feel good about herself when she’s at her lowest. And now it’s all coming back to bite me in the ass. I have just made her look a million times cooler in front of the one person I absolutely don’t want her to impress.

  Jude shrugs and smiles and stretches out on the bench again, arching her back seductively. I feel light-headed watching her, knowing there is every possibility this will end any hope I had of catching Jack’s attention.

  But when I glance back at him, he’s looking at me. His gray eyes catch mine, and a slow smile curls his lips. I’m in complete shock. His smile is for me.

  “So how about that tour, Penny Lane?” he asks.

  I finally let out the breath I’ve been holding this whole time.

  Chapter Six

  My school is just a school, so there’s not really much to it. But obviously I try to drag out the tour with Jack for as long as I can. I’m painfully aware that it is pretty boring though. Especially compared with Jude’s school next door, which has couches in most of the classrooms. And an art room that looks like a rainbow threw up all over the place. And a lounge/kitchen that doubles as an art gallery for all the students to show off their work. I start with the library. Then we hit the nurse’s office, so I can dispose of Jude’s tattoo pen properly. After that it’s the theater, one of my favorite places to be. I’m not an actor, but I love watching plays, and the drama club performs at least two a year, written and directed by the kids. I’ve seen some pretty great stuff here.

  The theater is empty, and there is nothing left on the “tour,” so Jack and I spend the rest of lunch sitting on the stage, our feet dangling over the edge. I have leftovers from last night’s dinner. Jack has cafeteria sushi, which is not amazing but better than most of the cafeteria food at least.

  “So your sister seems nice,” he says. He speaks quietly, but the acoustics in the theater are so good that his voice is magnified in an amazingly perfect way.

  My heart clenches in my chest again. Is that what we’re going to talk about? My sister?

  “Nice isn’t exactly the word I’d choose,” I reply. “But she’s fascinating for sure—enchanting even. When she’s not sick, that is.”

  Did I seriously just say that? I’m such an asshole. It wasn’t me opening up. I know that. It was me trying to sabotage Jude. Trying to break any hold she might have on Jack.

  I look over at him. He doesn’t look back at me. He’s staring across the theater, and I wonder what he’s thinking. I’m not usually this insecure. I usually move through the world with ease and confidence. That’s what happens when your dad dies and your mom is tossed into working more than full-time to manage the debts he left behind. You grow up fast.

  “Sick,” he says.

  It doesn’t seem like a question, but I answer it anyway.

  “She has depression. I mean, not all the time, but she has tried to kill herself a couple of times, and now I have to take care of her.” I’m talking too much, too fast. And I’m starting to wonder if this is no longer me trying to sabotage Jude but actually me opening up. I don’t do that much. I have a few friends, but they’re mostly school friends. Nerds like me who are into talking about physics, history, philosophy, art. We go deep but usually not personal.

  Jack looks over at me. His eyes are soft, unfocused. They’re shining, even in the low light.

  “Me too,” he says.

  I frown.

  “I mean the trying-to-kill-myself part, not the taking-care-of-your-sister part. Obviously.”

  I’m shocked. I don’t know what to say. I thought I was oversharing, but now here is this beautiful human right beside me willing to tell me something so emotional, so real.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  He leans over and nudges me with his shoulder. Cracks a smile. I feel warm where his arm made contact with mine.

  “Don’t look so sad about it,” he says.

  “But it’s sad.”

  He shrugs. “It happens.”

  “But you’re so…calm about it.”

  He laughs, and it sounds sincere. Its golden sound bounces around in the theater and comes back to me over and over. I never want to stop hearing it.

  “I didn’t come out of the box this way, trust me. It took a long time to get here.”

  I lean back on my hands and look up at the stage lights. I’ve never performed because I’ve never had time. But I’ve always wondered what it would be like. Makeup melting under all the hot lights. So many people looking at you, caught up in your story. You can’t see the audience when you’re standing in the glow of the stage lights. But I imagine you would know they were there. You would feel the electric pulse of all those eyes, all that attention.

  “I’m not there yet,” I say quietly. “Calm, I mean.”

  I can feel him looking at me. But I don’t turn my head.

  “I don’t know where to put it, you know?” I continue.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see him nod. “There are groups, you know, for family members to…vent.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. Between work and school and grocery shopping and cleaning the house, there’s no time for groups. Or stage lights. Or love even.

  After a minute I finally look over at him. His eyes are laser-focused on mine. It feels amazing to bask in his attention. His smile is sad, and for a second it reminds me of Jude—this sorrowful beauty.

  I want to lean over and kiss the frown right off his lips. And there’s a moment when I think it might happen. He raises his hand ever so slightly, like he’s going to reach out and touch me. I move over a tiny bit. My mouth tingles with anticipation. But then the moment passes. Something behind his eyes snaps shut, and he suddenly jumps down off the stage. I stay seated, shocked at his quick change. Maybe I was just fooling myself? Moving too fast? Life has no slow setting for me.

  “I have to go,” he says, his voice a little gruff.

  “Okay.” I don’t know what else to say.

  “But here.” Jack pulls out his phone, types in his code and passes it to me. “Punch in your number.”

  I smile, probably a little too hard. When I’m done typing, I hand the phone back to him, and our fingers touch. I shiver.

  He smiles, but before I can say anything else he takes off. I watch him make his way up the aisle and out the main door of the theater.

  For the first time in a long time, I wish that life really did have a slow setting.

  Chapter Seven

  The rest of the day is uneventful, mostly because I don’t see Jack again. He doesn’t text me either, so I have no way to contact him. I wish I had sent myself a test text from his phone so I would at least have his number. Not that I would know what to say. We were getting pretty personal there for a second, and then he just ran away. Maybe he already has a girlfriend? A boyfriend? Maybe I just read the whole situation totally wrong, and he didn’t want to lead me on? Whatever it was, I try not to think about it, try to focus on my classes instead. It doesn’t work though. Since this is the first day, there isn’t much in the way of actual learning.

  When Jude and I get home from school, my mom is awake. She’s in cleaning mode, bustling around the house, tidying up. Jude’s room certainly is the worst offender, but it’s not the only problem. The house is almost always a cluttered nightmare. When I work full-time in the summer, it’s even worse. And Jude is no help, of course.

  Mom barely stops to greet us. Just buzzes by us in her old green robe, which smells a bit rank. Clean clothes are the hardest thing to come by in our house. The washer and dryer are so old that more than half of t
he time they don’t work. And more than half of the time we don’t have the money to get them repaired. I think it would be cheaper to buy new ones anyway. But that is way too much cash to spend all in one place. We’re spread thin enough as it is.

  Jude and I retreat to our rooms before dinner to work. At least, I’m working—prepping all my binders and class schedules, looking over my textbooks. Jude, however, is doing whatever Jude does.

  When her schedule allows, Mom insists on making dinner and having us all sit down to enjoy the meal together. She never lets us help, even though I always offer to. When everything is ready, she rings a little bell to summon us. It’s an age-old tradition that both Jude and I love.

  After about an hour or so, I hear the bell ring. I knock on Jude’s door as I pass by. I don’t hear a response, though, so I open it and peek in. The room is pitch-black because the blinds are down again. I trudge quickly through the dank mess on her floor and pull them up. Then I move over to the bed, where Jude is completely buried in her comforter again. A repeat of this morning. Not a good sign. I peel back the blanket to reveal her face, serene and pale. She is sound asleep. I almost don’t want to wake her. But if I don’t, Mom might know something’s up and send her to the hospital. And I can’t break my part of our bargain. Jude does what I say, takes her pills, lives her life, and I don’t report her to Mom.

  I shake her gently, and she moans. She cracks her eyes open and squints at me. Somehow her makeup is still perfect. Just like those women in the movies who wake up looking perfect and smudge-free.

  “Go away, Mom,” Jude hisses.

  “The dinner bell rang, Jude,” I reply. “Mom’s expecting us. I can’t keep my side of the deal if you don’t.”

  She sighs, bulldozers over me and rolls out of bed. On the floor, she tries to free herself from her blanket with what seems like way too much effort. Then she stands and follows me out the door.