How to Make Friends with the Dark

by Kathleen Glasgow

  “Yeah.” Things are coming back to me a little. After everything happened with Andy, I tried not think of him anymore because it was too sad, and I didn’t want to be mad at my mom for making him go away, but talking to Shayna is bringing things back.

  Like the way Andy was tall and lanky and bought me a board with rainbows and glitter on it and taught me shuvits and took me to The Pit, like I was any kid. Like it was a normal thing to take a kid out skateboarding, without it being a huge deal, like it always was for my mom.

  I liked Andy a lot. He was really graceful in the empty pool; all the kids were kind of in awe and that made me feel special, because he was with me. And then one day I went up, and then I went down. My mother yelled at him and he yelled back, which surprised me. It was a big fight.

  You use her so you don’t have to live, June. And that means she never gets to live, either. What are you so afraid of?

  I’d been listening from my room, my arm heavy with a plaster cast.

  He didn’t come back after that.

  “I thought for a little while they’d get married, and I’d have a dad and stuff, but that didn’t happen.” I bite my lip.

  “Well,” Shayna murmurs. “Just because you have two parents doesn’t mean everything is peachy keen, you know? Sounds like your mom was pretty overprotective.”

  “Well, sure, but she was my mom.” I catch myself. Was. She was a mom. She was crazy and protective and kind of stifling, but I’ll never have that again.

  And then all of a sudden, I’m thinking about mom as a verb, not a noun, and I start flipping out.

  There isn’t any more “momming” to be done. There’s no more mom to tell me what to do, like homework or flossing my teeth, or how to do it, like “Tiger, make a schedule for your math quizzes.” “Tiger, you rinse after you floss and not before!”

  And there won’t be a mom to see Future Tiger, after high school, or maybe college, with a little bit of life under her belt.

  Shayna isn’t a mom. She eats Little Debbies and lettuce for dinner and thinks nothing of spending hours on the couch watching Law & Order reruns, which is helpful in certain situations, as I now know, but not all.

  Moms don’t do that. Moms kiss you good night and you know exactly where they’re going after that: to the couch, to lust after Anderson Cooper or curl up with a dirty book.

  I will be in the dark forever, feeling around for a light switch and never finding it.

  My breathing starts going very, very fast. My face is wet in an instant.

  I don’t understand how one minute things are okay, and the next, I’m in this blender of shit.

  Shayna sits up, all business. “Pull over. Let’s switch. Take a breather.”

  This time, we don’t crawl over each other. We each get out of our separate doors and walk around the car to the other side.

  In the driver’s seat, she digs in her leather pack and hands me a crumpled tissue. It still has a faint purple lipstick smear on it.

  She shrugs. “My nurturing skills are a tad undeveloped.”

  She gives me a halfhearted pat on the shoulder.

  We drive the rest of the way home in silence. At the house, she tosses her phone on the bed and goes straight into the bathroom. I curl up under the covers.

  Suddenly, I miss Sarah and LaLa and Thaddeus and Leonard, and LaLa’s tidy little house. I wonder where Leonard is and if he’s okay, and my heart starts to ache, because I remember Thaddeus’s broken-back story, and Sarah’s sister, how even your own parents can treat you so cruelly.

  Shayna’s phone vibrates. I sit up, glance down at it.

  You are not the one in charge here don’t forget that.

  Before I can stop myself, I pick up her phone.

  Ray.

  My heart beats fast. What does he mean? That sounds…awful.

  I look up at the bathroom door. She must be changing, or fixing her makeup. I scroll up.

  I’m asking for the billionth time: leave me alone. I’m telling you for the billionth time: I don’t want to be with you anymore.

  You don’t know what your talking about You can’t manage without me We know what your like

  Stop it

  How can you do this to me I saved you

  Please just stop I have a new life I said no

  Your not the one in charge here

  Shayna snatches the phone from me. “What are you doing? This is private. I don’t look at your phone.”

  “I’m sorry, it lit up and—”

  She frowns at me. “This isn’t something that concerns you. I’m handling it.”

  “He seems mad,” I say tentatively.

  She drops her eyes. “Just don’t worry about it, all right? There’s nothing to know. I’m handling it.”

  “You said that already.”

  “Whatever.” She tightens her ponytail. She’s done her eyes up in solid black and her face is smoothly powdered. “I’m gonna go out for a little bit. Don’t eat all my snack cakes.”

  She turns to go, pausing at the door.

  “Listen,” she says. “I wasn’t trying to bad-mouth your mom or anything. I mean, I want to, because of the whole stealing-my-dad thing, but not for keeping an eye on you. Like, my mom practically shoved me out of the house every day, you know? Well, I guess you don’t.”

  I stare at her. I don’t quite know what to say. She has such a weird habit of moving from one subject to another very quickly, and I’m still stuck on the texts from Ray.

  “I mean, part of me thinks maybe your mom ditched my dad precisely to protect you. So you wouldn’t grow up like me. You know? I’m not saying he acted like a monster or anything, but it wasn’t the greatest life for a kid, Tiger.”

  She looks uncomfortable. I think of her driving that car at night to pick him up. Did she have to help him to the car? How did that make her feel? I try to imagine that, being eleven and driving down a dark street looking for your dad, instead of being at home and, I don’t know, watching television or dancing to videos on YouTube or something. Stuff like Cake and I did when we were eleven.

  I feel almost sorry for her, my sister.

  Shayna says, “I’ll see you later, Tiger. Take some ibuprofen and go to sleep. Put some more ice on your hand if you need to, okay?”

  She turns to go.

  “Wait,” I say.

  She looks back at me.

  “Do you know, like, what time you might be back?”

  I’m feeling a little panicky again, like last night.

  “I’m not sure,” she says. “My phone will be off for a bit, but I’ll check it when I can, okay? Don’t worry. I’ll text you when I’m on my way back.”

  “Okay,” I nod. “Okay.”

  After a little while, I doze off. My phone buzzes me awake.

  Kai says, That was really immature today. I mean, you could have been expelled. Ellen isn’t the greatest person in the world, but you didn’t have to hit her.

  Me:

  We kissed once, Tiger. It’s not like we were officially together.

  Me:

  I SAID I WAS SORRY. You were practically stalking me anyway. Always hanging on me in Biology. So desperate for attention.

  The thing that happens to my heart right then is deep and hot. It’s a cut that is not going to heal.

  I hope your mom dies. Then you’ll know what it’s like.

  Wow. Just, wow. And to think I even defended you to Vela.

  My face flames.

  Wait, that was you? You were one of the witnesses?

  Yeah. Cake told me I needed to step up, so I did, and she gave me your sister’s number. But I’m done now. You said horrible stuff to me that one night, Tiger.

  He’s right. Shame floods through me, and then I start thinking about what Shayna said, about how hi
s life is probably harder than I know, and I was too selfish, or stupid, to see it, and I say the only thing I can think to say:

  I’m sorry.

  I start to cry, so I put the phone down. I’m horrified by what I said, in the same way I was horrified by slapping Ellen Untermeyer, but perhaps this is the new me: a merciless, mourning girl who lashes out.

  “I really liked Andy,” I tell the Boxes of Mom. “I think maybe you loved him.”

  No answer.

  “Why was my dad a secret?”

  Silence.

  “I drove today,” I say softly. “I kind of liked it. I’m going to do it again, okay?”

  No answer.

  “I’ll be very careful,” I assure her. “But I also want to have fun. I mean, not too much, because I’m just so super sad right n—” My voice catches. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, as hard as I can.

  I have no idea how I am going to live with such a giant piece of sadness in my body all the time, knowing it will never get any smaller.

  I cup my bad hand against my chest and rub it tenderly.

  I miss my mother holding me. Hand rubbing my back, fingers smoothing my hair.

  The girl-bug shakes out her wings. Stop it. That hurts, don’t remember that. You can’t get it back. Time to let go, like everybody says.

  The room gradually goes dark as the sun goes down.

  Who would ever guess that it isn’t your bones or your blood or your heart that keeps everything humming along inside you, it’s your freaking mom, and when she’s dead, it all disappears.

  You’re just an empty dress crumpled on the floor, nothing inside to hold you up anymore.

  I wait and wait and wait, fighting sleep, until my phone buzzes.

  In the dark, I read, On way home. See you soon.

  17 days, 13 hours, 9 minutes

  IT’S FRIDAY AFTERNOON, 3:30 p.m., and sweltering hot in the basement of Eugene Field.

  I was suspended for four days and now here I am, on a Friday afternoon, standing outside Room 322 for my first mandated Grief Group therapy session. I’ll have to go two times a week, Tuesdays and Fridays, for six sessions.

  My sister is supposed to pick me up later. She was in a bad mood this morning, looking at the water bill while chewing her cuticles, ruining her pink polish. “It’s like your mom stopped paying everything,” she said.

  I sipped my coffee slowly, thinking about what Cake’s dad had said about giving my mom money. I didn’t want to tell Shayna that.

  I was waiting for her to notice, too, that there was a big manila envelope from the State of Arizona on the table by the door, addressed to “Shayna Lee Franklin, Guardian.” It had been there for a few days, gradually getting lost under circulars, bills, and flyers for yard landscaping.

  She’d sighed and gulped her coffee, checked the temperature forecast on her phone.

  “Ah, holy fuck, one hundred degrees and I’ll be out in that truck.” She looked like she might cry, and that scared me. I’d been out there all week with her on my suspension, making some money, but not as much as my mom and I had. She’d barely said anything to me when Thaddeus picked me up for school this morning. Her phone had buzzed and when she saw who it was, she dipped her head in her hands. Ray.

  It wasn’t so bad, coming back. A couple of kids stared at me and whispered, but I ignored them. Ellen Untermeyer wasn’t in school, and Kai kept his distance, choosing a seat at the front of Bio again and sitting far across the cafeteria as Cake and I ate lunch silently, still in our weird fight.

  And now I’m here.

  Room 322. In the basement, by Betty Bales’s wood shop. Also known as the old detention room, before they decided detention didn’t work. Now they do something called “quiet reflection,” which involves yoga and soft music in a stifling trailer outside, behind the cafeteria.

  It’s weird to walk through the school hallways with practically no one there. Empty lockers. Empty classrooms. I wonder how I’ll feel, coming back here next fall. Junior year. When all the smart kids with money will have to start thinking about college and “life after.” Like Cake.

  Like her dad said, she’s going places, and I’ll just be holding her back.

  I would say it’ll feel like losing an arm when Cake goes, but I already feel like I’ve lost most of my body anyway.

  Walrus Jackson opens the door of 322, startling me. He’s not wearing his normal nice white shirt, dark pants, and nice tie today. School is out for the day and he’s changed into khaki shorts, a plaid short-sleeved shirt, and Birkenstocks.

  “Hello, Tiger. I’m so glad you could come this afternoon.”

  We look at each other like we both know what made me come here, but we aren’t going to talk about the Slap Heard Round the World.

  “We’re waiting for just one more and then we’ll get started. Go on in, take a seat.”

  Inside, there are three kids in chairs arranged in a circle. One girl is bent so far over her desk writing that her dark, straight hair obscures her face, so I can’t tell who she is, but when she looks up, I have to stifle my gasp.

  Mae-Lynn Carpenter. She gives me a weird smile, like, I told you so.

  And there is Taran Parker from Bio, the one who made fun of my boobs, with his brother, Alif, who has never made fun of my boobs, but has also never acknowledged my existence.

  Taran looks almost ashamed when he sees me, but his brother barely flicks his eyes at me before going back to his phone.

  That day, when I first came back, Taran said he was sorry about my mom and then he tried to tell me something but he stopped.

  He must have been telling me this. That he comes here. That he and his brother are like me. Giant blobs of sadness walking around in the bodies of teenage kids.

  They sit like most boys do, halfway down the chair with their legs spread and feet way out on the floor, giant sneakers blocking my way to the chairs; I have to step over their feet.

  Mr. Jackson checks his watch. “Let’s get started. I’m not sure where our other member is. Do you all know Tiger?” He slides into his own chair.

  Alif and Taran barely nod. Mae-Lynn gazes at me.

  “I went to your mom’s viewing. Do you remember? It was nice. I liked the song, and the singing. Nice touch. Homey. My mom didn’t do anything for my dad.”

  She’s keeping her face as stiff as possible, but I think I see her mouth tremble, ever so slightly.

  She’s a girl-bug in a jar, too.

  Mr. Jackson says, “Boys?”

  “I know you,” says Taran. He gives me a small wave. “Bio lab, and you hang out with the rocker chick and in the back of cars with official state seals.” He grins.

  Taran’s brother, Alif, grunts. “That girl, her friend, she blazes on the bass.” His eyes skim over me. “What’s up with the dress? Are you, like, Aimless or something?”

  We all blink at him. “What?” I say.

  “Aimless. You know, those people who don’t use electricity or drive cars. They wear old-timey clothes.”

  Mae-Lynn says, “Amish, you dolt. You mean Amish. Not Aimless.”

  I say, “Actually, I am a bit aimless, if you want to know the truth. And yes, that’s my friend Cake. And my mother bought this dress for me to wear to the Memorial Days dance, only she didn’t ask me first, and we had a fight, and then her brain exploded, and now she’s dead, and I slapped Ellen Untermeyer and that’s why I’m here.”

  Weirdly, I feel relieved to say all that aloud. I mean, nobody here is going to look at me strangely, or walk on eggshells, if I say dead, because they have people who are dead, dead, dead, too, or they wouldn’t be here.

  Alif says, “Ohhhhkaaaayyyy. That’s a lot to work with.”

  Mae-Lynn purses her lips. “God, I hate Ellen Untermeyer. I bet it felt good.”

  “It did,” I ad
mit. “And now I kind of want to punch a lot of things, to tell you the truth.”

  I look at Mr. Jackson. “Am I going to get in trouble for saying that?”

  “No,” he says. “You can say whatever you want here. But there are better ways to express your anger.”

  Mae-Lynn says, “When my dad finally died? He was sick for eight years? I took all his jars of medicines and pills and bandages and all of it and burned it in the backyard. It smelled horrible and made my mother cry and the neighbors called the fire department, but I didn’t care.”

  Her eyes blaze.

  “I’m not allowed to have matches or lighters anymore.”

  Taran snickers.

  Mr. Jackson clears his throat. “Enough. Tiger, it’s pretty loose here. We talk about what’s on our minds, whatever is weighing on us most heavily at present. What we try to remember, most of all, is that grief slips into every part of your life, every day, every minute. Is there anything you are struggling with right now that you’d like to talk about?”

  We all stare at him.

  Alif says, “There goes the Walrus again. Always with the giant questions right off the bat.” He turns to me. “Of course you’re fucked up, right? It’s been four years for us and every day still sucks ass.”

  His brother nods his head. “Yep. It doesn’t go away.”

  “Peachy,” I say softly. “Thanks for the heads-up.” But it feels good to hear them say it. Everyone else outside this room is telling me to be brave and go on, like what I’m feeling is something I’m just supposed to get over, like stepping over glass in a parking lot, or waiting for stitches to heal.

  Mae-Lynn flicks her hair over her shoulder. “The way I like to think of it is, when my dad was sick? That was my Sick Life. I had eight years of Sick Life, which meant chemo and hospital beds in our living room and my mom turning into a walking ghost. Now that he’s gone, I have Grief Life, which is horrible in its own way. Sick Life lasted pretty much half my life, but it still ended when he died, you know?”

  She sniffles but doesn’t cry. “But Grief Life? That’s forever. And it’s going to really suck. It does suck. That’s the Big Suck I was telling you about.”