by Amy Reed
“When are we going to run away?” I say.
“Right now,” Marcus says. “Let’s join the circus.”
“I’m serious.”
“What’s your hurry?”
“I need to get away from my parents.”
“I’d like to meet them sometime, you know. See what all the fuss is about.”
I don’t say anything. We are not having the same conversation. He does not understand the severity of the situation.
I feel antsy. I need to move. I stand up and look around at the acres of green grass, the old gravestones and oak trees. The inside of my head makes the whomp, whomp, whomp sound that tells me I am higher than I realized.
I wonder how many of these graves are for people who died of cancer, how many were children. Marble cherubs stand as sentries, naked and pure, wings unfolded, ready to fly. But to where? They are made of stone. They are fused to pillars stuck in the earth. They are babies who are doomed to spend eternity watching over death.
“Evie, what’s wrong?” Marcus says. “Why are you crying?”
My face is wet. I am breathless with deep, violent sobs. I don’t know how I let myself start crying again.
I shake my head. I can’t speak.
Marcus wraps me in his arms and I feel safe for a moment, like maybe he is strong enough to guard me from this world of pain. But then I open my eyes and it all comes flooding back. Even Marcus, even love, isn’t that strong.
The cherubs mock me. They laugh. They flap their wings. They say, You should be in the ground too.
I need something to drive them away. I need to feel something besides this, something bigger, stronger, anything. I feel Marcus’s arms, but they are not enough. I need all of him. I need to feel all of him.
I grab his face with my hands and kiss him with everything I have. My tongue finds his tongue. My teeth smash against his teeth. I push him back down behind the stone wall of the tomb, where no one can see us.
“Wait,” he says. I grab for his belt buckle. “Stop.” He grabs my hand. He pulls away.
“What’s wrong?” I say.
“You’re crying. It doesn’t feel right.”
“It feels right to me.” I reach for his belt again, but he takes my hand in his and doesn’t let go.
“What’s going on with you? Tell me.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Hey,” he says, guiding my cheek with his hand so I can’t help but look at him. “We don’t always have to get high, you know. We don’t always have to have sex. We can do something normal like have dinner or go to a movie. We could do things normal couples do.”
I can’t help but laugh. How did Marcus suddenly turn into Will? “Why would I want to be a normal couple?” I say. “What’s the fun in that?”
Marcus looks stung. I’ve hurt him. I’ve hurt everyone now. The others didn’t matter, but he does. I’ve gone and broken the only relationship I have left that matters.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I really am. I’m a mess right now.”
“Maybe you need some sleep,” he says, not unkindly. But not kindly, either.
“Yeah, that’d probably help.”
We sit in silence. The sun is going to set soon. The cemetery will be closed. The cherub statues will do whatever it is they do when no one’s looking.
“It’s a school night,” Marcus says. “I can’t miss class two days in a row.” Was it just this morning we woke up on the beach? “Maybe I should take you home now.”
I want to say no. I want to say, Take me with you. His house is huge, full of unused rooms and a father who’s not paying attention; surely he could hide me for a while. But the look on his face tells me that’s not a good idea. His jaw is set and his eyes are hard and I can tell he’s getting sick of me.
“I meant it about wanting to meet your parents sometime,” he says when we pull up in front of my house after a silent car ride. “I may even be able to swing a dinner with you and me and the judge if I book him a couple of weeks in advance.”
“First I have to get them to stop hating me.”
“I really doubt that they hate you.”
“I probably would if I were them.”
He kisses me good-bye and says “I love you, Evie,” and that gives me the strength to return home.
Dad, Mom, and Jenica are on the couch watching TV. Mom turns around when I walk through the front door, a look of sadness and fear on her face, but Dad and Jenica don’t move.
“In your room, now,” Dad says, still facing the TV. “I don’t even want to look at you.”
I walk straight to my room and close the door behind me. A cold plate of food is sitting on my desk where Stella’s hat used to be. My window is covered with boards, nailed on the outside, so now it’s impossible for me to escape.
thirty-three.
I WAKE UP TO MOM SHAKING ME AND DAD YELLING FROM the hallway, “Just pour some water on her head.” It’s already eight fifteen, only fifteen minutes before we’re supposed to be at school to meet with Principal Landry.
“I’ve been trying to wake you up for an hour,” Mom says, her face surreal, hovering above mine. “You keep saying you’re getting up, but then I come in here and you’re asleep again.” I don’t remember any of that. I don’t remember falling asleep. I don’t remember sleeping. The last thing I remember is thinking about the stone cherubs at the cemetery, wondering how they got their wings, wondering how they got stuck with their crappy job of watching dead people sleep.
I’m in a daze as I search for something clean to wear. I haven’t taken a shower in four days. My vision is hazy; everything is a step behind where it should be. I feel naked without Stella’s hat. I am too exposed. I have nothing to hide behind.
When I step into the living room, Mom and Dad grab their things and we walk out to the car without speaking. Dad turns on the radio to fill up the silence, and it’s all bad news as usual.
Luckily, classes are already in session when we get to school so I don’t have to run into anyone. I can’t face them after what happened at prom, after I’m sure Kasey spread the word that my performance was due to my being drunk, not something innocent like being sick or tired or cancer-y as everyone probably wanted to believe.
Principal Landry has her best serious face on as she sits us down in her office and explains that with only two weeks left until the end of the school year, I’m not passing any of my classes, not even art anymore, and it’s practically impossible to fail art. My attendance record is dismal. I haven’t been paying attention in class. I haven’t taken advantage of any of my teachers’ generous offers of extra help. I haven’t coordinated with tutors.
“We expected her to work harder,” she says.
“So did we,” say my parents.
“Frankly, we expected her to be a little more grateful,” she says.
“So did we,” say my parents.
But I didn’t ask for anyone’s help. I didn’t ask for any of this. Why should I be grateful for something I never even wanted?
Principal Landry folds her hands together and leans forward like she’s about to make us a great deal on a used car, such a great deal she has to whisper so her boss won’t hear. She’s going to pull some strings, she says. The teachers and administration remain sympathetic, she says. (Cancer! Cancer! she doesn’t say.) “We don’t want Evie to be held back while all her friends move on. We want Evie to succeed.”
I have to laugh at that one. If only it were that easy. Everyone looks at me like I’m crazy. “What’s so funny?” Dad says, and I say, “Nothing,” and they continue their conversation without me.
I look out the window while they work out a plan where my teachers will put together coursework for me to do over the summer, and if I complete it all, have perfect attendance for the remaining days of school, and pinkie-swear-promise to shape up, I can start senior year with all my “friends.” Yippee!
“Oh, isn’t that generous,” Mom says, and beams, still foolish enou
gh to hold on to hope after all this time.
“It’ll only work if Evie’s on board,” Principal Landry says.
Dad looks at me like he already knows I’m going to let them down and all their generosity is going to be wasted.
“One more thing,” Landry says. “We want Evie to attend regular counseling sessions. Either with the school counselor or a therapist of your choice.”
“We already thought of that,” Mom says almost proudly, like she’s kissing up to the teacher, like she wants a gold star. “Evie’s doctor recommended someone. I was planning on contacting her today.”
“Excellent,” Principal Landry says. She and Mom are so proud of themselves for figuring out such a great plan for me. But Dad just sits there, scowling, checking his emails from work. Unlike them, he gave up on me a long time ago.
“So what do you think, sweetheart?” Mom says, her face so fragile with expectation. It hurts to see her still believing in me, to know she’s going to get her hopes up and be disappointed yet again. The only honest thing I can do is to crush those hopes now, before they get any more out of control. If she won’t do it on her own, I’ll have to do it for her.
“I think you can all fuck off,” I say, and I stand up and storm out of the office.
I hear a scuffle of chairs as I walk away.
I hear Principal Landry say, “Should I call security?”
I hear my dad say, “No.”
Mom: “James, we have to get her.”
Dad: “Let her go. It’s not up to us anymore. She has to decide to want help.”
No one follows me. No one threatens or begs me to stay. They just let me go.
Now I sit in People’s Park, waiting for Marcus to pick me up. I told him it was an emergency. I told him it was worth skipping classes for.
I have Mom’s credit card and eighty dollars in my pocket. She should know better by now than to leave her purse on the kitchen counter. I had a hundred, but some of that went to a bottle of vodka, plus the five-dollar service charge I gave to a homeless guy to buy it for me.
The regular crew of drug dealers that hangs out at the park is nowhere to be seen. Maybe there was a raid recently. Maybe they’re in hiding. I know that’s probably a good thing, but my disappointment burns. If the dealers were here, there’d be nothing stopping me from talking to them this time. There’d be nothing stopping me from buying what I need.
I’m already drunk by the time we get to the beach by the Bay Bridge. Marcus wasn’t too excited about me opening the bottle in the car, but I did it anyway and he didn’t stop me.
This time we drive straight to the beach instead of that bullshit with the tunnel. I get out of the car and start walking without waiting for Marcus. He has to jog to keep up as I head to the end of the beach. I nearly step on a decaying, fly-covered seagull carcass. I cannot drink the vodka fast enough.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong now?” Marcus says as I plop down on a piece of driftwood. I refused to tell him before we got here because I was afraid he’d turn around and drive me home and force me to talk to my parents. But now that we’re here, I’ll tell him everything. Between swigs of vodka, I tell him about the visit with the principal, about failing school, about Will and Kasey turning on me, about my pathetic mom and cruel dad, about Dad slapping me and boarding up my windows. I talk so fast and furious, I almost forget he’s there. My rage swirls around us until I’m dizzy and the smell of the beach reaches the back of my throat and makes me gag.
I close my eyes and swallow. Small waves lap against the shore and I have to remind myself this water is not stuck here like I am; it will soon touch the ocean and be released.
“Are you done?” Marcus says. His voice surprises me. It seems so long since I’ve heard it.
I pass him the half-empty vodka bottle. He shakes his head.
“This is the emergency?” he says. “This is why I skipped school?”
There is anger in his voice. Anger. At me.
“Marcus,” I say. I have done something to upset him, but my brain can’t catch up fast enough to figure out what it is. I take his hand in mine. For a second, the world feels a little more solid.
“Evie,” he says. “Look at me.” His eyes are sad, serious. I am in trouble. “Promise you won’t get mad at me for what I’m about to say.”
“I can’t promise that.” Something catches in my throat. This is going to be bad. I can feel it.
He sighs. Looks down. Looks back up at me. “Maybe they’re a little bit right,” he says. “I’m worried about you too.”
“About what?” I pull my hand away from his. “What is there to be worried about?”
“I don’t think your partying is about having fun anymore.”
“I’m having fun.”
“Really? You’re having fun right now?”
I don’t answer. I can’t answer.
“Evie,” he says, his voice cracking. There are tears running down his face. “You keep acting like you’re invincible, but your life is falling apart. I can’t stand watching you self-destruct. I love you too much. Nobody’s invincible, not even you.”
I can’t even hear the waves anymore. Anger fills my head with static until all I hear is electricity.
“Say something,” he says.
“I can’t believe you’re on their side.”
“You know that’s not true. I’m on your side. I’ve only ever been on your side.”
“I can’t believe you’re sitting here giving me a drug speech when it was you who got me into them in the first place.”
“What are you talking about? That’s not what happened.”
I don’t know what I’m saying. I don’t know what words to attach to everything I’m feeling right now. All I know is I’ve never felt more alone or betrayed than I do right now. Marcus was the one person I thought I could trust, after everyone else abandoned me. He was the one person who never worried about me or judged me, who never tried to protect or baby me. Now he’s as bad as everyone else—worse, because I truly believed he understood me, really understood me. I thought we were going to take on the world together. But now he’s just as much a part of that world, and this is a war I’m going to have to fight on my own.
“Fuck you,” I say. But I stand up too quickly and fall right back down, my bony ass hitting the hard edge of the driftwood. Marcus catches me. He holds on too tight. “Let go!” I shout, pushing him off of me. I stand up again, and this time I’m sturdy enough to start walking. “I don’t need your protection,” I say as I head toward the road.
Marcus follows me. “I’m not trying to protect you,” he argues. Why won’t he let me go like everybody else? “I’m trying to protect myself. I can’t handle watching this happen again to the person I love most.”
I go cold. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m gone. Now you won’t have to watch.” I keep walking. “Stop following me!” I scream at him. “It’s over. I don’t need you.”
“I’m driving you home,” he says behind me, his voice almost unrecognizable, from either anger or hurt or both.
“I can walk.”
“It’s, like, ten miles to your house from here.”
“Oh, you’re so kind.”
“Jesus, Evie. Since when is that a bad thing? When did caring about someone become such a crime?”
I slam the door as I get into his car. I can’t believe I used to find this piece-of-shit Mercedes charming. With all the money his dad has, Marcus could afford a much nicer car, but he drives this one around, wearing his thrift-store clothes and listening to his sensitive indie music, pretending to be someone he’s not. He’s a rich kid who goes to the most prestigious prep school in the Bay Area. That’s who he is. The lie is what I fell in love with, not this guy who wants to control me like everyone else.
I turn as far away from him as possible during the excruciatingly long ride home. The mix of anger, vodka, and bad Oakland roads makes my stomach churn. I close my eyes so the world will stop movi
ng, but even in the darkness it goes by too fast; I cannot stop it, I am out of control, I am shuttling through madness, and everything is happening without me.
I don’t want to look at Marcus because I’m afraid of what will happen if I do. I’m afraid a flood of feelings will drown me. I’m afraid of what anger can turn into when sadness is allowed to defile it. I will not let myself be weak. I will not let myself hear his sniffles beside me. I will not acknowledge that I have made him cry. I have finally lost the last piece of my old self. I am fully cruel. There is nothing of nice Evie left in me.
I finish the bottle of vodka and throw it out the window. I want the satisfaction of hearing the glass breaking; I want to hear it smash, but we are going too fast, and it gets lost in the sound of moving.
I get out of the car without saying anything. I am grateful for my drunkenness, grateful that it takes so much concentration just to walk; there is nothing to spare for feeling. For fear. For regret.
Just walk without falling down. Just make it to the front door. Just open it and get through the living room without anyone stopping me. Just get to my room and peace and quiet. They will be mad. They will want to talk. They will follow me. But if I just keep moving, they’ll eventually have to give up. That is my plan. That is what will happen. I am in control now.
But that is not what happens.
When I get inside, no one jumps up to scream at me. No one asks me where I’ve been. No one asks who I was with or what I was doing. Mom and Dad are sitting on the couch, waiting for me as I expected, but it is not anger I sense.
“Evie,” Dad says. “Sit down. We have something to tell you.”
What, I’m grounded again? They put actual bars on my windows this time? They’ve fixed my door so it can be locked from the outside? Oh fuck, is this an intervention?
But something is off. Their eyes are puffy and red with tears, even Dad’s. This is not how it should be. The room spins and I stumble over to the chair across from them. I do sit down, but not because they told me to.