The Secret Side of Empty

by Maria E. Andreu

  “What do you mean?”

  “He killed himself. You must have heard.”

  “No. When?”

  “Like a year ago.”

  “How?”

  “Their mother’s gun,” she says.

  I think of Quinn’s voice, “It’s a miracle the human race has survived at all,” and the way she started to cry. “I didn’t know,” I say.

  MY PHONE VIBRATES. I STARE AT IT. WHEN I SEE NATE’S NAME on my caller ID, my heart thumps hard. I have cried about twenty times in the last three days about this. Nothing on Christmas Day. Nothing the day after that, or the day after that. And all those days, festering about Naomi. What he did with her. What he didn’t tell me. What he may still be doing with her.

  I finally pick up.

  “Hello.” I am pretty proud that I can pull off making “hello” sound like an accusation.

  “Hey, M, how’s it going?”

  “Like you care.”

  “What do you mean? Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “I’ve missed you.”

  “Mmmm-hmmm.”

  “Why are you acting this way? Are you busy or something?”

  He sounds so casual, like he’s been fine.

  “Yeah, I was on my way out, actually,” I lie.

  “Oh, because I’m back from my grandmother’s and I thought maybe you might want to hang out.”

  “I didn’t realize your grandmother lived on the moon.”

  “My grandma in Minnesota? My dad’s mom? We just landed this morning.”

  “Yeah, but were you, like, in the Witness Protection Program while you were out there? Not a single phone call? Nothing?”

  “I sent you a text when I first got there. Did you not get that?”

  “Don’t make up stupid stuff.”

  “I’m not. Why would I? I texted you when I got there and then my phone died.”

  “Really? You’re going with the whole ‘my phone died’ thing?”

  “What? Why would I lie about that?”

  “When is Naomi’s birthday?”

  “What?”

  “Your supposedly ex-girlfriend Naomi. When is her birthday?”

  “Why is this—”

  “When?”

  “It was like a month ago. But what does this—”

  “Did you see her?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Listen, I don’t want to keep repeating—”

  “But you posted on her Facebook wall.”

  “There is a difference between seeing someone and posting on their wall. Although we go to school together, so it’s possible I may have seen her walking around or something . . .”

  “That’s not really an answer.”

  “Was there a question?” Now he is sounding mad.

  “The question was: did you post on her Facebook wall?”

  “The answer is yes, I did post ‘Happy Birthday’ on her Facebook wall.”

  “You actually posted ‘Happy Birthday, rock star’ on her Facebook wall.”

  “She likes to sing. And anyway, what is the big deal?”

  “The big deal is why did you break up?”

  “I really don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  Now I’m furious. “What? You’re really going to say that to me?”

  “I think you need to calm down.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re hiding things from me.”

  “I’m not hiding anything from you. I just don’t want to talk about this this way. Why don’t I go pick you up and—”

  “No! I don’t want you to come pick me up. If I’m not important enough to know why the two of you broke up, and you obviously still have a thing for her and if she hadn’t done what she did you’d still be with her.”

  “Wait. What? Can we start over? Because you’re being the stereotypical crazy girlfriend right now.”

  The things that pop into my mind to say are way too mean, so I hang up. My heart is pounding, my hands are shaking, and I am stunned that he got so cold and icy when I asked him questions.

  All that needing someone ever does is give them the power to hurt you.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Mr. Not-Ms. North has black hair and ginormous, black, bushy eyebrows and lips that look like they’ve been painted on. He is in a checkered button-down shirt and corduroy pants pulled up way too high. As soon as he opens his mouth, I decide I’m going to hate him.

  “Welcome, class. I am your new professor,” he says in an accent I can’t place or completely understand. It sounds a little like Nate’s Universal Accent. Nate. Argh. The thought of him makes a little ooze of sadness spread across my chest.

  Mr. Not-Ms. North is still talking. “I have written my name on the board. It is pronounced Abedifirouzjaie.” He says it the way it is spelled, which is to say, indecipherably. “Say it with me, please.”

  I scoot a little lower in my chair. A couple of people mumble something like “Abedifiblblb . . .”

  “So, it is my understanding that you last read The Winter’s Tale, is that correct?”

  Ever-helpful Quinn says, “We were assigned to read Othello over break.”

  “Ah, yes, good, the Moor’s tale. Of special significance to me. A fine play.”

  I am not sticking around for this. I don’t want to stick around for anything. Ever.

  I raise my my hand.

  “Yes, young lady? And you have read the Othello, yes?”

  “I have read the Othello, yes. I need to go to the office.” I figure if I say it with enough authority, he’ll think it’s just a normal part of the routine.

  “Ummm . . . this is . . . yes, you may go.”

  I take all my books and make sure to leave nothing. I’m done. Done. The plan is never to go back to that class.

  I run down the stairs, down to the senior locker room. I sprawl across a bench, and don’t even realize when I fall asleep.

  When I wake up, I check the time: 1:15. I have soccer practice after school. The thought of it makes me want to fall back asleep. I realize there is no more point to soccer either. I walk over to the gym to find Coach Woods. I find her by the supply closet.

  “Ms. Woods?”

  “M.T., why aren’t you in class?”

  “I’m not feeling well. The nurse. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about the team.”

  “What about it?”

  “I’m . . . I think I need to quit.”

  “Quit? Why? What am I supposed to do for a forward?”

  “I have to concentrate on my grades.” Lie after lie starts to blur together, leaving me numb to them.

  “That’s never been a problem for you before.”

  “I know, but it is now.”

  “Look, I know it’s important to concentrate on schoolwork. Why don’t you skip practice today and then come to my office tomorrow and let’s talk about some options?”

  “Okay,” I say. Even as I say it I know I will never go talk to her. I will stop going and eventually she’ll just have to get it. I am perversely happy to cut one more little string holding me.

  I figure it’s late enough that anyone seeing me walking in the street will think I’m a student who got out early. I go back to my locker, put all my books in it, and leave. It feels strange to be out in the street before anyone else I know. I want to go somewhere, but I can’t think of any place.

  Chelsea gave me her old laptop during Christmas break, after she got a new one plus an iPad. It’s opened up a few more options. I can check email at the coffee shop on the strip. They have Wi-Fi. I bike down there and sit in the corner farthest from the door. I fire up the laptop and get online.

  There is new mail from Josh on Facebook. Every week, he’s been sending me obscure songs. Today’s is “Blackberry Brandy” by T-Bird and the Breaks. Serious hillbilly music.

  As I’m playing it, up pops a message from Josh.

  “Did you like the song?”

  I wri
te back. “No.” Is it weird to write to Chelsea’s cousin’s boyfriend?

  “Well, that’s good, Puff. It’s like medicine. You’re not supposed to like it.”

  “You’re weird.” I add, “What are you up to?”

  “Actually, I’m coming down to your little neck of the Jersey Shore in a few weeks.”

  Hmmm. “I’m nowhere near the Jersey Shore. Why are you coming down?”

  “I’m coming down to interview at Chelsea’s mom’s firm. I’ll have to have my chest waxed and get a fake tan to blend in with the natives.”

  “I thought you’d be above stereotypes.”

  “True, true. You and Chelsea seem eminently reasonable. Even if you are from New Jersey.”

  “I guess.”

  “What about you? What are you doing this summer?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Your enthusiasm is contagious.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do next.” I mean, it’s true, but I don’t know why he’d care.

  “You should come up to Worthington. This would be a good school for you.”

  “I guess. I don’t know.” I am so tired of this senior year crap. Of people being oblivious.

  “You sound pretty gloomy today. I have just the song for that. A classic. Painfully underrated.” He sends a link. It comes over. “17 Ways to Say I’m Leaving.”

  I put in my headphones and listen. It’s about a girl who is finding ways to say good-bye to all the people in her life before she takes an overdose. Seventeen ways. “I’m sorry I left you. I had no choice.” I close my eyes and let the eerie violin play over me. It says something to me I’ve never heard before but which sounds weirdly like coming home. Like finding answers. The refrain is the girl singing, then a little chorus of kids echoing what she says. Creepy and sad. It’s like it turns a light bulb on in my head.

  I have racked my brain for a way out, for solutions.

  Treading water. Trying to keep from going under. Exhausted. I just want some rest.

  This song finally makes it feel so simple. I can’t believe it’s never occurred to me until now. I can make it all stop. Take action. I can finally have peace. No more smacks. No more empty future. No more friends leaving. No more everyone leaving—Chelsea, Nate, Ms. North, my parents in the immigration van. No more Jose crying. No more fatherless Julissa with the dirty linoleum in her mouth. No more anyone leaving. All I have to do is be the one to leave.

  Nothing anymore. No more being afraid or tired or ashamed.

  People always talk about fighting being the brave thing. But maybe the bravest thing is knowing when to stop. Knowing when you are beat. It is such a simple answer. It almost makes me happy.

  Here are all the things you gave me. Here are all the blows and lies. Here are the tales you told me. This is why I say good-bye.

  I play the song in a loop over and over again. It is the first time in a long time I have felt someone has been pointing to the answer. The nun’s devil is sitting on my shoulder, whispering in my ear. I get up and go to the drugstore. I need a razor blade. It’s what I’ve always needed.

  I GET HOME AFTER DARK. NO ONE IS AWAKE.

  Jose is in bed. I unfold the futon and get into it.

  “You’re home so late,” he says.

  “I’m sorry I woke you, little dude.”

  “I wasn’t sleeping.”

  With the little snores I heard, I beg to differ, but you never call Jose on having been asleep. As far as he’s concerned, he never sleeps.

  “All right, well, you should go to sleep then. You have school tomorrow.”

  “You too.”

  Well, questionable. Haven’t decided.

  “Monse? What do people do after they finish high school?”

  “They usually go to college. Or they can get a job.”

  “Which one are you going to do?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Are you going to leave?”

  “Sometimes colleges are like sleepaways.”

  He starts to cry. “You can’t leave me.”

  It does suck to think of leaving him with these two.

  “Don’t worry, there’s a long time until that happens. Like months.”

  “Are you going to move away?”

  There is one person I’ve never told a lie to, and that’s this kid. I should just say no and he’ll fall asleep. But then one day I won’t be here anymore, and he’ll know I lied.

  “Yes. One day I won’t live here anymore.”

  He starts to cry harder.

  “Who will watch SpongeBob with me?”

  “One day you won’t want to watch SpongeBob anymore and it won’t matter. Please don’t worry about it now.”

  “I’ll give you all my clothes so you can remember me by.”

  Now I want to cry. Plus if there’s one thing I don’t want to remember him by, it’s his ugly hand-me-downs. “Come over here,” I say.

  He climbs out of his bed and onto my futon. I feel his warm, bony back nestle against me. I run the back of my fingers on his tears. “You know, if one day I’m not here, it’s not because I don’t want to be with you.”

  “Can I come with you?”

  “No, silly.”

  “But why?”

  I don’t know what answer to give him. So I say, “Let’s fall asleep.”

  “Okay.”

  It takes him a long time to finally fall asleep. He’s like me that way. But he’s little, so I can outlast him. When he’s out, I pick him up and put him back in his bed, SpongeBob pillow under his arm the way he likes it. He is so beautiful.

  I reach into my backpack for the drugstore bag. I fish around in the dark for my package. I go in the kitchen and fumble around for the candles and matches my mom keeps in there for when our electricity gets disconnected.

  I go into the bathroom, close the door, fire up the laptop, and listen to the song with my headphones on. I hide the razor blade. Just knowing it’s there makes me feel brave.

  ON SATURDAY, I DRAG MY FEET TO THE KITCHEN AND MY MOTHER is there, dressed and looking like she’s going to go out.

  “Oh, good, you’re awake.” She smiles at me.

  “Mmmm.”

  “I’m glad, because I need you to sit with Jose for a few hours,” she says. She is way too chipper.

  What about your husband? I want to ask.

  “And where are you going?” my father says, coming out of his room.

  “My class starts on Tuesday, so I need to go buy some notebooks and pencils and things.” Is that what she’s so happy about? What an idiot. Yeah, go learn some English so you’ll understand what they’re saying to you when they deport you. “Also, Mrs. Nussbaum wants new curtains, so I’m going to go measure.”

  “New curtains, huh? And who’s going to be teaching this class?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s at the library.”

  “You know the library is a public thing, right? That it’s run by the government? What kinds of papers did they ask you for to sign up?” he asks.

  “No, nothing, they said it was . . .” She trails off, looking worried.

  “They said it was what?”

  “They said it was open to anyone. No requirements or anything.”

  “Oh, yeah? Is that what they told you?”

  “The Nun suggested it. I mean, she must know because—”

  “You think The Nun cares about you? You go to your class and you see what’s going to happen to you.”

  “Jorge, what do you think is going to happen?” She looks really scared.

  “I’m just saying you go on Tuesday and you’ll see. This is not going to end well.”

  “I just want to learn English.”

  “Okay, you go learn English. Just say good-bye to your children before you go.”

  My mother still leaves, but with a lot less bounce in her step.

  Score 1 for the Grim Sleeper.

  Well, more like score 1,300,000.

  NATE CALLS AGAIN I
N THE AFTERNOON. I DON’T KNOW IF WE’RE broken up or what. It feels like we are.

  “Can I please see you?” he says. And because I’m tired of everything, including being mad and scared, I say yes.

  I don’t bother to do the whole dolling up thing. I wait ten minutes, then go wait for him outside in my sweatpants and hair in a ponytail. I probably don’t smell great. But there is no point washing up for the end.

  He kisses my cheek. “Are you still mad at me?”

  “Why didn’t you call me for all those days?” I had told myself I would play it cool, but it falls out of my mouth before I can stop myself. The online advice gurus would not approve.

  “When I was at my grandma’s, you mean?”

  “Yeah, Christmas. After Christmas.”

  “I called you as soon as I got home.”

  “But while you were there?”

  “She lives in Podunk somewhere. No wireless, terrible reception. And I forgot my charger like a dumb-ass. Plus my cousins were all there . . . I mean, I don’t know, M. I thought you understood I was going away.”

  I say nothing. I am not going to make him understand. And now, the anger fading, I’m not sure I know how to explain.

  “Hey, can I ask you? What was that Naomi thing?” he asks.

  “I saw that she Liked your picture with your cousins, so that made me go on her profile. It felt bad. It felt terrible, actually.”

  “What did?”

  “To see pictures of the two of you together. To know that—”

  “That was, like, last summer.”

  “Why are you still posting on her Wall?”

  “Because we go to school together. Because we’re friends. It’s no big deal. Because Facebook pops up those little reminders on the right side of the page and you don’t even have to click through to write something.”

  “I know what Facebook does.”

  “I just wanted to be a nice guy and wish her a happy birthday. Is that really that bad?”

  “Did she break your heart?”

  “The cheating thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s so crazy how much people talk. Honestly, we were kind of already not seeing each other. She wasn’t that into having a boyfriend. And I . . . I don’t know. It was kind of boring.”

  “Like with me?”