The Secret Side of Empty

by Maria E. Andreu

“This is a totally different thing.”

  “Is there an N and N ankle bracelet floating around somewhere?”

  He puts his arm around me.

  “Nope.”

  “It sort of bothers me that you guys share a first initial.”

  He laughs. “Should I change my name? Maybe I can be one of those guys who spells his name backward.”

  “Etan.”

  “Not bad. Too close to Ethan, though. We’d need it to be really freaky. Maybe use my full name. Leinahtan.”

  “Sounds vaguely Hawaiian.”

  “We could move to Molokai and I could wear a sarong all day,” he jokes, kissing my cheek, near my lips.

  I stare at the floor of his car. I don’t understand how he so easily survives for days like that without me, when I feel like the color has drained out of the world when I’m without him.

  He says, “I’m sorry I hurt you. I didn’t realize I was doing that.”

  I move my face and kiss him. At least he’s here now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “M.T., did you hear me?” I look up from my doodle to see a very creased-looking Ms. Kracowitz, staring at me.

  “I’m sorry, what was that, Ms. Kracowitz?”

  “I said I don’t see your homework here.”

  “Oh. I guess I don’t have it.” Since after Christmas break, I’ve sort of stopped doing most of it.

  “I’d like to speak to you after class.”

  I shuffle my feet up to the front of the class.

  “Yes, Ms. Kracowitz?”

  “This is the first year I’ve had you in class, and, to be honest, I haven’t been impressed. But I’m assured by other teachers that you are a very dedicated student and your past grades and test scores would seem to indicate that. So I’m confused. Are you not understanding the material?”

  I consider telling her I have not read any of the textbook or paid attention for weeks, but I’m not sure that’s going to help this conversation along.

  “I guess some of it is hard.”

  “You know I’m here every Tuesday and Thursday after school for extra help?”

  “Yes.”

  “I haven’t seen you once this year.”

  Would “no” sound rude here?

  “Listen, M.T., I understand that one gets itchy at the end of senior year. It happened to me. It happens to a lot of us. You’re eager for what comes next.”

  Well, not exactly.

  “But you’ve got to make it out of high school first. You just have to make it through a few months and then you’ll have the whole summer to relax before you go off to school and start a bright new future.” She is warming up to her own pep talk, puffing up with pleasure at how cool she is, acknowledging that senior year is boring and pointless. I wonder if she’ll sit in the teachers’ lounge later, telling the other teachers, “I had one of those lazy seniors stay after class, and I gave her the ‘the world is your oyster’ speech. And that fixed everything.” Good for you, Ms. Kracowitz. Good for you.

  “Ms. Kracowitz. Can I ask you something?”

  “Yes?”

  “You knew Ms. North?” It’s a small school, and there aren’t that many of them, so she must have.

  “Yes, Cathy. Sure.” It always creeps me out to hear teachers referring to each other by their first names. It creeps me out to think teachers have first names.

  “Have you heard from her since she left?”

  “We met for coffee just last weekend. She is in a new, more senior position. She’s very happy.”

  I want to ask if she’s asked about me, but it sounds ridiculous in my head, so I don’t.

  “You know, I’m sure she’d love to hear from you. She gave you all her email address before she left, right?”

  “Yes.” I don’t mention that I crumpled the sheet up into a million little pieces in the locker room garbage can.

  “Well, okay, then. Get to your next class.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I’ll see you Tuesday after school.”

  No, you won’t.

  On the way down the hall, Patricia stops me.

  “Hey, M, Mackenzie says she’s tried to call you for tutoring, like, three times but she can’t seem to get in touch with you.”

  I’m kinda not tutoring the way I’m kinda not studying. It feels weirdly good to let it all go, one thing at a time.

  I don’t say this. I say, “Oh, yeah? I have so many tutoring customers.” Lie. I am getting better at this.

  “But you’ll get back to Mack, right? She’s, like, totally flunking math and she won’t let me help her. She says just you.”

  “I guess. I’ll see.”

  I don’t want to tutor. I don’t want to not tutor. I want to fall asleep and be at rest. Find my way to say good-bye to this whole stupid mess.

  NATE AND I ARE SITTING BY THE KITCHEN ISLAND WHEN HIS mother blows by with her usual cloud of activity around her.

  “Honey, I’m off to go shopping because I can’t find a single thing to wear to your father’s awards thing tomorrow night. And Carmen picked up your suit from the dry cleaner’s. It’s on your valet rack. For God’s sake pick out a tie that doesn’t have cartoon characters on it. And Jackson will probably get here when I’m not here. Tell him Carmen has made up the downstairs guest room for him.”

  “’K, Mom.”

  And then she’s gone.

  “What’s that all about? Suit?”

  “My father has some lame dinner where they’re giving him some award. We all have to go.”

  “Jackson?”

  “Becky’s boyfriend.”

  “He’s going?”

  “Yeah, and Emily is coming from school.”

  “With her boyfriend?”

  “Yeah.”

  My heart starts thumping, waiting for him to put two and two together. Anger rising fast.

  “When were you planning on telling me this?” I ask. We usually spend Friday nights together.

  “My mom told me, like, weeks ago, but I totally forgot until she started in with the suit thing yesterday.”

  “And Jackson is going?”

  “I just said that.”

  “But I’m not invited.”

  “M, you’re not going to make this a thing, are you?”

  I am learning that him not understanding why I’m mad makes me even madder than what I’m originally mad about.

  “It doesn’t occur to you that it might feel crappy to be the one girlfriend . . . boyfriend . . . whatever . . . that is not invited?”

  “It’s not like that. They get a table. There are a certain number of chairs at the table. I don’t get to decide who goes. It’s us and some people from my dad’s office.”

  “Did you bother to ask?”

  “It didn’t even occur to me. These things are so boring, I wish I could get out of going. Why would I drag you to that?”

  “Because it might be a nice way of showing people that we’re the real deal? That you’re not ashamed of me?”

  “I’m not ashamed . . . what? You’re over my house like every day. Why would I be—”

  “I just don’t get how everyone is going, everyone is bringing boyfriends, but you don’t think of me enough to think that maybe this is the kind of thing I should be at?”

  “Honestly, M, I don’t know what to say to you when you get like this.”

  “Forget it.”

  Right in that moment, Emily walks in. If she feels the tension in the room, she ignores it. But more likely she is just too carried along in the puff of happiness that floats around with her all the time, the my-life-is-so-perfect-I-don’t-really-need-any-good-reason-to-be-happy” puff.

  She hangs up her coat in the coat closet but leaves her scarf and a beret on.

  As she gets closer, I notice that her skin is so flawless it seems painted on. I try to narrow my eyes to see if that’s foundation. She’s a freaking CoverGirl commercial. I want to like Emily, but people who are straight-up nice like her make me feel
like I am being made fun of somehow.

  “Hey, so where is everyone?” she asks.

  “Shopping. Otherwise engaged,” says Nate.

  “I was thinking of heading to the mall, too. I need something to wear to Dad’s thing tomorrow. Do you guys want to come?”

  For some bizarre reason, I really want to go to the mall with Emily. Or just get out of here.

  “Nate, let’s go,” I say.

  “Ummm . . . the mall and dresses. I don’t think so.” He still looks pretty pissed off at me.

  “Come on!” says Emily.

  “Why don’t you go with Emily?” he asks me.

  It hadn’t occurred to me. I look at her, looking for signs of “ewww.” I just get that CoverGirl smile back. “You wanna?” she says.

  “Sure.” Perhaps I will uncover the source of the giant scarves.

  “We’ll have dinner at the mall and then swing by to pick you up for a movie. Cool, Natey?” she asks. She actually ruffles his hair.

  The dinner and movie thing sets off an alarm for me because I have only ten dollars in my pocket. Ten stolen dollars at that.

  We jump into one of the cars in the driveway. I wonder if she just picks at random or if this one is hers. She starts it and says to me, “It’s so good to see him. Even though I’m at school right in the city, I feel like I hardly see them now. That’s why I come home so much. I miss my family a lot.”

  I wonder what that feels like. Not being sure you have to escape.

  We get to the mall and she heads to Nordstrom. She tries on boot after boot—despite the fact that I thought we were on a dress-finding mission—chattering all the while about her life in New York, her classes, her boyfriend. She settles on three pairs and heads over to the Gap. I discover the source of the giant scarves. She drapes a cream-colored one on me.

  “M, that looks amazing on you. It works so well with your coloring.”

  Hmmm. It does look kind of nice. I take it off. The label scratches my ear. I hold it in my hands and look at it. Then I put it back.

  She walks up the aisles getting random stuff—a backpack, some shoes, a bunch of scarves. I walk over to the jeans and look while she does her thing. She walks up to me with a bunch of bags in her hands.

  “You ready?” she says.

  “Yeah.”

  Outside the Gap, she hands me a bag. “Here,” she says. “Let’s go to dinner now.” I peek inside. The scarf. I want the scarf just enough to not say no to her. But it’s heavy in my hands, too, the way all charity feels, like it takes away some little thing in you that’s worth something. I hate when people give me things, but I especially hate how much I want them to.

  We’re halfway through the pot stickers at the mall restaurant when she says, “So how are you and Natey going to keep it together with him gone all summer? Have you guys talked about it?”

  My heart starts pounding. I don’t know what she’s talking about, but I don’t want to let on. “Yeah, well, you know, what can you do?” Vague enough to go with anything.

  “I was, like, ‘Nate, a whole summer working as a deckhand on a boat?’ What kind of thing is that? He says it’s not a deckhand, but they definitely have to work. The last summer before you go away to college you’re supposed to relax, you know?” I flash back to that conversation in the car when we wished about weird jobs. Did he joke about being a deckhand? I try to remember.

  I want to run into the parking lot and scream. I press my earlobe where the tag scratched me earlier. It stings. I focus on that and say, “Yeah, but it’s what he wants to do.”

  “You’re such an understanding girlfriend,” she says, with the tone you’d use when you’re saying, “What a cute puppy.”

  I sit numb all through dinner, my giant scarf making my neck itchy. Nate is already gone like I always knew he would be.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The air is warming and Goretti is abuzz with the Europe trip. Since Ms. North left, I have stopped helping organize. I am happy about that for a lot of reasons, but mostly because Ms. Cronell has taken over as NHS moderator. Every insufferable NHS meeting begins and ends with Europe details. The hotel in Ireland went out of business, says the tour company. They need to pick a new one. Did everyone bring in copies of their passports? Dakota has helpfully drafted a travel checklist. It includes such key things like, “Pack hair spray,” and “Make photocopies of everything in your wallet.”

  I want to set fire to the whole stack.

  At the end of the meeting, Ms. Cronell asks me to help her carry some things to the teachers’ lounge. Everyone else walks away, and Ms. Cronell puts down the things she’s carrying.

  “Monserrat, I need to speak to you about something.” The way she says my name, she makes it sound like a curse word somehow.

  She wants to talk. Oh boy. Not good.

  “It has been brought to my attention by several teachers that your grades are slipping.”

  It’s not a question, so I don’t feel the need to say anything.

  “You understand that in order to remain in the NHS, you must maintain a certain grade point average. And a certain attitude.”

  Stare. I notice three unruly chin hairs that move up and down when she talks.

  “You’ve also had an unusual number of absences this year.”

  Stare. Those chin hairs are positively dancing.

  “I hope you don’t think you’re somehow above the rules. NHS vice president or no, if your grades fall below the expected average, you will be removed from the group. Do you understand?”

  It is obvious she’s not getting the please-don’t-kick-me-out-of-the-NHS reaction she would expect from the super-geek I used to be. She is expecting hysterics, or at least crying. Begging. Maybe bribery? Lord knows she could do with some new wardrobe money.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying to you? I’m talking about having to return your pin. Not being able to wear the NHS sash at graduation.”

  I have to hold in a laugh. She looks at me strangely while my eyes get wide and I twist up my face to hold the laugh back. A pin? A sash? Seriously?

  “If you don’t bring up your grades immediately, you will be removed from the National Honor Society roster. And it will go on your permanent record.”

  Stare. Oh, please, anything but that. I wish I had a tweezer for those chin hairs.

  “That won’t look good for colleges. Don’t think that because it’s the end of senior year, they won’t take notice.” She stops, looks all over my face. “Can you say something, please? Do you understand? Don’t you think you can hold it together for just a few months more?” She searches my face for a reaction. I see her face almost soften for a split second. I haven’t said anything to her little scare speech. I focus on the chin hairs. One is gray, two are black.

  Finally, I say, “I don’t know, Ms. Cronell. But I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll have to bring this to the attention of your parents.”

  Silence.

  She nods, just down once, not up. I guess she gets it.

  I think this merits a day off. I go out through the locker room door so no one sees me leave.

  I CAN’T THINK OF ANYWHERE TO GO. I RIDE TO THE APARTMENT. The stairs feel so long and exhausting. I go into my room and drop on the futon.

  My eyes feel like they’re sinking into my head. I close them, trying to force myself to fall asleep. I stay in that position for a long time, the light in the room changing, dimming, until it’s gone. I drift off at some point. When I wake up, my head feels achy, like there is a hollow in my forehead that is filled with gray fog.

  I go to the bathroom. I feel under the sink. There it is. The razor blade. My escape hatch. My ticket. Not today but one day maybe. As the rivers run dry, making up my mind.

  For now, I stare at my face. What a big nose. My skin is a mess. I am pale, and I have big circles under my eyes. No wonder Nate wants to go away and not be near me. No wonder I don’t belong here. I wash my face, hoping the cold water will ma
ke me feel better. It doesn’t. I root around the medicine cabinet and find an old jar of face cream I used to see my mother use. When I uncap it, it has a brown crust around the rim. The cream looks fine, though. I slather it on my face, and it feels like it has ice in it, something minty. I let it sit. Then I wipe it off, and wash the last of it off with cold water. I still feel exhausted, but awake.

  I look around at my mother’s makeup. She’s got some garish red lipstick that I’ve never seen her wear. I uncap it, look at it, run it across my bottom lip. It is shocking against my pasty skin. I like how this makes me look like someone else.

  I am looking at myself in the mirror this way when the door slams open. The old brass hook on the back of the door rattles to the floor.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?” asks my father. I hadn’t even known he was home.

  “Nothing.”

  “Didn’t you hear me telling you I need to get in here?”

  “No.” Truth.

  His eyes focus on the makeup. “Why are you putting that crap on?”

  “I’m just . . . I don’t know . . . I was just . . .”

  He grabs a fistful of my hair and slams my face into the mirror, pinning the lipstick between me and the mirror. I feel the lipstick slither up my face, smushing against the mirror.

  “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to. Your lies. I am totally sick of your disrespect. You think you’re so smart, ignoring me, making me wait for the bathroom? You are good for nothing, you know that?” He emphasizes his statements with a little press into the mirror, and I start to worry what will happen if the mirror breaks.

  “Leave me alone!”

  “Stop lying. I know you. I see right through you. You think you’re so smart. You’re just like I was at your age. Just wait until life teaches you a thing or two.”

  That’s the worst insult of all, him thinking I’m like him at all.

  “Get off me!” I scream.

  “Or what?”

  “Just get off me. What is your problem?”

  “What is my problem?” He laughs, a dark, angry little sound. “I have a lot of problems,” he says, giving my face one last shove into the mirror. “Get the hell out of the bathroom. I told you I need to use it.”