The Secret Side of Empty

by Maria E. Andreu

  I hate my eyeballs for betraying me with tears. I can’t let him see. I won’t give him that satisfaction. I grab some toilet paper and rub the red mark off my face and my lips. I wash with soap as fast as I can, then run in my room and grab a bag. I am done. I am leaving. Jeans. Underwear. As many shirts as will fit. My phone. My charger. A handful of pictures. Emily’s big scarf. No, not that, it takes up too much room. I drape it around my neck, although it’s getting a little warm for that. Rumi’s poems that Ms. North gave me. Not much else fits, so this will have to be enough, until I figure out where I’m going.

  I ride and ride, opposite the way I normally go. I ride in the direction of the big park, not Nate and mine’s. I’m thinking of that little field house. Maybe the lock will be flimsy and I can sleep in there. If not, it’s not that cold. I’ll find a little out-of-the-way spot in the park. It’ll be fun. It will be like camping. And tomorrow I will figure out where I am going to go.

  When I get to the field house, the lock is built into the metal door. Impossible to break in. I ride around, looking for some other open structure. Nothing. I am seriously unschooled in the art of being a hobo.

  I pull out my phone. I ache to call someone. Chelsea. I could sleep over at Chelsea’s and tell her everything and finally it would be okay. Or Nate.

  But I can’t. How would I explain anything that’s going on in my life to them? It would sound so ridiculous, so impossible next to the lives they’re living. Also, how do you explain to someone that you are so horrible and useless that your own father despises you? I am so ashamed. I don’t want them to know because I know they’ll figure out what that means about me. The dirty, ugly outcast I really am.

  It’s getting really dark and I find an old willow in a quiet spot behind the soccer field. I sit under it for hours, until I’m too sleepy to sit up. The moon is a little slit. It turns out it’s a bunch colder at night. I put on the second pair of jeans over the ones I’m wearing, and a couple of the shirts, too. Then I put on my jacket over all that. Emily’s scarf makes a pretty good pillow. It gets all kinds of dirty, though.

  I curl up and try to fall asleep. For a while, I hear some voices in the distance, laughter, and then nothing. I bet serial killers laugh like that. Who knew the park was this creepy at night? There are critters and noises that just don’t stop. I think the serial killers are getting closer.

  I temporarily imagine building a little hut out of twigs. That sounds like so much work, though. Plus, the bugs. No way. I pull out my phone. Fifty percent charge. And it’s only 11:52. That seals it. I can’t do another seven hours of this.

  I pick up my bike and start pedaling back home, slowly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Mr. Abedifirouzjaie (or Mr. A, as he has mercifully allowed us to call him) tells me during lunchtime that he’d like to see me after school. I have skipped his class as I do on most days, so I’m assuming he wants to have a little powwow about that. So I go.

  “Monserrat. Thank you for coming.” Strangely, his accent makes it so that he’s got the best pronunciation of my name I’ve heard in a while.

  “Hi.”

  “How are you finding my class?” he says.

  I want to say, “I didn’t know it was lost,” but instead I say, “Good.”

  “Also optional, I notice.”

  “Ummm . . . this morning I had to go to the nurse . . .”

  “Let’s both spare ourselves the indignity of your story, shall we?”

  “Okay.”

  “I thought perhaps you might be one of those with the . . . how do you say it here? Senior fever? But then I asked around and learned that you used to be quite an applied student.”

  Applied student? Is that like a glue brand or something?

  “And then I did the further inquiries and discovered that you were a special student to Ms. North, my predecessor.”

  Stare. Say nothing.

  “I must be quite a disappointment after your most beloved teacher leaves.” The skin around his eyes squints a little and he looks like someone’s grandfather, right at the moment when he’s going to give a lollipop.

  “I . . . no . . . it’s just—”

  “Look, we will never have what you and Ms. North had. Alas, we lack the time, and even if we did, there are some holes only one person can fill. Would you not say yes to this?”

  His accent is goofy, but I am somehow starting to get it.

  “I would say yes to that.”

  “Good. I am an old and strange man with what must seem to you a very silly accent. Is that the way of it?”

  “Well, sometimes it’s hard—”

  “You know what it means when someone has an accent?” he asks, kindly, with a smile.

  “That they were born—”

  “It means that they speak one more language than you do. I myself speak five. And you?”

  “Two. And a little Italian I guess.”

  “That’s more than most. Although it would seem perhaps at least that you might have a few things to learn from me. Would you not say?”

  “Yes.”

  “It may seem funny for someone who speaks English with an accent to be teaching the English. But what I like to say is that you can only truly love a place when you have lived outside it.”

  I think about the little things I’ve noticed, like how in Spanish there are two different kinds of “you,” the formal one for teachers and cops and elders and the informal for friends and younger people. He actually has a point.

  “Have you read any Nabokov?” he asks me.

  “No.”

  “The ultimate example, I would say, of a nonnative speaker of English relishing the English language as only a nonnative can. Although do not let the nuns catch me recommending Lolita to you. Now we each have something on each other. I know you don’t come to class. You know I recommend literature absolutely inappropriate for young girls to young girls.”

  “A mutual destruction pact.” I smile.

  He’s quiet for a minute. “You only hurt yourself when you don’t come to class.”

  I nod a little.

  “I know the standard teacher thing to do is to call your parents, have the big conversation. This, I suspect, would not be of help with you.”

  “Why?” I’m curious.

  “Other teachers have spoken to your mother.”

  “They have?”

  “She’s right in the building next door. How would they not? Here is what I propose. Please come to class now. I will bore you, but it will be more informative than napping in the senior locker room. Read what you like and I will not shame you in class too much when you don’t know what I am talking about. You may even get enough information to do reasonably well on tests. Does this sound possible to you?”

  “Maybe. Yes. I guess.”

  “A resounding agreement. One last thing. I will also be expecting the final Ms. North described to you. The world view position paper. That one thing is not negotiable. I will look the other way if you are less than motivated in class, but you must write that paper. Imagine you are writing it to present to her. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  NATE ASKED ME YESTERDAY IF WE COULD HANG OUT TODAY, AND although I’ve been avoiding him since Emily’s little revelation, I say yes. I miss him so badly, but I’m afraid I don’t have the energy to hold up the picture of me that he wants to see. I’m afraid to ask him about his summer plans because once I do that, they will be real.

  When I get out of school, he’s waiting. I get in. I want to lean over and kiss him but I feel too shy to do it. He feels far away.

  He doesn’t put the car in drive. He sits there, looking at the rearview mirror, like someone’s chasing him. Then he studies his thumbnail.

  “M, I don’t know how to tell you this.”

  “What?”

  “I . . . I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

  And there go the waterworks. I need to get a better hold on that.

  “Plea
se don’t cry. I’m so sorry.” He puts his hand on mine.

  “What happened?” I ask. Ugh. Too needy. There are times when the thing you fear the most turns out to not feel as bad as you thought it would. This is not one of those times. It hurts more than anything, ever.

  “It’s just . . . I don’t know. You seem so sad. I seem to hurt you so much, and I’m not sure how.”

  “That’s not it,” I say, loud, accusing. I think I blow some tears and snot on him. Not attractive. “It’s just that you planned all along to sneak off and not tell me anything. How long did you know you were going on this boat thing?”

  “M, why do you have to raise your voice? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Like you’re always at the edge of exploding. I applied to the boat thing before I met you. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do. But it’s not that. You’re always so sad or mad, like you’re unhappy with me and you won’t tell me why. I just feel so guilty around you all the time.”

  I feel desperate, like I have to find the right combination of words to stop this from happening. I am losing the best of me: him. I have to help him see that he’s not the problem. I have to find the words to make him stay. “Why didn’t you tell me about the summer thing?”

  “I thought about it so many times. But it never seemed like the right time.”

  “If I’m such a mess, why did you stay with me at all? Why did you put up with me at all?” It feels so familiar, him deciding I’m not good enough for him. I’ve lived it so many times in my head that now that it’s finally here, I recognize it like something that’s already happened.

  “I don’t think you’re a mess, M. I just don’t think I’m the guy for you. I can’t seem to . . . I don’t know. You don’t look happy when you’re around me. I’m always making you mad.”

  “Please let’s try again. I’m so sorry if I seemed mad. It wasn’t you. It’s just stuff at home. I’m so sorry.” I’m slobbering big time on his shirt now, at his shoulder. He puts his arm around me, but he doesn’t seem very enthusiastic about it.

  “M, it’s bound to happen anyway. I want to go to college not feeling like you’re sitting at home waiting. I couldn’t stand the thought of being away this summer and feeling you were home unhappy because I didn’t call enough or something.”

  I sob and try to catch my breath on his shoulder. “It’s just that I love you. So. Much.” I say. That doesn’t quite put into words the way I feel but it’s all I can come up with.

  He’s quiet for a moment. “I know,” he says. “And that’s what scares me.”

  Nothing, anywhere, ever, will ever hurt as much as this moment.

  I try to get out of the car, because it seems like that’s what would happen in the movie version of this, but he holds my hand and says, “Let me take you home.” He feels sorry for me. I put my face in my hands and sob the whole way home, hating myself for doing it. I want to explain to him that my world stops without him. I look inside my head for the words. I find none. His hand is on the knob that changes the car from park to reverse to drive. He grips it so tightly that the skin stretches around his knuckles.

  He pulls up to my apartment building. I know the dignified thing would be to straighten up, wipe off my face, and say that I hope one day we will be friends. But I want to chain myself to the seat in his car so he has to take me with him. I can feel how uncomfortable he is, but this doesn’t make me move.

  Finally, he says, “Can we still go to your prom together?” I notice he doesn’t mention his.

  “I don’t need your pity.”

  “It’s not pity. It’s that I promised you months ago and it’s not fair to change things a month before.”

  “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” I feel icky at his consolation prize.

  “Honestly, I think it would be nice to go.”

  “Whatever. I don’t care.” It’s the thought of the pity prom date that finally propels me out of the car.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  He is near me. I’m on the grass on my back and he’s propped on an elbow, smiling down at me, the sun a halo behind him. It makes me squint. This beautiful boy is my boyfriend. I am so lucky. It’s so improbable. I look at the pattern of freckles on his nose, the sparkly green of his eyes.

  Of course. Of course. I soak in the joy of him, the way his two front teeth are a little bigger than the others, the way his bottom lip is fuller than his top one, and that it reaches me a nanosecond sooner when he leans in to kiss me. His nose turns up and his eyelashes grow all the way to the very inside of his eyes in a way I’ve never seen anyone’s eyelashes grow before.

  Kiss me. I don’t say it, but he senses it and leans in, his smile turning into a soft laugh, sexy, happy. Yes. Of course. It’s perfect. Like a hammock on a warm day, safe. Like a stack of new books, chocolate mousse cake, swinging high on the swings. Like jumping off a branch and discovering you can glide. His shirt smells like cotton and detergent and sun.

  He leans in closer. In the silence, the gap between the moments feels eternal.

  “Just stay,” I say.

  “Of course I’m going to stay.” I know he is going to kiss me and then he does it. My heart stops first, then speeds up.

  But I’ve forgotten something. Like an item I’ve forgotten to put on a list. Towels. Sheets. A hair dryer. Band-Aids. What is it?

  My eyes open. I am confused. Jerked into another time and place. Where?

  My futon.

  No sunshine.

  What happened?

  And then . . . of course. The thousand sinking wishes. The color bleeding out of everything. Of course. He isn’t really going to kiss me. My mind thinks it helps by bringing him to me in my sleep.

  He isn’t ever going to kiss me again. I can’t think of anything sadder. I’ve just played the cruelest trick on myself, cracked some little thing inside. To lift up my hopes just to have to lose him all over again hurts just as much as the first time. It is raw and fresh and real, like he’s just now said the words again: “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.” The loss I feel is bottomless, like I can never get any more alone than right now.

  Anticipating it a thousand times didn’t prepare me. It only made it worse.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I am getting used to not going to school. I keep my deal with Mr. A only some of the time. Some days I go for attendance and his class, then hang around inside. I stare off blankly in classes in which teachers take attendance, and nap in the locker room through those where teachers don’t. I haven’t been to gym in weeks, and no one seems to have noticed.

  Other days, I leave the house but don’t go at all. A few times, when I’ve had stolen cash, I’ve taken the bus into the city and walked around all day until it’s time to go home. Today I don’t have the energy. Or the cash. I go sit in the bushes outside the library. Fire up the laptop. Facebook. Gossip sites. Email. Nothing, nothing, nothing. I am not sure how I am going to do five more hours of this.

  And then I hear steps. Really close. I look up and there’s a cop.

  He says, “I’m going to need you to get out of the bushes now. And let me see your hands.”

  So this is how it ends. After all the years of being afraid of it, knowing it’s here is terrifying but also weirdly calming, like at least I finally know. He’s going to ask for papers, he’s going to find out I have none, and I am done. On a plane to Argentina tonight. How could I have been so stupid?

  “Is there a problem, Officer?”

  “Yeah, the problem is that you’re hiding in the bushes when you should be in school. How old are you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Lying to me isn’t really a good idea right now. How old are you really?”

  Is lying to him an offense that could get me arrested? Or am I in trouble regardless?

  “Look, I’m going to be calling your family and your school, so we can do this the easy way or we can do this the hard way.”

  “Seventeen. I’m a seni
or.”

  “You’re not done yet with school then, are you?”

  “What if I told you I’m a dropout?”

  “The way you asked me, I can tell you’re not. Let me see some ID.”

  ID. Thud, thud, thud. My pulse is in my ears and I feel nauseous. He’s going to run me against some national database and I am going to be outed. I am already outed, maybe. Things look far away, like I’m looking at them through a tube. I try to suck in a breath so I won’t pass out.

  I guess he can tell because he says, “Listen, relax. Walk over to the station with me.”

  “Am I arrested?”

  “I told you, I’m just calling your mother.”

  “She’s working.”

  “She’s getting called anyway. Or would you rather I called your father?” I guess the answer to that is usually no because he smiles a little when he says it.

  “He’s in the city.”

  “Let’s go, then. Let me see your license.”

  “I don’t drive.” He looks at me funny. “Really, I mean it. I haven’t taken the test.”

  He cocks his head like he’s trying to figure out whether that’s true.

  “Your school ID then.”

  That I do have. But it’s got my real name and everything. I curse myself for not getting some kind of fake ID for these situations. I fumble in my backpack and hand it over.

  “Goretti, huh? Didn’t the nuns teach you more sense than to cut school when you’re almost finished?”

  I’m not sure if he’s really expecting an answer to that, so I say nothing. I can’t believe it all ends like this. It’s all in slo-mo.

  I wonder if I could outrun this guy. He seems a little out of shape. I should have stuck with the dropout story. But I just crumbled. I think of Baby Julissa with her dad in a van, off to jail, and then who knows where else. My mother. Jose.

  I alternate between wild hope that somehow he’ll let me go, followed by the sinking feeling of knowing this is how I get busted. I am done here. Done.

  The door of the municipal complex slides open noiselessly and I’m hit by a frigid wall of air. We walk past a big glass window like you’d see in a bank. There is another cop behind it.