The Secret Side of Empty

by Maria E. Andreu

  The prom itself is pure cheese, at a local catering hall done with too many shiny columns. There is fast dancing for hours. And slow dancing for a little while. During one of the slow dances I nestle my face in Nate’s neck and try to inhale him without being too creepy. God, I love the smell of him. It’s amazing how a person can smell different from absolutely everyone else on the planet.

  After the slow song, I leave him at the table to go to the bathroom. It’s almost time to go to our after-party.

  One of the girls is handing out some pills. Quinn Ford, who should have known better than to wear a green dress but didn’t, takes one. I’m not sure what they are, but the drinks from the car are wearing off, so I take one, too. I sit in the bathroom for a while, trying to strategize how best to get Nate back.

  Chelsea walks in. I have been avoiding her all night. In fact, I haven’t talked to her since that sleepover at her house and her total betrayal. She’s tried calling me and cornering me at school.

  She says, “M, please, I have to talk to you.”

  “I think I’ve told you enough times that I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “M, I’m sorry. Can you please just let me explain?”

  I’m wondering if that tingling in my left arm is from the pill or something else. I get up. I wobble a little. I get in her face, close.

  “I never want to speak to you again, okay? Get it?”

  Her eyes get wide and she steps back half a step. I know I don’t mean that. But I can’t have her pestering me, not tonight, not while I am trying to make Nate see how much fun I can be. How I’m not gloomy at all. I can’t do that if Chelsea makes me cry remembering just how she betrayed me, how bad she could have made things for me.

  I walk out of the bathroom and back to my Nate.

  After prom is over, Dakota tells the driver to head into the city. She seems to have managed to smuggle half a liquor store into the limo, because she keeps the drinks coming. By now I am a warrior goddess, and my powers come from the liquid that has long since stopped burning. I am Good. I am Exciting. I am Fun. I am Not Gloomy. Not the downer Nate ran away from.

  Nate loves me again. I just know it.

  We get inside the little dive. The music is tinny but earsplitting. I drag Nate onto the dance floor. I trip on something. Floorboard or something.

  “M, are you okay?”

  “I’m great, Nate. Ha! Get it? Great? Nate? Let’s dance.”

  “You don’t seem to be doing so well.”

  “I’m doing amazing.”

  “Can we sit and talk for a little while?”

  “Oh, talking is for losers, come on, let’s dance.” I need to move, move, move. I can’t stand the thought of talking.

  “Since when do you drink this way, M?” asks Nate.

  “Don’t be an old man. You wanted fun, right? You wanted happy. Look at me. I’m happy! Let’s go.” I tug him.

  He gets on the dance floor and dances. I look at his eyes. He looks at a point somewhere past my left ear. He pulls me in a little closer.

  On the ride home, Dakota is still going like a champ. I want to keep up, but there is a shrill, strange note in my ear that won’t go away. Everyone else stays at Dakota’s house, but I ask Nate if we can go for a ride.

  “Sure, where to?” he asks when we’re in his car.

  “Summer Park.”

  He drives there, pulls into the parking lot. In the same spot where we exchanged Christmas presents.

  Nate puts his hand on mine. “Did you have fun?”

  “Well, there’s one thing missing,” I say. I channel my inner seductress. I imagine what the actress who wore this dress to the Oscars would say in a situation like this. I lean over and kiss him. The car spins a little.

  He kisses back, and it’s just like I remember it. We kiss some more, his hands moving down my neck, to my shoulders, to my back. I want him to go further. I’ve decided that tonight is the night. I touch him there, hoping that will spur him on. It doesn’t. He kisses, but doesn’t advance.

  “Nate, I love you. Even if we’re not together, I want you to be my first. Let’s do it tonight.” Maybe, after this, he will want to stay.

  He pulls back, takes off my rhinestone barrette, puts it back in tighter. He kisses my temple. “I can’t, M.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re not together and I wouldn’t feel right.”

  “But I’m telling you it can be like this, no strings, just so that I can remember that you were my first.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t. Not like this.” I think that’s pity in his eyes.

  I sit back in his seat. Suddenly the car spins violently. I feel really sick to my stomach.

  I just make it out of the car before I throw up all over the hem of my Oscar knockoff dress and my borrowed shoes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The sun feels vicious, like it’s trying to stab me. I let my bike roll with as little effort as possible. Thank goodness for all the flat land on the way to the library. I’m only out in this horrid sunshine because it hurts more to stay in my tomb of an apartment than it does to fight my hangover.

  I lock my bike to the rack. Go inside. I get online. No email. I get on Facebook and check my feed.

  The latest story is Quinn, something about a vigil tonight. Who in the world has energy for a vigil the night after prom? Talk about religious fanatics.

  I scroll down. Patricia’s going to this stupid vigil, too. Thirty-two people have commented on her status.

  I scroll down past all the vigil nonsense to see posts from last night. A bunch of phone pictures uploaded. Our table. Me sitting on Nate’s lap. Me in the limo. Man, did my eyeliner really run like that? I quickly save them to my hard drive, to a folder named Him.

  I scroll back up to this vigil thing and read through the comments on Patricia’s post.

  Patricia: We’ll be meeting at 7:00 p.m. in front of the school. Bring your own candles.

  Jane: I can’t believe it.

  Siobhan: I will miss this but will be down tomorrow after my finals. I’ll be saying a prayer, too.

  How in the world is Siobhan friends with Patricia and crew?

  Kelly: It’s just so crazy. Please pray for Chelsea.

  Jane O’Hara: Thanks, everyone, for the good wishes for Chelsea. She is strong. I will keep you all posted on here as much as I can.

  Pray for Chelsea for what?

  As I’m trying to get the story, a message pops up. It’s Josh.

  “I just heard,” he says.

  “Just heard what?” I ask.

  “About Chelsea.”

  “What about Chelsea?”

  “You didn’t hear?”

  “No.”

  “Car accident last night. This morning, actually.”

  “After prom, you mean?”

  “Yeah. Hit by a drunk driver.”

  “She’s okay?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I’m not sure the name of the hospital.”

  “Can you ask Siobhan?”

  “I’ll ask.”

  I call Dakota. No answer. I call Patricia. Nothing. I have to call five people before finally I get Kathy from history on the phone.

  “I just heard about Chelsea. Where is she?”

  “Mid-Bergen General,” she says. “But you can’t go see her.”

  “Why?”

  “Not even family is getting in. She’s in intensive care. Last we heard she had just gotten out of some kind of surgery. Friend her mom. She’s posting updates on her page.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The entrance to the hospital is lit up with fancy lamps and covered in dark wood. There is a gift shop filled with teddy bears and stuff, just the right balance of cute and serious. This place looks like what I imagine a hotel would look like, if I’d ever been in one. What they look like on TV.

  The walk to Chelsea’s room takes forever, through corridors that say we’re i
n a different wing, then another. Then an elevator. Then more walking. Finally, Chelsea’s mom and I are there.

  Chelsea looks like the cartoon version of the accident victim—casts, the pulley over the bed. Her eyes are closed, the left side of her face covered with a yellowing bruise. I thought her mom said she was going to be okay? She looks like she’s in a coma.

  Her mom pats her hand. “Hey, Chels, I’m here.”

  Is she going to do that whole depressing, “I know you’re in a coma but I know you can hear me” thing? Because I don’t think I can take that.

  But Chelsea opens her eyes. “Hey, Ma.” She looks just like she does when she wakes up from a sleepover. Well, except for the hospital gear. And the bruises. She looks over at me. “M, you came.”

  “Chels, what happened?”

  “You know how I drive.” She laughs.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “They’ve got me on the good stuff.”

  Her mom says, “I’m going to go say hello to the nurses.”

  I inch closer to Chelsea. She looks in my eyes. “You’re not mad at me anymore?” she says.

  “No.”

  “See the lengths to which I’ll go to make you forgive me.”

  I smile at her cheesy joke.

  The next time I visit Chelsea I find a two-bus combination that goes to Mid-Bergen. I take it there every day. I sit on her bed and talk about nothing. The reality star who had the baby with the soccer player and named him after a tropical fruit. The strange bugs eating the bushes outside of school. I paint her nails and reach for her lip gloss for her. That’s all I can handle for now.

  One day when I get there, I am surprised to see Siobhan sitting next to the bed.

  “Oh, hey, you’re busy,” I say, backing up.

  “No, come in. It’s just Siobhan,” says Chelsea.

  Yeah, I know.

  “Oh, hi,” I say.

  Siobhan nods in my direction.

  “How are you?” I ask to no one in particular, hoping Chelsea will answer.

  “Oh, well, I’m running a marathon later,” jokes Chelsea.

  “Awesome.”

  “Siobhan here, a little worse.”

  “Oh? I’m sorry.” I seriously don’t want to hear about Siobhan’s issues.

  “She broke up with Josh,” says Chelsea.

  Siobhan glares at her, like she wasn’t supposed to tell, but Chelsea doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Oh,” I say. Just because I have no idea what else to say.

  We talk for a while but I feel really awkward with Siobhan just sitting there. She barely says two words. How long is long enough to not seem rude? I wait an hour, then tell Chelsea I need to go. I say good-bye to them both, and head to the elevator. I’m surprised when Siobhan calls out to wait for her.

  She’s red.

  “M, so I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Why did you pretend in there that you didn’t already know about Josh and me?”

  “Ummm . . . because I didn’t.” I say this slowly, like explaining something to a child who’s not getting it.

  “Right. I know about you two.”

  “You know what about us two?”

  “I know you’ve been talking all year.”

  “We’ve been Facebook friends since Chelsea and I went up and met him that weekend. I think Chelsea’s friends with him, too.”

  “Oh, don’t try to play it off like that. You think you’re so much better than me. Just because you’re all jock and bike everywhere to get nice legs. Just because I put on the freshman ten and you probably think that’s funny. You’re so above everyone.”

  This is awkward. Where did this come from?

  “Siobhan, honestly, I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t know why you’re getting in my face like this.”

  “So you’re going to deny he’s coming down to New Jersey this summer to be with you?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I read his Facebook messages. I know that you guys have been talking. I know he told you he’s coming down.”

  “You hacked his Facebook account? Not cute.”

  “That’s not really an answer.”

  “I don’t have to give you any answers. I’m not even sure what the question is.”

  “Is he coming down because of you?”

  “No. If you think I’m trying to get your boyfriend, you’re crazy.”

  “Why, because he’s not good enough for you? Maybe he doesn’t seem like much to you, but I really love him. Loved him. And anyway, what kind of a pretentious name is M.T. anyway? You’re just too cool for everyone. And you’ve been a total jerk to Chelsea.”

  Then she starts bawling. It’s pretty horrifying to see. I stare at her shoes. Gold moccasins. They shock me a little. They seem out of character. She wipes her face with the outside edges of her hands, the left one for the right side, the right one for the left. I focus on those moccasins. I almost feel like saying something nice.

  “Don’t cry,” is the best I can think of.

  “Yeah, real easy for you to say.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Chelsea comes home in June. She’s on crutches, and her leg is still in a cast. They put pins in her. From now on, every time she goes to an airport, she’s going to have to carry a letter from her doctor explaining why she sets off the metal detectors. I think that’s kind of awesome.

  We are sitting in Chelsea’s room. She props her cast up on a pillow that looks like a mini sack of grain.

  She says, “M, can we talk about the thing about you said? About . . . not having a future? And what I did? I really didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  Maybe Chelsea found the strength that comes from being home. Or maybe it’s just time.

  I take a deep breath. “Okay. But, first, can I tell you something?

  “Yes.”

  “You know I can’t go to college.”

  “You can explain the problem with the grades at the end. I mean, you’ve got three and a half years of great grades.”

  “No, it’s not that. I’m going to tell you something.”

  “Okay.”

  “So . . . my parents came over when I was little, and they didn’t have permission to stay. So we’re illegals.”

  “Like . . . you don’t have papers to be here?”

  “Yeah.” Chelsea’s quiet for a long while.

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  “I was so embarrassed. And my parents always said not to tell anyone, because they can use it against you.”

  “You know I would never do that. That’s so weird that I never knew that about you.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t understand why you never told me. It’s no big deal.”

  “It’s kind of a big deal to me. That’s why I was so mad when you told the cops what I said and all that crazy stuff happened.”

  “What happened anyway?”

  “I kind of don’t want to talk about it. But the cops came, and I thought I was going to get deported.”

  “They wouldn’t do that. Why would they do that?”

  “I don’t know; that’s what my dad always says. And I’ve read stories online of women calling the cops for domestic violence, then getting deported because the cops found out they were undocumented. Stuff like that.”

  “I’m sure that can’t be true.”

  “I don’t even know what’s true anymore. I’ve just been so afraid to talk about it with anyone.”

  “I’m so sorry. I was just so scared for you. Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “That day . . . were you talking about killing yourself?”

  “Yes and no. It’s complicated. But when the cops came they took me to a hospital for an evaluation.”

  “That’s so scary. I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah. But it helped in a weird way. It really helped me get clear about what I want. What I want is just to feel better.”<
br />
  “It never in a million years occurred to me that it would go so far, like hospitals and stuff. I figured they’d just have someone at school talk to you or something.”

  “I know.”

  “Now we’ve got to fix this illegal thing.” She winks. “Marry me!” she holds out her arms, the two good limbs she’s got. I slap her hand five.

  “While we’re confessing,” says Chelsea.

  “Yeah?”

  “My parents are getting divorced.”

  “What? Why?”

  “That day you came over and my mother talked to you. The day she was digging up the lawn. You remember that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She thought that you knew something. But you didn’t know.”

  “No.”

  “I never said anything. I didn’t know how to tell you. My mother filed the papers, like, a month ago. And what sucks is that my mother inherited our house so it’s my dad who’s got to move out.”

  “That’s . . . I don’t know what to say. What happened with them?”

  “My mother was in love with someone else. Is, I guess. That morning, the day she was wrecking the lawn, my parents had just this horrible fight. My father crying and telling her he still loved her. And her saying that she was very sorry, but she was in love with someone else.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Well, I guess we’re even,” says Chelsea, smiling a smile which, for the first time, I realize doesn’t tell the whole story.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I walk into Mr. A’s class with my backpack empty except for the paper I’ve written, on time, as I promised I would. Mr. A starts class. “Very well, ladies, today is the day your world view papers are due. As discussed, we will be presenting them orally, then discussing them as a class. We will take the week for that. Any volunteers? Who would like to go first?”

  I raise my hand. I feel good, one moment in which I know just what I want to do. Mr. A seems unsurprised and kind of pleased that I’ve volunteered.

  “M.T., won’t you start us off?”

  I walk up to the podium slowly, my paper in my hand. I shift my uniform skirt off to the left a little and flatten the front of my shirt. I look over the group, mostly girls I’ve known since we were little—Quinn with her dead brother’s license, Dakota with her unexpected drinking habits—and I realize that just the same way they don’t know me, I don’t know them, either.