But I have no idea how it works. Are there secret code words, some way of asking without actually saying what it is you’re asking for? And anyway, what if someone saw me approach his car, knock on his window? What if they figured out I was crazy?
I shake my head. Dr. Kreiter told me she doesn’t like the word crazy, but that hasn’t stopped me from using it.
At the end of our first session, Dr. Kreiter recommended antianxiety medication. She’s a psychiatrist, not a psychologist, which means she can prescribe medication alongside advice and talk therapy. I think the hospital recommended her on purpose—clearly the doctors in the ER thought I needed to be medicated. So from day one, I worried that just because she could prescribe drugs, Dr. Kreiter probably suggested them for all of her patients, like how surgeons see surgical solutions to whatever is wrong with you because that’s what they know.
To be fair, medication wasn’t the only thing Dr. Kreiter recommended. In addition to weekly talk therapy, she suggested I attend a support group for teens suffering from anxiety, OCD, self-harm. Mom thought it was a good idea, but I convinced her—or rather, I convinced Dad—that we should revisit it at the end of our three-month deal. (Sitting in a circle with a bunch of other cutters definitely isn’t the kind of extracurricular activity that looks good on a college application, and it would take time away from things that would.) But I promised that if I failed to live up to my end of the bargain, then drugs and support groups would be back on the table.
I was so certain I could meet the three-month goal. I believed that the possibility of meds and extra support would be enough to motivate me, like how getting into Stanford was motivation enough to take dozens of SAT practice tests. I truly thought that setting a goal would be enough, because it always had been before. (I mean, mostly.)
But that was before Tess broke up with me in front of everyone.
Before Dad said he knew his little girl wouldn’t let him down.
I’m still counting backward. Negative two hundred and seventy-six.
I leave the compact on the ground beside the car and rifle through my backpack on the passenger seat, digging until I find my wallet buried somewhere beneath my books and sunglasses.
It’ll be temporary, just until I get over Tess. Nothing like the pills the doctor would put me on for the rest of my life. (True, she said they might not be for the rest of my life, but I didn’t believe her. I thought she sounded like a drug dealer, enticing me by promising that it might not last forever when she knew full well I could get hooked.)
When I get out of the car, I step on the compact, grinding whatever glass is left into shards too tiny to be useful. But when I turn around to face the back of the parking lot, Hiram’s car is gone.
I’m alone.
Five
The Activist
Over dinner, Mom says, “We need to talk.” Crap. I completely forgot about Mom’s text message this morning.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call. It was a really busy day.”
I made it back to class after lunch, but I refused to talk to anyone. I knew they were all staring at me, whispering about how Tess dumped me in the hallway, the most embarrassing breakup in North Bay Academy history. Luckily Mrs. Frosch (she’s my English teacher in addition to homeroom) assigned us an in-class essay this afternoon, so the classroom was quiet and I could keep my eyes on my paper. And then I had computer science, where we’re all stuck in front of our own little portals, learning how to code, which half of us already know how to do. And in the little breaks between classes, I hid in the nearest bathroom. After the final bell, I rushed to my car and drove straight home. I used to wait for my best friend so I could give her a lift home—she doesn’t have a car of her own—but she’s been riding with her boyfriend for months. (One of those plans she canceled without telling me.) It was so easy to keep to myself all afternoon that it made me wonder whether I should do it more often.
The three of us—Mom, Dad, and me—are eating at the small table in the kitchen. Dinner at our house is rarely just dinner. Sometimes it’s a strategy session for Mom’s latest cause for concern or for Dad’s next opening or closing statement. I was eight years old when Dad took me to my first protest. (Women’s rights.) Or, at least, that’s the first protest I remember. We have pictures of me at two years old attending a protest for marriage equality, but I don’t remember that one. In the pictures, I’m sitting on Dad’s shoulders. He’s grinning from ear to ear.
Sometimes dinner is a chance to review my current course load and discuss whether there’s any room for additional extracurricular activities. Dad and I argue over whether my membership in the school’s LGBTQIA+ Alliance counts. Dad’s convinced that’s more socially oriented than cause-oriented.
Sometimes dinner is a chance to talk about my GPA or the SATs and compare my grades and scores to the grades and scores of whichever North Bay senior just found out he or she got into Stanford. (It’s April, so the seniors are getting their acceptances and rejections. Though in the fall there were two students who applied early action, which led to a long discussion at our dinner table about whether I should do the same next year. Dad says yes, but Mom wants me to keep my options open.)
I’m not sure what tonight’s dinner is about to turn into. Maybe they found out Tess dumped me. Maybe they heard I ran into the parking lot and locked myself in my car during lunch. Maybe they know I was late to fifth-period English because I was still in my car, counting backward. All the way up to—or rather, down to—negative 8,002.
No, it can’t be any of that. Mom texted me before any of that happened.
“How’s Maya?” Mom asks. Sometimes Mom likes to engage in small talk before Dad digs into the heavier topics. Asking how my best friend is doing is one of her go-to topics.
I shrug. “I didn’t see her all day.” At some point this afternoon, I noticed a text from her saying that she was studying through lunch, but I never got around to writing back. It’s not all that unusual for us to go a full day without talking lately. Sometimes I think I call her my best friend out of habit.
Mom nods. “I suppose she was in the principal’s office. Or did they send her home?”
“Why would they send her home?” And why would Maya be in the principal’s office, for that matter? She’s not exactly a troublemaker.
Mom’s eyes crinkle with concern. “Sweetheart, haven’t you heard? I just assumed—”
“Assumed what?”
“I mean, Maya’s mother—Mrs. Alpert—called me, and I promised to do everything I could to help—”
“To help with what?”
Mom lifts her napkin from her lap and puts it on the table. She’s done eating, but she doesn’t move to get up.
“You didn’t hear?”
“Hear what?”
Mom pauses. “I thought for sure the rumors at school would be swirling, but maybe Principal Scott managed to keep this quiet after all.”
“As though Maya has anything to be ashamed of,” Dad breaks in.
Mom takes a deep breath. “I hate to be the one to have to tell you this, but maybe it’s best coming from me. Maya says that Mike has been hitting her.”
I squeeze my fork. “What?”
“Apparently she came to school with a black eye this morning.”
Generally speaking, I hate sentences like rage boiled up in my stomach because ugh, clichés—but I swear I actually feel something hot and angry shift in my belly. I glance at Dad. He looks like he’s sitting on some barely contained rage too.
Mom leans across the table and puts her hand over mine. When she speaks, she keeps her voice low and reasonable, like I’m a horse she doesn’t want to startle. Mom has a gift for sounding calm during stressful moments. “I don’t know all the details. But when Maya’s mother called to ask for my support, of course I said yes. She knows I’m experienced with this sort of thing. Community organi
zing, I mean, not domestic abuse.” Mom adds, “I’m going to plan a meeting for the parents. Advise them on how to talk to their children about this. Not all parents are as open as your father and I when it comes to discussing difficult topics.”
I nod. “That’s a good idea,” I say. The words come slowly. I have to concentrate to keep from hearing Maya says Mike has been hitting her over and over again.
Dad pounds his fork against the table. “It’s a good start,” he corrects. “But really, we need to think bigger than talking about our feelings.” His voice isn’t calm like Mom’s.
“Aaron, I believe there’s value in teaching the kids how to express their emotions in times like this.” Mom has a master’s degree in social work.
“And there’s even more value in teaching the kids how to take action in times like this. You know, they didn’t even send that boy home today?” Dad’s voice gets louder with each syllable. “He just went to class like nothing had happened. He even had his usual track practice after school.”
I don’t bother asking Dad how he knows so much about Mike’s comings and goings. Like Mom, Dad’s the kind of person who gets involved.
Mom cocks her head the side. “Maybe I should reach out to the Parkers,” she muses.
“Mike’s parents?” I ask.
“This must be difficult for their family,” Mom continues. “They probably don’t know how to talk to their son about his behavior—”
“Mom, do you actually think the Parkers believe Mike did what he’s accused of? Mike’s parents worship him. They’d never believe their son was capable of hitting Maya.”
To be fair, they’re not the only ones. Everyone likes him. If North Bay were the type of school that had a homecoming king or a prom king, Mike would’ve won every time. Even I’d have voted for him. Last year, when I organized a protest on behalf of the school’s maintenance staff to have their wages increased, he came to every meeting and got the entire track team to participate.
But of course, I believe my friend.
Mom says, “If Maya has a visible bruise—how could Mike’s parents possibly deny what happened?”
I don’t answer right away. Dad says Mom’s an idealist, while he’s a realist, and the combination helps make their marriage work. I try to picture what dinner at Mike’s house must look like right about now: Mike and his little brother seated across from each other, his parents on either end. I imagine they’re sitting in a real dining room—they’re not eating at a tiny kitchen table, and they’re definitely not digging into the pot with their own forks instead of using a serving spoon.
Maybe Mike says it was an accident.
Or maybe not, because that would require admitting he did it in the first place.
Maybe he says some other guy did it. (But who? And why? Everyone knows Mike and Maya are together.)
Then again, maybe his parents don’t even ask for an explanation. They’re probably calling Maya confused, troubled, attention-seeking. They’re probably saying she needs help—a doctor, a therapist, to be checked into the hospital.
Maybe even medication.
Even if Mike admitted what he’d done, I bet his mom would tie herself in knots trying to come up with a reason to justify it.
It wasn’t his fault.
He didn’t realize his own strength.
He’s been under so much pressure lately.
He’s really such a good boy.
I shake my head. Why am I thinking about what’s going on at Mike’s house? I should be thinking about Maya. She must be having dinner with her mom right now. Mrs. Alpert is probably peppering her with questions.
How long has this been going on?
Why didn’t you tell me sooner?
Are you sure it wasn’t an accident?
(Like everyone else, Mrs. Alpert loves Mike.)
To be honest, I have all the same questions. But I’d never ask Maya the way her mother would. Maya’s mom drives her nuts.
“Apparently the abuse had been going on for months,” Dad growls. I slide my hands beneath my legs so Dad won’t see them shaking. “And,” he continues, “they might not expel him. The school doesn’t have a policy in place for something like this.”
“How can they not have a policy in place?” Mom shakes her head like she’s disgusted. “There are three full pages in the student handbook outlining the cyberbullying policy and nothing for this?”
The first day of freshman year, in addition to the student handbook, they distributed the North Bay Academy code of conduct. It was peppered with words like respect and community. It said violence among students wouldn’t be tolerated.
They were probably thinking of boys punching other boys or an occasional heated argument among girls.
What Mike did to Maya probably isn’t what they had in mind.
“You know how these things work, Fee,” Dad answers. (Fee is Dad’s nickname for my mom.) “They didn’t see the need to create a policy to address something that had never happened before.”
“Never happened before that we know of,” Mom counters.
Our school may pride itself on being a respectful community, but it’s also a private institution that relies on tuition and donations so it needs to retain a pristine reputation in order to appeal to more students and earn more tuition. I try to imagine the next North Bay board of trustees meeting, where they’ll decide whether it would be better for the school’s reputation to expel Mike, or to cover this up entirely.
I can’t believe I was upset about my breakup with Tess. That’s nothing compared to this. (I mean, it doesn’t actually feel unimportant, but I know it is.)
Oh, god, Tess.
This is what she was talking about in the hallway.
When she said we have to do something, she wasn’t talking about us, she was talking about Mike and Maya.
About the fact that the school doesn’t have a policy for something like this.
She wasn’t going to break up with me. Not until I let her down so completely by telling her I was going to sit at my usual table. With Mike.
I press my thighs into my seat so hard that my hands start to go numb. I glance at my dad. He looks like he’s waiting for something.
“I’ll organize a meeting too,” I say. “For the students. To express ourselves—how we feel about what happened, about how the administration is handling it.”
Mom nods. “I think a discussion would be very healthy. Maybe we could ask the guidance counselor to lead it.”
“Maybe,” I echo, but I glance at Dad. He wouldn’t be impressed by a group of students gathered in the cafeteria, sharing their fears and worries. Neither would Tess.
We have to do something.
“Just take it easy,” Mom adds. “Don’t be ashamed to take a step back if it gets to be too much.”
“She can handle it,” Dad says proudly. “After all, we didn’t raise her to sit on the sidelines, did we, Frida?” He uses his knife to point at me. He’s the only one who’s still eating.
He grins, and I smile back. “That’s my girl.”
Tuesday, April 11
Six
The Cool Girl
I spot Tess in the hallway on her way to lunch on Tuesday. She and her friends usually sit in the grass beyond the lunch tables, happy to welcome whoever might join them. Sometimes Tess sits out there all by herself, not the least bit embarrassed to be alone. I hold out my arm but stop short of touching her to get her attention.
“You were right,” I begin. I have to concentrate to keep my voice even. I memorized this speech before I fell asleep last night and practiced it before leaving for school this morning.
“About what?”
“When you said you didn’t know me.”
“Oh yeah?” Tess folds her long arms across her chest.
I nod. “Because if you
knew me, you’d know that I never would’ve gone to sit with those boys if I knew what had happened between Maya and Mike.”
I pause to let the words sink in, just like I rehearsed. The expression on Tess’s face twists. Her eyebrows go from knitted together to raised.
“I just assumed—”
I don’t give her a chance to finish. “Yeah, well.” I take a step back because she’s so much taller than I am. I have to tilt my neck to look her in the eyes. She’s wearing another sleeveless shirt, and I can see the goose bumps on her skin. It’s cold out for a tank top, but Tess likes to show off her arms.
She reaches out like she’s going to take my hand, but I stuff my hands in my pockets. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have snapped the way I did. I was just so upset.”
I pause. I prepared several possible responses to meet each of Tess’s potential reactions: anger, disgust, pity. But I didn’t expect an apology, so I don’t have a response ready.
I decide it’s too risky to wing it, so I stick to my script.
“You know, this isn’t about you. Mike didn’t hurt you. This isn’t happening to you.”
“Look, I know you’re closer to this than I am, but if someone hurts one of us—”
“One of us? You wouldn’t even know Maya if I hadn’t introduced you.” It’s not entirely true—Maya is nice to everyone—but I don’t know what to do other than keep up my indignant act. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maya walking past us in her favorite tight blue jeans and a faux-vintage band T-shirt tied into a knot at her waist. The door at the end of the hallway is open, our usual table right on the other side of it. She’s not thinking of sitting there, is she? Mike and his friends are already in place.
“I gotta go,” I say to Tess, pushing past her to head for the door.
“I really think we should talk—”
“There’s nothing to talk about, Tess.” If we talk any more, I might start to cry, or break down and beg her to take me back. I can’t risk her seeing me like that.
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