Counting Backwards

by Laura Lascarso

  He gathers up our tools while I continue to stare at the ground and mentally add another fear to the list.

  Fear Number 38: Losing A.J.

  The next day I invite McKenzie and Charlotte down to the garden to show them how our plants are really taking off. It’s looking like a real garden now and not just a few rows of dirt.

  But there’s another reason. It’s too dangerous with just A.J. and me—too much awkwardness, too much time alone.

  The three of us girls walk down the hill together after school. McKenzie brings her sketch pad, finds a sunny place to sit, and draws—beautiful, true-to-life pictures of the plants and bugs, capturing details down to the wrinkles in the cabbage leaves and the veined pattern of a dragonfly’s wing.

  A.J. lets Charlotte use a pair of his gardening gloves, and together they transplant baby tomato plants we’ve grown from seed. At first she’s nervous about it, but A.J. has a way of explaining things, of making people feel confident in what they’re doing. Soon enough she relaxes. He told me once that he’d like to be a teacher someday. I think he’d be great at it.

  Over the next few weeks they come back again and again. McKenzie isn’t too interested in the gardening aspect of it, preferring to draw or nap in the sun, but Charlotte has a real interest and suggests we put in a butterfly garden. McKenzie draws the design for it, and we all research what flowers to put in to attract butterflies. Dr. Deb brings us plants from the nursery, and Charlotte directs the planting. It’s pretty awesome seeing her take ownership of the garden, and when the first butterfly comes to visit, Charlotte reaches out and hugs me for the first time.

  But there are days when McKenzie and Charlotte can’t come because of therapy or group, and then it’s just A.J. and me, and all the things I cannot say.

  We pull weeds side by side and I feel the distance between us, space that I asked for and received. I hate it—this invisible barrier that I constructed. Just like that game Dr. Deb and I used to play, Yes or No. I told him no, and now he is farther from me than before.

  We pick a batch of ripe carrots and wash them off in the hose, then sit together in the grass, nibbling like rabbits. Without thinking I reach over to wipe a smudge of dirt off his upper lip, and my thumb grazes his scar. In that moment when my skin touches his, I realize what a terrible mistake I’ve made. That I had the chance to be with someone wonderful and special and real, who thinks I’m worth caring for, who likes me in spite of my flaws.

  He stops chewing and stares at me quizzically. I lean in closer, thinking to skip the trouble of words and just kiss him, when he suddenly starts choking.

  “Carrot,” he gasps between coughs. I smack his back a few times, and he leans forward and spits out the orange bits. I grab the hose and offer him a trickle of water. He clears his throat and he’s fine. But now I’m thinking about the moment before he choked, and from the look on his face, he is too.

  “Were you . . . ,” he says. “Was that, um . . . ?”

  I sit on the ground and stare at my hands. I can’t believe how not smooth I am. He scoots closer and touches his finger to my chin, tilting my face upward.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I just—”

  “Shh. Just nod your head if I can kiss you.”

  I nod slowly. A second later his mouth covers mine, and I taste the carrots and hose water on his tongue, sweet and a little metallic. He stops to look at me, as if checking to see if this is okay.

  I nod again.

  He pulls me to him. This time I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss back because I want to show him how much he means to me, after all this time. His hand slides up my back and rests on the nape of my neck, gently squeezing. My skin tingles, and I shiver from the sensation.

  We break away when the safety makes his rounds. A.J. pretends to be digging in the dirt while I pick up the hose, even though the plants are plenty watered. As soon as the safety moves along, he grabs for me, but I slip away and aim the nozzle at his heart. He lifts both hands in the air.

  “You win,” he says with a smile.

  “No matter what happens,” I say, “you have to be my friend.”

  “I will always be your friend.”

  I lower the hose a little. “Do you think this is the right thing to do?”

  He tilts his head and says with a mischievous smile, “Of course I do.”

  I pull the trigger to wipe that smug smile off his face, but his reflexes are too fast. He dodges and grabs for the hose, easily maneuvering it away from me and aiming it over my head, drenching me in a cold shower. I yelp and tackle him to the ground, where we wrestle for control of the hose. We’re both muddy and laughing and somewhere in the struggle the hose ends up out of our reach, spraying water up into the air, shrouding us in a fine mist of rain. He leans over me, his face just inches from mine, his eyelashes wet, his face beaded with water, and his gray eyes so beautiful and true.

  I close my eyes as his lips brush against mine.

  There is no going back now.

  CHAPTER 21

  “I have good news.”

  Dr. Deb and I are sitting at our picnic bench outside. It’s May now, and when the warm breeze blows, I can smell the herb plants we put in earlier that week—mint, rosemary, basil, and sage. The air is heady with their aroma. That was McKenzie’s idea. She said she was tired of smelling compost, so we planted an herb garden and in the middle, we built a little wooden bench for her to sit and draw. Next we’re going to build an arbor with climbing vines, to offer a little shade in the coming summer months.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Your rehabilitative team met yesterday. We’ve determined that you’re nearing the end of your program.”

  I sit up straighter and look at her. Another curveball.

  “The end of my program? But we’re only halfway through my list.”

  Dr. Deb nods. “You’ve already tackled the biggies. Consider the rest to be . . . extra credit.”

  “I know, but . . .” I think about Charlotte, who’s become a really close friend. And McKenzie—who will tutor her in math? And Dr. Deb. How will I make it on the outside without her help?

  And A.J. . . . we’re just getting started.

  “You look upset.”

  “I’m not upset,” I say, struggling to maintain my composure. “Just . . . surprised.”

  “You knew this day would come, though.”

  I glance up at her. Of course I knew this day would come, but not so soon, not now, when life was just starting to go right for once. What about the garden? What about my mental health?

  “Take a few days to digest this,” she says. “We’ll touch base again next week.”

  For the rest of the day I can’t think about anything else: the possibility that in a few weeks, I might have to say goodbye to the people I know and love and trust. To A.J.

  The next day in the garden A.J. and I are alone. We’ve constructed a trellis out of bamboo sticks for the cucumber plants to climb up, and as I place a thin green vine on the bottom rung, I realize with sudden sadness that I might not be here to see the cucumbers flower and fruit.

  I stop and look around at our garden—at the tomato plants beginning to bear little green balls, the flowering squashes, the hot peppers that we’re planning to make pepper jelly with. I think about everything we still have to plant—sweet peas, eggplant, another variety of tomato that’s striped yellow and orange. We argued about that. A.J. wanted beefsteaks and I wanted the tiger stripes, and he said he’d let me have my way if we could pickle the cucumbers when they’re ripe. But now he’ll have to do it without me.

  I watch A.J. setting the vines with careful, tender precision, like an artist. He glances up and catches my eye, starts to smile, then stops.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head. “What are we doing?”

  “We’re training the vines,” he says, then stands up straighter. “Aren’t we?”

  “What happens when we don’t have this anymore?” I m
otion to the plants around us. He lays down the vine and comes to my side of the cucumber frame.

  “Do you mean the garden?”

  “Yes,” I say, even though it’s more than that. It’s the space we’ve created, where we go to get away from everyone else and just be . . . together. It’s every inside joke we share and every kindness that passes between us. It’s our little arguments and make-ups. It’s my calm and it’s our . . . home.

  “Dr. Deb said garden therapy is going well,” he says carefully. “She wants to expand the program.” He has no idea what’s going on with me, and I’m suddenly angry at Dr. Deb for forcing me into this garden therapy and encouraging me to be open with my feelings. Why? Just so she could take it all away?

  “Come here,” he says, and pulls me to him. He tilts my chin to study my face, and I remember the time we were dancing and he lifted my chin, all the times he’s had to lift my chin, because I’m always looking down and never up.

  “What’s this about?” he says.

  I open my mouth to tell him what Dr. Deb said, how I’m nearing the end of my program, but there in his arms, I don’t want to think about it.

  “Nothing,” I say. “I had a moment. But it’s over.”

  I reach my arms around his neck and pull his face toward mine, kissing him long and deeply, trying to erase the worry lines on his face and my own desperate thoughts.

  I’m not leaving. Not yet. Somehow I’ll make Dr. Deb understand.

  “I had the feeling last night.”

  It’s my next therapy session, and I’ve resolved to buy more time. I’m not fully rehabilitated yet. I just need to show that to Dr. Deb.

  “Really?” Dr. Deb says. “It’s been a while. What do you think triggered it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s my anxiety over my mom. Because I haven’t talked to her in so long.”

  “Maybe,” she says. She’s nodding her head in agreement, but she doesn’t seem too concerned about it.

  “I don’t think the breathing is enough anymore. Maybe you should teach me another exercise. Just in case.”

  Dr. Deb seems to consider this. “Perhaps your anxiety is a result of you nearing the end of your program. Maybe, you’re . . . apprehensive about leaving?”

  “Why would I be apprehensive?”

  “Well, it’s another unknown for you. And you have friends here. Dear friends. And you know that I’m here to listen and help you process your emotions. Maybe you don’t think you’re strong enough yet.”

  “Well, if you think I need more time . . .”

  She smiles. “You’re ready, Taylor. Pushing back your release date won’t make it any easier. But of course we can talk about any feelings you might be having between now and then.”

  I run my fingers over the grooved wood of the tabletop. She’s seen through me, predicted it even. Dr. Deb always seems to know what I’m going to do or say before I do.

  “No, I’m fine,” I say. “If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to process these emotions on my own.”

  She nods and leaves me at the picnic bench, where I stare at the garden and sow the seeds of a new plan. Even if Dr. Deb thinks I’m ready, she’s just one member of my rehabilitative team, and there are others who might disagree.

  There’s no time to waste, so the next morning I put my plan in action. I start by stashing a pair of sharps into my backpack in first period. Sulli and Brandi watch me do it, and both stare at me like I’ve lost my marbles.

  “You can tell on me,” I say, which is a mistake, because it only confuses them more. Class seems to take forever to get through. Finally Mr. Chris collects the sharps and counts them up. But he must not remember how many he began with, because he doesn’t realize one pair is gone.

  “I think there’s one missing,” I offer, one step away from waving the scissors in front of his face.

  Mr. Chris shakes his head. “Nope. All here.”

  I roll my eyes and drop them into the box on my way out. My next opportunity for rule breaking doesn’t come until after lunch in the pen, where I ask McKenzie for a cigarette.

  “Not here,” she says, glancing both ways to where safeties are standing on either side of us.

  “It’s fine. I won’t tell them you gave it to me.”

  “You don’t even smoke.”

  “It’s part of therapy,” I say, completely lying. “It’s a new method Dr. Deb and I are trying out.”

  She shrugs and pulls one out of her bra. It’s slightly damp and smells like perfume, but I stick it in my mouth like I know what I’m doing. I’ve watched my mother, Margo, and McKenzie smoke cigarettes a million times. How hard can it be?

  McKenzie’s fishing in her bra for her matches when A.J. walks out of the lunchroom. It’s too late to hide it. He sees me and immediately makes his way over.

  “What are you doing?” he says to me.

  “Trying new things.” I strike up the match and hold it to the end of the cigarette, but nothing really happens. Then I remember I have to suck while lighting, so I purse my lips and take a tremendous breath. Smoke fills my lungs instantaneously; tears run down my cheeks, my throat is on fire, and I can’t stop coughing. My lungs feel like they’re being rubbed against a cheese grater. How can people stand it?

  McKenzie retrieves the cigarette and takes a few quick puffs before putting it out under her boot—she’s a frugal girl—while A.J. smacks my back harder than necessary.

  Finally the smoke clears and I’m able to stand straight again.

  “How’d you like it?” he asks me.

  “Not much.”

  For the rest of the day, I plot. I need to skip the small stuff and do something explosive, something that will send me right to the first floor. That always gets their attention. It seemed so easy before, when I wasn’t faking it. I wish Margo were here—she was the expert at this sort of thing. If this is going to convince anyone, it has to be an inside job, which means I need help.

  “You want me to do what?” McKenzie says to me later that day after I’ve outlined my plan to her.

  “Just act like you’re really scared of me. Maybe we got into a fight or something. Maybe I think you’re messing around with A.J.”

  “Eww, gross. That’d be like kissing my dad.”

  I shake my head. “Focus, McKenzie. Just use it for motivation. You have to make it look real. Can you fake cry?”

  She tilts her head, and her lower lip droops a little. After a few more seconds, her eyes get watery and sad.

  “Great,” I say. “You ready?”

  She sniffles a little and nods her head. “Wait, why are you doing this again?”

  “Because they’re trying to release me and I’m not ready to go yet.”

  She looks at me strangely. “You really are crazy.”

  I mess up her hair a little bit and then grab my comb dagger. I tell her to take a couple of laps around the room so it looks like she’s under duress. “Enough,” I say when she’s breathing heavy, which doesn’t take very long, maybe because she’s a smoker. “Let’s go.”

  She runs screaming down the hall. The screaming is a nice touch and really sets the tone. The girls all rush to their doorways, which is crucial, Margo would say, since the audience is a necessary component of performance art. I stalk down the hallway after her, holding the comb high in the air like I’m going to stab her with it.

  “She’s insane!” McKenzie screams. Rhonda comes out of her office and blocks my path. I decide to do something drastic—I push her off me and continue on down the hall. Her massive hand grabs the back of my shirt and drops me on my butt on the hallway floor. Ouch. I’d forgotten how painful resistance can be.

  “Taylor, what’s going on?” Tabitha asks as McKenzie hides behind her, using her as a human shield. Tabitha shakes her head and holds up her hands like I must have some rational explanation for all this. I muster up my crazy face.

  “I want to see your blood,” I snarl at McKenzie, and make a few jabbing motions with the c
omb to really bring it home.

  Tabitha looks helplessly to Rhonda, who hauls me to my feet. The nice thing about safeties is they’re not swayed by motives. They see misbehavior, they take you down and ask questions later. “Let’s go,” Rhonda says.

  “This isn’t over!” I shout over my shoulder at McKenzie. Only I can see her strange little smile.

  “Can you please explain to me what happened yesterday on the second floor?”

  We’re sitting at the therapy bench, and I’ve decided to take this thing all the way. If I can convince Dr. Deb that I’m mad with jealousy, then maybe she’ll allow me enough time to work through it. Even though it’s off-limits, she knows about A.J. and my relationship, supports it even, as a way for me to “express my feelings.”

  “McKenzie and A.J. are messing around,” I say to her. It’s a total lie, but imagining it gets me angry enough to fake it.

  “Are you sure of that?” Dr. Deb asks.

  “I saw them kissing in the garden.”

  She sits back and considers this piece of information, which can’t possibly be denied, if I saw it myself.

  “That doesn’t sound like A.J.”

  She’s right. It doesn’t sound like him. But I have to make her believe it, if I want us to be together.

  “He’s just another guy, right?”

  “Have you confronted him about it?”

  “No.”

  “I think you should.”

  “Whatever. It’s just more of the same. As soon as you let people in, they stomp all over you.” I slouch forward and cross my arms while Dr. Deb studies me. I know if I sit there much longer, I’ll confess everything.

  “Would you mind if we cut it short today?” I ask.

  “No, I don’t mind,” she says.

  Then I decide to drop one last line, one that I know will affect her. A little bit of reverse psychology.

  “I really can’t wait to get out of here,” I say, and walk off before she has time to reply.