Its hurts though.
I’ve gotta talk to Mr. March first thing Monday.
****
I don’t speak to my parents for the rest of the weekend. The bad part is that they don’t try to speak to me either.
I’m not sure if my mother told Daddy I knew the truth about them, but I noticed he didn’t come home till very late Saturday night. Does he have a girlfriend? Was he with another woman? I can’t sleep for thinking about it.
We each traveled in our own orbits on Sunday, coming and going without really seeing each other.
On Monday, I can’t think straight. Even my secret weapon of Benadryl doesn’t do any good. I’m going to have to find something else to help me relax, something else to get me through the dark days. Time to be bold and do something I’ve been thinking about for months now.
I empty a water bottle and carefully fill it with vodka.
It’s for self-medication purposes, nothing more.
Tucking it in my backpack, I leave out of the house earlier than usual. Anywhere has to be better than home. But as I approach the school, my heart starts beating like crazy. Sweat pools in my armpits and my stomach hurts. Despite my earlier thoughts, I really just want to go back home and curl up in bed.
But I don’t. I force myself to go in.
“What’s up, girl?” Caitlin drawls when I walk into Geometry class. I slide into the desk next to hers and note that the first page of her math notebook is open, but blank. She hasn’t taken any notes yet. Math of any kind is not her strong suit. She is repeating this basic level course because apparently she can’t figure out how to draw a circle. “You have a good weekend?”
Had she seen Stephen and me on the roof Friday night? I can’t tell.
“Stellar. Best days ever.” Hoping I sound normal, I start to copy the concept we are learning about off of the whiteboard at the front of the room and into my own notebook. “What about you?”
“The best!” Her face breaks into a beaming smile. “Guess who I hooked up with on Saturday?”
“Who?”
“Derek Andrews!”
She waits for my reaction. I’m sure she is expecting squeals of joy, but after what Derek did to Stephen...it’s hard to work up a smile for Caitlin over him.
“That’s...cool,” I manage.
“Oh my god! You should have seen us together. I bumped into him at Pinbalz Palace and—” Caitlin runs with her story, rambling on for at least two minutes, waxing and waning over how cute Derek is and how great his butt looks in the right pair of jeans. “And did you hear about what he did to Stephen Valley?”
I drum my pencil against the desk, trying to take slow, even breaths.
“No. What did he do?”
“He kicked his ass!” Caitlin squeals with delight and claps her hand like a spoiled little child. “He is such a gentlemen.”
“Why would he do that to Stephen?”
“Duh? He was walking down your street. I saw him and called Derek! That’s how come I ended up getting to hang out with him Saturday night.” She shakes her head like I’m stupid not to see immediately Derek was her reward for tattling on Stephen. “Derek was avenging your sister. He even got a black eye over it.”
My anger bubbles up and over before I can stop it.
“Why would he do that? Stephen had nothing to do with what happened to Simone. I doubt Jude would even care if he knew about it.” I snap. “There is nothing honorable about beating up someone because they are walking on a street.”
She looks at me, all blank faced. The hamster running the wheel in her head must have dropped dead because Caitlin actually stops speaking. Our teacher clears her throat and I turn my attention to the front of the room. Eventually, Caitlin follows my lead, but from time to time during the lecture I see her sneak confused glances at me.
Eventually, she recovers her use of speech. By lunch, it is obvious I have become the talk of the school. I hear snippets of conversations as I walk through the courtyard—all about Derek beating up Stephen and how I wasn’t appreciative enough. Curious looks are thrown my way, but I don’t engage in any of the gossip or try to defend my actions. I keep my head up, but the stress of wondering what they are saying only deepens my exhaustion.
It’s ironic really. On stage, being the center of attention gives me such a high, but this kind of public scrutiny and the drama from the weekend makes me feel like a soda bottle someone has shook. I can’t take much more of it. By the time I get to Theatre, I’m wound so tight I’m afraid the slightest thing will make me snap.
Caitlin surrounds herself with her usual group of girls. They watch me sit down in the auditorium chair, curiosity in their eyes, but I’ve timed my arrival to class so there isn’t time to chat with them. I’m counting on Mr. March being his usual prompt self.
He doesn’t let me down.
“Alright, let’s get started.” Mr. March smiles out at us from the stage. “Today we are going to begin working on our scenes. As stated in the syllabus I handed out last week, you will have two options. Option number one is to choose a pre-written scene and rehearse that. Option two means you can write your own script, but I have to approve it before it can be performed.”
There are murmurs and groans about both options, but Mr. March is unfazed. He waits for the chatter to subside and then continues.
“Pair up. You have five minutes to make your final decision based on the choices I’ve given you. If you make a decision before time is up, start blocking your scene. If you choose to write a scene, get busy writing,” he says.
Everyone does as they’re told. Except for me. I count to ten, trying to settle my nerves before I approach him.
“Mr. March,” I say as everyone else gets started. “I need to talk to you.”
He nods and gestures me over to where his desk is located offstage. From there he can keep an eye on the class, but we still have some privacy. His smile is encouraging when I hesitate.
“I...I’ve given this a lot of thought and….I don’t think Stephen Valley should be my duet partner,” I say. “We...well, our families...there was this shooting last May and….”
“I know. More than one student has told me about your sister. I’ve also spoken on the phone with your father today. I’m so sorry for your loss.” He stops me with a kind smile. “I apologize for pairing you up. I didn’t realize the connection right away. But I understand that this would be incredibly difficult. Stephen actually came to me when I first assigned the project and tried to switch, but I wouldn’t let him. I didn’t know the circumstances. If you want to work with someone else, I understand. Your father is pretty insistent about that being the end result here.”
I’m both relieved and disappointed.
“Thank you,” I say. “I wouldn’t want things to get even worse for Stephen.”
“What do you mean?” he asks, his gaze sharpening. “What is happening to him?”
Should I tell him about Derek? Will having an adult in the know be helpful? Most grownups in town probably would just look the other way.
I opt for a non-committal shrug.
“Look, Monica, I know firsthand how hard it is to come back to school after a tragedy like the one you experienced. The fall out for friends or relatives when it comes to dealing with this is hard. Much harder than most people know. I...I was involved in something similar.” Mr. March lowers his voice. “Ever heard of Columbine?”
Who hasn’t? For better or worse, it’s the Big Bad of School Shootings. A long time ago, two kids plotted for months and months to kill students in their high school. It was calculated, organized. The media brought it up over and over again when they covered Jude, the Rockingham Rattler. They tried to draw comparisons between us and Columbine, which just further served to scare our community.
Jude may have thought he was superior to everyone else, but I doubt he spent as much time as those Columbine kids thinking about how to kill Simone and her friends. He d
idn’t go on a school wide rampage or plant pipe bombs. They never found anything suggesting he idolized other school shooters or read up about them.
Whatever reason Jude had for doing what he did is known only to him.
“Yeah,” I say. “Of course, I’ve heard it. You went to school there?”
“I was there that day.”
Mr. March glances over my shoulder to check on the class, but I see sadness in his eyes.
“Did you know them? The shooters?” I ask.
“I knew who they were, but I wasn’t in their circle of friends.”
“How old were you?”
“Sixteen, going on seventeen.”
“Would you ever guess that they were capable of what they did?”
Mr. March shrugs.
“Not really. I mean in retrospect, I suppose there were little clues, but it never would have occurred to me that these two guys would have been able to pull off what they did.” Mr. March crosses his arms and frowns. “The reasons why people do the things they do are sometimes never clear, even if it’s someone we think we know really well. I’ve read a lot of books written about Columbine by people who have studied it for a long time, but unless you were there that day, you just don’t get the kind of fear and paranoia we all experienced.”
I catch a glimmer of sympathy in his eyes as he looks at me, but it isn’t the same kind I see from other kids or adults. There is an understanding there, a true grasp of what it might feel like to be me. Or any of us at school. Mr. March has lived through the same kind of ordeal we have and survived.
That helps me make up my mind.
“Stephen isn’t responsible for what his brother did,” I say, softly. “But I think working with me could actually be bad for Stephen. Really bad.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Stephen’s not here today because he got jumped by some kids this weekend.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because his last name is Valley.” I look at him. “And because he was on my street.”
Mr. March frowns. “How badly hurt was he?”
“I saw him on Saturday. He looked bad. I think he has a couple of broken ribs.”
“Where did you see him?”
“At his house.”
“You went to visit him?”
“I needed to talk to him this class, what to do about our scene.”
“I see.”
And the way Mr. March says it, I get the feeling he does see exactly what I don’t want him or anyone else to. He doesn’t say anything more about Stephen, but I sense he hasn’t just dismissed the subject from his mind.
“Alright. For today, why don’t you work on a monologue?” He hands me a book titled Monologues for Teens. “Or would you rather write your own? Sometimes writing can be therapeutic.”
“I’ll look through this.”
“You know, Monica, we all need friends to get through the tough times,” Mr. March says. “How are you coping with everything?”
“I’m hanging in there.”
“Let me know if you ever need to talk.” Mr. March smiles. “Just so you know, I’m going to call your dad and let him know that we’ve come to a new arrangement on this project.”
I nod and take the monologue book, returning to my seat. A few groups give me a passing glance, but most are involved in rehearsing their scenes. Leafing through the pages, I try not to think about Stephen. Did I do the right thing in telling Mr. March what happened? What will he do? And what was he trying to tell me about needing friends in the tough times? Did he mean I needed friends? Or was he referring to Stephen? Should I go against my father and keep being his partner? My anxiety level skyrockets to the point of where I’m afraid I’m going to have a panic attack.
I open my purse and pull out the water bottle I stashed there this morning. We’re allowed to bring water bottles to school to keep us hydrated and our brains alert—at least that’s what they tell us.
Of course, there’s no water in mine.
Taking a slow swig, I try to keep my face from wrinkling in disgust at the awful burn the vodka leaves in my mouth. It hits my stomach kind of hard, and for one second, I think I’m going to throw up. A second swig calms the first. After that, I just keep sipping.
Pretty soon I’m more relaxed than I have been in months. And these monologues that I’ve been reading? Shazzam! They are suddenly all bad ass. I even laugh out loud at a few of them.
When the bell rings to dismiss us, I practically float down the hall, passing the gym where I’m supposed to go for dance team practice.
Dance team, schmance team! Who needs it?
I amble to the parking lot and pull out my cell phone, thinking now is a pretty good time to call Stephen. I’m relaxed and ready to give him the news about our now non-existent partnership.
Wait a sec. Call him? Hell no. I should just go see him!
I stagger to Stephen’s.
CHAPTER NINE
STEPHEN
Monica is drunk.
The glassy eyes, the way she stands a little off kilter—the symptoms are there. Drunk or not, she still looks damn fine in her short shorts. I try not to look at those long legs, but it’s hard to keep my eyes up top.
“Hey,” she says, with a slight slur when I greet her at the door. “I gotta talk to you.”
“Okay.” Amused, I step back, letting her saunter in with an airy wave and a smile. Man, she brightens up our drab living room. “What’s up?”
“First of all, I’m not going to lie. I’ve had a little bit of vodka.” She shakes her half empty water bottle at me. “I did something very naughty. Stole some of my mom’s vodka and put it in here.”
“You rebel. Here. Sit down.” I nudge her to the couch, wishing the room wasn’t still such a mess. “Why are you drinking?”
“’Cause I’m stressed.”
“About?” I sit next to her, unable to keep from wincing at the twinge of pain in my ribs. I think they hurt worse today than yesterday.
She notices my grimace. “Are you still in lots of pain? Should you be lying down?”
“I’m fine. I’ve got plenty of pain pills.”
“I’m so sorry.” She gestures to my bruised face and tears up. “Derek wouldn’t have hurt you if it weren’t for me.”
One tear spills down her cheek. Ah, man. I don’t want her to cry over me, but it’s also kind of flattering that she cares enough to do it.
“Monica, what happened...it’s not your fault.” I should hug her or something, but I’m so bad at this stuff. “If Derek had seen me in front of the hardware store, he would have done the same thing.”
I know this is not exactly true. That asshole wouldn’t have had the guts to jump me in daylight. But this beat down was just a matter of time. Now that he’s got a taste for it, I doubt it will be the only one I suffer.
“But it won’t get better.” Monica swipes at her eyes, apparently reaching the same conclusion I have. “If we are partners in that scene, it will only get worse. So I told Mr. March I didn’t want to be your partner anymore. I can’t have you hurt because of me.”
I knew it was coming. I mean, if she hadn’t done it, I would have gone back to Mr. March and demanded a switch, but it’s still a letdown. She must see it on my face because Monica sways on the couch and then collapses against the back of it.
“I’m so sorry.” Now she really starts to cry. “This is such a mess. None of this is fair.”
I like this girl. I do. But she ain’t a pretty crier. She cries in a way that can only be categorized as boozy and hiccupy all at the same time.
“My head is spinning,” she moans. “I think I need to lie down.”
“Sure. Put your feet up on the couch and lie back.”
She falls to the side, but is incapable of lifting her legs. Even though it’s painful and my ribs scream in protest, I get up and lift them for her. Monica closes her eyes tight, still gripping the water bottle.
>
“Let me have that.” I take it and put it on the coffee table. “You really shouldn’t be drinking.”
“Why not?” she mutters. “My mother does.”
I don’t have an answer for that. Adults do things all the time that isn’t good for them and then expect us just to blindly do whatever they say. I study her features, the lines of her face. Her eyes move rapidly beneath the closed lids as if she is watching a movie only she can see.
Awkwardly, I sit on the edge of the couch with my butt half hanging off. Even though it hurts my ribs, I lean over, and kiss her.
Her lips are soft and she does that sigh thing in her throat that makes me crazy. One of her hands reaches up and pulls me closer. Before I can stop them, my fingers are in her hair, playing with the silky strands. Despite the pain, I get lost, so lost, in what we’re doing.
Pulling away takes all the willpower in my weak arsenal of strength.
“Why did you stop?” she asks, opening her eyes.
“Because you’re tipsy and I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you.”
“I’m not that tipsy.”
“You sure about that? ‘Cause I’m thinking you can’t even stand up right now.”
“Can too!” She tries, but then plops back down, her face turning slightly green. “Maybe not.”
“Just relax.” I stroke back her hair. “I promise to behave.”
“What if I don’t want you to?”
Oh god. Please let me have the strength to do the right thing here.
“Trust me. You want me to behave.” I try to keep things light. “So who’s my new partner now that you’ve kicked me to the curb?”
“Mr. March didn’t say. He told me I could choose a group or I could do a monologue. I’m sure he’ll give you the same offer.” She frowns. “Did you know Mr. March went to Columbine High School?”
“No.”
“He was there the day those two kids shot all those people.”
“Really?” Until now, Mr. March was just another teacher. I try to picture him as a student at the site of the most infamous of all school shootings. “How do you know this?”
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