“Yeah…about that assignment.” Mr. March rubs his chin. “I think you should write a monologue of your own. Let’s not worry about pairing you up with anyone right now. Find a topic that you are interested in and write about that.”
“Okay,” I say, relieved. “Thanks.”
“I’ll see you in class when you’re feeling better.”
“What a nice guy,” Mom says after he leaves. “I hope you pay attention in his class.”
What the hell am I going to write for my monologue? How much I hate this town? How much I hate the people I go to school with? I doubt that will go over well, but it’s a definitely a topic of interest.
I go to my room, thinking about Mr. March. He survived Columbine. Why on Earth would he want to come to a town that just suffered from a mass shooting? Who puts themselves through that on purpose?
Maybe he’s a glutton for punishment.
CHAPTER TEN
MONICA
I can’t go to school. I can’t face Stephen.
And my head...oh sweet Jesus my head...it’s pounding like the percussion drum line at school—a little off beat and completely annoying. That water bottle full of vodka may not have been the best idea after all. What does my mother like about that stuff? Does she have some secret trick to prevent the headache part from happening?
I don’t remember how I got home. In fact, parts of yesterday are like a dream—fragmented and frayed around the edges. Did I go to Stephen’s house? Did I puke all over his coffee table?
Damn. I’m such an idiot. Such. An. Idiot.
How did I get home?
My father provides me with the answer. He marches into my room, snaps open the shade allowing the morning sunlight to shine in, and flicks on the lamp next to my bed. Next, he pulls back the comforter, exposing me to the cool air and revealing that I’m wearing the same outfit from yesterday. Then he stands over me with his arms crossed, waiting for me to acknowledge his glare.
“What’s wrong?” I mumble, opening my eyes. They are crusted around the edges and my tongue is fuzzy. “What’s going on?”
“School. That’s what’s going on. You need to get up and get ready.”
“Shh…” I moan. “Do you have to talk so loud?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Was my tone too loud? Did it hurt your sensitive ears?” He leans in closer and raises his voice. “That’s what happens when you drink too much and are under age!”
Oh hell…
“I’m sure you don’t remember, but I had to come and pick you up from the Valley’s house!” I swear he is shrieking like a small child having a temper tantrum. “Do you know how pissed off I am about this?”
“I think I can make an educated guess.” I force myself to sit up and the drum line in my head bangs harder. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? That word doesn’t even begin to express how you’re going to feel when I take away all of your privileges. What were you doing drinking? Why on Earth would you go over to Stephen Valley’s house?”
“Don’t make such a big deal out of it,” I grumble and slide my legs out of bed. Standing up, I try to brush past him. “I was only over there because of you.”
“What are you talking about? I told you to stay away from him.”
“That’s why I was there. I decided not to be partners with him in Theatre. I wanted to do the responsible thing by telling him in person.”
“And you thought getting drunk would help?”
Damn it. Why does he have to talk so loud and be so judgmental?
“He got beat up because of me!” I snap.
“What are you talking about?”
“Did you not see his face, Daddy?” I shake my head at his blank expression. “You really are blind.”
“Don’t talk to me like that.” My father glares. “And let’s get this straight. I don’t care what happens to Stephen. What I care about is you and your wellbeing.”
“Really? Since when? You’ve hardly seen me the last few months, but the second I talk to someone you don’t like you decide it’s time to be a parent. Screw that! I can talk to whoever I want! You can just keep right on not worrying about me. Maybe what you should be worried about is the things happening in this house with your wife.” I see the questions crossing his face though he doesn’t utter them out loud. “Yeah, I know about you and mom. I know she’s been having an affair and that you know all about it.”
“That is none of your concern.” His angry face would give even the darkest thundercloud competition. “None at all.”
“None of my concern? You’re supposed to have your shit together so we can at least pretend there is some sort of normal home life going on here!” The words rush out, a stream of word vomit. “The two of you are the worst parents I know. One daughter dies and you both fall apart like Humpty Dumpty. Never mind that I’m still here. Never mind that I’m a person with needs, too. No. It’s all about you. No wonder I needed a drink. That’s how Mom handles her problems. Why wouldn’t it work for me, too?”
“Monica! That’s enough! You have—“ he starts, but I don’t stick around to listen.
Storming out of the room, I head downstairs to the kitchen and help myself to the ibuprofen up in the cabinet. I wash it down with a glass of water, but behind me I hear the heavy stomp of Daddy’s feet.
“Monica, I’m sorry.” His voice is more controlled. “I didn’t realize...how much pain you were in. I had thought those sessions with the therapist might help with all this.”
“I don’t think I’m the one who needs therapy. You and mom need it more.”
“You could be right, but regardless—“
“So are you seeing someone, too?” I whirl at him, in full attack mode. “Do you have a girlfriend on the side? Tell me now. I don’t want to bump into you coming out of the local motel liked I bumped into Mom.”
Dad’s eyes narrow and the muscle in his jaw ticks slightly. “You saw her outside the motel?”
“Yeah. Biggest thrill of my life. Really.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sure your mother didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“But it did.” I can’t keep the edge from my voice and inwardly, I marvel at what a bitch I am being. “And I don’t want it to happen again. I have to go to school and see that asshole coach. Are you screwing around with one of my teachers?”
Silence greets this question. I raise my eyebrow at him.
“No.” He swallows hard. “Not a teacher.”
Oh shit. There is someone else. Oh my god. The realization makes my stomach drop.
“Who is she?” I ask. “Do I know her?”
“Monica, you aren’t in any frame of mind to talk about this right now. Your mother handles her problems with alcohol, and it’s ruining her. I don’t want to see the same thing happen to you,” he says, before I can question him. “You cannot follow in her path. I can’t lose all three of you. That would kill me.”
He pulls me close, not letting me go even when I defiantly try to push away. I think he’s crying. He never cries. Even at Simone’s funeral he stood there, a grief stricken zombie oblivious to everything around him. Hearing his rasping sobs now leaves me shocked, unsure what to do or say. All the fight goes out of me.
I don’t know how long we stand like that, but at some point, he pulls away, muttering we need to talk tonight when there’s more time. He’ll explain things more to me.
“Go take a shower,” he says. “You’ll be late for school.”
Then we go our separate ways to get ready for the day as if nothing happened.
****
I’m off balance and crabby for the rest of the day, torn between feeling bad for my parents and thinking they flat out suck.
At school, I see a sign up on the wall outside of the library for a new club called the Kindness Clique. There’s a big happy face on the poster with a cartoon bubble extending from its mouth. Inside the bubble it says, “Kindness is Catching.”
So are STDs. Doesn’t mean we should create a club for it.
As I stand there looking at it, Jocelyn Jones comes up to me. She is a perky senior with a smile so bright it hurts to look at.
“Hi. I see you are admiring my poster,” she says. “I’m starting a new group.”
“The Kindness Clique?”
“Yep.” She tilts her head to the side. “I’d love it if you joined.”
I’ll just bet you would. That way you could totally capitalize on my personal tragedy.
“I don’t know…” I mimic her and tilt my head the same direction. “What’s its purpose?”
“To spread kindness! We want everyone to focus on doing small acts of goodwill.”
“Why?”
“To prevent us from suffering another tragedy.” Jocelyn’s face grows serious, the chipper smile slipping away. “People need hope, something to grab onto. Everyone is afraid to be here.”
“You think?”
“If we stand together, if we support each other, then we become stronger—not only individually, but as a campus.”
Is she running for Student Council or something?
“So what do you think?” she presses. “Maybe you could come to the first meeting?”
“I don’t know…”
“Look, you’ve been through a lot. We all know that. If people see you joining the Kindness Clique then it will make them want to join, too. You know, to show support.”
See? She just wants me because of Simone. Because my dead sister and the aftermath of a school shooting will cause enough interest to boost the numbers of some lame club that can’t get off the ground and that she probably needs to make herself look good on her college applications.
I could just punch her right in the middle of her perky little face.
“Can anyone join?” I ask.
“Oh yeah. The more the merrier!”
“So anyone can be a part of it. Anyone?” I raise an eyebrow. “Even Stephen Valley?”
Her eyes widen.
“Oh, well, I suppose so…I didn’t even think someone like him would join. Besides if he saw you…I mean…c’mon.” She gives me a reassuring smile. “We’d have to make an exception in his case, I think. You know what I mean? I don’t think we could let him in if you were going to join. That would be just so wrong on so many levels!”
“I’ll think about it.”
I walk away before she can pursue the conversation further, but I’m fuming. What would Little Miss Perky do if Stephen Valley joined the Kindness Clique? Doesn’t he deserve kindness, too? Does it even occur to her what a hypocrite she’s being by saying she would exclude him?
Doubtful.
At lunch, I skip the courtyard and go to the library. We aren’t supposed to eat in there, but practically no one hangs out in the library during this time so it seems a safe place to eat without having to talk to anyone. Ms. Johnson isn’t at the desk when I walk in so I am able to pick a quiet table towards the back. For good measure, I pull out my Geometry book so it looks like I’m studying.
Then, I just let my brain go to mush. I eat my sandwich and try not to think about anything.
It’s actually harder than it looks.
My parents, Stephen, the other kids at school—it all keeps spinning around in my head.
“Leslie.” Mr. March’s voice coming from the front desk area startles me. “Were you able to pull those books I asked for?”
I love it when teachers call each other by their first names. It makes them seem so human.
“Mr. March, it is not my job to pull books for you.” Ms. Johnson apparently doesn’t share my joy of hearing teachers addressed informally. “I know you’re new here and probably used to a different kind of school, but around here, everyone pulls their own resources.”
“Of course,” Mr. March apologizes. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. I should have come in last week and taken care of it, but with school starting and trying to get acclimated to everything…well, you know how it is. Things just got away from me.”
“That’s understandable.” Ms. Johnson’s iciness thaws a bit. “The books you were looking for are located towards the back of the library in the reference section.”
“Thank you.”
“I understand you have the Valley boy in your class.”
“Stephen? Yep. He’s in Theatre and in my English class. Do you know him?”
“No, but I did know Jude, his brother. If I were you, I’d keep my eye on Stephen.”
“Why?”
“He and his brother both had a reputation for creating trouble. It was no shock to me when the older one came to school with a gun. Their mother always coddled them.”
“Oh, so you’re friends with her?”
“No, but we’ve all heard the stories about that family.” The disdain in Ms. Johnson’s voice is almost tangible. If I were to walk around the corner, I bet I could see it wrapping around her like a cold chain. “You don’t want to drop your guard.”
“But if you don’t know the mother, how do you know she coddled them? How do you know the stories are true?” Mr. March asks.
“I heard about them from other faculty members,” she snaps. “And I was the one who stopped Jude in May. I rushed him before he could take the weapon and turn it on himself. I looked into his eyes, Mr. March, and I know what I saw. The face of evil.”
The face of evil. My mind struggles with that, just as it has all summer. Almost every day, sometimes more than once, I ask myself why Jude did it. Why did he shoot my sister and her friends? What reason could he possibly have for doing that? And I don’t doubt that there is a reason—something that made sense in Jude’s head.
I realize as I listen to our librarian that I haven’t thought about his motivations as much in the last week. I’ve been distracted by Stephen, by finally getting to talk with him. Guilt tickles at my conscience a little. How could I have forgotten Simone like that?
“You were incredibly brave, Ms. Johnson,” Mr. March says. “Not many would have done that.”
“I couldn’t stand by while he murdered innocent children.”
“I’m sure the whole school is grateful to you and rightfully so,” he says. “But I wouldn’t be so quick to judge Stephen Valley by the actions of his brother. It’s possible he was just as surprised as everyone else when it happened.”
“Surprised? The little brat probably helped Jude plan the attack, and if he didn’t do that, I guarantee you, he knew about it. You can’t be that mentally unstable in a family and have it go unnoticed.”
Ms. Johnson is echoing the thoughts of many people in our town, including my parents. I shouldn’t be surprised by her attitude, but it makes me mad all the same. To judge Stephen, to call him a brat who knew about Jude’s plans…it’s just so unfair. I knew Jude, too, and would never have guessed what was on his mind. He was a good actor.
“Ms. Johnson, perception is a tough thing, especially when you’re a kid,” Mr. March says. Is that a touch of anger in his voice? “You really need to be careful about what you say about past events to our students. They’re just kids, after all. You can’t make assumptions about them based on faculty gossip.”
“Are you lecturing me?” Ms. Johnson sniffs. “I’ve been around a long time, Mr. March. When it comes to teaching high school students, I’m certain I know a bit more than you.”
“I’m sure you do, and I respect your experience. All I’m saying is that we try to teach these kids to be tolerant and open-minded. Aren’t we expected to model that behavior?” Mr. March asks.
I wish I could see Ms. Johnson’s face. I’ll bet it is red with indignation.
“Mr. March, is there anything else you need?” Ms. Johnson asks, coldly. “I’m about to take my lunch break.”
“No. I’m fine. I’ll find those books and get out of your hair.”
I hear him move away from her and begin shuffling in the books a few aisles away. Keeping quiet,
I finish my sandwich and then slip unnoticed out of the library.
Stephen is putting books in his locker, which is on the wall next to the library exit. He glances up, catching my eye briefly before looking away and shuffling through his backpack. Though he hasn’t said a word, the vibe he gives off is one of seclusion. Don’t bother me, it says. Don’t talk to me. Don’t see me.
Stay away from him. Every time you talk to him you risk the wrong person seeing it and that could cause Stephen to get hurt.
But damn it. The boy is cute. Even with the black eye. Even with the attitude. Why can’t I stop being attracted to him? And while some things are fuzzy about yesterday afternoon, I remember him saying that he liked me since seventh grade, too. That’s a long time—and I ought to know.
Screw it. I’m gonna talk to him. I’ll make it quick so no one sees.
“Hey,” I say, leaning with my back to the lockers. “What’s up?”
Stephen doesn’t meet my eye, but his ears turn a soft shade of pink.
“Nothing,” he mutters, slipping a book into the dark, dank depths of his locker. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Talking to you.”
“Is that a good idea?”
“Probably not.” I study his bruises, which are turning yellow. “How are you feeling?”
He grins faintly.
“I think the better question is how are you doing?” he asks. “How is your head?”
I grin back.
“Better than it was this morning,” I say.
“Did you get in a lot of trouble?”
“Some.”
“I’m sorry about your dad finding out. I know you’re probably really pissed about that but my mom—”
“It’s fine,” I cut him off. “No big deal. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“You were upset. I get it.”
“But I didn’t need to throw up all over your coffee table to express my anger.”
“Maybe not. But it sure made a statement.”
We smile at each other and I have to admit, it’s nice. I like the intimacy of it, of sharing a little piece of the hurt. Of all the kids roaming the halls, Stephen is the only one who can even begin to understand what I’m going through.
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