Tell Me Three Things

by Julie Buxbaum

  So I keep my head down. As if by avoiding eye contact I can render myself invisible. Nothing to see here. I think of SN wanting to be a chameleon, blending into the background. I somehow make it to the end of class, my eyes focused only on the desk in front of me. Someone has carved into the wood Axel loves Fig Newtons. Really, someone took the time to deface the desk to profess their love for a cookie. Unless, of course, there was a student here actually named Fig Newtons, which, considering the fact that we have three Hannibals, four Romeos, and two Apples, is totally possible. As soon as the bell rings, I grab my bag and run for the door. I don’t even wait for Dri.

  “Jessie, a word, please,” Mrs. Pollack says just before I make my exit.

  “Now?” I ask. I want to leave this room, get as far away from these people as I can, find someplace where I can be alone and cry, preferably with an ice pack on my nose. I try to focus on Axel and his love of Fig—I’ve written their whole tragic love story in my head—but instead, Gem’s words play on repeat: Whore. Slut. Fat ugly bitch. Like song lyrics earworming my brain. They’d sound good set to Auto-Tune: Whore. Slut. Fat ugly bitch. Perhaps I should offer them to Oville.

  “Yes. If you don’t mind.” I do mind. I mind very much, but I can’t find the way to say so out loud. Mrs. Pollack motions toward a chair in the front of the room, and I sit and wait for the rest of the class to file out. Theo. Crystal. Gem. Dri. I notice Ethan hovering for a second—deciding whether to say something to me? to Mrs. Pollack?—but then he taps my chair with his book and leaves too, and now it’s just me and her concerned face and all I want in the world is to get through the next five minutes without crying. Please, God, I beg, though my relationship with God is something I have not yet sorted out, please let me get out of here without embarrassing myself any more than I already have.

  I can’t stare at Axel’s declaration of love here, so instead, I stare at a poster of Shakespeare, a man in a ruffled collar, with a quote underneath: To be or not to be: that is the question.

  No, that’s not really the question at all. Being seems to be the only thing not entirely up to us.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I say, which I realize is not the point. She’s not mad at me—I’m the obvious victim here—but I’m choosing anger over the tears. Anger is slightly less humiliating. Anger is more consistent with the vibe Agnes claims I give off: badass and above it all.

  Mrs. Pollack pulls her desk chair out and straddles it backward. She too wants to seem cool and casual. Like she’s a student, not a teacher.

  “I just wanted to see how things were going. If there was anything you wanted to talk about,” she says.

  “Nope.” I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. The tears are filling my eyes but have not yet betrayed me by falling. They wait on the verge. If I ever write a memoir, that’s what I’ll call it: On the Verge. “I tripped. It happens.”

  “Switching schools can be tough.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “And I hate to say it, but girls in particular can be really cruel at your age.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’m not sure what to do here. I mean, I can talk to Principal Hochman. We have a zero-tolerance policy toward bullying.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “But I have a feeling that just might make things worse for you. Gem’s dad is a big donor here, and—”

  “Seriously, I’m fine.” She looks at me expectantly. What does she want from me?

  Whore. Slut. Fat ugly bitch.

  “Did you do something to cause her to say those things? I’m just trying to understand,” she says, and leans on the pillow she has made with her arms. As if to say We’re just hanging, no problem.

  “Are you asking me if I did something to deserve Gem tripping me and calling me a whore, a slut, and a fat ugly bitch? Seriously? You are asking me that?” I forget that this woman is responsible for one-sixth of my GPA, that she can keep me from getting a college scholarship. I should play nice, but it turns out anger is not only preferable but easier. Comes naturally.

  “I didn’t mean…I’m sorry, I’m just trying to understand—” She looks hurt now, like she’s the one who’s about to cry. Like she’s the one who just busted her face in front of the entire class.

  “The answer is no. I have not touched a single guy in this school or actually pretty much ever, not that that would justify a fellow student calling me a whore or a slut. And as for the ‘fat ugly bitch’? I presume that’s subjective.” If I weren’t so upset, I’d take a moment to revel in the fact that I found the right words for once, that I said exactly what I wanted to say. But I don’t feel like reveling. I feel like running away. “Do you need my BMI? I’m sure that can be arranged.”

  “No, you got it all wrong. I didn’t mean—”

  “Are we done here?” I ask. Screw it. It wasn’t like my grades were going to be so stellar at Wood Valley anyway. I’m pretty sure that college scholarship thing was just a pipe dream. And at least one mystery has been solved: Gem can do or say whatever she wants because her dad pays off the administration. I guess that’s what a little tax fraud buys you.

  “I’m just trying to help,” she says. “I don’t want to make things worse—” But I don’t hear the rest of Mrs. Pollack’s sentence, because I’ve already run out the door.

  CHAPTER 22

  Head down. Thirty feet until I reach my car. Jessie, you can do this. Twenty feet. My hands are shaking, but I keep them in my pockets so no one can see. I keep walking. No one is looking, I tell myself. No one can see you. Fifteen feet. Almost there. I will get into my car, I will put the key in the ignition, I will drive and not stop until the gas light comes on. I will head east, find whatever major highway takes me to Chicago. I will show up at Scarlett’s in time for her mom to serve me homemade kimchi.

  “Hey. You okay?” I see his shoes before I see his face, the guitar strap across his chest, but that’s because I don’t want to look all the way up. Liam is the last person I want to see right now, except maybe his horrible girlfriend, but at least if I saw Gem, I would find a way to draw blood. Scratch her with my nails. Break her surgically crafted, six-figure nose. Crack her porcelain veneers.

  “Please. Just. Leave. Me. Alone.” Tears are kind of like urine. There is only so long you can hold them in. My car is ten feet away. Ten short feet, and then I can drive and cry without anyone ever knowing. I look forward to crossing state lines.

  I picture the sign: YOU ARE EXITING CALIFORNIA.

  “Whoa, hold it. What’s going on?” Liam asks, and grabs my shoulder to stop me from storming off. I shrug, but his grip is strong. “You need me to call someone or something?”

  “No. You know what I need? For you and your girlfriend to leave me the hell alone.” I am furious, maybe not at Liam, though that doesn’t seem to be relevant right now. Gem and Crystal’s attacks used to be mostly subtle and stupid: my clothes or my laptop tattoos. Whatever. Now, after I talked to Liam for two minutes at a party, the bullying has become something altogether different. Sorry, but his chitchat really isn’t all that exciting. Definitely not worth this.

  For a second, I play that game that sometimes soothes me: What would I be doing right now if I were in Chicago and we had never moved? I’d be at a newspaper meeting, or maybe yearbook, cropping pictures and picking fonts. I wouldn’t be happy, no. But I wouldn’t feel like this.

  “What are you talking about?” Liam looks confused. I wonder if he is not so bright. According to Dri, he and Gem have been dating for six months, which is five months and twenty-nine days longer than he should have needed to realize that his girlfriend is a royal bitch.

  Liam swings Earl off, rests him on the ground next to a car. A Tesla. Seriously, some kid at Wood Valley drives a freaking Tesla. Who the hell are these people?

  “Forget it. Please just leave me alone. You talking to me? The opposite of helping,” I say.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You want to know why I’m up
set? Just go ask Gem,” I say, and finally, finally close those last few steps to my car.

  “Wait,” he says. “Will you be, you know, working this afternoon?”

  Of course I’m not driving or flying to Chicago today. There will be no signs, literal or otherwise. Escaping is mere fantasy. I have to save up first, since I barely have enough cash to fill my gas tank.

  My body deflates—there will be no running, no hiding.

  This, right here, this is my life.

  This.

  “Yeah, I’ll be there.” I get into my car, reverse out of my spot so fast I wonder if I’ve left skid marks.

  I wait until school is far in my rearview mirror before I start weeping.

  SN: watched Footloose yesterday. both versions. in your honor.

  Me: and?

  SN: they don’t make sense. you can’t have a local ordinance against dancing. that’s a restriction of our constitutional freedom of expression. not to mention the whole church/state thing.

  Me: Groan.

  SN: and even if you suspend disbelief on that MAJOR plot point…well…

  Me: WHAT?!?!

  SN: they just aren’t very good movies.

  Me: Tell me how you really feel.

  SN: but still, somehow I liked the idea of you liking them. does that make sense?

  Me: Not at all, but I’ll take it. I’m having a shitty day. Considering hightailing it back to Chicago.

  SN: NO!

  Me: Ha. Love when your shift key comes out. And your day?

  SN: my mom hasn’t left the couch once. brought her lunch. she didn’t eat it. so far gone she didn’t even look up at me.

  Me: I’m so sorry. I wish I could help. What about your dad?

  SN: he’s talking about sending her to rehab, but honestly, drugs aren’t really the problem. I mean, they are, but they’re more a symptom of the problem.

  Me: What do you mean?

  SN: she lost a kid. you don’t just bounce back from that.

  Me: But she still has you.

  SN: why was your day so bad?

  Me: Nothing important. Just one of those days.

  SN: don’t leave LA. please. you just can’t. promise?

  I pause. What does a promise to Caleb mean? We’ve glided past his rejection of my coffee offer, have just dug in deeper, as if it never happened. Still, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that his complete unwillingness to hang out with me in real life doesn’t hurt.

  Again today he didn’t say hello to me in the hallway. Just another phone salute.

  I tell myself it’s because he’s scared of ruining our never-ending conversation, but I tell myself a lot of things I don’t actually believe.

  So I lie.

  Me: Promise.

  When I get to work, Liam’s mom is behind the counter. Pure relief that I don’t have to face Liam. Instead of saying hello, she hands me a box of books, asks me to shelve them.

  “Sure thing,” I say, looking through the pile. A lot of financial guides. Overnight Millionaire. Beat the Market. Money Now. I head over to the shelf that Liam’s mom has labeled GET RICH QUICK! and begin to sort the books alphabetically by author. For a second, I think about picking one up for my dad, but then I remember that (1) we are no longer on speaking terms, and (2) my dad could actually write one of these books, though it would be a bit short: Marry Up.

  “I like your can-do spirit,” Liam’s mom says, since I shelve fast. Anything to keep busy. She smiles Liam’s smile at me. I’ve worked here for weeks now and I can’t remember her name. I just think of her as Liam’s mom, or sometimes, I guess, Mrs. Sandler. I bet if I ran into her somewhere else, un-bookstore-related, I wouldn’t recognize her. She looks a lot like the moms back home: no-nonsense hair, everything maximized for efficiency, not necessarily attractiveness. Like a real mom, not an aging actress.

  I try to think about Caleb’s smile, but I’m not sure I’ve actually seen it. Which makes sense. SN is not exactly the smiley type. I can easily picture Ethan’s smile, though: how it unfolds across his face, from left to right, like a perfect sentence.

  Clearly, I need to stop this Ethan obsession. Not healthy.

  “You okay? You look a little…smeared,” Mrs. Sandler says, handing me a tissue. “You want to talk about it?”

  Damn it. Forgot that I experimented with mascara this morning. Despite my protests that makeup and I are not friends, Agnes had promised that waving a wand against my eyelashes would change my life. Now it’s just unclear what’s smudged mascara and what’s bruising.

  “Not really.” I wonder if Mrs. Sandler likes her son’s girlfriend, if she has ever met Gem. Does Liam have to keep his bedroom door open when she’s over? Somehow, I doubt it. Those are quaint Midwestern rules; they don’t apply in LA, where the kids openly smoke pot and drive fresh-from-the-dealership cars and have parents who will donate money to get them out of trouble. Liam’s mom probably buys him condoms, jokes over take-out sushi about not wanting him to make any Little Liams.

  I think of Caleb’s mom, prone on the couch, so out of it she can’t be bothered to eat lunch. What did he bring her? I wonder what his mom looks like, if she too is tall and handsome. If she too prefers to wear gray.

  “Better?” I ask after I wipe my face, and I turn to face Mrs. Sandler. The Kleenex is black, probably a little salty now too.

  “Much. You’re a really beautiful girl. Inside and out. Do you know that?”

  “Um, thanks?” I say, or ask. How strange, I think, to be called both ugly and beautiful, two words I rarely hear, in the same day. The former because most people are neither that mean nor that truthful, the latter because it has never applied to me. Agnes called me hot today too—another word never before used to describe me—though I think of hot as altogether different from beautiful. Hot seems to be about guys liking you. Beautiful is about liking how you look.

  Of course, Liam’s mom is old enough to think all sixteen-year-old girls are beautiful. Gem, on the other hand, sees me through clearer eyes.

  “You can take the afternoon off if you need to,” Liam’s mom says, and her kindness almost makes me ache. Reminds me that when I go home, it will be to Rachel’s house. My mom will not be there to nurse me back from this. There is no longer a person in the world who is interested in everything I have to say just by virtue of the fact that it comes out of my mouth. Scar tries, but it’s not the same.

  My mom will not make me a cup of cocoa with mini marshmallows, and we won’t share a plate of Chips Ahoy, more than a dozen between us, an indulgence reserved for bad days. My mom wasn’t strict about what counted when it came to me: a B on a math test I thought I had aced or losing my favorite charm bracelet. When she needed the boost, though, our ritual was reserved for only the very worst occasions: a cancer diagnosis, or later, a T-cell count being low. The word “spread” being used by a medical professional after looking at a black-and-white photo of her insides.

  Eventually, I made the cocoa and drank both of ours. Ate all the cookies.

  “Thanks, but I honestly could use the cash.” I picture Scarlett’s parents’ basement. Not home, not even close, but closer than what I have now. A big L-shaped couch and an oversized TV from last century, as thick as it is tall. The slightest hint of mold in the air, almost but never quite covered up by the smell of fresh laundry. It wouldn’t be so bad. School would be familiar and easy after Wood Valley. I’d have Scarlett back, maybe even my old job at the Smoothie King. My dad would barely notice I’m gone. He might even be relieved not to have to worry about me. I could do it. I really could.

  Me: Your parents’ basement couch available, maybe next term?

  Scarlett: For reals?

  Me: For reals.

  Scarlett: ABSOFREAKINGLUTELY. Though you might need to wipe it down first.

  Me: Why?

  Scarlett: Let’s just say it’s where Adam and I like to, um, play.

  “So is all okay? Are you going somewhere?” Liam’s mom asks, breaking my intense bout of
texting. Clearly, I should put my phone away and finish shelving. Today is not the day to get fired.

  “Sorry?” I ask. She points behind me, and it’s only then, when I follow her finger, that I notice I’ve subconsciously migrated over to the travel section.

  CHAPTER 23

  Dad: Can we talk tonight, honey?

  I pause. Since our pancake fight eight days ago, I have successfully avoided my dad. Not so much as passed him in the halls of Rachel’s house. This is his first overture toward peace, but screw that. Why should I always operate on his timetable? Be available when it’s suddenly convenient for him? Be the good daughter who makes things easy and simple? Be the one who plays along, tries to make him feel better about his bad choices? What about when I need him? Where is he then?

  I quit.

  He married Rachel. Let that be her job now.

  I have nothing to say to him.

  Me: Sorry, working late.

  Dad: I miss you.

  No, I have nothing to say at all.

  CHAPTER 24

  And so here it is: Wood Valley Giving Day. I take SN at his word and wear my Vans, mostly because I don’t have anything resembling work shoes and it’s too hot for my winter boots, which are comfy and ugly as hell and which would most certainly make Gem weep with joy at how easily I make myself a target. I wear my mom’s old University of Illinois T-shirt, the one that’s been laundered so many times the writing is fading, and an old pair of ripped jeans and pull my hair back into a ponytail. Not at all chic, but I figure a day devoted to physical labor/community service does not require chic, even at Wood Valley. I pat some concealer on the bridge of my nose, cover up the bruising. Lesson learned: no mascara.

  School is closed today; instead of going to our normal classes, we’re expected to report for work at the Habitat for Humanity site. For once, Theo wanted to drive in together, since he was worried about getting lost and carjacked, though the neighborhood looks not too different from where I grew up. But apparently, this place is in desperate need of two hundred rich kids who have never before touched a power tool.