I could tell the truth, sort of
“My mom says we can’t afford one.”
“Shitty,” Kristyn replies.
“Oh, my God, I would DIE without my cell phone,” Cammy says.
“No, you wouldn’t. You’d just have to shut up for five minutes.” Kristyn reaches into her bag and pulls out a fat black marker. Biting the cap off, she grabs Mary’s hand and begins writing on the back of it. “Zhish ish my number,” she says, “and zhish ish Cammy’s.” She jams the end of the marker back into her mouth, clicks the cap on, and drops the marker into her satchel. “Call us next time you’re coming downtown and maybe we can hang out.”
“Okay,” Mary says, looking at her hand. It is covered in the nearly illegible black strokes of Kristyn’s handwriting. They remind her of her shadows and it occurs to her that during the entire time she has spent with Kristyn and Cammy, the shadows haven’t once threatened to make an appearance, despite the intensity of her emotions.
Why not?
Staring at the marked skin, she can almost feel heat coming from it.
Cammy leans over and gives Mary a hug. “Definitely give us a call. That was fun. See ya!”
Kristyn also gives Mary a hug. “Watch out for hippie-boy! If he bothers you again, just kick him in the nuts.”
“Um … Okay.”
The two wave one more time and begin to walk away. Turning in the opposite direction, Mary stops to look again at the black scrawls on her hand.
No shadows, not any more
They may not be here now, but they will be
No they won’t. I can control them
You’re going to hurt everyone
I haven’t hurt anybody
Not yet, but you could
No, I won’t
Yes, you will
NO, I WON'T
Her throat constricts as tears begin to form in her eyes.
Cammy begins talking loudly as she and Kristyn walk further away.
“Don’t you just love her? She’s like a little kid!”
“A little kid with big knockers.”
“I know! God, I’d kill for those.”
Mary laughs as she cries and still no shadows appear. She lets the tears fall freely, wiping them off as she walks away. When the tears stop, she takes a deep breath and once more looks down at her hand. Smiling slightly, she puts it in her pocket, lifts her head, and begins walking home.
CHAPTER
Fourteen
Mary sits opposite a solid wooden door, a blue slip of paper in her hand. She looks down at the paper for the hundredth time since she received it that morning.
GUIDANCE SESSION
Time in: 11:30 AM
Time out:
Location: guidance office, room 114.
Regarding:
See how the “Regarding” part is blank? That’s no accident; you’ve done something bad
At the bottom of the paper, the guidance counselor’s name is written in a large, flowing hand: Mrs. Chandrakar.
The waiting and uncertainty of the meeting to come brings all of her worst thoughts to the fore in a crashing tumult.
Freak danger trouble shadows freak danger trouble ...
She fidgets with the paper, folding and unfolding it, her nerves fizzing and her heart in her throat.
Instinctively, she tries to drag her hair down over her face but, instead of the usual dark strands, her fingertips touch the nape of her neck, which is exposed for the first time since she was a child. She sports a chin-length bob, a “Jackie O” as her mother’s hairdresser called it. She scratches at the wispy hair that grows at the back of her hairline.
The heavy door opens and a woman emerges. “Mary?” Mary nods. “Please, come in.” She pushes the heavy door open and stands aside so that Mary can enter. As Mary passes her, she catches a hint of the counselor’s floral perfume.
The woman has warm brown skin and long black hair. Her face is striking, her smiling lips a bright red and her jewelry heavy and gold. She gestures to Mary to sit in one of two chairs on the near side of a desk. “I love your hair. Did you just get it cut? It really suits you.”
Mary sits, clutching a notebook to her chest as if it were a life preserver. To Mary’s surprise, the woman does not round the far side of desk and sit in the office chair but, instead, sits down next to Mary, tucking the edges of her turquoise dress under her as she does. “I hope it’s not too dark in here. I can’t stand the fluorescent lights and so I try to keep them off. I’m Mrs. Chandrakar, but you can call me Nan. Many of my students do.” Her voice is pleasant and soft, with a slight trace of an accent.
Mary looks cautiously around the room. A desk lamp illuminates a framed photo of Mrs. Chandrakar, along with a handsome, mustached man and two boys. Seeing Mary staring at it, her teacher says, “I keep meaning to change that. They’re not so little now. They’re teenagers, eating me out of house and home and challenging me every day of my life. Sometimes I think I keep that old picture around just to remind myself how sweet they were when they were younger.”
Embarrassed at being caught staring, Mary looks down at her lap.
“Do you have the slip of paper I sent you?”
Mary opens her hand to reveal the sweaty, crumpled paper within.
“Well, you did quite a number on it. But that’s all right.” Mrs. Chandrakar takes the piece of paper, flattens it out, and sets it down on her desk. “So, Mary … You’re probably wondering why you were called down here today.”
Because I’m a freak
“Well, let me assure you that you haven’t done anything wrong,” her counselor says with a smile. “You’re a good student ...”
No, I’m not
“... well-liked ...”
By who?
“... no trouble at all.”
So wrong
“The truth is your teachers are worried about you. You seem depressed and anxious. You’re very withdrawn. Your teachers want to help. They care about you. You know, not all teachers are monsters …”
Some are
“... Some are, maybe, but yours care about you and they want to see you happy and successful in school, and in life. That’s why I was asked to talk to you. Is that okay?”
No
Mary shrugs in response.
Thinking about all of her teachers – of Mr. Woods, in particular – sitting around, discussing her, makes Mary nauseous. She wants to run from the room.
“Great. So, why don’t you tell me what’s happening with you?”
Mary shrugs again.
“Can you put that into words for me? What’s going on with Mary?”
“Nothing, I guess.” She brings her hand to her mouth, biting down hard onto the nail of her index finger.
“No stresses or strains of any kind? No confusion or unhappiness?”
Only all the time
“No.”
“Well, you’re doing better than me. You say that you’re fine but you seem very nervous.” Mrs. Chandrakar waits for a response, but the only sound is that of students milling past in the hallway outside the door. Mary drops her hand back into her lap and forms a tight fist, her knuckles turning red and white. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking about?”
Everything
“Nothing.”
“The only people who can think of nothing are people in comas and masters of meditation, and I don’t think you’re either of those.”
I wish I was in a coma
“According to your file …”
File?
“… you live alone with your mother. That’s got to be tough sometimes.”
Mary shrugs, trying to appear noncommittal.
“Do you want to talk about your mother?”
“No.”
“Your father?”
Not with you
There is a long silence before the teacher continues, “Mary, I’ve worked with all kinds of kids with every problem you can imagine. I’ve seen them all.”
Not this one …
“Abuse at home and at school, bullying, date rape, pregnancy, cutting, physical and mental health issues, drugs, alcohol, you name it.”
How about a person with a soul full of shadows?
“I may not be able to get rid of your problem …”
Then you can’t help me
“… but I can help you talk about it. I can work with the school and your mother. I can get you free counseling. I want to help you, Mary, but you need to talk. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
If I did, I’d end up in the loony bin
Mrs. Chandrakar holds out one bejeweled hand. “I’m reaching out to you. Will you reach back?”
Mary looks at the woman’s hand. It would be so easy to take it but, instead, she shrinks back into her chair, making herself as small as possible. It’s exhausting, resisting this woman’s offer of help. The counselor has such a gentle smile and friendly voice, if ever there was someone Mary could talk to, this would be her, but what about …
Mrs. Chandrakar catches Mary in mid-thought. “I have these nightmares,” she says. “They’re awful. Terrible dreams where I’m in a crowd and my boys are being taken from me. I try to reach them and bring them back but I can’t. I try to find to them. I run, I push, I even hurt other people trying to get to them, but my boys keep moving farther and farther from me. Do you ever have nightmares?”
Mary is taken aback by this unexpected question. She even considers answering it, but merely shakes her head no.
“What about your diet? Are you eating well?”
Silence.
“Mary, do you have any thoughts of suicide, of hurting yourself?”
Thinking of the bridge, Mary shudders.
The counselor sits back. “Okay, then. So you’re not ready to talk. That’s all right. But I want you to know that I’m here for you. I’ve already booked you a follow-up appointment with me for two weeks, but I can help you sooner if you need me, okay?”
“Okay,” Mary whispers.
The teacher pulls a business card from a holder on her desk and flips it over to write a number on the blank side. “Take this card. I wrote my personal cell phone number on the back so you can call me anytime. On the front is the number for a 24-hour help line. They’re all well-trained, and your calls will always be anonymous. Okay?”
Mary nods.
“So I think we’re done unless you have anything else you want to say?” Mary shakes her head. Mrs. Chandrakar picks up the crumpled slip of paper from her desk and notes the time. “This will get you back into class, no questions asked.” Mary nods. “Mary, I think you’re a super young lady. I know I’m going to see you again in two weeks, but I want you to come back and see me whenever you need to.”
“Okay.”
Maybe
S
Mary returns home before her mother does. She feels unsettled, restless. The trip to the guidance office was draining; she spends the rest of the day in a daze. She sits down, takes off her shoes, and sets her notebook on the table. As she does, she notices a pen and slip of paper, across the top of which is written: CHRISTMAS LIST. Mary’s Christmas list is usually comprised of underwear and socks, the only thing she ever finds she needs. But now she wonders if the record store sells gift certificates, thinking it would help to build her collection, and perhaps satisfy her mother’s desire for a longer wish list. She writes “record store gift certificate” on the paper.
Staring at the blank space below that, Mary has an idea that her mother might really approve of, something that had been a lurking possibility ever since the day she met Kristyn and Cammy. She adds “cell phone” to the Christmas list.
Afterward, she hurries to her bedroom and begins rummaging around in the top drawer of her dresser, emerging at last with a folded piece of notepaper. On it are the phone numbers of Kristyn and Cammy, carefully transcribed from the back of her hand. She hasn’t touched the paper since the day they met, and realizes now she never bothered to note which number belonged to which girl. She goes to the phone, selects the first number, and dials it.
The connection is picked up instantly. “Hello?” It’s Cammy, her voice nearly drowned out by the background noise of a car engine and overlapping voices.
“Hi … Cammy?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s Mary. We met downtown?”
“Oh! Hey, Mary, what’s happening with your bad self?”
“Nothing, I …” She isn’t sure what to say next.
“Oh, hold on a sec.” Cammy’s voice disappears, replaced by a thump, some muffled conversation, and then distant laughter.
They’re laughing at you
No they’re not
They are so. You know what they’re like
“Sorry about that; these bitches won’t shut up. So, what’s happening?”
“Nothing. I was just going downtown so, um, I thought I’d call, like you said.”
“Oh, that sucks! I’m heading out of town or else I’d totally be there.”
“Is Kristyn with you?” Mary asks, hoping she can meet at least one of the pair.
“No, I’m not talking to her right now. Long story. She’s going to be out of town, anyway. We’re both headed to the same thing.”
“Oh ...”
“Don’t worry, we do this every year. We’ll be BFFs again in a few weeks. And if you talk to her, don’t tell her I said anything about it, and don’t tell her I said ‘BFF’ or she’ll be even more mad at me. She hates that.” Laughter erupts from the background on Cammy’s end of the line. “Sorry, hold on again.” Mary can hear Cammy laughing and arguing with her friends. She comes back on the line a few moments later.
“All right, Mary, I gotta go. Can I call you back at this number some time?”
“Sure,” Mary answers.
“Bye, babes!”
“Bye.”
Babes …
I told you they weren’t laughing at me
CHAPTER
Fifteen
“You won’t be disappointed,” the record store clerk says in a low, slow voice. He picks up a crisp paper bag, perfectly proportioned to fit LPs. He inserts the record, folds the top over neatly, and staples her receipt to the fold. He hands over her new purchase. “Just put on the Cello Song—first song, side two—then spark one up, lay back, and you’ll be completely chill.”
Mary has been looking forward to spending this Saturday listening to her father’s records. Now she’s doubly excited to think that she has one of her own to add to the collection.
She walks along the downtown street, soon arriving at the same intersection where she first met Kristyn and Cammy.
She’s about to cross when a voice calls out, “Omigod, Mary!”
It’s Kristyn, hurrying in Mary’s direction, her boots thumping on the sidewalk as she runs. She has on a faded jean jacket over a thin yellow t-shirt of unmistakably fashionable design. A worn canvas baseball cap doesn’t quite cover her magenta fringe.
“Hi,” Mary says, smiling shyly.
Kristyn grabs Mary by the arms. “Girl, I am SO happy to see you!”
Happy to see me
“Me, too,” Mary replies.
“Your hair looks AMAZING.”
“Thanks.”
“You live downtown, right?”
“Yeah. Just a little ways away.”
“Do you think I could crash at your place tonight?”
Mary freezes, instantly paralyzed by joy in her heart and terror in her gut. She has never, ever, allowed anyone to stay overnight with her. How could she when the shadows are always there? But here is this girl …
“I guess so. I’d have to ask my mom.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you! I can’t stay at my parents’ place. It’s a stupid, long story, and normally I’d stay with Cammy but, ugh, we’re mad at each other.”
“I heard.”
“Who told you?”
“Oh … when I saw you before, you gave me your
phone numbers. I didn’t know which was which so I called one and it was Cammy’s.”
“Figures. She didn’t say anything bad about me, did she?”
“No,” Mary replies warily.
“I’m so pissed at her right now. You know how grown-ups are always telling you that your priorities are screwed up? Well hers really are. I saw her at this thing we were both at and she was fawning all over this idiot. I told her right to her face that she was being stupid and she got all pissed.”
“Oh, sorry,” Mary replies, at a loss for what else to say.
“It’s okay. She’ll get over it. It’s stupid, anyway. She always puts guys before everything else, which is completely backward, right? I mean, there will always be guys and most of them are dogs, anyway.”
“Yeah.”
Like you’d know
“I knew you’d agree with me. You’re so smart.”
Mary smiles. “No, I’m not.”
“Sure you are. So, where you going?”
“Home. I just got this album. I was going to go back and listen to it.”
“You collect those old records? That’s so cool! My parents still keep their CDs, which is so dumb when you can put, like, a million songs on a phone. But these things are awesome. What album is it?”
“This British guy, Nick Drake. The guy at the record store said it was good.”
“Can I see it?”
“Sure.” Mary breaks the seal and slips the album out of its paper bag.
“He’s so cute. I bet he’s really nice, too.”
“He’s dead now, I think.”
“That sucks. But, I bet he WAS nice when he was alive. Why can’t we have guys like that around here?” Mary shrugs. “So, I have a bunch of crap to do. Can I meet up with you at your place later? What’s the address?”
“Um, I can come back and meet you here,” Mary says shyly. “I’m supposed to meet Mom at work at five o’clock.”
“Awesome. We’ll meet here at quarter to?”
“Okay.”
Kristyn leans forward and gives Mary a hug. “Mare, you’re totally plus-que-parfait.” Mary stands still, enjoying her friend’s embrace.
Letting go and turning to leave, Kristyn says, “This is going to be awesome. I am SO good with other people’s parents. I’m like magic. Don’t tell her I can’t go home, okay? She’ll just make it into a thing.”
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