by Holly Ryan
I don’t bother bringing up how the hell he heard I was great.
Julia, sensing my hesitation, jumps in. “Ethan, how are you liking Westfield? It must be such a change from where you came from.”
She has no idea where I came from. “It’s different,” I say. “But I like it.”
“What about your teachers? There can be some nasty ones.”
“Nah, they’re good. They’re fine.”
She looks down for a moment, then back up at me. “What about the students? Are they much different?”
I shake my head. “Not really. Kids are kids pretty much wherever. Everyone’s nice, though. It’s a good school.”
She claps her hand against her leg. “Did you hear about that girl?” She looks to Cole. “What was her name?” Then the realization hits her. “Avery.”
My chest tightens. I take another sip of my drink, the one that was already here from my computer lazing just a few minutes earlier.
Cole nods. “Avery Dylan.”
Julia’s eyes light up. She’s obviously eager to share the gossip. “She got attacked by someone walking home one night.” A look of disgust crawls over her face. “Apparently she was hurt really bad. I don’t know if she was raped, or what, but she was in the hospital for, like, forever. For a while some people were saying she was going to die.” She pushes her shoulders back and reaches for her Coke. “I’m sure that was just a rumor, though.”
My mind hazes over. I keep my cool, but that one word Julia just dared to utter won’t leave me. You know, the one that starts with an r. It makes me want to throw up.
We shouldn’t be talking about this. I shouldn’t be talking about this. “She’s in my Chemistry class.”
Julia stops mid-sip. “She is?”
Cole interrupts, “Tell me – does she walk with a limp now? I heard she does.”
Yep, definitely shouldn’t be talking about this. What’s the best way to slam this conversation shut?
“She walks great,” I say, but my voice is weak with emotion. “You can’t tell anything even happened to her.” I avoid Cole’s eyes. “Good for her for surviving.” More like, Thank God for her surviving. And, if the rumors are true, I’m so glad she did.
“Yeah, good thing,” he says. “She’s pretty hot.”
I think he was meaning to change the subject, but he didn’t realize the totally obnoxious link between the two statements.
“Cole,” Julia says. She hangs her mouth open and leans away. She’s looking at him like she’s about to hit him.
Cole shrugs. “What? It’s true.”
I guess I was right – kids are kids wherever you go, and these two aren’t yet grown up. I guess it was inevitable that Avery would face some nasty gossip surrounding everything that happened. It’s not like that’s a common, everyday type of thing, so it goes without saying that it catches people’s interest. And that just so happens to often be the interest of the worst types. I only hope she’s not being teased, too.
“Isn’t she, Ethan?”
He’s prodding me. He’s pushing my buttons without even realizing it.
“Sure.” She’s beautiful. She’s gorgeous. She takes my breath away with every glimpse I catch of her. Think I can say that out loud?
“You guys are vile.”
“Don’t be jealous, Julia,” says Cole. He elbows her.
“I’m not jealous of that girl.”
Well, they’ve really killed the mood. I excuse myself once more to the kitchen. Only two minutes remain on the timer, so I cut the cooking time short for the sake of my sanity and carve up the chicken. I set a good amount aside for my mother and wrap her plate in plastic wrap, then stick that portion in the fridge. I return to the living room with a large plate stacked high with chicken pieces, still steaming hot.
“There’s salad in there, too, if anybody wants some,” I say, sitting down. “Help yourself.”
Julia doesn’t eat much, mostly picking at her chicken pieces with a fork. Cole devours his plate with huge, chomping mouthfuls. Good thing I made sure to save some, or my mother would be going hungry tonight. I think he’d eat the entire thing. I’m eating, too, or at least trying – my appetite just isn’t there.
My phone rings with the chime of a text. I read the message that just came in. It’s my mother. She’s stuck working late tonight and won’t be home until after nine. Well, again … good thing I saved her some dinner. I reply back:
great. there’s chicken in the fridge
I don’t bother mentioning that Cole and Julia are here. For all she knows, I’m pigging out on comfort food in front of the TV all night, just like I’d planned.
I’m not trying to keep anything from her, (she never minds me having friends over), but I don’t want her to worry about anything. She gets anxious at the thought of people discovering my identity, too. And people, we both know, can be vicious, so there’s plenty to worry about.
I look again at these two complete opposites sitting on my couch, one picking at her food delicately and the other chowing down. I’m pretty sure I don’t need to worry about these guys. At least, I think I don’t.
Julia slides the tiniest piece of chicken off the fork with her teeth. I cringe at the grating sound.
I guess it could go either way. Best to play it safe.
“So,” Cole says as he slides his empty plate across the coffee table. He leans back and crosses his arms behind his head. “Football is a no-go? You’re sure?”
“Cole.” Julia rolls her eyes. She’s irritated. He’s pushing her buttons, too. And this time, she does it. She lightly hits him. “Stop it. He’s going to think that’s the only reason we came over.”
Cole releases his arms and holds them out in innocence.
“The truth is, Ethan,” Julia explains, “we were in the neighborhood.”
“You knew where I lived?” I try to play it casual, playing with the TV’s remote control. I have no idea how they figured that one out. I find land on some sports.
“We had an idea, and we saw your car,” she says. “And Cole here insisted on being all goofy, going up and knocking on your door to see if it was really you.”
I laugh. “That was risky.”
“Well,” says Cole, “I told her if we were wrong, and it wasn’t you, I’d come up with something on the spot.”
“I knew you would, too,” Julia says with attitude. She’s obviously fed up with him by now. “You’d be good at that.”
“Hey,” Cole says, carefree. He laughs as if Julia getting mad is something cute.
“Well, it’s true. You’d manage to lie your way out of something.”
Cole turns at her, holding his thigh to get a better angle. He holds his position there while Julia takes another sip of her soda. He then turns back to me and shakes his head, laughing. “What’s on TV?”
We hang out a while longer, but I’m sure to show them out of the house before my mother gets home. Like I said, she has enough to worry about. The last thing she needs after a long day at work is to have to put on a fake face for two of my friends.
“Bye, Ethan,” Julia says as I walk them out. She reaches out and touches the back of my hand with her fingertips, trailing down my skin. She twists her body and gives me that smirk.
I glance at Cole. He’s turned away from us, busy zipping up the backpack that he left in the corner of the foyer.
I casually lift my arm further up the door, away from her touch. “Bye.”
She pulls back and snaps the smirk off her face.
Cole comes up behind us. “See you later,” he says. He pulls his hoodie over his head. He holds his hand out to me, the same hand that was just stroked by Julia. “If you change your mind....”
I shake his hand. “If I change my mind, I’ll let you know.” His handshake is firm, and he looks dead into my eyes.
They leave, and I close the door behind them. I watch them go; they’re still bickering and laughing as they walk down the driveway to their car, and I
can still hear the click click of Julia’s heels.
There they go. My two remaining friends. As if I can even call them my friends after that.
I head back to the living room and start to clean up.
Avery
My eyes open. I’m back in the hospital.
I’m in the same, uncomfortable hospital bed. I’m looking at the same, boring walls; the same, boring hospital picture window is to my right. It’s dark, and a shadowy figure is sitting next to my bed. It’s a male. I can tell by the loose shirt, the short hair and the outlines of a masculine jaw. Both his hands rest on the arms of the chair.
My guardian angel.
I love seeing him. I close my eyes and take a deep breath of relaxation.
When I open them again, he’s leaning forward with his hand out, moving closer and closer as if in slow motion, until he reaches the side of my face. He touches me. I close my eyes in peace.
“Avery?” My mom pounds on my bedroom door. “Avery? Have you seen my phone?”
My eyes burst open. I’m in my bed and my sheets are stretched tightly over my body, creating a protective cocoon around me.
I hate it when she does this. And in the middle of such a good dream, too.
I open my eyes. The light is barely starting to pour into my room. Way too early, Mom. I’m so not ready to get up, but no matter how many times I ask her to leave me alone, she won’t stop. That’s my mother for you – a one-track mind. When she loses something, she forgets about everything and anyone else.
“No,” I moan from the depths of my pillow. Maybe she’ll give up and leave, but that might be asking too much from her.
She knocks again. “Are you sure? It’s not anywhere down here. I think I need you to call it for me.”
I sigh. That’s it. I’m up.
Being home is wonderful, but one nice thing about being in the hospital was the fact that anyone and everyone would allow you to sleep whenever you wanted without interruption. There you were the sick girl who needed her valuable, uninterrupted rest, and it was socially unacceptable to deny her that. Here … not so much.
“I haven’t seen it, Mom.” I pull myself out of bed with a grunt. I swing my leg over the edge with the help of my hands. “But I’ll call it.”
She opens the door, peering in before pushing it open the rest of the way. When she sees that I’m decent, she steps inside. “Good. I looked everywhere and I’ve got to be out of here in five minutes.”
I’ve already got my phone in my hand and I’m searching for her name.
“Thanks,” she says, crossing her arms. While the phone is pressed to my ear, a thought strikes her. She walks to my closet and pulls open the doors.
“This weekend let’s go get you some new clothes. It’s been a while and it might make you feel better. Liven things up a bit.” She sifts through the hangers and pulls out a hoodie, examining a hole near the sleeve. “What do you think?”
I shrug, still holding my phone in one hand. “I feel fine.”
“And what about this?” She’s disregarded me, holding my black dress by the tip of the hanger.
I catch my breath. It’s the dress I was wearing when I was attacked. It looks the same. It’s still torn where it was that night. That same even rip runs down the side seam.
She plays with the torn fabric, examining it. “The way you’ve been acting, you’d think you wanted me to throw this away.” She eyes me. “Do you?”
I toss the phone onto the mattress, then leap off the bed and yank the dress from her.
“I don’t want to see this,” I say, shoving it back into the farthest, darkest corner of my closet.
“I almost forgot,” she says, not even shocked. She pushes the hoodie back in. “You gave all that up after it happened.”
All that.
Dancing.
She’s talking about my dancing.
And is she pissed at me? She actually sounds pissed at me. She’s the one who came in here and woke me up before my alarm on a school day, and then pulled out my one traumatizing garment and swung it in front of my dazed face, and she’s pissed at me.
Traumatizing garment. Listen to me.
“I gave a lot of things up after it happened. I had to.” I curl my legs underneath me and cover them with my comforter. “You can’t dance with a bum leg.”
“No, but you can try.” She rests next to me and her weight causes me to sink toward her. “The doctor said it was okay to try, Avery.”
I curl over myself. “I don’t want to.”
“Okay. But will you ever want to? Or should I get rid of that thing right now?” She eyes the closet.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “I have no idea.”
She stands, puts a hand on my shoulder. “I want you to try. When the time is right for you.”
A ringing echoes from downstairs.
“Ugh,” she says, and without another word she rushes out of the room.
I hang up the call and collapse back into my overstuffed pillow. There’s still fifteen more precious minutes before I have to be up for school, and I’ll be damned it I’m going to waste it.
The alarm goes off, breaking through my delicious silence like a pickaxe.
I jump out of bed, still groggy but having at least expected the abrupt awakening this time around. I go to the same closet my mother was just evaluating and I pick out some clothes that will help me look presentable. I never have much energy in the mornings and I usually sleep in until the last minute, so this is something I really should do the night before. But I guess I haven’t learned.
My mom is right. My clothes are in bad shape. I frown as I sift through them and flick the hangers when I find nothing acceptable. I settle on my usual fallback: a pair of black yoga pants and a loose fitting sweater.
Neutral colors, check. Safely hidden leg, check. Minimal effort, check.
Perfect.
Once dressed, I leave my room, making sure to close my door behind me for the sake of privacy – not that it’ll keep her out if she gets another idea in that head of hers.
I stop in the bathroom and brush my teeth. In the middle, I catch myself in the mirror and I freeze.
My God.
I’m only in high school and already I’m showing some age. Am I deformed? The skin around my eyes is thin and some dark circles peek through. I didn’t know that was possible at only eighteen, but I once heard that stress – or trauma, in my case – can do that to you. I use a brush to swipe on some makeup and after a puff of face powder, I head downstairs for some breakfast.
“Mom,” I say, my mouth in a straight, tight-lipped line before I even hit the bottom stair. I hold the railing but I move down each step at a pretty good pace. Not bad for someone with a bum leg, if you ask me, and it gives me hope for the day. I hit the wood floor with a thud. Maybe not.
“You cannot do that,” I go on. “I beg of you.”
I step into the kitchen, ready to beg for her mercy next time, when I stop short.
She’s not there. No one is. The house is empty.
Of course.
She’s left for work.
An oversized, white bowl has been set in a pristine position atop a placement on the table. It’s full of cereal. A gallon of milk sits beside it, still cold.
That was nice of her. Maybe I won’t start something with her after all. But she can’t keep doing that to me. I need my sleep. I am a recovering girl.
There’s enough time to eat my breakfast slowly and in peace, so I do just that. I set my phone next to my bowl, lying flat, and I scan through my notifications between bites. I already have two texts from Mara, which doesn’t surprise me.
She’s complaining about her parents forcing her to get to school early to work with a study group.
I take the last few bites of my cereal, then tip the bowl back and drink the milk, enjoying the complete, wonderful freedom that is home.
Mara’s parents are like that, so there’s no easy respon
se to her texts. When they learned she was getting a C in math on her midterm, shit hit the fan. They grounded her for a few days, then told her the only way she could get un-grounded was to join a study group. To Mara, that was practically equal to torture.
It’s the little things like that that make me thankful for my mom. She may barge in on me at some horrible hours of dawn, but at least she would never make me do something like that.
I type her a quick reply telling her to hang on, I’m on my way and I’ll meet her at school. Not that I’ll be able to help her, really; if I leave now, I’ll be right in time for class. But we might be able to see each other for a minute and exchange a famous Mara-Avery hug before we have to go our separate ways.
My cereal is done and I set it in the sink. Then I grab my purse and head for the door, making sure to pick up my keys from the counter. I peek through the hazy glass of the kitchen window before I leave, trying to gauge the weather. Despite the earliness of the day, it’s already so sunny and clear that I can almost sense the warmth. A pair of birds are singing in the olive tree closest to the porch, and I our neighbor peacefully revvs up his car for work.
All good signs.
It seems like I don’t even need a light jacket, and the sunshine always lifts my spirits.
I place my hand on the door’s handle and before I open it, I pause and cross my free fingers at my side. I say a silent prayer that on this sunny day, finally, things will go my way.
Turns out, that little prayer of mine may have actually worked.
While I’ve been going through what felt like a series of cursed days and felt like I might lose it, today’s nice.
It’s calm.
Dare I say, it’s almost back to normal.
Mara and I did get to share that hug, one quick, communicative pat in the hallway. It was quick, it was inspirational, and before I knew it, we were forced to go our separate ways.
So now I run through my usual routine of collecting my things from my locker and meeting up with some friends for lunch until, finally, it’s time for Chemistry. I try not to dread the butterflies that always accompany this period since Ethan joined, but it doesn’t matter. Even when I given them no attention, they don’t leave.