by Donna Cooner
As Mrs. Vardeman finishes calling roll, my phone buzzes in my purse. I pull it out, careful to keep it from sight. I’ve already witnessed four phones being confiscated by the teacher, and I’m not about to risk the same fate. I glance down at the text message — from Zoe.
My heart jumps.
I’m sorry. CALL ME?
I slide the phone back into my purse, my stomach twisting into a knot. What can I even write back?
Saying you’re sorry doesn’t make it all okay. Where have you been, Zoe? How could you do something like that to me?
Mia leans over across the aisle, interrupting my thoughts. “I saw you out at the track yesterday.”
Oh no. Something else to make my insides squeeze. Does she mean with Luis?
“Okay,” I say, waiting to see what’s coming next. But she’s already turned back to talk to Ross on the other side of the aisle. I look over at Luis, but he’s pulling out his books and doesn’t look in my direction.
Mrs. Vardeman starts the lesson, something about poetic structure, but I can’t stop thinking about what Mia said.
Is she trying to intimidate me? Threaten me? Did she tell Blair?
Raylene is waving her hand from the front row, but doesn’t wait to be called on. “Is this going to be on the test?” she asks, and Mrs. Vardeman rolls her eyes.
“Yes, Raylene.” She turns to address the rest of the class. “And you’ll all be ready, right?”
There are scattered moans across the room.
“Fair warning. On this quiz, you’ll be expected to recognize several rhyme schemes in examples of poetry.” Mrs. Vardeman looks directly at Raylene. “So let’s do a quick review. Who can tell me the rhyme scheme for a cinquain?”
Raylene’s hand goes down in an instant.
There’s silence, and several kids look down at their desks. I glance over at Luis. He’s writing something in his notebook.
“Ross?” Mrs. Vardeman gives up on a volunteer.
“A-B-A-B-B,” Ross answers.
“Correct.”
“And who developed the cinquain in the modern form?”
“Adelaide Crapsey.”
You have to be kidding me. That’s his name?
“Correct again. Well done, Ross.”
We all look at him in surprise. Who knew?
He takes off his baseball hat and sweeps it down over his chest in an exaggerated bow. “And that, kids, is how it’s done,” he says.
“Oh brother,” says Emily, with a toss of her perfectly spiral red ringlets. Blair laughs, and Raylene, on the other side of Ross, high-fives him.
I realize I didn’t know the answer to either question. It’s a bad sign of how little I’ve paid attention in class. I need to do better. I try to focus on the review Mrs. Vardeman is giving us now, but my mind keeps hopping between Zoe’s text and Mia’s remark. How can I concentrate on what’s a ballade and a couplet when everything is unraveling?
“You joining us?” Blair asks me as I get in line to pay for lunch later.
I tell myself I might still have a chance. Mia must not have said anything yet or, even better, she didn’t see me with Luis.
Who am I kidding? It’s just a matter of time now.
I pay quickly, then follow Blair to the table, figuring I should make the most of what little time I have left.
Ross is sitting next to Max Wallace, a guy I recognize from my history class. He has a buzz cut and is wearing a bright green football jersey.
“This is Torrey,” Ross says briefly, and Max nods my way before eating the rest of a burrito in three huge bites. Still chewing, he squishes the tinfoil wrapper into a ball and throws it at Ross.
Ross bats it away, and it bounces off Blair’s shoulder before landing on the floor. She flinches and squeals like a tiny piece of tinfoil could mortally wound her. Emily giggles and Mia just rolls her eyes.
I have seen Max in the hallways with Ross, but never at the cool table before. Max is now explaining that he spends most of lunch period in the weight room during football season. I think of Luis, but resist looking around the cafeteria for him.
“I’m the kicker,” Max is saying to me. “For the football team?”
I nod.
“I used to play soccer, but this guy” — he gestures to Ross — “convinced me that kicking field goals is the real way to fame and fortune.”
“Torrey is from Colorado,” Blair says to Max, like it’s Hollywood or something. I expect him to smirk at me like Mia is smirking now.
But Max leans forward across the table and grins at me. “I spent some time white-water rafting up in Colorado a couple of summers ago,” he tells me proudly. He takes a long swig of milk, then wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “My grandparents live up near Durango,” Max goes on. “It is amazing. Must have been hard to leave.”
“Yes, it was,” I say after a moment.
Max is cute. Back in Colorado, I would have assumed he was flirting with me, and flirted back. Now I don’t return his grin. I can’t quite say why.
Then Mia turns to me with a question. “What were you doing with Luis Rivera yesterday?”
I knew this was coming, but it still catches me off guard. I feel my face flush.
Ross chews in silence on a slice of pepperoni pizza. Max drinks more milk. Blair and Emily exchange a shocked glance. Mia is giving me a snarky smile. She’s only interested in making me look bad in front of Blair, and she knows exactly the button to push. The pressure is on for me to keep my spot at the table, and I’m not about to give up.
“We happened to be running the track at the same time. It was no big deal,” I say, trying not to show how uncomfortable I am.
“It sure looked like you had a lot to say to each other.” Mia’s eyes dart over to get Blair’s reaction. I realize this is why she waited to tell Blair until now. She wants my rejection to be public.
“I had some things to talk to him about.” I take a bite of bagel and chew, still strategizing about what to say. I swallow, but the doughy bite seems lodged in my throat. I swallow again.
“Like what?” Blair narrows her eyes at me. Mia looks quickly back and forth between me and Blair. She’s not happy about Blair’s interest in me. I get it. There are only so many spaces at the popular table.
I pull another chunk off the bagel and try to buy some time. By the looks on everyone’s faces, I know I’m walking into a field of land mines. I fake cough and then take a drink of milk. My mind is racing. If I say the wrong thing, boom, I’m kicked back into oblivion. But what is the right thing? I can’t very well say I like talking to Luis Rivera. Which is the truth.
“Yeah,” Emily pipes up, because she’s the parrot of the group. “What were you talking to Luis about?”
Suddenly, I think of an excuse that will get me off the hook and wipe that look right off their faces. I don’t want to use it, but I’m desperate.
Just tell them. Say it.
“My sister was killed in an accident right before I moved here.” I take a deep breath and continue. “Luis’s family helped with the burial of my sister’s ashes. I just had some … details … to discuss with him.”
The table goes quiet. Ross freezes with the piece of half-eaten pizza almost to his mouth.
“What happened?” Blair asks. She seems genuinely shocked, her brown eyes wide with sympathy. For the moment, no one is thinking about Luis Rivera.
“She was hit by a drunk driver.” I try to say it casually, but I don’t think I’ve ever said those words out loud before, and my voice shakes a little.
“That’s terrible,” Blair says. “I’m so sorry.”
Everyone at the table is looking at me soberly. Ross makes a sympathetic sound, and Emily pats my arm.
“I think I heard about this,” Mia says, and right away I know she knows everything. “You were filming a vlog when it happened, right?”
I don’t want to talk about that part at all. I turn away from her to face the others.
“I have
to go back to Colorado and talk at the sentencing,” I say instead.
“Wow,” Max says quietly, sounding impressed.
There’s a long stretch of silence at the table.
“So what did you have to discuss with Luis?” Blair finally asks.
I shrug. “My parents wanted me to ask him a question about the cemetery.”
“Poor you,” Blair says, and I know she means because I had to talk to Luis. I nod, trying to keep my expression neutral.
I settle back and let the noise of the cafeteria conversations blur around me. I’m still here. A part of the group. I did it.
Then a ball of guilt settles in my stomach. I just used my sister’s death to stay at this table.
What does that say about me?
“I never get tired of hearing that one of my videos put a smile on someone’s face.” —Torrey Grey, Beautystarz15
My dad rolls down the window as I come around the front of the car, dodging some kid with a trombone case running for the bus home.
“You want to drive?” Dad asks.
“No,” I say, opening the passenger side and sliding in. I know that will disappoint him, but I’m already regretting the deal we made. I go to the shrink today and he takes me to the DMV on Friday. I figure sitting on a couch for one hour is worth it.
“If you’re going to get your license, you really should be practicing.”
My dad thinks teaching me to drive should be a bonding experience. He always brings up how his dad taught him to drive and how, even though I finished driver’s ed in Colorado and aced my written test, I should drive now and then with him in the car.
I know it’s really to check and see if I’m all freaked out behind the wheel now, like my mom is. And I’m not, except I really don’t know that for sure, because I keep saying no every time he asks me to drive.
“I’ve practiced enough,” I say, frowning.
He pulls out of the school parking lot and into the line of cars waiting to turn right at the stop sign. A truck honks loudly behind us and a boy leans out the window to yell something at a half-open bus window.
As he’s driving, Dad talks through every move, every decision, like it’s rocket science. “Move your right foot from the accelerator over to the brake when you need to stop or slow down. You don’t want to be a two-footed driver.”
Oh no. I don’t want that.
A girl jumps off the curb into the crosswalk, waving and yelling at a friend across the street. My dad slams on the brakes, throwing his hand up in front of me, and we both jerk forward against the seat belts. It wasn’t even close, but it leaves us both breathing hard. I know we’re thinking about Miranda. How could we not?
Finally, Dad turns right and gets onto I-45.
“How was your day?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say, and my tone must have let him know my mood. He doesn’t ask any more questions.
I stare straight ahead at the highway stretching out into the late-afternoon sun. If all roads were this empty, it would be easier to relax behind the wheel. Unfortunately, I don’t have high hopes the driver’s license test will be out on an open, empty highway.
We exit the highway and pull into a shaded parking lot right off the feeder road. I feel the tension tighten the back of my neck. The discreet sign on the side of the bland brick building in front of the bumper says DR. SONYA SHELLY, MD, ADOLESCENT PSYCHIATRY.
“I know you don’t want to do this,” Dad says, parking the car.
You think?
“It’s fine,” I say, still staring out the front windshield. I can tell out of the corner of my eye that he’s looking at me. He takes one hand off the steering wheel and gives me an awkward pat on the shoulder.
“I talked with Dr. Shelly last week. I think you’re really going to like her.”
“Right,” I say under my breath.
“Oh, Torrey.” Dad sighs. “Just give it a chance.”
I get out of the car, slamming the door behind me and leaving him to come in by himself.
Inside, I find the right door at the end of a long hallway. Puzzle pieces are spread out over a wooden table in the tiny waiting room. A box top with a picture of three big red apples is propped up beside the scattered pieces, but nothing among the colored bits on the table looks like apples. The people who waited here before me evidently had enough to think about without trying to fix a stupid apple puzzle.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.
My dad appears in the waiting room and sits down across from the puzzle. He gives me an “I’m here for you” smile. I don’t smile back. We both sit silently until a woman with frizzy, mousy-colored hair comes out to introduce herself as Dr. Shelly. She’s wearing a long flowery skirt, and somebody definitely lied to her when she asked them, Does this skirt look good on me?
She has on ugly black comfortable shoes. I instantly think of tweeting a picture of the skirt and the shoes as an example of a fashion DON’T. It makes me smile just a bit to think of the comments and retweets the post would get. The doctor’s eyebrows rise in question as she motions me into her office. I don’t explain. In fact, I don’t say anything at all.
The dark brown couch and the carefully pale paintings of flowers are intentionally boring. I guess no one freaks out looking at dull yellow daisies, right? There’s a box of tissues placed strategically on the coffee table.
Yeah, right.
I make a vow right then to not use a single tissue, because it’s obvious that she’s going to try to make me cry. I’m not about to give her that.
Dr. Shelly motions me toward the couch, but I choose the beige chair instead. Then I stare back at her, focusing on the pupils of her brown eyes.
“You don’t have to talk today if you don’t feel like it,” she says. Her voice is flat, calmed by years of practice talking to crazy people.
Bingo. As a matter of fact, I don’t feel like it. It feels intensely powerful to be silent.
And that’s when it hits me. There are no rules here. Nobody is watching. I don’t have to pretend to be nice or charming to her. She’s not allowed to tell anyone about me. The spotlight is off. All I have to do is wait her out. I push back into the chair with the realization I’m in control for the first time in a very long time.
“I know it wasn’t your choice to come here.”
Right again, Doctor. Nothing is my choice.
I don’t respond. She doesn’t seem uncomfortable with my silence yet but I realize I want her to be, and all of a sudden it’s like a competition.
“How are things going in your new school? In your case, everything is being played out in a very public way. How does that make you feel?”
I don’t want to think about how it feels. Instead, I think about how people raise their voices at the end of a sentence to indicate they are asking you a question. Just because they ask you something, you don’t have to answer. I focus in on her diplomas behind her head. She graduated from schools I’ve never heard of.
“Your friends may feel frightened by everything that’s happened, and try to pull away. It’s not that they don’t care about you anymore.” She pauses. She obviously doesn’t understand. How could she?
They don’t just pull away. They betray and humiliate me. Publicly. Like Zoe. The thought of Zoe brings unexpected emotion and I instantly push it back down. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
“Your father told me you are having difficulty sleeping.”
I notice the diamond wedding ring on her left hand. Surprisingly larger than I expected. Maybe a carat and a half? And a French manicure. She obviously spends more time at the nail salon than at the hair place. I look back up at her face.
“Are you having trouble sleeping?” she asks.
I blink, but don’t look away this time. I saw on a television crime show that would be a sign of some reaction.
“Bad dreams?” Dr. Shelley asks. I’m silent. She continues. “Sometimes you can learn
things from dreams. Your mind might be trying to tell you something, and the message may be so important it refuses to go away.”
What might skeletons in my dreams mean, Doc?
Her mouth is still moving and sound is still coming out. It makes it easier to keep my face bland and expressionless if I don’t actually hear the words, so I let them wash over me in sounds that move up and down. Questions. Statements. More questions.
When I do focus in long enough to understand the words, I hear her say things like, “Denial is a common reaction in grief. It’s part of pretending nothing happened. It’s a way of coping.”
And I’m suddenly angry. So angry I could punch her. She doesn’t have the right to tell me what my reaction is. Nobody does.
While I wait for her to stop droning on and on, I practice my fierce look. It’s where you let your face and mouth go all dead-like and just your eyes are alive. Fierce. It looks great on camera.
Dr. Shelly blows out a sigh between her thin lips. One tiny reaction that satisfies me enormously.
You don’t like the quiet game, do you?
And, just like that, I think of nine-year-old Miranda bursting into my room on a late spring afternoon, three years ago.
“I think it’s time for the quiet game,” I said, but Miranda knew that trick.
“Kaylie Smith asked me to her birthday party this weekend. She’s the first in the class to turn ten. It’s going to be a carnival theme.” She was talking so fast I could hardly understand her. “And there is going to be a face painter there and I think I might get a lightning bolt painted on my face. Not like the Flash. More like Jolt.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. I had no idea who Jolt was.
“Right here,” she pointed to her left cheekbone. “And for lunch today we had rosy applesauce and I think it made me feel sick to my stomach. Do you think I’m allergic to rosy applesauce, Torrey?”
“No,” I said, pulling my cell phone out of my pocket to see if I’d missed anything. I was thirteen, had just posted my first vlog, and was eager to see if someone, anyone, had watched it yet. I wasn’t thinking about applesauce and superheroes. The only thing on my mind was fame.