Here

by Denise Grover Swank

  Leaning my head against the wall, my eyes close as despair washes through me. My nightmares—me dying while Monica watches— replay in my mind. I grip my head in my hands, trying to squeeze out the false memories. That wasn’t what happened. Why does my mind remember it that way?

  Tears fill my eyes before spilling over.

  Not here. Not here.

  For one day, I felt a fraction of my former self return. For one day, I relived a sliver of my former life but only gave my family false hope. I’ll never be that girl again. Everyone would have been better off if my dreams were reality, if it had been me instead of Monica.

  Wiping my face with the back of my sleeve, I push off the floor with a heavy sigh then slip into the hall as Lindsey comes around the corner. Her eyes widen and I consider darting into the restroom, but I worry that she’ll follow me. I lift my chin and walk toward her, hoping if I look like I’m supposed to be here maybe she won’t turn me in.

  She doesn’t speak as we pass but stares with fear and disgust.

  There’s another restroom closer to my next class. Leaning over the sink, I splash water on my face, thankful there’s no makeup to smear, then look into the mirror to survey the damage. My bloodshot eyes make my hazel irises look greener than usual. My red nose looks like Rudolph’s against my pale cheeks. Maybe if I keep my head down no one will notice.

  I make it through my next two classes, dreading the last. Only a couple of students are in Mr. Archer’s classroom when I arrive. I hurry to my seat in the back, hoping to avoid Evan, who takes his seat moments before the bell rings. He glances back at me with a smile before he gives Mr. Archer his full attention, as though he finds the lecture fascinating.

  My own attention returns to my notebook, the current page nearly full of scrolls and swirly lines. I should be taking notes, but the Cold War seems like a bad black and white movie, farfetched and impossible to believe. Who could believe countries would be stupid enough to nuke each other?

  The bell rings and I close my book, standing as a swarm of bees buzzes in my gut. Evan leaves the class without looking back and my disappointment is surprising. What did I expect?

  My stomach twists into a pretzel as I walk through the library doors. Evan is already here, his back to me. My feet root to the floor and refuse to move forward.

  Muscles stretch the back of his t-shirt, thick biceps visible beneath the short sleeves. I never noticed Evan is so buff, but he does play football. His black hair waves in an unruly mess. His head tilts to the side and he catches sight of me. He turns his upper body, leaning a forearm along the back of the chair. The slight smile falls and his eyes burn as they search mine.

  I will my feet to move forward, but they balk as my breath catches in my throat. It’s THE Evan Whittaker. Looking at me.

  The ridiculousness of my thoughts hit me and my feet are free. I’m imagining things. As I walk, Evan watches me the entire way. Sliding into the seat next to him, I set my backpack on the table.

  He continues to gawk. To my horror, blood creeps up until my face burns.

  Evan clears his throat and gives his attention to the open history book on the table. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have stared.”

  I shrug. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

  He looks up, his eyes narrowing as his lips pinch in a frown. “You shouldn’t have to go through that. I can’t understand why people believe the worst about you. It wasn’t your fault.”

  My heart skips a beat. “What did you just say?”

  He freezes. “That I can’t believe people are so mean to you?”

  “No, the other part.”

  His head leans closer to mine as his eyes soften. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  The deep blue eyes offer a peace I haven’t felt in months. But this feeling is a lie. My back straightens in irritation. “How would you know? The police think it was.”

  He averts his gaze, twisting his pencil on the table in half circles. “Maybe so, but I don’t believe it.”

  I wait, sure this is a trick, that he will burst out laughing at my gullibility. But instead, he curls up the corner of his mouth as though he’s trying to figure a way out of this misunderstanding.

  He sighs with a frown. “Did you read the history chapter?”

  “On the Cold War? Yeah. It was boring, but I read it.”

  “Was there anything you didn’t understand? Anything you need help with?”

  I thumb the pages on the corner of the book. “No, I don’t have trouble understanding it. I just didn’t do it before. That’s why I’m failing.”

  “You’ve got a lot to make up. You’re lucky your teachers are willing to work with you.”

  “I know. Poor Julia.”

  “Would you rather they were mean?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. I deserve it.” I shake my head.

  “Don’t you believe in mercy, Julia?”

  I look up in surprise. His head tilts to the side, his lips slightly parted. Staring into Evan’s face, I find myself believing mercy is possible.

  His hand covers mine and grips lightly. I gasp, fighting the urge to glance down to confirm where his hand has landed.

  “Does a homeless person deserve mercy?” he asks, his voice warm and tender.

  “I suppose that depends on who you ask.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “What about a woman with small children who has a fatal disease? Does she deserve mercy?”

  “Of course.”

  His hand lifts to my cheek, my eyes held in his gaze. His fingers stroke so lightly, I’m sure I imagine them. “Then why not you, Julia Phillips?

  Words stick in my throat, not that I’m even sure what to say. My thoughts have turned to sludge. My head feels fuzzy and breath stales in my lungs.

  Turning away, I take a deep breath while my face burns again.

  Evan clears his throat and flips a page in the book. “I know you said you don’t need any help with the chapter, but I think I should do something to count this as tutoring so I’ll quiz you. Then we’ll move onto English Lit.”

  We spend the next hour going over history, older English Literature pieces, and then brushing up on trig problems as we pretend nothing just happened. When he studies his notes I sneak glances to make sure he is really here, sitting next to me. He looks up and graces me with the most beautiful smile. It’s no wonder half the student body has some level of crush on him.

  “You’re picking this up really fast,” he says.

  I tilt my head with a grin. “I told you I could do it. I just didn’t.”

  “Lucky for me, huh? I could have been stuck tutoring some techy loser like Reece.” He sucks in a breath and his eyes widen slightly as though he said something he shouldn’t.

  “Who?”

  He looks surprised as he turns his head and studies me. Rubbing his forehead, he laughs but it sounds forced “No one, just a friend of mine.”

  My shoulders tighten as I try to figure out why he’s acting so weird. The way he described Reece doesn’t sound like he’s a friend.

  Evan closes his trig book. “Before we meet again, you need to read the next history chapter and then Mr. Archer will have you retake your test. We can also go over the study sheet. Do you have it?”

  “I think I used it as a book mark.”

  He tries to hide a grin. “That won’t do you any good, will it? I’ll get you another copy. Trig’s gonna be your big-time soaker. You have a lot of assignments to make up.” He ticks off a long list, then looks up in amazement. “Did you do any of the work?”

  “Umm…”

  He shakes his head. “Never mind. Just try to do as many assignments as you can.” He pulls out his cell phone before he rips a corner off a sheet of paper. He taps his phone then writes a phone number, his handwriting neat and legible.

  He slides it across the table toward me. “Here’s my phone number. If you have any questions, call me. I’d rather try to he
lp you through it this weekend than have you wait until next Tuesday.”

  That’s weird. Why’d he have to look up his own phone number? “Tuesday?”

  “Yeah, today’s Thursday and you don’t have tutoring on Friday. Mrs. Hernandez said Maryann Sweeney was working with you on Mondays, so that means we meet Tuesday.”

  “Oh.” I feel like an idiot.

  He pushes the paper closer, his eyes burning into mine. “I mean it. Call me for any reason.”

  I swallow, trying to determine if his words mean what they seem to imply. I nod, unable to speak.

  He clears his throat and stands. “Okay, bye.” But he stays next to his chair.

  “Bye,” I whisper, having trouble finding enough air to push out the word.

  He studies me for a few more seconds. “Jules, don’t be so hard on yourself, okay? Try to show yourself a little mercy.”

  Then he turns and walks away.

  Chapter Five

  Dinner is uncomfortable. In my new effort to be normal, I sit at the kitchen table and stuff meatloaf and mashed potatoes in my mouth while my stomach rebels at the intrusion. The tension is thick, my presence unfamiliar and uncomfortable for my father and sister. They keep their focus on their plates while Mom tries in vain to start a conversation.

  “How was school, Anna?”

  Anna’s eyes raise from her plate and shift from Mom to Dad before lowering again. “Good.”

  “Did you give your presentation?”

  “Mmmhmm.”

  I rest my fork on the edge of my plate. “What was it about?”

  Anna looks up, her eyes as big as half dollars. Her mouth drops open, revealing the mashed potatoes inside.

  “Anna,” Mom prompts, “Julia asked you a question.”

  She closes her mouth and swallows. “It was a social studies project. About ancient Egypt.”

  “A sugar cube pyramid?”

  She nods.

  “Who’s your teacher?”

  “Uh… Mrs. Morrison.” She shifts in her seat.

  I lower my face to ease her discomfort. “I had her, too. I liked her.”

  No one speaks, the room silent except for the scraping of forks on plates.

  “Julia, what did you do today at school?” I hear the hesitation in Mom’s voice, worried I’ll ignore her question as usual. My attempt at conversation with Anna must fuel her courage.

  “We read ‘The Masque of the Red Death’ in literature, learned about cell mitosis in biology, then the Cold War in history.” I stab my meatloaf. “All in all, it was a stellar day.” My slightly sarcastic tone matches the curl of my lips.

  My dad looks up from his food in disbelief. Mom can’t hide the hopeful gleam in her eye. My family acts as if an alien has landed in their kitchen.

  Mom lifts her chin with a smile. “Your father’s dad, Grandpa Tom Phillips, used to tell us stories about the Cuban Missile crisis. Have you learned about that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “His father built a fallout shelter in their basement. He had your grandpa scared half to death we’d be attacked by the Soviets with nuclear weapons.”

  “Were we?” Anna’s words are muffled by her mouthful of food.

  Mom scrunches her nose. “No, of course not. If we’d been attacked by nuclear bombs we wouldn’t be sitting here eating dinner right now.”

  “Where would we be?”

  “We’d be dead.” I mutter under my breath.

  “Julia,” Mom grumbles then her eyes widen as she realizes what she’s done. She turns to Anna. “Technically we wouldn’t have been born.”

  I shovel a fork full of mashed potatoes in my mouth and stand.

  Dad lowers his head with a scowl.

  “Where are you going?” Mom sounds panicked. She must be worried I’m abandoning my lame attempt at being a functioning member of our family unit.

  I pick up my plate and set it on the counter. “I’ve got a ton of homework to do.”

  “Really?” she asks in amazement, then shudders. “Uh, I mean, okay.”

  “Thanks for dinner, Mom,” I call over my shoulder on my way down the hall. When I reach my room, I shut my door and lean into it, closing my eyes. Trying to fit back into my family is exhausting.

  I push away from the door and sit cross-legged on my bed, pulling books out of my backpack. My trig book opens and the paper with Evan’s phone number falls into my lap. I pick it up, fingering the ragged paper edge while trying to decipher his intent.

  His intent was to help you with trig if you need it.

  I’m probably right, but his strange behavior worries me. I determine to figure out what his true interest in me is, especially when I remember Sarah’s words yesterday in the parking lot. Is it me he’s suddenly fascinated with? The timing is too coincidental.

  Still, the way he looked at me still makes my toes curl. I roll my eyes at my naivete. He probably looks at a lot of girls like that. He isn’t popular for nothing.

  The next day at school, I watch him closely in the halls. When he passes, he glances my direction but never strays far from Sarah’s manicured claws, only further confirmation of my overactive imagination. He and Sarah are together, but the scowl on her face suggests she’s upset with him. She wears her red and white cheerleader uniform, and the football players who fill the hallways wear their jerseys.

  Evan is in a brown Abercrombie & Fitch t-shirt. He’s not even wearing school colors.

  I can’t understand why he’s tutoring me instead of practicing with the team. It’s obvious that he hasn’t gotten kicked off the team for bad grades. Maybe he has some unnoticeable injury.

  We have a quiz in English Lit over Edgar Allan Poe and I’m surprised when I know most of the answers. I suppose that happens when you pay attention.

  In Chemistry, we’re doing an experiment on aldehydes that involves a Bunsen burner and ethyl alcohol. Several boys make the required jokes about sneaking alcohol out of class to take to the game tonight. I bite my tongue to keep from telling them to go ahead… if they want to go blind.

  In the row in front of me, two girls huddle together talking instead of measuring their alcohol.

  “…is pissed that Evan isn’t playing tonight.”

  Evan’s name catches my attention and I turn my head so I can eavesdrop better.

  “He’s been acting so freaky-weird. I don’t know what he was sick with last week, but it totally messed with his head,” Sabrina says. She’s what Monica and I called a Wanna Be, hanging on the edge of the popular girls’ circle and hoping to be cool by association.

  “Yeah, well I heard he wasn’t sick. I heard he was missing.”

  My heart trips.

  “What?”

  “He was missing, but his parents were too embarrassed to file a police report so they told everyone he was sick. Then a day and a half later, he just showed up at home, acting weird.”

  “How do you know this?” Sabrina asks.

  “I heard it from Kristin who heard it from Lindsey who heard it from Sarah.”

  That sounds reliable. Not.

  “What do you—?”

  Mr. Burton passes their table. “Sabrina, shouldn’t you be conducting an experiment instead of talking?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Burton.”

  They turn to their equipment and lower their voices, leaving me to wonder what really happened.

  I’m one of the first students to arrive in history and take my seat, then pull out my notebook to draw. I try to ignore the stream of students pouring through the door, but my eyes disregard my intent and search for one student in particular. When he arrives, he fills the doorway and pauses as he looks in my corner, making eye contact. He smiles and his eyes light up. A couple people push him through the door and he moves to his seat. He glances at me over his shoulder, then turns to Mr. Archer, who resumes his discussion on the Vietnam War from the previous day.

  Instead of taking notes, I watch Evan. Until this week, I’ve hardly had contact with him but even
I know he’s different. He looks back a couple of times and finds me watching, his eyes serious as he offers a smile.

  When the bell rings, the class flees like the Jews in Egypt, only Moses led them to the Promised Land and the students of James Monroe High School are rushing off to prepare for a football game. Evan has left with them. This knowledge brings a mixture of regret and relief. I’m not sure I’m capable of dealing with my feelings about him right now.

  A poster taped across the front of my locker encourages the Tigers to stomp the Buffaloes. I look around, trying to figure out where it came from, since it wasn’t there before class. Sarah stands by the water fountain with her gaggle of followers, watching me with an evil grin.

  I roll my eyes then rip off the poster and throw it onto the floor where a dozen feet trample it in a matter of seconds. I can’t help my smug smile.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Sarah stands behind my locker door, but I refuse to acknowledge her. I pull out my books and stuff them into my bag. Slamming the door shut, I turn to her and fake a startled expression.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

  Her eyes narrow and she leans toward me. Her pointy finger thrusts into my chest. “I know what you’re up to.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My heart thumps as I walk around her and into the crowd.

  She follows and jumps in my path. “You can fake that poor me image all you want but stay away from Evan.”

  “You might want to tell him the rules.” I try to step around her, but she grabs my arm and pulls me back. “What the hell do you want, Sarah? I’m no threat to you.”

  She smiles, but it’s artificial. “I know that, Julia.” Her tongue rolls over my name as though it’s rancid. “I only want to make sure you do.” She stands a half-foot taller than me so I have to look up to face her.

  I swallow the bile that burns my throat. “Are you done?”

  “I suppose that’s up to you.”

  “Then we’re done.” I jerk my arm out of her grip and push past her. The collective laughter of the cheerleaders echoes behind me. I keep moving until I’m through the glass doors, bursting into the cold October afternoon. The moment I step outside, I realize my mistake. I’ve forgotten my coat, but I’d rather face the chilly air than go back to my locker. The wind stings my face. My eyes burn from the wintery blast, not as a reaction to Sarah, but tears roll down my cheeks either way.