by Karole Cozzo
She doesn’t indulge me, not even for a second. “You know the rules. Car for work, that’s all.”
I look at my mom, whose expression is blank. She’s not going to waver. She’s a middle school principal in a neighboring school district, and she’s a rules person. Even though we share the same curly hair, hers is professionally straightened and cut in a no-nonsense bob. She wears a suit and pumps even though it’s still really hot. Her stance is firm and authoritative.
She’s not going to waver.
I mouth I’m sorry in the direction of my beloved Jeep, but my mom’s not amused. With a sigh, I ask, “Should I say good-bye to Daddy first?”
She slides behind the wheel. “Daddy already left.”
My throat closes with pain. I shouldn’t be surprised he didn’t even say good-bye. Even though I can’t remember a single first day of school when my father didn’t go to his office late so he could see me off, waving from the front yard until I was out of sight. Often, he took my picture.
Now he’s one more person who doesn’t seem to want to look at me.
With a loud bang, the storm door flies open, and a small figure comes tearing outside.
“Wait!”
My little sister, Emma, slams into me and wraps her arms around my hips. She’s thirteen now, still pitifully short, and I easily rest my chin on the top of her head. My parents have worked really hard to protect her from all the craziness, and as a result she knows little about what happened and loves me as fiercely as ever.
When she hugs me, I have to struggle to keep my chin from wobbling.
As soon as I trust myself to speak, I urge her on. “Your bus is going to be here soon, Em. You better get to steppin’.”
“But I’m gonna miss you.” She hugs me again and then looks up at me. “I can’t believe we have to miss The Young and the Restless today.” It was our guilty pleasure of the summer, when I was hiding out and she was jumping at the opportunity to be included in my world, regardless of how small it had become. “Did you DVR it?”
“It’s all set. We’ll watch after school.”
“Okay, cool. I think Gabriel’s going to come back from the dead today!” She walks away from me, legs stiff, arms out in front of her, making a groaning sound, like a zombie. I smile for the first time all morning.
“Emma, your sister and I need to go.”
My mom’s voice is much gentler with my sister, even when she’s scolding her. Mom climbs back out of the car and smiles hugely at Emma. “Have an awesome first day of eighth grade. And give your mama a hug.” My mom holds Emma for a long time.
I look away, thinking about the price I pay a million times a day. It doesn’t matter that the court case was thrown out. I am punished by the minute.
My mom’s all business when we get on our way, keeping her eyes on the road as she reviews a checklist with me of all the things I could possibly need. She doesn’t look my way again until we pull up in front of the school. She puts the car in park and purses her lips as she studies the crowd of the kilt-clad making its way up the crumbling stone steps.
Then my mother turns and looks at me. I see the slightest trace of something her eyes have been entirely devoid of in recent months—compassion.
“Have a good first day, you hear me?” She gently nudges my chin with her thumb. “Chin up, Nicole Jane.”
Before she can stop herself, she gives me a hug, the same kind she gave my sister. My mom isn’t really comfortable with weakness, hers or anybody else’s, and the trace has vanished from her eyes when she pulls away a few seconds later.
Yet, like a toddler on the first day of preschool, I find it nearly impossible to pry myself from my mother’s side. I have visions of my three-year-old self cowering at her knee, blanket in one hand, her skirt clutched in the other, refusing to walk through the door.
I’m on my own now, though. I can’t hold on, and she wouldn’t let me, anyway.
I force myself out of the car and fight the temptation to glance back. Before me looms Atlantic Christian Academy, complete with faded stained-glass windows and a huge cross on top. The hulking stone building feels sterile and intimidating. Even though my family used to attend the church it’s affiliated with, the school is unfamiliar and bizarre to me.
Probably largely because of my family’s association with the church, or maybe because of the school’s desperation for tuition dollars, Atlantic Christian Academy said yes to me. There were plenty of schools that did not. I’m supposed to be really grateful to be here. I’m not, I think as I trudge up the steps.
I want to be at Ocean Isle Senior High. I want to be back where I belong.
When I walk through the door, I find myself in some twisted nightmare version of my first-day fantasy from my bedroom. Heads turn and conversations stop midsentence, and the attention feels anything but warm and fuzzy. From the corner of my eye, I can see that no one cracks a smile. I detect a few people shaking their heads in disgust. As I glance around, trying to get my bearings, not a single person smiles or says hello.
So the news of my enrollment—and the story associated with my name—has reached them. They know who I am.
Remembering my mom’s parting words, I actually lift my chin as I search out my homeroom. The room is still dark. I hurry inside, slamming the door behind me in my haste, and collapse into a desk in the back row. I put my head down and close my eyes, attempting to block out reality.
* * *
It’s not really shocking that my day goes from bad to worse.
Mrs. Donoghue, my kindergarten Sunday school teacher who, at age 117 or something like that, is still responsible for educating young minds, actually stops me in the hallway to chastise me. Her wrinkled mouth forms a hard line, and her once-sparkling blue eyes are frozen still. “I was extremely disappointed to hear about you, young lady.”
People turn to stare, and several snicker.
Then during social studies, our teacher provides a riveting review of the student honor code. After addressing the awful, strict dress code and the matter of cheating, her tone grows even more serious. “Last point we have to cover, and this page you need to sign off on … our anti-bullying policy.”
The classroom is silent, and I stop breathing. I feel the warmth in my cheeks, and I hyperfocus on the backs of my hands, wishing I could disappear inside the network of blood vessels just below my skin.
“I think we’ve got a pretty great group of kids within these walls,” she continues, “and I know you all know how to respect one another. But it’s policy for me to read this aloud, so here goes.… Before we can learn, before we can have healthy relationships with one another, we need a safe and civil environment. The purpose of ACA’s anti-bullying policy is to prevent and respond to acts of bullying, intimidation, and violence. An act of bullying, either by an individual student or by a group of students, is expressly prohibited. This policy applies not only to students who directly engage in bullying but also to students who, by their indirect behavior, condone or support another student’s unkind and malicious acts.”
As she pauses, I wonder if it’s possible to die from mortification and discomfort.
“This is a no-tolerance educational establishment. The expectation is that our students embody Christian ideals in their relationships with one another. A solitary act of bullying will not be overlooked and may result in the request that you discontinue your learning here at ACA.” She turns the page. “If you accept the school policy, please sign the bottom of the page, tear it from your handbook, and pass it to the front of the room.”
As I sign my name, hand trembling against the page, no one else makes a move. They all stare right at me, as if I’m committing some grand act of fraud.
After social studies, I dread making my way to the cafeteria. Because the entire student body is composed of only 220 students—smaller than the senior class alone at OISH—there is a single lunch period. I smile hopefully as some freshman girls pass. They look about Emma’s age, and I
think maybe they’ll be kind, but they just stare at me as if I’m some kind of alien and keep walking.
I stand behind the double doors, unable to push through, and find myself thinking of Pax.
I wish he were here.
After such a cold reception at Atlantic Christian—not that I thought it was going to be any other way—his quick acceptance and instant offer of support seem, in retrospect, like some kind of miracle. Closing my eyes for a second, I recall his joking smile and the warmth of his palm against mine right before he sent me inside the center. Maybe I can pretend he’s my friend, even though I’ll probably never see him again.
I wander between a few tables of girls, trying out a couple of smiles, but I don’t get any smiles in return. The girls are pale, bland carbon copies of one another in their uniforms, with eyes that stare and never warm.
For a school full of holy people, they sure know how to make someone feel like a leper, I think.
Then I try a table full of guys, some of whom are in my senior classes, thinking maybe they won’t be as judgmental, thinking guys are usually easier. I work my best head tilt and dimpled half smile and twist my ponytail between my fingers. “Hey, guys,” I greet them. “Girls allowed to sit at this table, too?”
They nod almost imperceptibly but show no real interest, quickly returning to their conversation about preseason football. I’m confused for a minute, and then I remember how I’m dressed and that I skipped most of my makeup. I’m not going to wow anyone today.
I sit down a few seats away, alone. Sighing in defeat and misery, I tear the foil lid from my Key lime yogurt and force myself to eat something, despite my complete lack of appetite.
Two and a half hours later, I’m kind of surprised that I’ve survived the day. My mom texts to let me know she’s nearby, and I hurry through the lobby to wait out front for her. Passing the girls’ room in the corner of the lobby, I remember how long the ride home is, and I stop to use the restroom.
My nose wrinkles as I walk inside. Not that any school bathroom smells like roses, but this one is particularly bad—old and musty, with the overwhelming noxious scent of pine cleanser. But my senses are immediately pulled in another direction when I recognize the sound of crying—more specifically, the sound of someone trying to hide her crying. It’s not really working, and a couple of abrupt, staccato cries pierce the air and echo in the small space. I stop in my tracks, not wanting to alert the girl to my presence, wondering whether I can back slowly out of the bathroom without being noticed.
The cries turn to sniffles, and I hear her blow her nose. Before I get the chance to consider further action, the door to the stall flies open and the girl emerges. She has superlong sandy-brown hair and piercing gray-green eyes. Right now they are rimmed with red, and unshed tears cling to her lower lashes.
She stares at me, expressionless, but I notice the way her chin juts out, like she’s trying to be brave. I remember doing the exact same thing as I walked through the lobby in the morning, and my heart hurts a little on her behalf. I think about saying something, maybe asking what’s wrong. But opening my mouth to speak, suddenly I remember: No one here wants to be friends with me. And even if they did … I’m kind of put off on the idea of friendship right now. I’ve lost faith in the concept.
Sticking to my original plan, I back out of the bathroom as quickly as possible, leaving her alone there.
My mom is already out front, and when I collapse in the front seat of her car, I realize that the day has left me exhausted. I want to go home and hide in my room. I don’t even want to watch The Young and the Restless. The trials and tribulations of the characters seem particularly silly today.
On our way home we pass my old school, and the glimpse I catch through my window is the final dagger. Cheerleading practice is taking place in the front field. I see Lauren and Carlee, in short shorts and sports bras. No frumpy uniforms.
They are smiling and laughing.
They are still able to smile and laugh.
So when I walk through the front door, I breeze past Emma, even though she’s waiting for me. “Not now, Emma,” I say, barely managing the words around the lump in my throat.
I hide in my room and watch something else instead. The DVD I’ve slipped into my laptop so many times, the one from last year’s show choir competition, which we won. There I am, in bright red lipstick and a glittery outfit, belting out “Only Girl (in the World),” the finale of a Rihanna medley. I sparkle with polish and confidence as other members of my group lift me high and spin me in the air. I let the DVD play until the sound of the applause—loud and persistent and reassuring—finally dies out.
I guess that girl doesn’t exist anymore, and I miss her so badly. I want her life back, the life she had before I shattered it.
I shuck my uniform as quickly as my shaking hands allow, throw it against my closet door, and crawl under the covers in my underwear, my tears finally winning out.
Chapter 3
On Thursday night, I approach Mr. Glogowski’s room for the final stop of my shift. Mr. Glo has Alzheimer’s disease, but it was a broken hip that led to his extended stay at the rehab center. Pushing open his door, I announce myself. “Good evening, Mr. Glogowski.”
He turns and stares at me like the stranger I am to him, eyes narrowed and distrustful. “Who are you?”
I used to find it frustrating, having to introduce myself every single time, but … the concept has grown on me. Talking to someone with no short-term memory. So now I’m a different exotic woman each time I visit his room: Amelie one time, Giselle another. And tonight, “I’m Caterina.”
Mr. Glo shakes his head and murmurs. “Well, Caterina, it would be nice to see the same face twice. The turnover in this place is sinful.”
I bite my lip and wait for what always comes next. Do you know, once upon a time …
Mr. Glo sits up in his bed and points an index finger in my direction. “Do you know, once upon a time, I ran a very successful printing company? Employee satisfaction was not something I took for granted. Turnover rate hovered around zero. This place…” He waves his hand in the air. “Never the same person twice. Sinful.”
I don’t have the heart to correct him, so instead I hand him the extra blanket he requested. “Here’s your blanket. It’s chilly in here tonight.”
“Thank you.” He allows me to spread it over his legs and smiles toothlessly at me. “Beautiful girl, you are. Rita Hayworth had nothin’ on you, kid.”
My smile blooms. Yep, old Mr. Glo has definitely become my favorite. “You’re sweet, Mr. Glo. Get yourself some rest tonight.”
“Hey, sweetheart?” He calls to me a final time, when I’m halfway through the door, and I turn to look at him. The expression on his face is one of utter confusion, and his voice is much less sure than usual. “You have any idea how I hurt myself? Landed myself in here?”
I don’t miss a beat. “You were drag racing again.” I make a tsk-tsk sound. “We’re going to have to keep a closer watch on you.”
Then I’m out of there before he can ask any follow-up questions, questions that might lead to the truth: that he wandered away from his assisted-living facility and fell down a flight of stairs. Yep, some memories are definitely best forgotten.
Walking toward the lobby to clock out, I hear the sound of rubber wheels spinning over linoleum, and someone calls to me.
“There you are.”
I turn and see Pax approaching, and I can’t help smiling at the familiarity in his voice. “Hey.”
“I had an internal bet.” He wheels himself to meet me. “Will she have the balls to show her face again?”
“Did you win?”
He nods decisively and brakes his chair. “Yup.”
I take a minute to study him. His hair is kept back off his face with a thin black Under Armour headband, the kind most guys could never get away with, but somehow it works on him. He’s wearing the same black hoodie as before and mesh shorts. His legs don’t reveal t
he level of atrophy that most patients’ legs do, but still they’re disproportionate to his strong upper body.
“So are you coming from practice?” I ask.
“Yeah, we have a match tomorrow night. You should come watch.”
“I can’t.” It’s a default answer. I’m out of practice, the result of a complete dearth of social invitations in recent months.
Pax regards me with a steady gaze. “Okay.” He waits.
“I mean, I can, but…” I fiddle with the hem of my shirt.
“But you don’t want to spend your Friday night in the gym of a rehab center if you don’t have to,” he surmises. He tilts his head and squints up at me. “Would it make a difference if I told you there’s popcorn?”
Laughing, I shake my head, not wanting him to misunderstand. My reluctance has nothing to do with him and everything to do with me. “It’s not that.”
“So come watch, then. The crowds are weak. You come watch and bring pom-poms, and I’ll give you one of my black-cherry Jell-Os.”
I’m about to laugh again, but the noise gets stuck in my throat, and the smile disappears from my face. Tomorrow night is the first football game of the season. I’m supposed to be there with my pom-poms. The realization hits me hard, and the longing must show on my face.
“Okaaay, no pom-poms, then,” Pax says. “If the concept is so upsetting to you.”
I don’t want to be upset. I don’t want to think about tomorrow night.
I do the only thing I can think of. I lift my chin and tell him, “Fine. I’ll see you there. And I’ll bring the pom-poms.”
* * *
I’m surprised to discover that a Friday night spent cheering at a wheelchair rugby match is much more exciting than I expected. It’s actually more exciting than Friday nights spent cheering for the O.I. football team, which typically boasts a less-than-stellar record.
The four eight-minute quarters are fluid and fast-paced as four players from each team compete against one another to push a volleyball down a basketball court and across the opposing team’s goal line. Attempts to level the playing field are made by assigning players a classification based on their level of disability. I do a double take when I realize there’s a girl on the team competing against Pax’s. I’m pretty sure that, even in a wheelchair, she could kick my ass.