by Karole Cozzo
He stays at my side until I’m in the Jeep. Before I close the door, he wheels close enough to lean against the frame, forearms resting on either side of my door. “Can we hang out again?”
I suck in my breath.
Before I can spit it out again, his face has twisted up. “Ouch. You hesitated.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.” He nods decisively. “And I know what went through your head in that split second.”
“No, you don’t!” I cross my arms over my chest and stare down at him in challenge. I’m pretty sure I don’t even know.
“Yeah, I do.” A half smile lifts his left cheek. “‘He’s really cute, no denying that.’”
I laugh out loud.
“‘But what am I doing here?’” he continues. “‘He’s in a wheelchair. He’s really cute for a guy in a wheelchair.’”
The laughter dies, and I feel my cheeks grow hot as I recall having that exact thought back at the rehab center.
He reads my expression. “See? I told you I knew.” Pax shrugs and backs up minutely. “Hey, look—you can get past it or you can’t. I have, but I can’t get past it for other people.” Then he stares at me, eyes narrowed and pensive. “And really … it just seems like you could use a friend. I’d like to be one. That’s all. No ulterior motives.”
Funny thing … Despite my earlier thoughts, once Pax limits our relationship to friendship, I’m suddenly remembering the feel of him taking my hands in his on the beach and how warm and steady his breath was against my forehead. It didn’t feel very friendly, at least not on my end.
A mental image of kissing him flashes through my mind, and I decide I’m really glad he’s not still playing the whole “I know what you’re thinking” game.
“Yeah, okay,” I say quickly, turning the key in the ignition. “Friends. I’d like that, too.”
“Cool. No more rugby this weekend. I’m around tomorrow if you want some company.”
Tomorrow. I groan audibly at the mention of the word.
“I can’t tomorrow.” I shudder. “Tomorrow, I’m in hell.”
“Hell?”
I nod once, staring into the distance and tightening my grip on the steering wheel. “Yes. Hell.”
* * *
That’s what it feels like, anyway.
Being forced to sit in a small room with my former best friends and a licensed psychologist on a biweekly basis is my current definition of hell. Especially since I don’t technically have to be there.
No criminal charges were pressed. Taylor’s parents had wanted to pursue court involvement, but reportedly Taylor herself had talked them out of it, claiming she just wanted to move on. Her grace and generosity gave the town one more thing to rally behind. One more thing to make me feel like a terrible excuse for a human being. But since the case did not go to court, a judge couldn’t weigh in on our punishment.
However, one condition the school administration had for allowing my friends to graduate this year was mandatory group counseling to focus on positive interpersonal relationships. I’d already been expelled. But that didn’t mean I got a free pass.
“You should be jumping at the opportunity to participate,” my mom had reamed me out. “This is an opportunity to show people that you care, that you have remorse and concern for bettering yourself. Why on earth would you ever think about not participating?”
It wasn’t really a question, and what the courts and the schools have no power to dictate … the same can’t be said about my mother.
So I have to go, too.
It feels uncomfortable and awful to share such cramped quarters with my former friends, and none of them will meet my eye. Maybe because in this room alone, our story is not skewed by public perception, and there’s nowhere to hide from the truth. In this room alone, the unspoken accusation presses against my skin and threatens to burst through. I. Wasn’t. Alone.
You were there, Carlee. You’re the one who poured Taylor her second vodka shot. Her third. And her fourth.
You were there, too, Kaitlyn. You’re the one who encouraged Carlee. Because Taylor had been flirting with Jason, who broke up with you only one week earlier. You’re the one who got Lauren’s camera, livid when you found out Jason was one of the people in the bed.
Don’t act so innocent, Lauren. You didn’t put your camera back in your purse. You snapped away, like it was all in good fun.
And then there’s you, Haley.…
Haley’s nerve is colossal, and she always sits there the smuggest of all. She has no trouble meeting my eye, and her lack of shame enrages me.
Dr. Lisa’s office practically vibrates with the tension ping-ponging between us. I’d almost feel sorry for the psychologist if I didn’t resent her solely because of her relation to our little counseling group. She is a freshly minted PhD, young and pretty, with trendy glasses, and I get the sense she really believes she can reach us. She thinks she connects, and she really wants us to get this.
Today she opens by offering us access to her impressive assortment of Keurig pods and passing around a bag of caramel-apple lollipops. As if a lollipop could get rid of the bitter taste in my mouth.
Dr. Lisa tugs the wrapper off one and pops it in her mouth. Then she crosses her legs and leans forward. “So today I thought it would be cool to explore what friendship really means to you guys.”
Kaitlyn doesn’t bother stifling her eye roll.
Dr. Lisa reaches for a stack of papers on her desk and passes them around the circle. I accept the pile from Carlee and read the heading: WHAT DO I LOOK FOR IN A TRUE FRIEND?
“I want each of you to take your time in going over this checklist. But here’s the catch.…” Waving her lollipop for emphasis, she tell us, “I don’t want you to take too much time filling it out. Don’t overthink your answers. Answer honestly, based on your gut reaction. If you’re not honest, there’s no point.”
Like the word honesty has any place in a conversation with the girls in this room.
She sends around a pile of clipboards with pens attached. “Take five or ten minutes. Then we’ll regroup.”
I stare down at the worksheet, which instructs us to rank the “friend qualities” included in the checklist on a scale from one (“absolute most important”) to fifteen (“doesn’t matter to me”). The checklist includes items such as “what their hair looks like” and “how popular they are.”
I shake my head. So silly.
Even though I’m supposed to rank the qualities from one to fifteen, I don’t. Instead, I assign the number one to two items on the list: “how honest they are” and “how much you can trust them.” Ultimately, nothing else matters, does it?
When we all drop our pens and stare blankly into space, Dr. Lisa perks up inexplicably. “Looks like we’ve all finished. Awesome!” She grabs a copy of the checklist. “I’ll read each item out loud. Just chime in with what number you assigned. Let’s see what items receive common ratings and what items are rated very differently. Then we can discuss why.”
She glances down at her paper. “How smart they are,” she reads.
I keep my chin tucked and don’t respond. I hear a few murmured responses from the group, but I can’t tell who’s saying what.
“What kind of car their parents drive.”
Again I hear a few undecipherable responses from the group. I start to notice that Haley isn’t responding, either.
“What kind of home they live in,” Dr. Lisa reads.
Haley tosses her clipboard onto the floor in a huff and folds her arms. “This is stupid.”
Dr. Lisa is unfazed. She gazes at Haley, all calm and thoughtful. “Why is it stupid?”
I could answer the question for her. Haley hates being reminded of how she is different from the rest of us. Hers is the only family that doesn’t have much money. Her home is tiny, with a faded roof, and she can’t afford the brand-name clothes we all like. Often she leaves the tags on them and returns them after one or two wear
s. Sometimes she just outright steals them.
I know Haley won’t admit any of this, and she doesn’t.
“It’s stupid because none of us are going to have some big ‘aha’ moment about being a good friend, duh. It’s not like we’re going to read a checklist and suddenly think, ‘Gee, I’ve really learned something.’”
For the first time ever, I notice Dr. Lisa swallow hard, like she’s having trouble keeping up her pep.
“We were a group because we liked each other,” Haley continues bluntly. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think we should have to apologize because sometimes we didn’t like other people.”
Haley always hated Taylor. She hated how quickly she’d become popular with the guys after she lost a bunch of weight during sophomore year. She hated how much the teachers liked her and how proud Taylor was of her good grades. She hated her perfectly clear skin, so she called her high forehead a “five-head.”
Haley hated Taylor’s brand-new red Mazda 3, and her Coach tote, and her weekly trip to the nail salon.
“We know how to be friends,” Haley finishes. “We knew how to be friends to each other. People shouldn’t have to be friends with everyone.” She raises her chin in defiance and stares right at Dr. Lisa. “And I think it’s bullshit that we have to come here.”
The office is pin-drop quiet. Dr. Lisa clears her throat and tries to recover. “Opinion noted. Let’s get back on track. Let’s move on to the next section. Is there anything else that is important to you in a friendship? Something that wasn’t included on the list, maybe, if these items don’t seem relevant to you?”
I don’t look back at my paper. I’m still staring right at Haley. And for the first time ever in these sessions, I open my mouth and say something.
“I’m so sorry that you have to spend your Saturday mornings here, Haley. I’m so sorry you are being punished in some way.”
“Whatever, Nikki.”
“Whatever, sure. You act like you want to sit there and speak honestly.… How ’bout it, Haley? Anything else you’d like to be honest about?”
I stare at her, and she stares right back at me.
“Nope,” she says a minute later. Her eyes are clear.
I refuse to look away until a moment later, when I feel indignant tears pricking my eyes.
She doesn’t care.
About Taylor. About me.
Somehow, the whole act had been concocted in the name of friendship—that we should stand up for our friend against the girl who had the nerve to flirt with the jerk who had dumped Kaitlyn. When the whole idea of our friendship was a joke.
“Screw you, Haley,” I choke out. I rise from my chair and shove my clipboard into Dr. Lisa’s hands. She has been stunned into silence. Then I storm out of her office and into the parking lot. Seconds later, someone calls my name.
“Nikki.”
I keep walking.
“Nik-ki!”
I turn and see Lauren, her face still a deep tan, her silky blond hair streaming behind her.
I pause, because Lauren is the person I used to be closest to.
Because I think maybe she didn’t get off scot-free. The first time I ran into her after the Incident, I noticed a bluish-purplish bruise above the rim of her sunglasses. And her father, who is always so scary and strict, has a temper that’s somewhat legendary.
I haven’t given her the time of day since, even though she was the only person to reach out to me over e-mail a few times. Which I’m guessing she probably wasn’t supposed to be doing.
I soften, just for a minute. I stop and actually look at her, feeling a glimmer of hope. “What?”
But she disappoints me, maybe even more than Haley did.
“I’m sorry, okay?” She says it as if it’s a bad word, glancing around as if someone might be listening. “But everyone was scared shitless. What were we supposed to do?” Lauren keeps tugging at a loose string on her shirt. “I didn’t have a choice. There are things I have to make happen. I have to get into UVA, and do you have any idea how hard that is? I have to be a Theta legacy there.” The thread snaps off in her hand. “I didn’t have a choice,” she repeats.
“And tell me how it would have helped, anyway,” she finishes desperately. She looks at me as if it all makes sense, as if it is something I just don’t get. “How would it have made what happened to you any less bad if five people had gone down instead of just one? You still would’ve ended up in the same boat. I mean, maybe if it would have changed something for you … but it wouldn’t have.”
After a shocked second, I turn and walk away from her, not even bothering to justify her pitiful explanation with a response. I walk the block six times until the hour has passed and I know my mom will be showing up in the parking lot.
I decide I’m not going back, no matter what.
A single thought is on repeat in my brain as I pace: But I wouldn’t have been in the boat by myself. If you were actually my friend, we would’ve held hands while going under.
Chapter 5
Nothing makes you feel sad and alone like sitting in a room with people who used to feel like sisters but have become strangers. On Saturday afternoon, I decide I don’t want to spend the rest of my weekend feeling sad and alone.
“I’m around tomorrow if you want some company.”
With each passing minute, Pax’s offer sounds more and more appealing. But when I pick up my phone to call him, there’s one problem—he never gave me his number.
I think for a minute and then open my laptop. The Harborview Nursing and Rehabilitation Center website is one of the few that is not blocked by the new, intense Internet-monitoring software my parents installed. Following the various links, I find my way to the home page of the wheelchair rugby team and then the contact info tab. Luckily, because Pax is a captain, his e-mail address is provided.
After logging into Gmail, I send a quick message. Hey, it’s Nikki. Any chance you check your e-mail on a Saturday afternoon?
I leave the screen open and start putting my laundry away. Before I even finish, there’s a new message in my in-box.
Sure do. I’m at work today, but I’m on lunch break. What’s up?
I stare at his message for a few minutes, then type a reply. I was thinking that some company sounds pretty good.
I’m thinking so, too. I’m done at 4. Wanna grab some pizza later?
Then P.S.—This would be a lot easier if I had your phone number.
And a minute after that, P.P.S.—Yes I am smooth like that.
I put my hand over my mouth to muffle my laughter, thinking that this feels like flirting and I don’t mind so much, and I send him my phone number.
Pax texts me. Thanks. Does 6 work? Meet at the boards again?
Feeling smiley, I fire off my reply: Sounds good. CU then.
But a lump of dread settles in my stomach and distracts me as I try to get ready for my … whatever … with Pax. I have no idea what’s going to happen when I walk downstairs. To be honest, I have no idea if hanging out with Pax tonight is even a possibility.
I take the time to style my hair and put on makeup, then pull on a black V-neck top, skinny jeans, and the first pair of flip-flops I find sticking out from under my bed. At five thirty, when I can’t delay any longer, I head downstairs and into the kitchen.
Emma’s sitting on a stool and playing on her iPad, my dad’s pouring iced tea, and my mom’s getting a bag of shredded cheese out of the refrigerator.
“Dinner will be ready in ten minutes,” she says. “Eggplant parm.”
Emma glances at my mom, then turns to me and quickly sticks her index finger down her throat.
“I saw that,” my mom calls over her shoulder.
“How?” Emma asks.
“I have eyes everywhere.”
She sounds kind of jovial, and that makes it even harder to speak up.
Taking a deep breath, I spit out, “Um … I was actually going to meet up with a friend for dinner.”
Emma’s f
inger pauses in space above the iPad. My dad sets down the pitcher. The spatula in my mom’s hand falls to the counter. No one speaks.
“Not, um,… any of the girls,” I clarify quickly. As if.
An entire age passes before anyone says anything. My mom continues to stare down at the frying pan, and a faint burning smell starts to fill the kitchen.
“We haven’t really discussed your social privileges.” Her voice is low, and she still doesn’t look at me.
I try to keep from tensing up. I’ve already lost most Internet privileges. I’ve lost driving privileges. And I’ve been grounded all summer. But there has to be an end to this. I mean, I can’t just be grounded indefinitely.
“Am I really not allowed to have friends again?” As hard as I try to fight it, a trace of emotion cracks my voice. “Forever?”
“Emma, go pick me six basil leaves.”
“But—”
“Emma, now.”
My sister sighs and scampers from the kitchen, all too familiar with the routine.
When she’s gone, I smooth my hair and attempt to keep my composure. “I’m not trying to be smart. I just … I’m really asking the question. Are these punishments going to be in place forever? As long as I’m still living here?”
Finally my mother turns and looks at me, twisting the dish towel into a tight knot. “I don’t believe your father and I have made a decision on that.” Her mouth is flat, and she raises an eyebrow. “Assigning a specific time period … It’s as if it’s been decided the price has been paid. And I continue to struggle with the idea of assigning a price to what happened.”
I feel the stirrings of frustration and indignation in my belly, and I do everything in my power to keep them from showing on my face. “I’m not asking for everything back. I’m just ask—”
“I don’t believe your father and I have made a decision on that,” she repeats loudly, interrupting me.
“Let her go.”
My father’s voice is barely discernible, but still it makes me jump. He hasn’t involved himself much in these conversations. He turns around, and almost as if by accident, his eyes meet mine. A dull pain throbs in my chest. Because there is nothing, no person lost, no privilege lost, that makes me feel sadder than the look in my father’s eyes these days.