by Anne Eliot
All of us being so angry and upset—plus me being in love and unable to see the girlfriend who was in the hospital and horribly hurt—created a perfect and terrible storm that I started then got caught in the middle of—and I’m still caught.
The Province of British Columbia suddenly wouldn’t release me from my holding cell to see either of my parents. I could only speak with their attorneys under supervision of my own court-assigned attorney.
So that’s how I got assigned to Mary, a newly hired, just-out-of-college social worker who really liked me. And I liked her. We were sort of friends, even. After I’d spent three days inside the juvenile lockup, Mary formally recommended to the courts that I be treated as a special case. One that needed protection from the media—including hiding my name and even my face from the press. She also convinced the judge that though I was listed as a felon for stealing a car, I shouldn’t be with the teens who’d committed violent crimes.
The judge, who simply wanted me out of his hair and did not want my ongoing saga to be picked up by the national news stations, quickly agreed to admit me into the boys’ home. It was a safe place to hide where I could do the punishment time I deserved for stealing the car, while he and the courts tried to figure out the truth behind my parent situation.
I was all for the plan, at first.
Mom and Dad were the last people I wanted to be living with while they were in the middle of a World War III-style divorce. Besides, there was always the chance my dad would win and somehow convince Mom not to leave him, which would leave me back at square one, and I knew enough to know I was never going back to Dad’s version of what my life needed to be. Being near them was a risk I wasn’t willing to take, and I made that very clear to the judge. But then it didn’t take long for me to realize that by keeping me away from the news media and my parents, they were keeping me away from everyone.
Including Ellen. Which was never my goal.
That’s when, in front of an assigned psychologist and Mary, and running on over two weeks of sleepless nights and extreme stress, I broke down.
Big time broke down.
I told them everything. Explained about my dad and the years of football I didn’t want to play. I even told that lady everything about Ellen, and about the photography project and how we were supposed to be photographers together, and how I was making plans to attend arts-based university programs with her. I told her how Tanner Gold and I accidentally broke her legs during a fight, and I seriously even told her about how I loved Ellen Foster.
I did everything I could to make Mary and that shrink see that, despite the reports about me on the news coming from Ontario and the fact that I’d stolen a car and a wallet, I wasn’t this horrible bully. I was actually Ellen’s friend—her boyfriend—and that I’d never hurt her.
And then I begged and begged them to let me see her. Call her…anything. They refused, of course. And the judge didn’t believe any of my story that I wasn’t some sort of jock asshole.
Not one bit.
I think Mary believed me. I also think the psychologist believed me a little. But that didn’t help when the guy in charge was not on board. At my first court date, I was blindsided. My now extremely pissed-off Dad switched his tune on me. His ego wasn’t going to take his only child calling him abusive to a judge. He stood in that courtroom and accused me of a childhood chock-full of me being oppositional and defiant. He said I had a disorder. That I attacked Ellen Foster just as sort of a fun tackle game, as the news had reported it. Worse, he said my mom was incompetent and just as incapable of handling me as he was, and that she was enabling me and my bad behavior.
I tried to explain in the court that my dad was acting out of revenge against me, because I wanted to stop playing football, and against my mom for being on my side for the first time in my life. Sadly, I did it all wrong. I shouted. Lost my temper. Called my dad a bunch of names in front of the judge.
The whole time Dad had been smiling because I fell right into his trap.
That’s how Dad and his creeper attorney had wanted me to act.
After a while, Mary didn’t know whose side to take. I think she felt really sorry for me because I totally shut down after that. Days later, she stopped looking me in the eye, stopped promising to help me, and instead followed the judge’s decisions about my fate to the letter.
The day after my courtroom temper tantrum, Mary told me that my parents got into some sort of huge fight in front of the same judge. It was a fight that involved a ton more yelling and drama. Word is that Dad shoved a chair really hard at my mom in the courtroom. That’s when my mom went bat-shit crazy and ended up screaming and trying to throw the same chair at my dad. Though it did not fly very far, it shocked the whole courtroom when her purse was vaulted at the judge’s head before they could calm her down, subdue her, and finally arrest her.
Hell, they also arrested my dad, because by that time he’d launched into one of his demeaning tirades all over my mom, which ended with some huge profanity-filled names thrown at the judge as well.
The judge pressed charges on both of them for contempt of court, which meant I couldn’t be released to either of them. Suddenly, the unexpected happened. I was made a ward of the province.
Of course, in addition to being beyond depressed, I was in complete shock when I understood the Vancouver Boys Preparatory Academy was not going to be a temporary stay.
I never thought they would keep me locked in for more than a few days. On my formal long-term check-in interview, I was also informed I’d have zero technology access for six whole months until my behavior improved. That’s when I started flipping out and having this panic attack thing. When I imagined six months of not contacting Ellen, I couldn’t breathe at all. While Mary was giving me a hug and saying how it was all going to be okay, I pushed her as hard as I could, grabbed her cell phone from out of her purse, and ran behind the intake desk.
I took some keys that were hanging from a janitor’s closet door and locked myself into it from the other side, with the idea that I just needed to text Ellen once.
Only once!
The school actually had to call the fire department so they could chop down the door to get me out.
But whatever. By that time, I’d sent what I needed to send using Mary’s phone. I said exactly what I needed to say to Ellen—that I was sorry, that I wasn’t coming back ever, that she needed to not wait for me. The school wouldn’t let me apologize to Mary, and of course she was taken off my case. Because of my antics, I spent my first week here in solitary confinement.
My current social worker is called Tom.
He’s a quiet grump of a man who outweighs me by about seventy-five pounds. I haven’t given him any trouble, even though he was chosen for me in case I decided to pick his pockets or act like my parents and throw furniture at the judge. He hardly speaks to me at all except to check in with me at the monthly court date, check my grades, and get with the school psychologist, who assures him that I’m hitting all my marks.
And I haven’t missed one. Since that first day, I’ve been a model student.
My only rebellion happens when I’m on this morning run, and only I am aware that it’s a rebellion at all. See, I’d decided to never finish first. I do it only because I visualize somehow and somewhere, my dad’s getting reports on me. Running slowly—degrading my cardio capacities—is one of the things Dad would hate to hear. Even if he never finds out about it, this daily dose of personal defiance feels good. I also love being all alone the end of the run, because it’s the part of the day where I feel the most clearheaded.
Now that all of my shock and anger and numbness has worn off and I’ve accepted my situation, I’ve been feeling again. Feeling lonely most of all. Homesick.
For my mom. My dog, CoCo. My own bed.
And longing for Ellen. Always that.
My thoughts are overtaken with memories of her sparkling dark eyes smiling up at me, and I’m not quite certain how to handle the he
aviness that settles into my heart because of how bad it hurts to miss her again.
As we round the last corner of the run, I make sure to fall to the end of the line.
Last place also gets me assigned to extra morning yard work, which is something I actually like because it takes my mind off of Ellen.
It’s not slavery if it’s character building, right?
Ellen
“His name is Harrison Shaw. And I think he’s from Toronto,” I say. “But I don’t remember much besides the fact that he’s”—I realize my cheeks are aching from smiling—”funny.”
Patrick pauses to analyze my expression. “But you say he knocked you down! I will personally crush the guy if you’ve got even a scratch on you.” He’s hauling our bags down the dormitory hallway and making it look easy, as usual.
“You will not. He’s also on crutches. It was an accident, and I’m perfectly fine.”
He twists his lips into a frown, but his black eyes, as dark as mine, are twinkling some with laughter and the same excitement I have from being here. “Ellen, you’re like a broken record. Do you know that every time someone knocks you down it’s an accident, and then you’re suddenly friends?”
“Really?” I laugh. “I’ll try harder to meet some people without falling on them, just to please you.”
“Good.” He laughs back.
Laura, who’s been skipping along behind us, peeking into everyone’s room, and saying hello to anyone she sees, finally catches up. “Aww. It’s how we met. So it must be fated friendship. Plus, he’s on crutches and you’re on crutches, so it’s absolutely adorable and he will part of your destiny now, don’t ya-think, Ellen?”
“Yes. Our crutches are destined to make out.”
Laura shakes her head, laughing. “Oh, ya-think you’re funny with that, do you? Tell me, then. Is he cute? He must be cute.”
“Um…well. Look. Here we are,” I say. “An excellent location, don’t you think?”
We’ve stopped in front of a freshly painted door marked 156. Our dorm room for the duration. It’s smack in the middle of a long hallway that appears to have about twenty rooms on each side. Number 156 is the first one next to two double doors marked LADIES ONLY.
Laura yanks open one of the heavy bathroom doors and peers in. “Ohh, yes.” Her voice echoes around the tile- and glass-filled bathroom. I glimpse about ten sinks under a very long mirror, reflecting many bathroom stalls. “Yay!” Laura sings out, dancing in as the door closes behind her. “If we’ve got to freshen up in the middle of the night for any reason, we don’t have to go far, Ellen. This is gorgeous in here.”
At the far end of the hall, I can see the sign that says MEN ONLY, and I blink at it, trying to process the idea that there will be guys passing by in their bathrobes while I’m passing by in mine. I don’t think that any of us, especially our parents, understood that co-ed meant there were going to be boys on our same floor. But maybe this is only a big deal to me. It’s possible people with normal families filled with things like dads and brothers will think that being in pajamas around the opposite sex feels ordinary.
Before turning the key, I grimace at the handicapped-wheelchair sign someone’s screwed above my room number and wonder how and why that stupid sign has to be on the door. It’s not like it matters, does it? I glance around, and notice the other rooms closest to the bathroom do not have the same sign.
*Wonders: Did they put this sign up just for special and disabled me?*
Patrick, without saying a word, drops our bags to the floor and pulls out his multi-tool pocketknife, unscrews the sign, and slips it and the knife into his bag. I smile gratefully up at him, and he winks, his eyes full of perfect best-friend understanding.
Laura hasn’t even seen the sign, because she’s still touring the bathroom and has been shouting out things from behind the door like, “Ellen! The loos are blue! Have you ever even seen such a thing as that?” And now, all muffled, “Oh, but wait. The bloody showers in here are horror-movie creepy! Plastic shower curtains and all. We shall never shower alone!” She springs back out of the restroom and rejoins us by our dorm room door.
“So…back to the important conversation you tried to make me forget. Is this Harrison Shaw boy cute or not? And…do you think he’s on our same floor? Because he’s also on them crutches things, so I bet they won’t be making him go upstairs.”
“There is an elevator,” Patrick grumbles.
I turn the key and swing open the door, ignoring Laura’s question again, because I know as soon as she walks in here she’s going to forget it again.
“Oh my, how perrrrfect!” Laura claps her hands and leaps over the bags blocking her way. She’s dancing in the middle of the room, hugging herself. “A real dorm room!”
Patrick and I share a smile while watching Laura take in the room like she’s on a stage and he and I are simply happy observers.
“It’s glorious,” she breathes out. Her Irish accent is extra strong because, like us, she’s extra happy. “It’s better than the photos on the internet. Just look at the wee little beds and the wee matching lamps and the wee perfect little desks, dressers, and bookshelves. We’ve even got our own closets and rubbish bins, and even matching snack holders! How thoughtful.” She reaches into her bag and fills one of the wooden pencil cups to bursting with Pixy Stix before tossing one to Patrick and cracking one open for herself. “Patrick, does your room look exactly like this?” she asks, while dumping a full teaspoon of flavored sugar onto her tongue.
Patrick glances up, dumping the same amount of candy onto his tongue. “Yeah. Same. Except mine has a view of a brick wall and a parking lot. Our toilets are yellow. You two did much better, I think.”
I wait for Patrick to drag in our bags, and follow slowly behind, going straight to the window that looks out over a courtyard that boasts tons of shade trees and a small pond, around which there are little pathways and some well-placed benches. “Look out here! There’s no one but ducks and squirrels looking into our room. I hope we have access to this courtyard.”
“If we don’t, I shall steal you a key.” Laura flops onto her back to test one of the beds, then flips onto her stomach, scattering the last of her Pixy Stix sugar all over the place. “Super comfortable and possibly room for two! Winky-wink.” She waggles her brows at me then flips up to her knees so she can bounce some. “Hope that handsome Harrison Shaw’s got a skinny roommate. Someone who won’t take up all of the extra space.” She shoots a pointed look at Patrick.
Patrick groans like he’s in pain, and grabs another Pixy Stix and cracks it in half so he can eat the whole thing at once. I wonder if Laura’s noticed she and Patrick both love Pixy Stix. After swallowing his candy, Patrick balls up the paper and flicks it perfectly into the trash and then says, “Okay. So. Yeah. I’m done here. You can find me up in 403. I need to unpack and meet people on my own floor and find my own roommate.”
“Do you have his name?”
“Toby Green. From Manitoba.”
“Sounds rather manly, this Toby. Aren’t boys from Manitoba good with horses and farm equipment and snow shovels and big trucks with big tires?” Laura asks.
“That’s like saying everyone from Ireland’s related to Leprechauns,” I protest.
“We are!” Laura winks. “Fingers crossed he’s at least good to look at, Patrick.”
“Fingers crossed he’s not a tool or weird. You two are lucky you know each other. I’m on a huge crapshoot here, and it’s stressing me out. You know I’m not that social.” Patrick runs a hand through his thick, straight hair. “Our resident advisor says we have to do some sort of team-building event after lunch. That alone is pissing me off because that dude is obviously the type who’s going to make us sit in a damn circle, hold hands, and share feelings or some such pile of crap. So good luck with finding your Handsome Harrison.”
“I didn’t say Harrison Shaw was handsome at all yet…and wait!” I grab his arm as he tries to pass by us and exit the door. �
��Aren’t we going to lunch together? You just turned into a cranky grizzly bear in front of us. It’s obvious you need some food before unpacking and”—I shake my head, pointing at Laura’s antics, because she’s now actually jumping from bed to bed, all while grabbing a Pixy Stix between each leap as though she’s performing an orchestrated candy-harvest dance—”if we don’t get some actual food into Laura, she’s going to be in some sort of sugar coma. You know I can’t get that one to lunch all by myself.”
“Handsome!” Laura leaps from one bed to the other. “Harrison.” Laura leaps back. “Handsome.” Leaps. “Harrison.” Leaps. “Shaw!”
A voice pipes in from the door, “Did someone say my name and mention lunch? Because if so, I’m Harrison Shaw, and I’m starving.”
“Aaaaand my, but you are handsome!” Laura leaps off the bed and lands, doing one of her perfect ballet spins. She ends by handing him a Pixy Stix with a small, graceful bow. “I’m Laura. Have some food. We’ve heard all about you from our Ellen.”
“Well, I haven’t heard about you, Miss Pixy Stix. Are you one of the UK exchange students? I love girls with accents. And damn…” His eyes go from assessing Laura to appreciative as he crutches into the room, pausing to put on his glasses so he can get a better look at her.
This makes my heart twist slightly in a way that I’m not sure I like, because first, it reminds me how cute he is with the glasses, and second, he adds in this low whistle while looking at Laura before saying, “I do love a girl with an accent who’s covered in sugar and…glitter?”
“Well, who doesn’t?” Patrick’s expression turns murderous.
“He’s right there, Mr. Flannel Shirt. Tell me something I haven’t heard before.” Laura laughs. “Ellen didn’t mention you were a flirt.”
“I was about to mention it.” I raise a brow at Harrison.
Harrison winks at me. “How can I not flirt when you’re both so gorgeous? Just trying to impress before the other guys find out you two are in here.”
Laura giggles and, like me, she seems instantly under Harrison’s flannel-glasses-adorable spell.