Emilia kicked the door in frustration.
What did you expect? That they would keep it open for you to come and face your demons?
She turned and looked at the day, the unremarkable day, but one she’d sort of decided was her day of liberation. The day on which not even locked doors could keep her out.
Emilia slowly walked the perimeter of the school, looking for a way to get in without being obvious to anyone who might be watching. She noticed a broken window near some bushes along the side of the school. She looked up and down the street—when she was sure no one was around, she walked over to the window and reached in to release the latch. In moments, it was open and she slipped inside.
The window led to the lower level of the school, where the art and chorus and orchestra rooms were located. She dropped carefully to the floor and landed in the chorus room. It smelled just as it always had. There was a fluttering in her gut as she took in the musty scent of chalk and pencil shavings. There were a few chairs left behind, strewn about and forgotten. In the corner, a crumpled paper. Emilia walked over to it and smoothed it out. She read the title on the sheet of music.
“Ghost of John.”
The melody instantly came back into her mind. She remembered. This was the song they always sang around Halloween! She’d forgotten it until this very moment. Emilia began humming it as she folded the paper and put it in her back pocket. How many other songs had she forgotten or never learned? A chill ran up her spine, but she ignored it. Ma’s words echoed in her mind.
Don’t ever ignore your instincts, Emilia. If something feels wrong, it is. You know that.
Ma’s voice and warnings were always with her now, always invading her thoughts.
Nobody is here, though, she reasoned as she walked to the door. Her hands were shaking; she was scared, but determined. She turned the knob, looked up and down the hall, and then stood there listening for any noise or signal that someone else might be there, too.
Nothing.
She stepped into the dark hallway and carefully walked down toward the art room.
Jesus Christ, Emilia, what the hell are you doing? she thought. Every one of her senses was on alert, her heart was beating fast, and her body felt weak.
Be brave! Be brave! You can do this! This is the day of your liberation!
Emilia stifled a nervous laugh that swelled out of nowhere. She imagined what her mother might say if she knew where Emilia was at this very moment, but Emilia continued because underneath the fear, she also felt a strange sense of freedom. Of power. She ran her hand against the smooth paint on the hallway walls just as she did when she was younger.
Remember this?
Her stomach fluttered.
The door to the art room was open and she went inside. There was no furniture, but there, still, was the large metal cabinet where her teacher had kept the art supplies. She opened the door and found several bottles of red, blue, and yellow paint.
And the glittery paint!
She unscrewed the cap and dipped her finger into the bottle, smeared the paint on the cabinet. How many projects had she missed out on while she was at the dining room table with Ma, the textbooks spread out before them, her mother growing upset and frustrated with her?
There was a new wave of excitement in Emilia’s stomach as she thought of the school filled with so many classrooms. There was the room just at the end of this hallway, she remembered, the one where they stored all the instruments parents would rent for their kids throughout the year. So many instruments that didn’t fit in the orchestra room. Emilia had started violin that year. Ma had rented it for her and she loved walking with that violin case, to and from school, feeling so important. But then, one day, it was gone from her room and she knew Ma must have brought it back here.
Emilia took a deep breath, pushed that aside for a moment, and focused again on all the places she could freely explore now. There was the front office, which must still hold some office supplies, paper clips, and sticky notes. And the gymnasium with sports equipment. And the library, perhaps a book or two left behind.
All these things, left just for her.
All of them, waiting to be found.
Emilia grabbed the rest of the paint bottles, unscrewed the caps tight with dried paint, and saw they were still fresh. She thought of all the gifts her crows had ever left her. She thought of how the cold this year was making her particularly uneasy, and she thought of her old third-grade classroom.
Eagerly, she ran upstairs to it. And there, she stood looking around, imagining that room filling up.
And she suddenly knew.
This is it! she thought.
The Next Night
The next night, Emilia smiled at Ian in a way that made his heart and stomach flip. She was the happiest he’d seen her in a while.
“Hey,” he said, smiling at her.
“Hey,” she said, getting up and rushing to hug him from where she’d been sitting on her front steps.
He laughed. “What’s that for? What are you doing out here?”
She shrugged. “I dunno. I haven’t seen you in a couple days. I’ve just missed you.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ve missed you, too,” he said, burying his face a little in her hair. He took a deep breath, inhaled the scent of her shampoo. He wished Anthony weren’t back in town for Christmas. He wished that instead of letting Anthony talk him into going over to his aunt’s house after work to hang out and spend the night, he’d hung out with Emilia instead.
She pulled away and grabbed his hand as they walked toward her house. She told him she’d rented a movie. And with each passing minute, every moment he noticed Emilia seemed more herself, a sense of dread filled him. He’d made a huge mistake last night. The memory of it made him uneasy.
When he got to Anthony’s, his aunt and uncle had already left for a benefit dinner and wouldn’t be home until very late. Ian had thought it would just be him and Anthony, but Jane was there, too.
They’d gotten bored and started making mixed drinks with whatever booze they found in the liquor cabinet. Ian had just wanted to keep up with Anthony, who could easily outdrink him now. And maybe, though he didn’t want to admit it, a part of him didn’t want to seem like a wuss in front of Jane.
Eventually Anthony drifted off to sleep on the couch while they watched TV, and Jane said she was going for a smoke.
Want one? she asked, holding up a cigarette.
Sure. Ian followed her outside.
He wasn’t much of a smoker and he sort of hated the taste, but he liked being around Jane. She was actually nice, and he could tell she really cared about Anthony. As they smoked, they started talking about relationships and all kinds of things. Jane told him about the guy she’d dated before Anthony.
He was one of those types who thought he could bully me, you know what I mean? Like he could talk to me like I’m trash because of what I do. I could outsmart that guy any day of the week. She looked over at Ian. Bet you didn’t know I had a full ride to college if I’d wanted it.
Ian was surprised, but he didn’t say anything and tried not to show it.
Who knows, maybe I’ll still go. Anyway, I wasn’t having any of that guy’s shit. See, that’s why I love Anthony. Even before he knew where I lived and that my parents have money, he treated me as an equal. You know what I mean? She looked into the house through the glass door at Anthony sleeping on the couch. He’s genuine.
Ian nodded as Jane took in a long drag and let out little smoke rings.
Ian’s tongue felt fuzzy and his head heavy, and he found those smoke rings so mesmerizing, rising in the cold night. He looked at Jane as she took another drag and dispersed another series of perfect O’s from her perfect lips.
Ian shook the thought away and closed his eyes.
So, you and Emilia, Jane said. You guys have been together awhile, huh?
>
Yeah, since middle school. Actually, really before then in a way. More like elementary school.
Really? Elementary school?
Yeah . . . He could feel the stupid grin on his face, even though his cheeks felt numb.
You guys are really serious, then?
Yeah. He closed his eyes for a moment and thought about Emilia. He was committed to their relationship. And he was sure Emilia felt the same way. Even if lately, she’d seemed off.
He could almost hear Emilia’s voice in his ear. It’s just the weather, she’d said.
But was that really it? Or was there more?
Of course there’s more—you fucked up the other day, he thought.
Maybe she was just done with him? Maybe she didn’t know how to tell him.
Ian felt the world tilting a little, and when he opened his eyes again, Jane was closer to him and he realized he’d said some or all of this aloud.
She looked at him sympathetically. And he was moved by the way she looked at him with genuine concern. He wanted to reach over and kiss her.
You okay? she asked.
Yeah, he said, as he felt a small burn on his hand. He looked down at the unsmoked cigarette that had burned down to the filter, and he dropped it to the ground. I just . . . I mean, I think we’re serious. Like, I know we are, but . . .
It was so easy to talk to Jane. No second-guessing. She was so open with her feelings and experiences that it seemed easy and harmless to be honest, too. And he’d been feeling so confused around Emilia. And lonely, so lonely.
So here was this girl, your cousin’s girl, who seemed to care. Maybe it’d be good to talk to a girl, get her opinion, he reasoned, ignoring how much he liked having someone listen to him. So he told Jane all about his and Emilia’s relationship, about the way she’d been acting lately. And how he worried she was going to break up with him, or maybe she really was acting this way because winter brought back terrible memories for her. Because it was so entwined with her attack, an attack so terrible that Emilia had only spoken to him about it once. She’d seemed like she was in a trance when she told him.
Jane had listened. She’d told him Emilia was lucky to have him. And that everything would be okay, because she could tell Emilia really loved him, too. She put her arm around him and pulled him in close. He shut his eyes and filled his mind with Emilia. The girl he loved.
It wasn’t until Anthony woke up and took Jane home, when Ian was left on the couch by himself with his thoughts and the conversation echoed in his head, that he felt he’d said too much. And that he had betrayed Emilia as surely as if he’d kissed Jane.
Emilia, who had waited for him outside in the cold today and was acting like her old self. He fought back the urge to say sorry to her because then he’d have to explain what he was sorry for. So they popped popcorn, and watched the movie, and laughed, and when he had to go home, she walked outside with him. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him over and over on the stoop. He held on to her waist and pulled her close to him and told himself, Don’t worry about it. You didn’t do anything wrong.
Even though he knew he had.
What If
What if the crows hadn’t saved me? Emilia thought as she walked to the school again the next morning. She hadn’t told Ma or Tomás or even Ian about the classroom. It was her secret, her purpose, her something, and she didn’t want to share it with anyone.
Yesterday she’d lost track of time and stayed there too long. Her mother had gotten angry and suspicious, and Emilia told herself she’d stay home today. But as soon as Ma left for work this morning, Emilia couldn’t help it. She felt pulled back to the classroom. And today she was going to stop at the consignment shop to see if she could find anything there to bring.
She’d already taken from her father’s office a book he had of El Salvador, his homeland. And so many books of poetry. She’d been late yesterday because she’d sat in the classroom picking out her favorite poems to write on the walls and then spent too much time looking for one in particular. Something about the cold and winter and Sundays. She remembered how he’d read it to her once and told her it was his favorite.
Why, Dad?
Because it is sad, and it is beautiful. Like people, Emilia. Like life. It is all sad and beautiful.
She’d found it, finally, and felt like it meant something that she did.
After finding the poem, she picked out the perfect spot for it and told herself to bring a thick marker from home to write it on the wall.
Emilia felt for the marker in her pocket now. And adjusted her backpack, where she carried a folded-up, deflated air mattress from one time long ago when she and her family went camping.
She’d had so much fun exploring the school the last few days. And she’d found more art supplies in classroom cupboards and closets—chalk, staplers, papers—and hauled it all back to the classroom. The room was becoming a shrine to forgotten things; what others had discarded or forgotten, Emilia would bring here and make beautiful again. She could picture it all so perfectly. And then she’d left late. And her mother had completely overreacted when Emilia came home.
Could she tell I was lying about being at the library? Emilia wondered. Was she mad enough to follow me today, to see where I went?
The classroom floated into her mind again, but a cold, biting wind whisked the image away. Instead, her mind crowded with the questions that came the colder the weather got.
What if the police hadn’t checked the woods just beyond the school playground? What if Jeremy Lance had dragged me off somewhere else?
Emilia thought of Jeremy Lance. She could still hear his breathing in her ears. She could still feel his hands around her ankles, the same hands that pounded and broke through that school bus window. Her ankles had felt bruised even weeks later from Jeremy Lance’s tight grip.
Where would he have taken me if my birds hadn’t come? What if I’d kept flying?
Emilia was shivering when she finally arrived at the consignment shop. She didn’t know if from the cold, or the memory of Jeremy Lance.
The store smelled just as she remembered: of sweat and musk, unfamiliar people and sweet tobacco and houses not her own. But now she thought she also smelled death through the damp musk, and a faint sterile scent that tried to mask unwashed flesh and bandages, urine and blood, tears and mucus. It had surrounded Emilia those days she was in the hospital, traveling the hallways and wafting into her room. It clung to the nurses’ clothes and brushed against Emilia when they checked on her.
The smell turned her stomach.
Emilia used to come here often with her mother when she was younger, while Tomás was off at school. Whenever Ma got frustrated with homeschool lessons, with Emilia wanting to make origami crows instead of following along, she would tell Emilia they needed a field trip and off they went, just the two of them, to fancy department stores on the other side of town. Ma never bought anything, but afterward they would stop by here, and Ma would have something to sell at the consignment store. Eventually, Emilia understood Ma’s secret. But back then, it was just a field trip. And they’d get ice cream afterward, their special sundaes.
All without Tomás.
Emilia felt a sudden pang of sadness for her brother.
“Looking for anything in particular?” Up at the counter, the salesgirl who had been flipping through a book was now staring in her direction.
“Just looking,” Emilia answered as she cut through the thick scents to look at an old coat. She wondered who it had belonged to.
The girl went back to her book and Emilia looked at some shoes and wondered who had worn them. One pair in particular reminded her of the shoes her grandmother used to wear all the time.
Emilia was seven when her grandmother on her mother’s side came from Mexico and lived with them for a year. Emilia’s room became her grandmother’s room,
and Ma set an extra mattress in Tomás’s room for Emilia.
Eres un pajarito, her grandmother would say to her all the time—You are a little bird, because she was always fluttering about. Emilia could hear her grandmother’s voice as she closed her eyes and thought back to a day they were in the yard together. Her grandmother stared at the sky and got tears in her eyes as she spoke.
Cuando me valla. Al cielo, mija.
Emilia didn’t understand, so her grandmother pointed to the sky. This was how she and Emilia communicated. With gestures, plus some words her grandmother had taught her in Spanish and some Emilia had taught her in English. At first, Emilia was confused, but she eventually understood her grandmother meant that when she died, when she went to the sky, Emilia could still talk to her.
Emilia reached out for the shoes and tried them on.
Did I call out for you that day, Abuela? Emilia wondered. Maybe you’re the reason the birds showed up.
Emilia clasped the straps around her ankles. The shoes were scuffed, but she thought they were lovely and decided to get them.
Her grandmother had died within a month of returning to Mexico. Emilia’s eyes filled with tears as she thought of that long-ago grief. And then she remembered her eighth birthday, how they’d celebrated right before her grandmother had left. She’d given Emilia a beautiful pastel checkered dress that Emilia immediately put on and wore the rest of the day.
Emilia continued walking around the store, lost in her memories. She wondered who had that pastel checkered dress now. She hadn’t seen it in years. Had her mother given it away?
Emilia remembered, too, about that time, how she would sometimes climb into bed with Tomás and tell him jokes and they would laugh until their mother came upstairs and threatened to make one of them sleep downstairs in the living room if they didn’t go right to bed. They would pretend to be asleep, and when their mother was gone, they would go back to whispering and laughing into their pillows.
Except that one night, Emilia thought. On the night of her eighth birthday, actually, when Tomás had suddenly started crying softly in the dark. And when she asked him why, he kept repeating, I’m just scared.
The Fall of Innocence Page 10