She redirected her attention to the photo album, laughing and pointing out pictures that gave her a reason to share a story. From the corner of my eye I saw Evan emerge, taking a position in the shadows, letting me know he was there and I wasn’t alone. Tonight, that meant I not only had the support of my best friend, but from a member of my family, as well.
THE RAIN STARTED AFTER Thanksgiving break, and it continued for weeks. This wasn’t really helping the foul mood I was in as I sat in the counselor’s office at school waiting for my bi-weekly meeting with Mrs. Crawford. While I didn’t exactly hate the meetings—I mean, it did excuse me from class—I felt guilty lying about my progress, which made it a waste of time for both of us.
When I arrived at the office, her door was closed, so I sat on the couch in the small waiting room and took out my book for English. The office door swung open a couple minutes later and I was stunned to see Connor. My stomach flip-flopped.
“Connor, take a seat while I fill out this form,” Mrs. Crawford called from inside her office. He eyed me and then the couch as if assessing his options before sitting at the opposite end, dropping his bag at his feet. Dried droplets of silver paint splattered his shoes and the fraying edges of his jeans. Had he been back to the ruins? I instinctively shifted closer to my side.
Mrs. Crawford called my name.
“Yes?” I asked, standing up and gathering my bag, skirting around his long legs which occupied the majority of the floor. I poked my head in her door, where I saw the top of her dark hair as she leaned over her desk.
“I need five minutes, okay?” She gestured to a form on her desk. “Wait for me out there.”
“Okay,” I said and turned back to the waiting room. Connor had shifted, taking up the majority of space on the couch. I decided to sit in the chair instead, pulling out my tattered, red-covered book to keep my distance.
“You know, I always thought in today’s world Holden would have been medicated and much less likely to go off the deep end.” His voice was always deeper than I expected, and as I peered at him over the top of my book I noticed again that the hair on his chin was thicker than on most boys my age.
“Excuse me?” Why was he talking to me?
“Holden Caulfield. I wonder what modern-day medication would have done for him.” A frown lingered on his lips, and again I wondered what he was implying. Did he know I’d been medicated? Was he referring to himself? After all, we were both in the counselor’s office.
I stared at him for a moment, trying to discern the meaning in his statement before shrugging, refusing to fall in his trap.
“It’s not easy when you see the world differently from other people. It scares them.” He continued conversationally. My heart started at his words. He was too close—always too close to the sore spot with me.
“Holden could be scary, and rash. Often, his reactions confused people. Plus, he was kind of a jerk.” I was tense and hostile, spoiling for a fight. “I’m sure you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
Connor stretched and brought his hands behind his head in the appearance of casualness, yet his eyes flashed blue and hot. “So you’ve heard the rumors, then? Which one? Juvie? Boot camp? Mental hospital?” He laughed. “No wonder you’re so skittish around me.”
Busted. I dropped my eyes to my book and pretended to read the swirling words in front of me. After a moment I dropped it to my lap, only to find him watching me, again. “Why did you copy my picture in art?” I asked.
“I didn’t.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course you did. Why?”
Connor shook his head. “Ms. Anderson said draw a portrait of someone. I drew that guy.”
Dry-mouthed, I swallowed before my next question. “Where did you see him?” I wanted to know. I needed to know. Why was he doing this?
Connor dropped his hands and leaned forward on his knees. In a completely serious voice he said, “With you.”
A clammy sweat coated my hands and made the metal arms on my chair slippery. “No, you didn’t.”
“I did. In the classroom, in the hallway, on your way home from school. He’s probably outside that door. You want me to call him?”
No doubt it was a dare and I wasn’t sure what would happen if he followed through. Evan was around; he was always around, and this was just the kind of thing he would think was amusing.
Thankfully, Mrs. Crawford opened the door to her office, holding a sheet of paper, and stepped into the thick tension of the room, her brown eyes dancing between the two of us.
“Jane, you can go in. I’ll only be a minute.” I stood, my feet twisting in the straps of my backpack, and stumbled. Connor’s hands were on my shoulders before my knees hit the ground and I heard him murmur a low, “Careful,” as he helped me stand. I gave him a quick glance and an even quieter “Thank you,” before going into her office.
Mrs. Crawford walked behind me and repeated, “One minute,” before closing the door, leaving me and my heart alone to calm down. I sat in the chair facing her desk and put my book away. Mrs. Crawford was alright. She didn’t pry much, and we usually ended up talking about movies or books. I leaned over to get a better view of the photo in the frame on her desk of her and her husband. It was a photo of them at her graduation from Spelman College, and he was the definition of tall, dark and handsome.
My eyes flicked to the paperwork on her desk, a thick file—definitely thicker than the one I’d seen with my name on it. Glancing behind me to ensure the door was still closed, I nudged the file so I could see the hand-written name down the side.
Connor Jacobs.
Anxiety rippled through my body, because although I wasn’t the kind of girl that poked her nose into other people’s business, this was too good to pass up. I used my pinky finger to flip the brown folder open and read the first page.
It was a letter. From Brookhaven Hospital in North Carolina. Under the name of the hospital I saw the phrase: Ill-health, of body or of mind, is defeat. Health alone is victory. Let all men, if they can manage it, contrive to be healthy! - Thomas Carlyle
My eyes scanned the rest of the page. It was a letter about Connor’s release from the hospital the month before and some information about medication and required counseling sessions with Mrs. Crawford.
Unwilling to press my luck, I shut the folder and straightened it on her desk before moving back to the chair. I hadn’t heard of Brookhaven Hospital and was intrigued. What had Connor just said about him and rumors? Juvie and mental hospitals? I inched out of my seat to look again but heard the door knob wiggle and sat back down in a rush.
“Sorry about that,” Mrs. Crawford said as she moved around the desk to her own seat. She picked the folder up and opened a drawer in the file cabinet behind her, sliding it in before shutting it and opening another one and extracting what I assumed was my own. “Are you okay?”
“What? Why?” I asked, flustered at her attention.
“You just look a little pale,” she said. “Well, not anymore, now you are red as a beet!” Her comment of course made my face turn even redder.
“Oh,” I said, trying to think of something, “I don’t know, just tired maybe.”
“How was your break?” she asked, while scooting back to face me.
“Good. We went to my grandmother’s.”
I examined Mrs. Crawford and her creamy brown skin and caring dark eyes. She wanted to help, but that question—the simple question about my break—made me think of Aunt Jeannie and her stories. Before I could stop myself, the truth was twisted and I realized once again how alone I really was.
MRS. CRAWFORD RELEASED ME when the bell rang. She thought I’d made progress. No public episodes, my grades were acceptable, and I even had a friend. No one needed to know I still saw Evan. No one did know, except maybe this odd boy Connor, but he saw Evan, too. Which meant I wasn’t crazy. Right?
The hallways were crowded with students laughing and gossiping. Through the crowd, I saw Connor standing with
a group of seniors, near the trophy cases. Two were the boys from the lunch room, Trey and Michael something-or-other, but this time a couple of girls also stood nearby. One of them had wiggled her way close to Connor, and from the look on his face, her advances were welcome. I moved closer and recognized the girl. Allison Morgan.
Gross.
He had a shoulder pressed against the case, but his body angled into hers. I looked down, embarrassed that the sight of him, smiling down at this other girl, caused a pang in my chest. It was stupid. I didn’t like him. I couldn’t help but notice he seemed relaxed and happy. The tension from earlier was gone. The sarcastic expression was nowhere to be seen.
Keeping my eyes away from the group, I passed by, feigning disinterest. I was jostled from behind and my gaze moved upward in reaction, meeting Connor’s over the top of Allison’s head, whom he’d been smiling at moments before. I dropped my eyes again and pushed through the crowd, but not before seeing the faint lines of a smirk forming on his lips.
“I LIKE THIS ONE,” I said, pointing to the tall, rusted sculpture.
Ava’s eyes followed my finger and tilted her head to the side. “I’m not sure. Religious themes always make me nervous.”
We moved to the next artist and studied the enormous piece located in the middle of the room. It was a collection of bicycle parts, lawnmower blades, and pieces of rusted, metal shingles that had been painted vivid colors. It was fashioned into a makeshift crucifix, and although it was void of any actual victim, there was a thorny halo of barbed wire at the top and thick metal railroad spikes on the sides and bottom.
I needed a tetanus shot just looking at it.
I bent over to read the small plaque affixed to the stand: Maurice Woods. The artist was an 84-year old steel worker who used his experience as a welder to make art when he retired.
Ava and I spent the afternoon combing the rooms at the museum, looking at the Outsider Art exhibit. All of the pieces in this show were from local artists, primarily in sculpture, paintings, and metalwork.
“So I had this idea, and wanted to see if you would be interested in helping me.” Ava said this while we stood in front of an old gas station sign now decorated with hundreds of bottle caps.
“What kind of idea?”
“Well, my mother does volunteer work at a women’s shelter downtown, and during the holidays the kids aren’t at school and hang around the shelter all day, getting bored or in trouble. I thought maybe we could go down there one day and make Christmas gifts or something with them.”
“The women’s shelter? For homeless women?” I asked.
Ava shook her head. “It’s a battered women’s shelter. But most of them have children also. They stay there while they find jobs and move on with their lives and stuff. I thought it could be fun, and you know we’re required to do ten hours of service work a quarter.”
“No, that sounds really great. I need to ask my mom and dad, but I can’t see that they would say no.” It sounded interesting. “What’s the name of the shelter so I can tell them?”
“Safehaven, down on Third.”
“Jane,” I heard my name and for a moment I forgot myself and my head snapped away from Ava’s. “Look at this one,” Evan said. I focused my attention to where my invisible friend stood pointing at a row of sunflowers made out of saw blades.
Evan deserved more than this.
I wandered over to be near him, across the room from where Ava studied quilts hanging from the wall. I checked over my shoulder to see if she was watching. She wasn’t. “Having fun?”
Evan laughed. “I am, believe it or not. Although, I may be ready for you to get a boyfriend. I’d much prefer to go watch a baseball game, or maybe a monster-truck rally.”
I scoffed at the thought of Evan and his laid-back, tousled blonde hair at a testosterone-fueled truck rally. I was about to respond when I heard footsteps on the stairs, and I scooted away from Evan, turning my back to him.
He sighed. “The brush-off, again. Someday, I’ll find a girl who’s willing to be seen in public with me.”
His joke was bittersweet, but before I could respond, the couple coming up the stairs arrived at our floor. They never entered our room, but instead went into the children’s wing, an area where local children’s artwork was hung on display. I listened as an excited young girl ran across the hardwood floors. “Look! There it is!”
Heavy footsteps followed hers and a voice responded, too low for me to hear. Again, I heard her speak, “See, here’s the house and the tree, and there’s my room…”
Curiosity took hold, and I peered around the corner to see the artwork under discussion. My breath caught and I moved closer to the wall when I saw the pair talking. Dark hair, wide shoulders under a loose black T-shirt, and long, skinny legs gave him away. I mentally cursed myself for being able to identify his body so easily.
Annoyed with myself, I focused on the girl with him. She was a surprise. Young, maybe ten or so, with long, dark hair like his, worn in a braid down her back. He held her, his wiry arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her so she could see the painting on the wall. Her hands were free, pointing and directing at different things on the canvas. I couldn’t see it well from my vantage point, and he couldn’t see me at all as his back was to me.
His shoulders were lacking that tense feel from school and as he rested his head on the top of hers, I heard him laugh, working a hand free to gesture at the painting. I couldn’t stop myself from watching them. This wasn’t the Connor I had experienced at school, or even the one I had witnessed with his friends or his fan club of girls. He wasn’t hostile and sarcastic or scary or flirty. He was being nice—sweet even—to this younger girl.
I ducked behind the wall as she wiggled out of his arms and dropped to her feet. “Look at this one,” she said and grabbed his willing hand. The younger girl dragged him dramatically over to see a large, framed photograph. I heard him protest, calling her. “Emma.”
“William took it.”
Connor dropped to a crouch, so he was level with the little girl. “William? Is he your boyfriend?”
“Gross, whatever,” she said and rolled her eyes. I could see both of their profiles now. He had the kindest, teasing grin, reminiscent of the snarky ones he gave me at school.
“Well, when you do get one, make sure I meet him. That’s what big brothers are for.”
Ahh, big brother, of course. She smushed his cheeks together and his lips puckered like a fish.
“Why you—” he started and tossed her over his shoulder, the two of them laughing as he spun her around. I ducked back to the anonymity of the wall because the moment felt intimate.
I noticed Ava walking toward me. “Hey, can we go outside and see the garden before we leave? I know it’s raining, but I have an umbrella,” I said, hoping to lure her in other direction.
“Sure,” Ava said, happy to go down the other set of stairs that led out to the garden. Before my foot touched the first step, though, I took one last look over my shoulder, surprised to see Evan standing where I had just been, close to the wall, spying on Connor and his sister in the other room. He must have sensed me watching him, because at that moment he turned to me, and I was shocked to see the sad expression on his face. He offered a weak smile and turned his back to continue watching the other room.
THE WALK FROM HOME school the next day was rainy and wet…again. “Ugh, I don’t remember it ever raining this much,” I complained. “It’s not like we live in Seattle or something. This is the South, we have droughts, not rain.”
Evan and I walked together, as usual. I was bundled up in a ridiculous raincoat that my mother had graciously purchased for me so I could continue my daily walks to and from school. Thanks, mom. A raincoat is so much more awesome than a car.
A car drove by and sprayed Evan with water. It bypassed him and landed all over my legs and boot-covered feet. “Jerk,” I muttered under my breath, and shot Evan a dirty look since he found all of this hilarious. �
��I was talking to you, by the way.”
He tossed an arm around me and laughed at my hostility. “You love me,” he said, his mouth close to my ear. Again, I marveled at how he could make physical contact with me but no one else. I assumed it was part of our special arrangement. It took him months to build up to it. I’m not even sure how he managed it. But he could touch me and he could pick up small objects if he concentrated hard enough. The fact I couldn’t touch him back was weird, we didn’t set the parameters of our relationship.
Today, though, the weight of his arm was different. Things had been tense between us for the last several weeks. I supposed it could be a variety of things causing distance. I had Ava in my life, a girl—a real girl—who I could talk and share with. Then there was the Connor thing, which we had come to a silent truce about agreeing to disagree. Evan still wanted me to approach him and find out what he knew; I wanted nothing to do with his pyromaniac self. He was dangerous and mean. Plus, and I hated to admit it, his eyes were too blue and his hair too messily perfect. The reality was, even though I saw him acting nice to his little sister, it didn’t change the fact he had attempted to burn his family’s home down.
When we returned home from the art museum the day before, I knew something was wrong. Evan had retreated into himself, and when I tried to cajole him out of his funk, it was futile. His depressed moods were more and more common, so the positive attitude today filled me with relief.
“Oh, so Mom was excited about the project at the women’s shelter over the break,” I said, turning my face up to look at Evan around the edge of my hood. His eyes instantly tensed and the laughter from moments before disappeared. “What?” I asked, trying to discern what caused his attitude shift.
He dropped his arm from around my shoulder and shrugged. “Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”
I stopped walking and stared at him hard. “You didn’t say anything, but obviously something is wrong.”
“It’s nothing, Jane, drop it.”
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