The Space Between Us

by Jessica Martinez

  Ms. Lee gave me a sad half smile. “You aren’t a bad sister. From what Charly has told me, I think you’re mostly a really good sister. Everybody does things they regret. I am getting the sense though, that you have a hard time accepting less than perfect. From yourself and the world, I mean. Am I right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “That takes time too,” she said. “Learning to see shades of grey instead of just black and white. Which reminds me, we need to talk about next year.”

  Next year. I was having a hard time thinking forward to next week.

  “There are plenty of universities here and in Florida that are still accepting applications for fall, but you’re running out of time and I get the sense—”

  “I can’t think about that right now. Don’t worry, I’ll get it together and apply to some second-rate school, but I’m clearly dealing with some stuff right now.”

  “This is one of those shades-of-grey situations,” she said. “You gambled on Columbia and you lost, but it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. When I look at your transcripts, I see a young woman who has cared deeply about her academic future for years.”

  I fiddled with my necklace and tried not to think about what she was saying.

  “You’re going to look back and regret throwing it all away because you didn’t get exactly what you wanted.” She glanced at her clock. “I have an appointment right now, but I think you should come see me again.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “And I want you to take a look at this,” she said, pulling a book from her bookshelf. Recovering from Rape. The word screamed at me from the cover, and I realized it was the first time I’d seen it written since finding out.

  “It might be tough to read, but it’ll help you understand what Charly’s going through.”

  I slipped the book into my bag and stood to leave. “Can you answer one question for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you think Charly should tell my dad and my grandma?”

  “That’s not for me to decide.”

  “But that’s not what I’m asking. I just want your opinion. She needs my help, but I don’t know what to tell her to do.”

  Ms. Lee shook her head firmly. “That’s the problem, though. You can’t tell her what to do—it’s not your decision or my decision. It’s Charly’s decision. Let her make it.”

  “But . . . ” I heard my voice getting higher and tighter, inching me closer to crying. I hated this feeling, the losing control of my own body, feeling like someone’s fingers were tightening around my throat. “But you told her to tell me, right? How is that any different? Why can’t I tell her who else to tell?” My ears ached from the whine of my own voice.

  Her face softened as she reached out to touch my shoulder. Wow. Did I really sound pitiful enough to warrant teacher-student touching? I didn’t back away.

  “I didn’t order her to tell you. I told her talking to people would help the healing process. She chose you, Amelia.”

  That should’ve made me happy, but it didn’t. It’d still been six months too late.

  Ms. Lee opened the door and waited for me to shuffle out. The hall was empty. No sign of the UPS guy, and Ashton’s door was closed for the first time this week.

  Miss Lee gave my shoulder one last squeeze. “Think about what I said. About next year.” Then she left me standing alone.

  • • •

  I needed, more than anything in the freezing world, to run into Ezra. No, actually, I needed more. An accidental encounter wouldn’t be good enough. I needed him to come intercept my walk home like he used to do, or drop by Bree’s again. It’d been a week.

  “Are we going in?” Charly asked.

  We were standing on the corner of Beaver Street and Caribou Road, staring at the snow-caked library sign. White on grey.

  “No.”

  “Are you going in?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? It’s so much easier to make out with a guy when you’re in the same room.”

  “I don’t want to make out with Ezra.”

  “Liar. And did I say make out? I meant make up.”

  “We didn’t fight.”

  She gave me the exasperated eye roll. “I spent an hour watching an episode of The Bachelor that I’d already seen so that you could be alone with him. If you didn’t make out and you didn’t fight, it was a total waste of an hour. For both of us.”

  The light turned green again and we stared at the flashing walking man.

  “Let’s go home,” I said. I turned and started trudging back.

  “Seriously?”

  I kept trudging. I shouldn’t have let Charly drag me over here in the first place. If he’d wanted to work things out, he would’ve come by, or at least called, but he hadn’t. More than that, the balance between us had been off from the beginning. I was always the vulnerable one, revealing more, feeling more, leaving myself perfectly poised for injury. I had to stop doing that.

  “What are you so afraid of?” she called after me.

  I didn’t answer. It was hard to tell.

  • • •

  “Are you awake?”

  I groaned.

  “Sorry. I thought you were awake.”

  “Because I had my eyes shut or because I wasn’t moving?”

  “Sorry. Go back to sleep. Unless you really are awake.”

  “I am now,” I muttered.

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “Probably because you’re hissing in my ear.”

  And then I remembered.

  Would it always be like this—the forgetting and then remembering all at once? No. It’d been the same way when I’d first found out she was pregnant. It’d only taken a few weeks of relearning the horror every morning before I’d been able to wake up already hating her for getting herself knocked up.

  But going in reverse wasn’t any easier. My default mode with Charly had been set to pissed off for too long. I’d already snapped at her more than once before remembering everything wrong in the universe wasn’t her fault.

  “Why can’t you sleep?” I asked.

  “I’m too itchy. I’m so freaking itchy I want to rip the skin off my stomach.”

  “So put some lotion on.”

  “I’ve got an entire jar of jojoba butter on my stomach right now and I still feel like I’m covered in mosquito bites.”

  “Well, I’d stop scratching it unless you want some nasty stretch marks.” I had no idea if that was true, but the scratching was seriously hampering my sleep. “Hey, do you remember when we had chicken pox and Grandma made us that oatmeal bath?”

  “Vaguely,” she said. “What was I, six?”

  “Do you think that was actual oatmeal or some special oatmeal bath product?”

  “No idea. I don’t remember anything from first grade except you beating the tar out of Nathan Barnes.”

  “Little pissant deserved it for ripping the streamers off your handlebars. I wonder if Bree has oats. I’ll go down and check.”

  I tiptoed down and rifled through the pantry.

  “Any luck?” Charly asked when I returned. She’d pulled the covers off and had her tank top rolled up over her glossy white belly. Apparently she hadn’t been kidding about the jojoba butter.

  “No. Unless you think bathing in a packet of peaches ’n’ cream instant oatmeal would do something for you.”

  She snorted and that rolled into giggling. “I could just make up a bowl and smear it on my stomach.”

  “Strawberry Shortcake’s lesser-known friend, Knocked-up Peaches ’n’ Cream.”

  She was laughing loudly now, so I plowed on.

  “The doll every parent is clamoring to buy for their daughter. Comes complete with stretch-panel pants and a removable purity ring.”

  That killed her. It wasn’t even that funny, but she was making those wheezing sounds she makes right before she starts crying. I had no choice but to push her over the edge.

  “GED sold separ
ately.”

  By the time Charly could breathe again, Bree was pounding her way up the stairs.

  “Are you okay?” she gasped, both hands clutching the railing like she’d pulled herself up with arm strength alone. Her eyes were golf ball–size and her platinum hair looked like a punk-rock halo.

  Charly tried to stifle a hiccup, but snorted instead and then started laughing all over again.

  I shrugged. “It really wasn’t that funny.”

  Bree groaned and threw herself onto the foot of the bed. “I hate you both. Do you realize it’s three a.m.? Tomorrow I’m practicing IVs on you as punishment.”

  “I’m sorry,” Charly managed, wiping tears from her cheeks.

  “You’ll be sorrier tomorrow. I was like zero for five at finding veins today. What was so funny anyway? And why does it smell like Sephora exploded in here?”

  “Jojoba butter. And Amelia was . . . ” Charly sighed. “I can’t even tell you or I’ll start laughing again.”

  I shook my head. “Again, not that funny.”

  Bree rolled over onto my legs. “Oww! You’re too boney. Seriously, my heart’s still racing. I thought we had a preterm labor situation up here.”

  Charly answered with another snort, which became another round of hysterical laughter.

  “Not unless laughing like a hyena can bring it on,” I said.

  “I’m not a nurse yet, but I’m pretty sure that’s a no. Good night, you guys.” Bree pulled herself up and off the bed, then gave us a tired wave without looking back. “Wake me up again and you’re both getting catheters.”

  “Speaking of,” I said to Charly, punching my pillow and burying my face in it. “I don’t care if you can’t stop laughing—if you pee the bed I swear I’ll kill you.”

  “Good night to you too.”

  • • •

  It was another Saturday before Ezra came around. Not physically. Electronically.

  To: ameliamerc@gmail.com

  From: ezracmackenzie@gmail.com

  Are you busy?

  I read it several times, taking inventory of what was missing: a subject line, a greeting, pleasantries, an apology, an explanation, a closing. Oh, and maybe some reference to the fact that it’d been a full week since he’d walked out of here all pissed off because I dared to ask him questions about himself.

  I checked the time the email was sent. Just a couple of minutes ago. I typed a response into the chat box.

  A: I hate that question

  I waited. Waited. Waited.

  Ezra is typing . . . appeared, and I exhaled.

  E: Why?

  A: Really?

  E: Really

  A: No means I have to say yes to whatever you’re about to ask me to do. It also means I don’t have a life. And yes means I can’t say yes to the follow-up without looking desperate. It also means having to come up with a good lie right now, because I’m watching field hockey drills on YouTube and you might not think that qualifies as busy. But it does to me.

  E: Wow. Forget I asked.

  No. No, no, no, no. He could not think I was being serious.

  Was he being serious?

  Crap, this was why Savannah was always harping on me about emoticons. Was it too late to send a just kidding!!! or what was that winky one?

  The Ezra is typing . . . prompt appeared and saved me from humiliating myself.

  E: Do you want to go to Calgary?

  Calgary. I checked the time. It was four thirty, which meant if we left right away we wouldn’t be there till six. Most stores closed at six on Saturdays.

  A: Now?

  E: That would be why I asked you if you were busy.

  I typed my response, grateful Charly was upstairs so she couldn’t make fun of the stupid grin on my face.

  A: What’s in it for me?

  E: Unlimited hot chocolate.

  A: Carnation mix?

  E: Of course not. Starbucks.

  A: Careful what you promise—I will drink your paycheck away.

  E: It’s taken care of. I tutored the weekend manager through Math 20 and 30. He owes me his high school diploma.

  A: Do you pay for anything in this town?

  E: You’re complaining?

  A: Nope. I’m in.

  There was a moment’s pause before Ezra is typing . . . reappeared.

  E: You don’t want to know why we’re going to Calgary?

  A: Yeah. But I’m not going to ask.

  My heart pounded in my ears while I waited for his response. I meant it. I didn’t want to force anything out of Ezra. Or anybody anymore.

  E: Pick you up in a half hour.

  “Charly!” I hollered. She was in the loft doing a mandatory tidy-up. I’d threatened to hide the iPod Bree had lent her in a snowbank if I couldn’t see the floor by the end of the day. “Are you okay here if I go to Calgary with Ezra?”

  “But who’s going to spoon-feed me my dinner?”

  “Hilarious.”

  “And my butt, who’s going to wipe my butt?”

  “I probably won’t be back till late.”

  “Well, then you’ll definitely need to hire a sitter to put my jammies on and rub my back while I fall asleep.”

  “How’s the cleanup going?”

  “Shut up.”

  • • •

  Ezra drove faster than usual. Too fast. My stomach rolled with each curve of the highway, my mind picturing the SUV flipping over and over.

  “So that deer . . . ,” I said.

  “What deer?”

  “The deer whose body is imprinted on the side of your car.”

  “That deer,” he said, shaking his head. “It came out of nowhere. I was on my way back from Jasper last year. The road was really slick and it was dusk. Kind of like now, actually.”

  “You don’t think it had anything to do with you driving too fast?”

  “No.” He glanced at the speedometer. “And the dent is in the side of my car. So it ran into me.”

  “Okay.”

  He glanced at the speedometer again.

  I didn’t say anything as the car slowed slightly and he put the cruise control on.

  “So how are things?” he asked.

  “Things?” Things were upside down—not terrible, just confusing. But I couldn’t talk about it with him. Charly hadn’t told me to keep the rape a secret. The rape. I still couldn’t think the word without everything inside me aching. But it wasn’t my tragedy to share, and I was finished spilling my guts to Ezra.

  “School’s fine,” I said. “Bree’s chipper as usual. Charly gets bigger and crankier every day. Same old.”

  Ezra glanced at the clock and put his foot back on the gas pedal.

  “Are we late for something?” I asked, and instantly regretted it. So much for not asking. “Like our own funerals?”

  “Kind of. Not for our funerals, but I have something I need to drop off at U of C before six.”

  I nodded. Something. A love letter, a pipe bomb, a library book. The possibilities were endless and I still wasn’t going to ask.

  “You know it’s Saturday, right?”

  “Yeah. The professor that I’m giving this to said he’d be in his office today until six.” He pulled a manila envelope out of the side door compartment and put it on my lap. It wasn’t sealed—the flap was open, and the two little metal prongs were still sticking straight up.

  I kept my hands by my side and forced myself to stare out the window.

  “Do you want to see what’s in there?”

  “I don’t know. Are you asking me to look in there?”

  He half grinned. “You’re a piece of work.”

  “Right back at you.”

  “Fine. Yes, Amelia. Would you please look in that envelope? And would you please read that top page and then tell me what you think without being a total brat? I’m kind of nervous about it.”

  “Well, only since you’re begging,” I mumbled, pulling out a crisp stack of papers.

  On top was
a letter, addressed to a Professor Matthis. I skimmed quickly. It was a request for a recommendation. “You know this professor?”

  “I had an internship in his lab the summer after grade eleven. He’s a physicist.”

  “A physicist with sixteen-year-old interns?”

  “I was seventeen, and not usually, but it was a national scholarship program thing.”

  I flipped through the other pages. An application for University of Calgary, high school transcripts, a couple of letters from teachers at BPH, including Ms. Lee and Mr. Wozniak, the math teacher. I turned to the front page of the application. Fall semester. He was applying for fall semester.

  “Ezra.” It was all I could say. I reached out and squeezed his arm. I was so happy and relieved and jealous I felt like exploding.

  “You think it’s a mistake?”

  “Of course not. Are you kidding? And is this paper application for real? I’ve never seen one that isn’t online.”

  “I missed the deadline so I can’t apply online, but last night I talked to Professor Matthis, and he insisted he could get me in if I brought it all in today for him. He’s leaving town tonight, going to some conference in Dallas, but he said if he can get it on the dean’s desk before he leaves I at least have a hope of being considered.”

  “This Matthis must love you.”

  Ezra didn’t answer, just rubbed a hand over the stubble on his jaw.

  My fingers walked through each page and envelope again. “Wait, if you just talked to him last night, how did you get your transcripts and these letters from Lee and Wozniak?”

  “Lee and Wozniak were easy. I called them last night and then picked up the letters this morning.”