What They Don’t Know

by Nicole Maggi

I’m going to pause here and say: I haven’t seen Mrs. Rivers in a really long time—not up close, anyway; I’ve seen her around town and in the paper. But back when Mellie and I were friends before, she didn’t seem like the kind of mother who would blame her daughter for getting food poisoning.

  And if she could blame Mellie for that, I can only imagine what she would do if she found out Mellie was pregnant. Even if she’d been raped.

  What I’m trying to say is, I began to understand why Mellie can’t tell her parents. I didn’t quite get it before. I tell my mom everything. I don’t know how to live in a world where I couldn’t do that.

  I glimpsed Mellie’s two youngest sisters on my way to the stairs, doing their homework at the dining room table. The radio was on, snippets of a religious show wafting out through the house. At least, I assumed it was a religious show because I heard Jesus and Lord and Bible a lot in the time it took me to get from the front door to the stairs.

  Memory is a funny thing. Even though I was only in this house once or twice, I knew to turn left at the top of the stairs and to go all the way down the hall. Mellie’s door was half closed. I knocked and pushed it open. Mellie looked up at me from her bed where she was covered in blankets. Her cheeks were pale and her eyes overbright. “What are you doing here?”

  “Bringing you your biology homework,” I said and closed the door behind me. I crossed to her bed and perched on it. Mellie didn’t make any room for me. She did not look happy to see me. In fact, she looked mad. Really mad.

  “Are you kidding, Lise? This was a bad idea.” She glanced to the door and lowered her voice. “They’re going to get suspicious.”

  “I don’t think your mom suspected anything.”

  “But now she will.” Mellie ran her hand over her face. “Lise, you don’t think. You have no idea.”

  My insides got all twisted, seeing her in that bed. She looked small and alone. No matter how much I try to be there for her, she really is all by herself in this. She’s the one that has to go through it. I can’t carry that weight for her.

  “Mellie.” I put my hand on her arm and felt her stiffen. “I’m really sorry about last night. I should’ve told you about the law. I just…I thought it would be better coming from my mom, but the truth is I was chickenshit.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “You’re not chickenshit. You are the opposite of chickenshit.” She pulled the blankets tight up under her chin. “But you shouldn’t have come here. I can’t give them any reason to watch me more closely than they already do.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked in a low voice.

  She didn’t answer, and turned her head to look out the window. I followed her gaze. Twilight had fallen outside. One star was visible in the darkening sky. I wish I may, I wish I might, first star I see tonight… I wish for Mellie to be okay. For her to come through this. If not unscathed, then with scars that would eventually fade.

  “I’ll figure it out,” she said, but she still wasn’t looking at me.

  The bedroom door banged open. I stood. Mellie’s sister Bethany flung her backpack onto the other bed and stared at me, her hands on her hips. “Oh, hey. Lise, right?”

  “Yeah…hi. I was dropping off Mellie’s homework.”

  Bethany wrinkled her nose and peered around me. “How are you feeling, Mellie?”

  “Okay. Better.”

  “Good. Don’t want you fouling up our bathroom.”

  “Bethany.”

  “Well, it was gross. Like, I was nauseous all day thinking about it.” Bethany opened her eyes wide, a grin licking at the corners of her mouth. “It was coming out both ends.”

  “BETHANY! SHUT UP!”

  I would’ve laughed at this little sisterly interplay, but my mind was too busy whirring, ticking, clicking the details into place. Coming out both ends? Yes, gross…but also not morning sickness. And I knew it wasn’t the crab because I had eaten the crab last night and I was fine. And so was Rowan.

  I looked down at Mellie, who met my gaze for an instant before turning away again. And I knew. Oh God, I knew. She’d taken something. She’d tried to abort the baby on her own. What kind of dangerous cocktail had she ingested? Whatever it was, it could’ve been way, way worse.

  But I couldn’t say anything because Bethany was there, chattering on about school and how annoying her friends were, and all I could do was stare at Mellie.

  “…didn’t know you and Mellie were such good friends.”

  I became aware of the silence as Bethany waited for me to respond. “What? Oh, sure. We have some classes together. I didn’t want Mellie to get behind.” I dug into my bag and pulled out the assignment pages for the biology homework. “In fact, Mrs. Snyder went over something in class that’s not in the book so I’ll jot it down on the back here.” I scribbled the first thing that popped into my brain, a note that hopefully no one else would see. “I guess I should go,” I said, putting the paper—scribble side down—on Mellie’s nightstand. “I hope you feel better.”

  “Thanks, Lise.”

  “Bye, Lise!” Bethany said in a cheery voice that I honestly couldn’t tell was real or fake.

  I backed out of the room, hurried downstairs, and was almost at the English dungeon door when it suddenly opened. I slid to a halt.

  “Who are you?” Mr. Rivers demanded when he saw me standing in his house.

  I wish I could say I stood tall and filled the space as much as he did. I wish I could tell you that I told him off for his misogynistic politics, or that I hoped his Democratic opponent beat him in the state senate race, or that he should care about his family more than his political office. All that stuff was running through my head, but I could only stammer out, “L-Lise Grant. I…I’m a friend of Mellie’s.”

  “She was bringing Mellie her homework, dear.” Mrs. Rivers materialized behind me and walked over to peck her husband on the cheek. “Mellie was home sick today.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “She had a touch of food poisoning. Some bad crab from that art show she went to last night.”

  Mr. Rivers shook his head. “I told her it was silly to go in the first place.”

  “She’ll be fine.” Mrs. Rivers helped him off with his coat and hung it in the closet by the door. “Dinner’s in fifteen minutes.”

  “Good,” he said, checking his watch.

  I ducked around him without a word and was almost out the door when he turned. “Grant, you said?”

  So. Freaking. Close. “Uh, yes. Lise Grant.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I don’t think I know your family. What church do you go to?”

  “We go to the Universalist Church sometimes.”

  “Oh.” He said it like a long, drawn-out vowel that had more subtext than a Shakespearean play. “You’re one of those families.”

  Those families? What the hell did that mean? Heat balled up inside me. “Yes, sir,” I said. “We’re one of those families who believe that everyone is equal, that love is love, and that God doesn’t belong to just one religion.” I didn’t wait for him to respond, just turned on my heel and slammed that English dungeon door behind me.

  MY GOD, it felt good to do that. To say that to him. To them.

  But now I’m worried my act of defiance is going to bring Mellie more questions, more scrutiny.

  Which is exactly what she doesn’t need.

  —Lise

  March 14

  Night

  Dear Ms. Tilson,

  DAMN LISE GRANT AND HER DAMN MEDDLING.

  She stopped by the house today, saying she was dropping off homework. Which was so stupid because, hello, everyone gets homework online nowadays. What the hell was she thinking? She wasn’t. She was meddling. And now I’m screwed.

  Apparently she said something rude to Mom and Dad on her way out. They didn’t say what, but I can on
ly imagine. The instant she left, they came up to my room to grill me about her. Their rapid-fire questions made me feel like I was in front of a firing squad.

  How do you know her?

  Are you friends with her? Why haven’t we heard you mention her?

  What’s going on with you and Delia? Why hasn’t she come around lately? What was your fight about?

  What does Lise’s father do?

  Her parents are divorced?

  Why did they get divorced?

  Where does her father live?

  Who is this boyfriend of hers?

  Did you go to the art show with her last night? Whose idea was it?

  Their interrogation ended with, “We think this Lise is a bad influence. You should make things right with Delia.”

  Mom said I didn’t have to come to dinner because my stomach was still upset, and brought me some tea and toast to eat in my room. Before she left, she gave me this appraising look, like, was I really sick? Was I faking it? What had happened to her perfect daughter with her perfect friends? I could see it in her eyes. Doubt. Distrust. Suspicion.

  And that’s all Lise’s fault.

  Alone in my room, I pushed away the toast and took a sip of tea. When I put the mug on the nightstand, a little spilled onto the homework assignment Lise had left. It spread across the paper, staining it light brown, and bleeding through to Lise’s scribbled writing on the other side. I snatched the paper and turned it over.

  Don’t do anything stupid.

  I’ll help you figure this out.

  My stomach flipped. I folded the paper into quarters and tucked it into this journal, the only safe place I know no one will look. Damn her. How will she help me figure this out? Is she going to get me to New Mexico undetected for two days? Will she get me permission from a judge in the next week to have an abortion without my parents being notified? Will she convince her mother to break the law and not tell? No. She can’t do any of those things.

  Whatever. I’ve already figured out what I’m going to do. I just have to line it all up. Then everything will be okay.

  I know Lise means well, but she can’t help me now. I can’t risk her getting me found out. I can’t trust her anymore.

  Signed,

  Mellie Rivers

  March 15

  Dear Ms. Tilson—

  I’m back to stalking Mellie. She’s not speaking to me, so I have no choice. I tried to apologize for going to her house, but she brushed me off. I asked her to meet me in the bathroom after school, and even though she said no, I still went, hoping she would show up. She didn’t.

  Today I backed off and didn’t try to talk to her. Let her come to me. I barely saw her all day. When I did, she seemed paler and more withdrawn. She’s still not speaking to Delia. I don’t think I saw her talk to anyone all day.

  Look, I know spying on someone is not cool, but I am so worried about her. She’s desperate. I told Mom why I think Mellie was home sick, but she says we can’t force her to come back to the clinic. The whole point of the right to choose is that Mellie has the right to choose whatever she wants to do, Mom says. Sometimes I really hate it when Mom is all noble like that.

  After school I hung around just inside the library, hoping that she’d come and we could talk in the make-out nook. After a long time, way past when all the other kids were at after-school clubs or in the library studying, I saw her come out of the bathroom near the office. She walked right past the library, toward the front entrance. After she’d gone through the doors, I stepped out of the library and followed her.

  She went left when her house is to the right. I waited near a tree in case she turned around. She didn’t. She went to the pay phone on the corner, the same phone I saw her at when I first started following her. Today she made a phone call that lasted several minutes. Her back was to me so I couldn’t see her face as she talked.

  God, I hope she wasn’t calling the PCC.

  After she hung up, she crossed the street and walked up Cedar Avenue until she disappeared from my view. I traced her route, far enough behind so that by the time I saw her again, she was finishing up at the ATM outside of the bank. Then she walked another block and turned on Crestview, which I knew meant she was heading home.

  It all could’ve been nothing. She doesn’t have a cell phone, so maybe she was calling home to tell them she was on her way. I have my own account at the bank too, so I use the ATM all the time. It could’ve been completely innocuous. But knowing her situation, my gut tells me it wasn’t.

  I was too jumpy to go home, so I went to the art gallery. Rowan works there on Monday afternoons, so I hung out with him. It was quiet—it usually is on weekdays—so we did our homework and wrote each other silly notes. On any other day, it would’ve made me so happy. I would’ve danced home and sang while cooking dinner, giggling to myself over his charming little verses. Today’s winner:

  Don’t sell me a lime

  It will sour the sweet taste

  Of your love’s cocktail.

  Instead, I was quiet and preoccupied, even in the face of Rowan’s love poems. And he let me be that way. He knows I’m still chasing this problem and that it’s better to let me brood than to pester me with questions. He only said, “If you want to talk, I’ll listen.”

  “Just keep writing me poems,” I told him. What I wanted to say was, I wish I could tell you because I know you would listen. You would be compassionate and empathetic; you would stroke my palm and tell me I was a good person.

  But I can’t. And deep down, I know I don’t deserve that praise. If I was a good person, Mellie would still be talking to me, and I wouldn’t be following her through town like some pathetic shadow of a friend.

  Okay, you know what? I’m going to spend exactly one night—tonight—feeling helpless and useless. I’m going to make myself a hot chocolate using whole milk instead of water, and eat an entire column of Oreos, not the suggested serving size of two. I’m going to watch Parks and Recreation on Netflix, and I’m going to give myself a pedicure. Then tomorrow I’m going to put on my big-girl panties and figure out how to help Mellie.

  —Lise

  March 19

  Dear Ms. Tilson—

  I cornered Mellie in the girls’ locker room before gym class. Everyone else was filing into the gym, but I caught her arm and pulled her back. “Tell me what’s going on in your head,” I said.

  “My parents were all over me this weekend thanks to you,” she said, yanking her arm out of my grasp. “I don’t need that, Lise. You’re making things worse for me, not better.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really, really am. I only want to help.”

  “Well, you’re not. And you can’t.”

  “Mellie.” I jumped in front of her so she couldn’t go through the door. “What are you going to do?”

  “It’s none of your business. Get out of my way before we’re marked late.”

  I didn’t move. “Mellie, please don’t do anything stupid.”

  “I’m not.” But she wouldn’t look at me when she said it.

  “You took something the other day. I know you did. Please—don’t do anything like that. You have no idea what could happen.”

  Then she did look at me, right in the eyes. “Maybe not, but I know what will happen if my parents find out. I’ll take my chances.”

  Before I could stop her, she pushed past me into the gym.

  Ms. Tilson, I’m scared of what she’s going to do to herself.

  —Lise

  March 21

  Dear Ms. Tilson,

  I know it was stupid, but I didn’t know what else to do.

  I got the number off a website I found when I searched on Mom’s iPad. If he had a website, that meant he was somewhat legit. That’s what I told myself, even though I knew I was lying. I had a squelchy, squishy feeling in my stom
ach, but I shoved it down. This was the only way to do it so my parents wouldn’t know.

  When I called the phone number, the guy who answered had a hoarse, scratchy voice, like he’d just woken up. “It’s $500 cash.”

  “I have it,” I whispered into the pay phone. The same pay phone that I used to call RAINN, that I used to call the PCC. That pay phone knows all my secrets.

  He gave me an address. It was in Pinecrest, thirty miles away. I’d never been to Pinecrest. My dad had a campaign stop there once, but my mother said there was no way she was bringing us there with him, that it wasn’t safe. It’s one of the only times she’s said no to him. I tried not to think about what she’d say about me going there—especially if she knew what I was going there to do.

  I took extra money out of the bank for a cab to take me there. The man told me to come in the late afternoon, and it wasn’t until second period this morning that I realized I’d forgotten to make an excuse for my parents. I gasped and sat straight up in French.

  “Oui, Mademoiselle Rivers?” Mrs. Landen—sorry, Madame Landen—asked me. Suddenly all the eyes in the room were on me. I shrank down in my seat and shook my head.

  “Je suis désolé,” I murmured. “Nothing.”

  Shit, shit, shit—sorry, merde, merde, merde. I thought the rest of the period, my mind racing over reasons I might be away for at least three hours, but I dismissed one after another for being too see-through or too implausible.

  When the bell rang, I packed up my French book and pushed out of my seat, backing right into Susanna. A few weeks ago, Susanna and I would’ve laughed about this, and it would’ve been no big deal, given that we’ve been friends since we were five. Except now she’s one of Delia’s minions.

  “I’m really sorry,” I said, my eyes on the floor. “It was an accident.”

  “No worries,” Susanna said. When I looked up, she was smiling at me. Smiling. “How are you, Mellie?”

  “Okay, I guess.” I went to move past her, but she hooked her arm in mine and propelled us both toward the door.