The Truth of Right Now

by Kara Lee Corthron

  He can hear someone on the other end, but no one says anything.

  “Hola? Señor Juan speaking. May I . . . ayudas?”

  “Son?”

  Dari drops the phone and gets down on his knees to pick it up. Scratched but intact. His hand shakes.

  “Are you there?” he hears.

  He wants to hang up. He really does. But he doesn’t.

  “Dad?”

  “Where are you?” his father asks him.

  Dari takes in a breath. “Washington Square Park.”

  Then they’re both silent for a moment. Long enough for Dari to consider how difficult making this call must have been for his proud father.

  “And you’re safe?” he asks slowly.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Maybe you’d like to come home tonight? Or we can meet at a restaurant. Maybe the Afghan place you like so much?” This is a major concession for this man. Dari has never experienced this side of his father, so it’s hard for him to believe. It’s sort of like his father grabbed the biggest white flag he could find and decided to tackle Dari with it.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where are you staying? I know it’s not with your sister.”

  “I know more people besides you two.”

  “Dariomauritius, I’m trying.” He sounds desperate.

  “By changing the locks?”

  He hesitates. “Perhaps that was going too far.”

  “Why did you call from an unknown number?” Dari asks.

  His father takes a deep breath. “Because I knew if you saw it was me, you wouldn’t pick up.

  “I know we’ve had our differences, but you’re still my son. I am willing to forgive you and let you come home,” he tells him.

  He’s willing to forgive ME?

  “I don’t think so,” Dari says flatly.

  “You’re sixteen. Do you honestly think you can live on your own as a grown man now?”

  Dari’s eyes search the park. The old and the new. The classic and the garish. It would be easy to just give up. Go home. Certain worries would disappear. But the others would come right back. He used to feel a heaviness in his stomach every day. Especially right before six o’clock. He doesn’t want to feel it again.

  “I don’t know. But I’d have to figure it out eventually, right?”

  His father says nothing.

  “How old were you when you left your parents?” Dari asks.

  “Things were different. It was a different time.”

  “Well. We’ll just have to see.”

  “Dariomauritius! I know you’re smarter than this.”

  “Thank you, by the way. For ruining unknown numbers for me forever.” Dari ends the call. He’s still a little shaky, but it’s a good shaky. Mostly. If there’s a part of him that is willing to choose potential homelessness over going back to his dad, then he can probably handle whatever’s coming.

  GRAVITY

  I rifle through the mess of my locker, searching. I know I have some. I know I do. Not behind the books, not under my scarf or gym clothes. Aha! Under a pile of old Wendy’s napkins, I find my precious generic Duane Reade ibuprofen. I pop open the bottle and swallow three without water. The cramps today are no joke. I reach in my jacket pocket and find some loose M&M’s to help the medicine go down. Sweet relief. It’s coming. Soon. It’ll be here soon.

  I shut the locker door and Derek Miller stands there, two inches from my face.

  “Bitch.”

  “What?” What’s happening?

  He spits on me! I scream and jump backward. I scramble to find the contaminated spot on my clothing. Left boob. Ugh, so gross! I wipe at it with Wendy’s cheery face and when I look up, Derek’s gone. What the hell?

  In the bathroom, I frantically scrub at the spot. I’m sure Derek’s spit is long gone, but I’m so skeeved out, I just keep scrubbing. Who does he think he is? I’ve never done anything to him. I’m still looking in the mirror when Jackie appears behind me, putting her hands on my shoulders, looking at my reflection with sorrow. What is she doing here? I know the bell already rang. She’s not your typical class cutter.

  “Are you all right?” she asks.

  “Why?”

  “I saw what happened.”

  “Yeah? What is going on? I hardly know that asshole!”

  Jackie’s eyes go big. I’ve seen this look on her face before. She’s going out of her way to act surprised. It’s fake. “You mean you didn’t hear?”

  “What?”

  “Mrs. Waters was gonna take Tracy down for that photo? Of you? You know, the one where you’re—”

  “Yes, I’m familiar.”

  “Well, she begged and begged, and the only way she could save herself was by ratting out Derek. He’s the one who sent it to the journal staff.”

  My legs get shaky. Feeling a little woozy. Why won’t last year die already?

  “They put him on disciplinary probation and won’t let him play for the rest of the soccer season, and he has to wait for a hearing to find out if he’ll be expelled.” Jackie must have some idea of how much pain this situation has caused me, yet she’s telling this story as if it’s any other piece of juicy gossip.

  “Do you know how he got the photo?” I manage to ask.

  Jackie’s face goes flat. Before transforming into the Jackie face that I loathe most. This is Judgmental Jackie’s face.

  “Well, I assumed it was Photoshopped. You wouldn’t be dumb enough or crazy enough to pose for something like that. Would you?” Is she seriously challenging me?

  “Yes. I would,” I inform her and I leave the bathroom. I drink some water from the fountain and consider going to class, but then again, who am I kidding? I asked her the question, but the answer is so obvious. I know how Derek got the photo. Bobby liked to hang out with the jocks. They were all “bros.” If I think about it, I would guess that Bobby sent it around to his “bros” as a joke. But I don’t want to think about it.

  * * *

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” Tara complains, looking over my notes.

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Uh, I don’t see how this connects to our thesis, like, at all. It’s almost like you just Googled the words ‘Seaborg’ and ‘periodic table’ and this is what you came up with.”

  Well, that is exactly what I did. It doesn’t mean my findings are any worse than they would’ve been otherwise. I did actually put some effort into this. Compared to most of my academic ventures of late, what I’ve done here is stellar work.

  “What would you prefer I do?” I try to sound casual. I don’t want to lose my temper with Tara because God knows she’s right about me, but I am on my period and a shithead spit on me today.

  “I’d prefer you care more, but I’m sure that’s asking for too much.” She sighs and puts her head down on the desk the way little kids do when they’re in trouble. It kind of makes me feel bad for her.

  “I’m just not good at this stuff. Chemistry is way more your subject than mine. The only reason I’m in this class is because Ms. Keegan wouldn’t let me register for Behavioral Science. She said that class was for the slower kids. I tried to convince her I was slow, but she said that was offensive.”

  Tara actually laughs a little with her head still down. The library’s practically empty. Only a few other losers working on sucky projects and a kid getting tutored. Nobody wants to be here.

  “I can do most of it. It’s not that big of a deal,” Tara groans.

  That’s not right. I can’t let her do that.

  “That’s bullshit. I can do it.” I sigh and look at the pages. She’s right. It’s sloppy work. I know I can do better, though I never guessed my motivation to try harder would be because of sympathy for Tara.

  I close Google and log in to some sites that are actually science-based. Tara keeps her head down on the table. She stays like that for so long, I wonder if she’s asleep. Her breathing doesn’t sound like that of a sleeper, but you never know. If s
he’s totally passed out, will I have to wake her up when it’s time to leave? That would be weird. Today’s the first day in our recent history when we haven’t actively hated each other. I don’t know if I can deal with tapping her on the shoulder. Touching should be reserved for people we love. Beyond that, I’m not that into it.

  But I don’t need to worry because she’s not asleep. She lifts her head and turns to the side, still resting it on her crossed arms.

  “When we were in sixth-grade gym, the girls hid my clothes and I had to go out into the hall naked to get help from the principal.”

  Jesus. I completely forgot that happened. That was awful.

  “You were the basketball team captain, and you didn’t pick me last. You picked me fourth. You treated everyone on the team the same. You weren’t mean. You weren’t nice, but you weren’t mean. Do you know where they hid my clothes?”

  She’s really asking about this? Some mean girl nonsense that happened five years ago?

  “No. I don’t know, Tara. I didn’t see what they did,” I tell her truthfully.

  “You pretended you didn’t hear me. You were at the other end of the locker room, and I called out to you because I thought you would help me. I thought you’d tell someone so I wouldn’t have to leave and be humiliated. But you were laughing and talking to someone else. You heard me. But you pretended you didn’t.” Tara continues staring off into space. She remembers every detail as if it had just happened. I guess she would.

  “I’m sorry, Tara.”

  “You wouldn’t have had to do much. Just tell a teacher or something.” She doesn’t necessarily seem sad talking about it. It’s more like she’s just trying to understand.

  “You’re right. I should’ve done something. I don’t know why I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

  Tara shrugs. She’s goes quiet again, and I continue working. I can’t say it to her, but I thought about that day a lot right after it happened. I did hear her, but I couldn’t bear to look at her. I was afraid. Afraid whatever she had that made everyone hate her would rub off on me. I was a coward. And I was horribly ashamed for a long time. Then I forgot about it. Completely. In fact, had I remembered that day when school began this year, I might have been more charitable. But that’s no good either. That would’ve come out of pity, which might have been worse. It’s hard to know what to do.

  “Can I ask you a question?” She cuts her eyes at me. Now she seems suddenly awake and alert.

  I brace myself. Nobody ever asks for permission to ask you a question you want to hear. Nobody ever says, Can I ask you a question? Would you mind if I gave you a massage and warm brownies every day for a month?

  “What?” I reply.

  “Why did you do it?”

  I gaze at her over my laptop.

  “Do what?”

  “You were totally normal. Accepted by everyone. Why did you give that all up?”

  I want to be patient and not freak out, but I am already seeing red. Not a good thing.

  “It wasn’t my choice,” I say through a freshly tightened jaw.

  “Well, maybe not the aftermath, but everything that led you there was your choice. Mr. Wright, and how that all ended. At some point in there, you probably could’ve made a different choice that might have saved you. I just wonder if you ever thought about everything you could lose,” Tara finally finishes.

  Sure I thought about it. I just figured it’d be fun to be a social pariah!

  “It’s my personal business, okay?” I’m giving her a chance. She does not want to open up this door.

  “You were set. You could’ve graduated unscathed. It blows my mind.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I warn.

  “No. You never thought about it. Because you never had to. You thought you were immune.”

  “Can we just get this over with, please?” I whisper.

  She continues staring at me. I don’t get this girl at all. One minute, she’s a bitchy headache. The next a sad victim of middle school cruelty. And now? Why is she tormenting me just when I was starting to like her?

  “It’s just interesting to me. I’ve never been accepted, and I didn’t do anything wrong. You’ve probably been doing wrong all along, but you finally got caught and exposed. So your behavior led people not to like you, which actually makes sense. It makes no sense in my case.”

  “What do you want, an award? Congratulations. You’re way more virtuous than me,” I say, and I try to go back to work, ending this discussion.

  “Yes. I do want an award.” She is now sitting upright, arms crossed. Challenging me.

  I shut my laptop. “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to stop treating me like I’m pathetic. You’re pathetic!”

  “Tara. Don’t mess with me.”

  “What was that? Sorry, I didn’t hear you. I was too busy laughing and being popular and ignoring your pain.”

  “Not cool! I said I was sorry and I meant it!” I don’t want this with her. This is too much anger even for me. I look over at the librarian’s desk. No one’s there. The other students left in the room are all focused on us now.

  She leans in close. “I heard a rumor that you saved the bloody sheet from when he popped your cherry, and you wrapped yourself in it like a cape all the times you kept showing up at his house. Is that true?” Tara’s eyes twinkle with malice. The rumor was false, but I am beyond rationale.

  “At least I never fucked my brother!”

  I’m on the floor. Tara is on top of me, pulling my hair. She’s got a clump in her hand. I push her off and stand and she takes a few steps back and then runs into me with all her strength, headfirst like a bull. She knocks me against a bookshelf, where an African violet was perched until we send it crashing to the floor. None of it hurts. I feel nothing but rage. I let her get in a few puny punches, and even a scratch that tears open the skin above my eyebrow, and then I go berserk. I hit her as hard as I can in her stomach, get her on the floor, and then I hit her again and again until someone grabs me and pulls me backward. I try to kick my way loose, but can’t.

  “ENOUGH!” Vice Principal Monaroy’s voice splits my eardrums. Mrs. Waters helps Tara to her feet and glances at me with terror. My head suddenly returns to the present moment and out of the buzzing, angry place it was just in. Tara looks bad. Really bad. One of her eyes is red and puffy, her shirt’s ripped, and blood drips from her lips. She’s barely moving. I know she hurt me too, but I can’t feel the pain yet.

  In the vice principal’s office, Mrs. Waters pulls up a chair to sit between Tara and me. I’m guessing this is to prevent us from throwing any last-minute swings. Monaroy stares at both of us a long time. First me, then Tara, then back to me. He shakes his head in disgust. His face is so red it looks sunburned.

  “I’m shocked. In all my time as an administrator at this school, I have never seen two ladies behave in such a disgraceful way,” he begins. He refers to both of us, but he mainly looks at me. I try to glance at Tara, but can’t thanks to the wall of Mrs. Waters.

  “What do you have to say for yourselves? Miss McKenzie?”

  “I’m sorry. I lost my temper,” Tara mutters in a tiny, pained voice. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Monaroy.”

  “What about you? Miss Rothstein?”

  He knows all about what happened last year. I’m sure his opinion of me, if he bothers to formulate opinions about students, wasn’t so high before this afternoon. And this can’t be the first time he’s seen a girl fight. He’s full of it.

  “I was angry,” I answer.

  “And,” he continues impatiently.

  “And . . . what?”

  “Don’t you think you owe everyone in this room an apology?”

  I am about to repeat Tara’s words verbatim. He liked that. But in an inexplicable flash, I think to myself, What would Dariomauritius do? WWDD.

  “Not really,” I say.

  “Excuse me?” He is outraged.

  “I’m sorry f
or wasting your time, Mrs. Waters. I’m sorry if I hurt you, Tara, but I’m not sorry I hit you, because you had it coming. And Mr. Monaroy?” I try to think of why I would possibly apologize to him. “I’m sorry you had to stay late. I know typically you like to leave as soon as the bell rings, sometimes sooner, so I’m sorry that my conduct kept you from the loft in Tribeca that your lawyer girlfriend pays for.” That. Is what. DWD.

  I do not want to look at his face, because it is a real-live horror film: blood, veins, thumping temple, bulging eyes. But I can’t look away. Will his head explode any second like the only part I’ve seen from that movie Scanners? It might. If it does, I don’t wanna miss it.

  Spoiler alert: His head does not explode. Unfortunately. Because Tara squeezes out a few tears, she gets a slap on the wrist and one day of detention. One day! Because I chose not to take the high road, he hits me with five days’ suspension and a big, black mark on my permanent record. Technically, there’s supposed to be a hearing before you get a suspension of that size, but evidently he felt that that wasn’t necessary in my case. And in the event there was a slight chance I could keep this misfortune from my mother, I had the pleasure of remaining in his office while he called her, and listening to the whole horrendous conversation. Happiness be damned. Lily is here to ensure her own misery.

  “Is that really what you think?” Dr. Maalouf asks. She’s been patiently listening to my bitchfest for—I glance at my watch—the first full fifteen minutes of our session. I suppose it’s fair that she get a chance to speak too.

  “About what? I mean, which part?” I ask.

  “I know you’re being facetious and there’s nothing wrong with that, but do you think you are the one ensuring your own misery?” Dr. Maalouf likes to do that. She likes to take the last few words I say and throw them back at me as a deep question. It’s annoying.

  “I don’t know. Maybe?”

  “What makes you uncertain?”

  Oh, God. Who knows? Some people might think that it was some kind of luck or serendipity or something that I just happened to get into a brutal fight and get suspended on a therapy day. I, however, do not. The last thing I feel like doing right now is analyzing my actions.