by Amy Giles
“But seriously,” he says between laughs. “Is lacrosse it for you?” he asks, trying to probe a little deeper.
“No.”
“You’re fierce though. I’ve seen you play. You’re like a machine out there. Unstoppable.” He lifts his arm and mimes a toss.
“Yeah,” I say vaguely.
He squints, scrutinizing me. “Are you bad at accepting compliments? Or are you still mad about the pickle-jar joke? Because I was just kidding. Kind of.” He searches for eye contact and smiles, as if I’m in on the joke, as if we already have our own secrets.
Then I sigh and admit, “I only play because of my father. He was really big into lacrosse when he was in college. He gets to live vicariously through me.”
“Really?” He leans back in surprise. In the shadows here under the tree, with only a dim stream of light from the party reaching us, his eyes are dark as the night sky. But I know in the right lighting, they’re amber. I know because I’ve watched him for so long now.
“It really looks like you put your heart into it though,” he says. I stare at his eyes long enough that I fear a part of me gets trapped and crystallized there forever.
“I’m a very good liar, I guess.”
“Hmm.” Charlie takes his cigarette from behind his ear and rolls it between his fingers. Just when I think he’s about to light up in front of me and ruin everything, he puts it back and takes my hand again.
“Okay . . . well, so what does Muscles McCauley like to do off the lacrosse field?”
“I take flying lessons,” I offer.
He stomps his foot on the ground. “Daaamn! Flying lessons? That’s so badass! How was that not the first thing you told me?”
I laugh then look down at our clasped hands. “I’m not all that into it, to be honest. My father kind of makes me do it.”
“That too, huh?” Charlie scratches his cheek, giving my embarrassing admission some breathing room.
“Cupcake Wars!” I blurt out.
“Cupcake Wars?” he repeats, then laughs.
“Yes! I watch it with my sister all the time!” I filter out the part about how we watch it because cupcakes, and any kind of junk food, are the forbidden fruit of the McCauley household.
“Okay.” Charlie nods his head and chuckles. “What else?”
“Disaster movies,” I admit.
“Seriously? Me too!”
“I love them. The cheesier the better. Volcanoes, tornadoes, earthquakes, major historic landmarks crumbling to the ground. Even better if it’s in 3D.”
Charlie nods his head in agreement. Then he points his finger between us. “You and me? We are going to a disaster movie together, Muscles. Okay, keep going. You’re on a roll.”
I bite my lip. “I like ceramics.” I don’t know where that one comes from. I took a class in summer camp years ago, when I was about Lila’s age. I loved it. Loved the feel of the cold, wet clay under my hand taking shape. Our ceramics teacher gave us a demonstration on his pottery wheel. We weren’t allowed to use it yet. “Someday,” he said, looking at me. My hands itched to take a turn. I couldn’t wait to take ceramics when I got to high school, but there was never any room in my schedule for it.
I tell Charlie all of this and he listens intently, and then Meaghan and Mike DiNardi come outside and join us, ruining my perfect oasis alone with Charlie.
“Move over,” Mike orders. Charlie squeezes in closer to me on the bench and wraps an arm around my shoulders. Mike sits next to him and pulls Meaghan onto his lap.
“Yay! We’re going to double date!” Meaghan shakes her fists in the air in victory.
“Where’s Noah?” I ask.
“Matt surprised him. They took off,” she says right before Mike reaches up and cups the back of Meaghan’s head, pulling her lips to his. The two of them make out loudly, right here next to us.
I eye my noisily slurping friend with a mixture of amusement and shock. “She’s shy that way,” I say to Charlie.
“Why don’t we give them some privacy.” Charlie takes my hand and pulls me up. “Your hands are freezing.” He takes both of them between his and rubs them between his much larger, much warmer hands. “Come on, let’s go in and warm you up.”
Inside, the party has thinned out.
Charlie leans down to my ear. “Let me just get a refill,” he says before walking over to the keg. From the kitchen, I watch Claudia in the living room dancing on the coffee table with loud “look at me” woo-hoos!, her short skirt hitching up with her wild kicks. Every so often I get a flash of her underwear. I think that’s the point. She’s going to be useless on the field tomorrow again.
Which reminds me. I glance at the kitchen clock. It’s after eleven.
“Keg’s almost kicked,” Charlie shouts over the music as he wraps an arm around my shoulders.
“Charlie?” That happy light in his eyes dims when he sees my grim expression. “I’m sorry. I have to leave. I have a game tomorrow morning in Riverhead.” Stupid, stupid game.
“Oh. That . . . sucks.” He looks as disappointed as I feel, which shouldn’t make me happy. But it does.
He checks outside the kitchen window at Mike and Meaghan, who are still trying to swallow each other whole out on the bench. “I don’t think Meaghan’s going to want to leave yet. Mike can drive her home. Come on.” He takes my hand again. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
He cuts through the crowd, towing me behind. As we get closer to the door, Claudia leaps off the coffee table.
“Charlie!” she screeches. “Where are you going?” She throws herself at him, looping her arms around his neck. Her makeup, always heavily caked on before a party, is beading on the surface from the sweat she worked up dancing. Frizzy blond bangs cling to her damp forehead.
He lets go of my hand and reaches behind him to untangle the knot of her arms.
“Hey, Claudia.” He gently pushes her a few steps back. “I’m heading out.”
She blinks and squints, struggling to focus. “Charlie, don’t go,” she pleads, her eyes and hands devouring him. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you all night. Where were you?”
“Out back.” Charlie squirms away from her.
The music isn’t as loud in this part of the house, which is how I know I don’t imagine what happens next.
“Charlie.” She leans forward, planting her hands on his chest to steady herself. Her eyes are wide and earnest, her voice a loud whisper. “Do you want a blow job? I give really good blow jobs.”
I turn to look for her friends. Why aren’t they running interference? Why aren’t they looking out for her? Instead, Faith and the rest of Claudia’s so-called friends stand only a few feet away, all laughing at her.
Charlie peels her hands off him again. “No, Claudia. Stop. Go home or something.”
She pulls back, wounded then angry. “What’s wrong with you?” she says, then sees me. Really sees me. Layers of understanding slowly rise to the surface. She shoots me a withering look through half-mast lids.
“Whatever.” She turns and stumbles away. Charlie grabs my hand and tows me out the front door. On the sidewalk, he runs his hand through his hair.
He shakes his head, his eyes focused on the pavement. “Sorry.”
“You didn’t do anything,” I say, though I’m still shocked. “What was that?” I thumb back over my shoulder.
“That girl’s in serious need of an intervention,” he says. “Which way is your car?”
I point to the left. “On Jackson.” We walk together, hand in hand, down the tight sidewalk, stepping carefully over the ancient tree roots that push through the cement squares every few feet.
“So . . . are you going back to the party?” I ask.
He squeezes my hand apologetically. “Yeah . . . Shouldn’t go for much longer, though. Once Mike runs out of beer, everyone will tear out.”
It scares me to think that he’s going back to the party after that. What if he only said no to Claudia because I was standing
right there? What normal, red-blooded, healthy seventeen-year-old guy wouldn’t say yes?
As if he’s reading my thoughts, he says, “I’ll steer clear of Claudia.”
I shudder; how much of my internal dialogue did he manage to figure out?
He laughs, and we stop outside my car. “I swear, you practically had a thought balloon over your head. I could see it. It was all in uppercase and in bold with four, no, five exclamation points.” He mimes a big balloon over my head.
Meaghan’s still making out with Mike, and Claudia’s probably back on the coffee table, and I have to leave this perfect night just as it was getting interesting to get some rest before the game. I have never resented my life more than I do in this minute.
I glance away. “I have no right to expect you to do . . . or not do . . . anything.” I don’t mean it, not one bit. I just say it to herd my own wildly out-of-control expectations.
I unzip his hoodie and hand it back reluctantly. Instead of taking it, he puts his hands on my shoulders and holds me in his gaze.
“Except, you kind of do,” he says. He leans over and kisses me. I clench my arms against my sides to stop them from lassoing around his neck. I don’t want this kiss to end. Ever.
He pulls back and smiles. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.”
BRADY: The date is January 10. The time, 1:05 p.m. Do I have your permission to record your statement?
NB: Yes.
BRADY: Please state your name and your age.
NB: Noah Berger. I’m seventeen.
BRADY: Noah, what is your relationship with Hadley?
NB: We’re friends. Good friends.
BRADY: Tell me about Hadley.
NB: Well, Hadley is hands down one of the kindest, most compassionate people in the world. Period.
BRADY: Okay, continue.
NB: Look, Hadley is a really private person. I don’t feel comfortable talking about her like this. Is she in trouble or something?
BRADY: No, nothing like that. We’re just trying to learn a little more about her.
NB: Yeah, but why?
BRADY: The investigation is ongoing. We’re still looking for answers about the crash. I promise you won’t be betraying Hadley. You’ll only be helping her. I just want to ask a few questions about Hadley’s home life. We’re getting the impression that Hadley’s father was very controlling. Do you agree?
NB: Oh God, yes.
BRADY: So, tell me a little about that.
NB: Well . . . okay . . . so last year, he wouldn’t let her be a Peer Helper. Hadley and I were both picked, which is a big deal. There are only about ninety Helpers out of more than fourteen hundred students in our school. Basically everyone gets a survey to fill out anonymously, to find out which students you’d be most comfortable talking to about your problems. Hadley’s name came up . . . a lot.
But Hadley had an SAT-prep class the same day as the Helper retreat. Her dad wasn’t happy with her SAT scores . . . he made her take that test five freaking times last year. I would’ve killed for her LOWEST score! But he thought she could do better.
Mr. Murray—he’s our dean who runs the Peer Helper program—said it was absolutely mandatory to attend the training weekend if you wanted to be a Helper. Mr. Murray even called Mr. McCauley to try to convince him to change his mind. I mean, she could’ve missed one class, you know? But when Mr. McCauley said no, it was a hard no. That’s just the way it went down at her house.
BRADY: Was Hadley disappointed?
NB: Well, yeah. But this kind of thing happened all the time. She just got used to being disappointed. Which is really sad. I probably made a bigger deal about it than she did.
Listen, all of this stuff I’m telling you isn’t anything she’d ever broadcast to the whole world, okay? We’re tight. She confides in me and in Meaghan. And now Charlie. That’s it. Everyone needs someone to lean on. Isn’t that like a song or something?
now
I’m aware of nothing and everything.
Rubber wheels squeak across the linoleum floor as I’m rushed through the emergency room. From the corner of my eye, I see the hallway is bumper to bumper with occupied gurneys. Overhead, fluorescent light fixtures flare in a blur. Faces float over me, their expressions flat and professional. We pass a woman whose repetitive cries bleat like a car alarm.
But there’s a hollow emptiness in my chest.
Someone says, “Find her a room. The news crew is already trying to get in.”
“They’re all taken. Must be a full moon today,” another voice answers, and they laugh. They laugh, even though people are dead or dying all around them.
A whiff of coffee as we pass the nurses’ station jolts me. A hand presses me down. “Lie back, Hadley. Don’t try and get up.”
More hands reach for me and move me onto a bed. I’m not in a room, but I do have a privacy curtain that swishes open and shut on metal rings. Behind the curtain, two nurses discuss me as if I’m not right behind the thin veil of fabric.
“News Twelve already got wind of it. They’re trying to get in to talk to someone.”
“Has she said anything?”
“No, poor thing. She’s still in shock.”
A doctor sweeps in with a nurse to examine me. The dark circles under his eyes tell me his shift has been long. His bushy eyebrows bunch together, annoyed, but his bloodshot eyes take in everything.
Probing at my arm, he juts his chin toward the corner of a room.
“What’s that still doing here?” he asks gruffly.
The nurse and I both glance over at the red cart with one open drawer. “Oh . . . from the cardiac patient. They took him to ICU—”
“Lock it up. If anyone—”
“Heeeelp meeeeeeee! Please, someone help meeeee!”
Chaos breaks out just beyond my curtain.
“Now what?” the doctor mumbles to himself. He juts his chin at the nurse this time. “See what’s happening out there.”
She steps out then rushes back in a moment later, pushing the curtain aside with an abrupt swish.
“Dr. Garfield, they need you . . . now.” She holds the curtain open for him, and he follows her. She swishes the curtain closed again as if this were a matinee, only I’m not sure if I’m in the audience or the performance.
Something crashes. A stampede of feet run to help. It takes an army of shouting hospital personnel to get whatever is going on out there under control.
The noise, the chaos, all belong to another world, another dimension. Not mine. I’m not really here. I died with them. I must have. I should have.
I shouldn’t be here.
My feet touch the ground, walking over to the cabinet in the corner. I pull the slightly ajar drawer open all the way. Inside a plastic, shrink-wrapped tray is a neat row of glittering medical instruments.
With my teeth, I tear the package open and pluck the scalpel out.
I know they just want to help put me back together again, but it’s not just my arm that’s broken. I’m a million shattered pieces. Tiny shards that will cut anyone who tries to clean up my mess.
The first slit is easy enough, left to right, along my wrist. The blade is sharp; the flesh is soft. Blood pools up in a rush, looking more solid than liquid until it streaks red down my arm.
The next cut is harder. My left arm hurts so much, but the pain reminds me why I have to do this, why I have to finish what’s already in motion. Because the pain in my arm is nothing compared to the pain of everything I’ve lost.
then
Between my damp, sweaty uniform and the cold rain that set in toward the end of the game on Saturday, my body is racked with chills. The heater was broken on the bus, so the ride back to the Duck Pond Park parking lot was brutal. Even Charlie’s kiss last night—which has been on a constant loop in my head—isn’t enough to warm me up. Inside my car, I crank up the heat and race home, if only to take a hot shower. Dread clamps its familiar fist around me as I pull into the driveway.
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I kick off my sneakers and walk through the foyer to the kitchen. Mom is at the island chopping vegetables, an open cookbook at her left, a glass of wine at her right. She glances up from her work, and her nose wrinkles in distaste.
“Hadley, use the mudroom entrance.” She points to the mudroom door off the garage. “Especially if you’re going to come home like that.” She gestures up and down at me with the knife in her hand.
“I’m just sweaty.” I lean over the island to pluck a grape from the fruit bowl. She shakes her head, the dank, slightly smelly body of her own daughter ruining the carefully curated illusion of perfection in her home.
My father bursts out of his study, a gust of wind before the storm, his footsteps the rolling thunder, approaching closer, closer. He stands in front of me, hands on hips, ready to grill me like he does after every game he doesn’t personally attend. I really should have hightailed it to the shower first.
“Did you win?”
“Yeah.”
“How many goals did you score?” His dark falcon eyes interrogate me.
“One.”
His lips curl with distaste, like I’m sour milk. Unimpressed, he dismisses me for the stack of mail on the kitchen island. He flips through quickly, then stops at one letter.
“What’s this?” He holds an envelope out at arm’s length. It’s from the high school, addressed to me. Not to “The Parents of Hadley McCauley.” To Hadley McCauley. I shrug and hold my hand out. He ignores my hand and tears the envelope open.
“‘Dear Hadley,’” he reads out loud. “‘You’re invited to attend the Peer Helpers’ Awareness Weekend . . .’” He mouths a couple more lines under his breath then looks up. His eyebrows unite in a bridge of indifference over his nose. “Not this shit again.”
I can’t stop the grin from spreading across my face. “Oh yeah. Noah told me about this. When is it?” I stick my hand out again, but he holds it out of my reach.
“I thought we told them no last year,” he says, irritated.
My hand drops by my side. “I did. They’re doing a training session for people who were interested in being a Peer Helper but didn’t get in.”