Now Is Everything

by Amy Giles

  His footsteps retreat through the kitchen to the living room as the front door opens. I press my ear to his bedroom door to listen.

  “Hey, Ma,” he greets her casually.

  “What’s this?” she asks, a teasing lilt to her voice. “Flowers?”

  “Yeah.”

  A chair scratches across the floor.

  “Was Hadley here?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut with guilt. Unlike me, he’s told his mother about us. But then why am I hiding from her?

  “Yeah. We were watching TV. What happened?”

  After a couple of thuds that sound like shoes kicking off, she grunts in relief.

  “Slow night. Gus let me and Regina off early.” I hear it then. The too-loud voice, the slurring.

  Charlie’s silent. I can barely make out what he says next.

  “Where’d you guys go after work?”

  There’s another long pause.

  “Charlie, don’t judge me, okay? I’ve been doing good. It was just one night.”

  Now I know why I’m hiding.

  I pull my phone out of my back pocket to check the time, and I see three missed calls, all from home.

  My heart pounds in my chest as I listen to the messages. The first is from my mother.

  “Hadley . . . we were just wondering what time you were coming home. Call me when you get this.”

  The second one is from my father.

  “Where the hell are you? The library closed a half hour ago.”

  The third one came in a few minutes ago.

  “Hadley. Answer your fucking phone.”

  Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.

  Charlie manages his mother in the other room, trying to convince her to go to bed and sleep it off. I have to call my parents, but I don’t want Mrs. Simmons to hear me.

  Outside Charlie’s bedroom window is a fire escape. I ease the window up and sneak out. It’s only one flight down. I could try to go down the rusted steps, but the ladder doesn’t reach all the way to the ground, and I have no idea how to fix that, or what kind of hellacious racket that would make. So I settle on calling my parents from outside his bedroom window.

  My father picks up on half a ring.

  “Where . . . are . . . you?” Each word is loaded, intended to strike a blow.

  “Hi, Dad, I’m sorry. I had the phone on vibrate in the library—”

  “I asked you where you were. The library closed forty-five minutes ago.”

  I glance down at the dumpster behind Sal’s.

  “I was hungry and got some pizza. I ran into some girls from school—”

  “Pizza?” he asks, annoyed in a different way. Getting busted for eating a “fat-ass” food is better than the truth right now.

  “Yeah . . . sorry.”

  “Get your ass home. Now.”

  “Okay,” I stammer through chattering teeth, from nerves and the chill.

  I hang up. Charlie peers out his open window at me with a perplexed look on his face.

  “Everything okay?” he asks, looking around the fire escape for clues.

  “I have to go home now.”

  He reaches his arm out and helps me back in. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  I follow behind him quietly, past his mother’s closed bedroom door.

  Outside on the street, we stop at my car. I lean against the door and grab his belt loops to reel him closer. He focuses on my hair, pushing it back over my shoulders, my jacket, straightening the collar. Finally he looks me in the eyes.

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “A little.”

  I don’t tell him how my entire body coils into a tight knot every time I walk through my front door, whether I’m in trouble or not. How every fiber of my body goes limp with relief as I put distance between my home and myself, especially when I’m headed to see him. How I will lie, cheat, and steal to protect our few hours together. Whatever trouble I get into because of him is worth it, because being with Charlie is the only thing that helps me forget what waits for me at home.

  “Is everything okay?” I glance up toward his apartment.

  His face hardens. “I won’t make excuses for her.”

  “Charlie.” I reach up to touch his cheek. “I didn’t ask you to.”

  He glances away, twisting his lips to the side.

  “It is what it is. She goes long stretches. Every so often, she has a night like this.”

  I choose my next words carefully. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  He leans down and pecks me on the lips. It’s quick and meant to send me on my way.

  “I’m fine. You better get going before you get in more trouble.”

  He stands on the sidewalk watching as I drive off.

  now

  They move me to the children’s psych wing. It’s like going from solitary confinement to the penitentiary yard.

  There are two beds in my new room. Mine is neatly made, blankets tucked tightly under the mattress. The other is a disheveled, knotted rope of blankets that looks like an epic battle was waged and lost between the occupant and the bedding.

  “I have to share a room?” I spin around to face Janet.

  “’Fraid so,” Janet says, taking in my alarmed expression. “Patients are carefully screened before they’re admitted. If they act out or try to hurt another patient, they are sent to another facility.”

  Janet takes me by the shoulder and guides me down the hall to the rec room. I glance in, and Janet nudges me from behind through the door like my mother urging me to go make new friends in preschool.

  “Everyone, this is Hadley,” she announces. Heads spin to face me. An orderly sits on the radiator, arms folded, watching the TV mounted high up on the wall. When I turn around, Janet is gone.

  Half a dozen kids lounge across the two couches, one bright blue, one forest green, watching TV. The girls keep to themselves on the blue couch, legs folded up under them like origami swans, the boys take over the green one with their guy spread. Searching for courage, I finger the empty space at my clavicle, where my claddagh pendant used to rest. They took it from me when I got here; I’m not allowed to have jewelry, zippers, or shoelaces.

  I try not to take too much in all at once, but two of the girls I can’t ignore. The blonde, who’s missing at least 40 percent of her short hair in a bizarrely abstract pattern. Her scalp doesn’t have the clean lines of being shaved; instead, it looks like it fell out, leaving just a few strands behind, beginning around the top of her head and around her right ear. Chemo, maybe, though this wouldn’t be the right wing for her. The other girl has curly auburn hair and clutches her sleeves in tightly clenched fists.

  I find a seat away from everyone at a round game table and pull out my deck of cards. It was one of the few personal belongings Grandma brought that I was allowed to keep. I start a game of solitaire. It gives me something to do, so I can ignore all the “new girl” looks from around the room.

  Curly gets up and sits across from me.

  “I’m bored.” She folds her arms in front of her on the table, still clutching her sleeves in her fists. I suspect we both have matching gauze bracelets.

  “Join the club.” The new pills are the Goldilocks of meds, keeping my mood at a steady plateau, not too high, not too low.

  “Are you open to playing something else?” She stares at my cards like they’re a box of chocolates.

  “Rummy?”

  She nods and waves Wacky Hair over to join us.

  “I’m Rowan,” Curly says. “And this is Melissa.” Melissa slides into a seat and blinks back a greeting, her face slack, emotionless. I stare, fascinated by her hard blinks, as if she has new contacts and they’re bone dry. She barely has any eyelashes or eyebrows, just a spattering of blond fuzz that makes her look like a baby bird.

  She notices me staring. “Trichotillomania,” she says, her voice as flat as her expression.

  “You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Rowan grins and winks
at me, showing off two cavernous dimples in her round cheeks.

  Shuffling the deck with one good hand takes a little longer. Dealing ten cards each, I say, “I’m Hadley.”

  Rowan looks at my cast in the sling. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not really.” I focus on my cards, trying not to stare at Melissa’s hair, at Rowan’s hidden wrists. I don’t want to know their stories. I don’t want to dig in any deeper here than I already am.

  Rowan shuffles the cards around in her hands. Her sleeves fall back, revealing big-boned wrists clear of gauze or sewn-up slashes. Instead, her forearms are a brutal crosshatch of ropy white scars and newer scabs. She catches me staring and looks at my bandaged wrists.

  “Amateur mistake,” she says, organizing the cards in her hands.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I shoot back.

  She gestures with her chin to my wrists. “Everyone knows you bleed out faster with vertical cuts. Horizontal cuts are for drama queens.”

  My blood boils.

  “You think I did it because I want to be here?”

  She smirks, one dimple pressing into her cheek. “Nobody wants to be here,” she says, looking at her cards. “I’m just telling you how you fucked up.”

  then

  On the way to the cafeteria the next day, I see Mr. Murray standing by the front office talking to Mr. Johnson. They both look up as I approach.

  “Hadley!” Mr. Murray raises his arm to get my attention. He waves me over as Mr. Johnson eyes me, nods to Mr. Murray, and walks back into the office.

  Mr. Murray smiles gently as I walk over. I always liked him; he has kind eyes. Eyes really are windows to the soul. If you’re a bad person, you just can’t hide it. It’s right there for the world to see. You just have to know what you’re looking for.

  “I wanted to talk to you.” He wraps his arm loosely around my shoulders, in that barely touching way all the male teachers have so they aren’t accused of doing anything improper, as he leads me to his office.

  “Um. I was on my way to lunch.” I thumb over my shoulder. He closes the glass door behind us.

  “Have a seat.” He gestures to one of the chairs. “It will only take a couple of minutes, I promise.”

  Mr. Murray has gray hair, cropped close to his scalp, but a young face. Behind his desk are crudely drawn crayon pictures of “Daddy” pinned to his bulletin board. He’s either an older father who got a late start having a family or the students of Melville High School have prematurely aged him.

  I sit in the orange felt chair that has seen many asses over the years. Instead of sitting across from me at his desk, he chooses the matching orange chair next to mine, reserved for those parent/student meetings. It’s meant to put me at ease, make me more comfortable. Loosen me up to talk.

  Mr. Murray plants his elbows on his knees and leans forward. “So, you’re a senior now. Big decisions coming up. How’s your year going?”

  “Good so far,” I say, flexing my facial muscles into a smile.

  “Good! Classes aren’t giving you any trouble?”

  “Nope.” I shake my head.

  “Good, good.” He nods, pleased. “Still playing lacrosse I hear. Travel team, right?”

  His eyes hold me with their kind, attentive gaze.

  “Yep.”

  “So.” He pivots and shuffles some papers around on his desk. “I spoke with Ms. Morales. Your SAT scores are awesome. No surprise there.” He pivots back to me. “What schools are you looking at?”

  Something’s fishy. This is a conversation I should have with Ms. Morales, my guidance counselor, not the dean.

  I swallow hard. “Cornell.”

  “Cornell is wonderful.” Mr. Murray nods in agreement. “Is that your dream school?”

  “Uh-huh.” I erase any evidence of my father’s coercion from my face.

  “Great. What about it makes it number one?” He holds his pointer finger up.

  “Uh. They have a good lacrosse team,” I bat off the first point.

  “Lacrosse?” he repeats, laughing. “Well, okay. What else?” He holds his smile, letting the sentence hang, probably to encourage me to fill the dead air.

  I shrug, feeling a flush race up my neck.

  “Did you get your application in by the first?” he asks, watching my reaction.

  I stare at my knees. “No. I kind of really screwed that one up.” I scrape a piece of lint off my leg. “I did apply, though,” I add, feeling the heavy weight of Dad’s hand on my shoulder as he stood behind me until he saw me click the submit button. His fury at me for missing the deadline lingers in the house like a bad odor.

  “Okay . . . not a total disaster!” He laughs, I think to lighten the mood. “So . . . what other schools are you applying to?”

  “My father thinks I’ll get into Cornell, but we applied to Harvard, Yale, and Brown as backups.”

  “We,” he repeats, his cheerful facade slipping. “Hadley . . .” He knots his fingers together in his lap and looks down for a moment. “You’re a bright—extremely bright—well-rounded student. I don’t want you to have unrealistic expectations, though. Those are all Ivy League schools you listed. They’re very competitive. Do you and your father understand that?”

  I nod, even though, no, my father doesn’t understand that. Or at least he refuses to accept it.

  “I’m also looking into Hofstra and Stony Brook,” I add, even though my father doesn’t know.

  His smile is encouraging. “Local schools?”

  I nod. Yes, local schools. Because even though Cornell and the other Ivy League schools are where my father wants me to go, I can’t leave Lila alone to fend for herself.

  “Those are also excellent schools. Still competitive, but not as.” He pauses. “Remember to keep the schools in balance. The ones that are a stretch . . . the Ivy Leagues you mentioned . . . and a few safe schools, just in case.” He continues to stare, the gears spinning behind his pale eyes. “So by ‘looking into,’ you mean you haven’t applied to those two yet?”

  “No,” I admit.

  “Get on that. October through January is our sweet spot, right? Don’t put it off much longer.”

  I clamp my damp palms onto my knees. The room is getting stuffy. My back prickles with nerves. This conversation is sending my sweat glands into overdrive.

  Mr. Murray lets out a loud exhale. “Okay. Well, Hadley, I have no doubt you’ll get into an excellent school. But . . .” He grimaces, jutting his elbows out to his sides. “Is it fair to say you may be under a lot of pressure at home to get into an Ivy League school?”

  He looks at me with that soft “we’re just two friends shooting the breeze” thing teachers must learn while getting their master’s in education.

  His eyes are just so kind. I feel obliged to give him something more.

  “Maybe.” I smile.

  He opens his mouth to add something, but I look at the clock on his wall pointedly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t eat breakfast this morning, and I’m starving.”

  Mr. Murray stands up. “Of course.” He scribbles a quick pass.

  Handing it to me, he says, “I’ve been meaning to tell you how sorry I am that you weren’t able to be a Peer Helper. I was hoping I could talk your father into it. But he—”

  “I know.” I let him off the hook. No one should ever feel compelled to finish a sentence about my father. With the pass in hand, I turn to leave.

  “One more thing, Hadley,” he calls me back. “Even if you’re not in the Helper program, you can still reach out to any one of them to talk. Or me. Anytime. You know that, right?”

  I nod and smile. “Thanks, Mr. Murray. I will . . . if I need to, I mean.”

  I make my way to the cafeteria, my frayed nerves sparking like live wires. Is Mr. Murray worried about how much pressure I’m under or something else?

  Noah and Meaghan are already at our regular table by the window. “There she is.” Noah waves me over.

  Meaghan pulls out a chair for me b
etween them.

  “You do not ditch us today of all days!” she says, miffed.

  “Why? What’s today?” I look at them blankly. They both stare at each other in disbelief and shake their heads.

  Noah glances up at the heavens and then gestures to me. “This is what you give us to work with?”

  Meaghan leans far into my personal space. “How did last night go?”

  “Ohhh . . . right!” I reach for her iced tea and take a big sip. My mouth is parched after that awkward conversation with Mr. Murray. I haven’t had a chance to fill them in yet about last night, what with Mr. Roussos not letting Noah and me even sit together in World Lit and Charlie sitting in between Meaghan and me in Spanish. “It didn’t.” I wipe my lips with the back of my hand.

  They look at me, confused.

  “What . . . ?” Meaghan shakes her head.

  “I chickened out.” I shrug.

  “Oh, sweetie.” Noah puts a hand on my shoulder. “Was he too much man for you to handle?” He nods knowingly with a teasing glint in his eyes.

  “Ew.” I push his hand off my shoulder. “Stop reading those erotic stories online. They’re messing with your head.”

  “So?” Meaghan asks again. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.” I gaze out at the sea of people eating lunch. How many of them have done it? Are doing it? I know I’m in the minority when it comes to dating. But maybe there’s something wrong with me and I’ll never find the courage to go through with it.

  Meaghan chimes in. “Can I offer my two cents?” She twirls her iced-tea cap on the table.

  “Even if we said no, would that stop you?” Noah asks, and she reaches across me to shove him.

  “Maybe putting it on your to-do list just sucked the fun out of it,” she offers with the lift of her shoulder.

  I nod. “You’re right,” I say, hoping she is.

  Meaghan claps her hands once to change the subject. “Okay, I didn’t want to steamroll you, but I have news. I got into Potsdam!”

  I reach over to squeeze her hand. “That’s great! Congratulations!” I point to Meaghan, then Noah. “She’s going all the way north, and you can’t get any farther south than Miami!”