Keep Holding On

by Susane Colasanti

  “Why does he keep bothering me?” Sherae says. “Why can’t he just leave me alone?”

  “Maybe he’s afraid you’re going to report him.”

  “According to him, there’s nothing to report. He doesn’t even know why I’m mad.”

  “Why don’t you tell him?”

  “Seriously? He should know.” Sherae picks up our latest cootie catcher from my night table. She pulls it open to see if I finished it.

  “I hate that you have to go through this,” I tell her.

  “I hate it more.” Sherae starts to say something else, but suddenly she’s crying. The crying quickly gets worse. I run to the bathroom to see if mother got more tissues. Of course she didn’t. But there’s a box in her room. I grab it.

  I sit on my bed next to Sherae while she cries. I wish I knew how to comfort her. Should I be saying things like, “It will be okay” in a soft voice, like they do in movies? Should I be rubbing her back or something? I never know what to do.

  I just sit with her, holding the tissue box.

  Sherae needs to know she’s not alone. Everything I rehearse saying to her in my head sounds lacking. But there is one thing I could do. I could try to make her feel better about her life by opening up about mine. Maybe if she heard all the things I’ve been so ashamed to admit, she’d feel less alone. And the truth is, the pressure of hiding everything from my best friend is crushing me. I want to tell her everything. I need to tell her everything.

  “This might make you feel better,” I begin.

  When mother comes home, she doesn’t even bother putting on her Normal Mom Act. It’s like she somehow knows I’ve just spent the last hour telling Sherae every nasty thing about her.

  “Are those my tissues?” mother accuses.

  “We needed them,” I retaliate. It’s so stupid that I even have to explain about a box of tissues. Shouldn’t they be our tissues? How messed up is it that the woman hoards basic household supplies?

  They say that parents should be role models. That you should look up to them and follow their example of who to be.

  I use mother as an example of who not to be.

  Sherae stopped crying a long time ago. She’s looking at mother flatly.

  “I’m not cooking,” mother broadcasts like this is an unprecedented event. “You girls can make yourselves something if you want.”

  I love the “if you want” part. Like, you know, just in case you might want dinner tonight. You can make something. In our kitchen that has no food.

  “Actually?” Sherae says. “We were just leaving. Come on, Noelle.”

  This is news to me.

  Sherae drives us to our favorite diner. I love it here. The old-school neon signs for the Carnegie Deli and Hostess CupCakes and The Donut Pub. The constant flux of strangers who never judge us. Even the floor tiles are cool. Maybe if every night were Fun Diner Night the whole school thing would be remotely tolerable.

  Right after we score our usual window booth, I notice the old lady who’s always here, eating her cantaloupe. She’s always at a two-seater booth. She’s always alone. And she always gets half a cantaloupe. I’ve heard her ordering it before. She’s very particular. Her cantaloupe must meet certain color and firmness criteria. She always looks relieved when the cantaloupe arrives. As if maybe the waitress is going to come back and report that a random hooligan just snatched the last one.

  Is that what life comes down to after all your friends have died and your kids are far away living their own lives? Sitting all alone in a diner, eating cantaloupe?

  I am so, so thankful that I have Sherae.

  We decide that we’re starving and must get vast quantities of food. We order club sandwiches with about ten million sides. Sherae insists she’s treating. I’ll totally surprise her next time by being the one to treat.

  “I’m glad you told me about your mom and everything,” she says.

  “I should have told you a long time ago. It’s just … so humiliating.”

  The waitress puts our drinks in front of us. I say thank you.

  “Were you surprised?” I ask Sherae.

  “By what you told me?”

  I nod, sipping my cherry soda.

  “Mostly, yeah. But I already knew some of it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well … I didn’t know your mom was insane about laundry, but I knew you ran out of socks a lot.”

  “Is that why you put those rainbow stripy socks in my gift bag for my birthday?” A bus boy (actually a middle-aged dude) passes by with a pile of plates. He drops a fork. I pick it up for him.

  “It just seemed like you needed more socks. Now I know why.”

  Before I can ask what else she knew, I stop myself. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that Sherae knew more than I thought. Now I realize that she’s been doing little things all along to help me without being obvious about it. When I thought she was giving me her old laptop and printer because she got new ones for Christmas, she was actually trying to help me. I guess there are some things you just can’t cover up. No matter how hard you try.

  Our plates and baskets of food arrive. We forget to talk for a minute. Emotional exhaustion always makes us hungry.

  “I can’t believe the way your mom treats you,” Sherae says. “I’m so sorry she’s like that. If my mom treated me that way, I’d hate her.”

  It’s such a relief that Sherae understands. Everyone says how it’s impossible to hate your mother. They’re all, But she’s your mother. Like that’s supposed to mean something. And maybe it should. But when a parent isn’t taking care of you, I think you get to choose what your relationship will become. You can choose to be suffocated. Or you can find a way to keep breathing.

  It’s cake time. Sherae and I always get cake and coffee for dessert at the diner. But they’re out of the cake we like. We consider pie instead.

  The waitress shakes her head at this. She leans in conspiratorially.

  “Get the coffee cake,” she advises. “It’s fresh.”

  “Sold,” Sherae says.

  “Hey,” I go. “We’re not just having coffee and cake. We’re having coffee cake!”

  This cracks us up for no reason. We have successfully transitioned the Worst Day Ever into Fun Diner Night. We rule.

  seventeen

  monday, may 9

  (29 days left)

  Banner in main hallway, metallic red with blue lettering:

  WE ARE WHAT WE THINK.—BUDDHA

  Why does gym always have to come along and ruin everything?

  My day was actually looking up. Simon brought his usual packed lunch tray to lit mag for everyone, but we were the only ones there. I didn’t have to share the mac and cheese or anything else. I even forgot about my hair for five minutes.

  And then. Gym happened. Along with the announcement that we’re playing volleyball again. But first we have to deal with the warm-up, crunches, and whatever additional horrors Ms. Kane cares to inflict.

  Ms. Kane is a tyrant. She’s one of those teachers who takes their problems out on you. She always has something nasty to say and she won’t hesitate to tell you that your form sucks. It’s obvious she’s having a bad day because she’s being even more boot camp about form than usual.

  “Shoulders up!” she shouts.

  As if crunches weren’t hard enough without some maniac yelling at us.

  “Get those shoulders off the floor!” she shouts louder.

  I’m dying. We all are. We’ve already done way more crunches than we normally do. My abs are on fire.

  “Push-ups!” Ms. Kane demands.

  We flip over and crawl into position.

  “I’ll wait,” Ms. Kane says. She’s standing at the front with her hands on her hips, rolling her eyes at the ceiling.

  We stay bent over in push-up position, waiting for whoever she’s waiting for.

  “Still waiting,” she says.

  I look around to see who she means. Kim Reynolds is not in corre
ct push-up position. She’s kneeling instead of balancing on her knees with her hands splayed out on the floor in front of her.

  Kim sees me looking at her. “Who’s she waiting for?” she mouths.

  “I think … you,” I mouth back.

  “What?” Kim looks over at Ms. Kane. Ms. Kane is staring right at her.

  “Any day now, Ms. Reynolds,” she tells Kim.

  “Aw, hell no.” Kim gets up and strides toward the back door.

  “Get back here!” Ms. Kane yells after her.

  Kim keeps going. She slams out. She’s going to get in major trouble. But it’s good to know that some people are strong enough to take a stand against their bullies.

  Sherae is giving me a ride home. I pick the music while she maneuvers her car in line to pull out of the parking lot. There’s always a traffic jam right after school. Cars are clogging the only exit from like five different directions. They should have made another way out.

  “If we added up how much time we spend waiting to leave, it would be days,” I estimate. “Weeks, even. Weeks of our lives wasted in line.”

  Sherae isn’t listening. She’s flashing a glare at the rearview mirror. I turn around to see who she’s looking at.

  Hector’s car is right behind us.

  Sherae hurls her door open, jumps out, and slams it.

  This. Could be a problem.

  She stomps over to Hector’s car. He opens his door to get out, but she blocks him.

  I turn off the music.

  “Do you really not know why I’m mad?” Sherae throws down. Our windows are both open. I can hear everything.

  “Not so much,” Hector says.

  “How could you not know what you did?”

  “I’ve asked you what I did! You won’t tell me.”

  “I shouldn’t have to tell you. You were there.”

  “Can you let me out?”

  “Why should I?” Sherae doesn’t move. “Why should I do anything you want? You didn’t do what I wanted.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You took it too far. I told you to stop and you didn’t. Ring any bells?”

  “I thought you were playing.”

  “No, I wasn’t playing. I was trying to keep my virginity. You should have respected that.”

  “I respect you.”

  “Forcing me to have sex when I told you I wasn’t ready is disrespecting.”

  “Then why’d you stop saying no?”

  Angry cars behind Hector are honking. Hector gets out and waves them around. Then he guides Sherae over behind her car.

  “I wasn’t ready,” she says. “I just … felt like I should have wanted to. But it was a mistake.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Yes, it was!” Sherae sounds furious. “How could you do that to me? To us? You destroyed everything we had.”

  “You’re crazy. I didn’t destroy anything. You’re the one who walked away. We could get back together right now. We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want.”

  “It doesn’t work that way. You can’t go back to just making out once you’ve had sex. It becomes this thing that’s expected.”

  “I won’t expect it.”

  “Yes, you will. That’s how you’re wired.”

  “Sex is part of a relationship. It’s what you do.”

  “Are you really that delusional? Not everyone is having sex.”

  “Well, they should be.” I see Hector smiling in the side mirror.

  “You’re disgusting. I can’t believe I was such an idiot.”

  “Hey.” Hector reaches out to her. “I’m only joking.”

  “It’s not funny.” Sherae backs away from him. “You weren’t listening to me that night, but I seriously hope you hear me now. Stop calling me. Stop texting me. Stop writing me notes. We were done the second you chose being a dumbass over being with me.”

  Sherae gets back in the car.

  And we move forward.

  eighteen

  tuesday, may 10

  (28 days left)

  The toilet’s not working again.

  You’d think that mother would ask the landlord to call the plumber. Or to replace this ancient toilet so I could stop worrying every time I flush it. But mother refuses to tell the landlord that our toilet stopped flushing. She hasn’t paid the rent for May yet. Calling the landlord would draw attention to that. I’m sure the landlord would be up here demanding the rent right now if she could actually climb the stairs to our place.

  Last time this happened, the toilet stayed broken for a week.

  Of course the busted toilet is the one in my bathroom. I have to be really quiet going through mother’s room to get to hers so I don’t wake her up. I slowly turn the doorknob. It makes a few small clicking sounds. Nothing drastic. I push the door open and peer into the darkness of her room, trying to see if she’s awake. Her curtains won’t allow even one speck of sunlight to enter.

  As I sneak past her bed, she remains an immobile lump under the covers. I’m sure she’d rather have me pee in a cup than wake her. I won’t pretend I haven’t considered that option.

  “Noelle, can you stay a minute?” Ms. Scofield asks at the end of class.

  A jolt of fear stabs me. Why would she want to talk to me? I don’t think I did anything wrong. The homework I handed in yesterday wasn’t a masterpiece, but compared to everyone else’s lame end-of-the-year attempts, I’m sure it was decent enough.

  After everyone leaves, she waves me over to the desk in front of hers. “You have English now, right?”

  “Yeah.” How does she know my schedule? I don’t think I’ve ever told her what I have next.

  “I’ll give you a pass. I don’t have second period, so I thought this would be a good time to talk.” Ms. Scofield picks up the prism she used with the spectrometer in today’s demo. “Did you like the demo?”

  I nod. “It was cool.”

  “Dusted off an oldie! So. How’s everything going?”

  If Ms. Scofield were any other teacher, I’d just say I’m fine and get my late pass. But she’s Ms. Scofield. I can tell she’s asking because she cares.

  “It’s been better,” I admit.

  “When?”

  “What?”

  “When was it better? Isn’t high school a constant state of emotional turmoil?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Worst time ever. But it won’t always be like this. I know that doesn’t help much right now, but it’s something to hold on to. If I’d stopped believing that my life would eventually get better, I don’t think I would have survived high school.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But you’re so happy.”

  “I’m happy now. I was really depressed back then.”

  Ms. Scofield is kind of blowing my mind. I always assumed she was a shiny happy cheerleader type back in the day. She’s always in a good mood. She’s always smiling. Even when she got sick a while ago, she was still in high-energy mode. And now she’s telling me she was depressed in high school? How is that even possible?

  “What’s your secret?” I ask.

  She smiles. “I’ve already lived through the worst time of my life. So I know that whatever happens to me from now on, nothing will ever be as bad as it was back then. That makes me happy.”

  Ms. Scofield is a fellow survivor.

  “Is that why you’re so perky in the morning?” I ask.

  “Partially. Also because I believe that everyone deserves a quality education. That motivates me to bring the energy.”

  “Oh, you bring it.”

  “I wish things were easier for you, Noelle. But all of the pain you’re feeing right now will make you stronger. Trust me: that strength will make you a better person. Then you can help other people who aren’t as strong.”

  “It’s hard.”

  “I know it is.”

  Ms. Scofield would be an awesome mom. Too bad she doesn’t
have kids. She’s not even married. I forget how it came up, but someone was asking about her family in class a while ago. She said that she wants to get married. She just hasn’t found the right guy yet. She wants to have kids, too.

  It’s so wrong. Women who shouldn’t be mothers can just go ahead and have kids like it’s nothing. But some women who would be good moms don’t have kids because they haven’t found the right person to have them with.

  How messed up is that?

  “Did you hear about the paintball thing?” I ask. “Is that why you wanted to talk to me?”

  “I did hear something about that.”

  The last thing I want to do is talk about what happened. I don’t know if Ms. Scofield is expecting me to come right out and tell her. Part of me really wants to. It’s just too hard.

  “If you feel like talking, you know I’m here, right?”

  I nod.

  “I know you’ve been hurting lately. So I just wanted to let you know I’m always here.”

  Even if I don’t talk to Ms. Scofield about everything, it’s good to know I can.

  nineteen

  Ali Walsh killed herself last night.

  twenty

  wednesday, may 11

  (27 days left)

  I can’t believe it. I was just talking to Ali yesterday. She asked me to explain one of the homework problems she didn’t get.

  And now she’s … gone.

  No one can figure out why she did it. No one has heard about anything horrible that might have pushed her over the edge. She even seemed happy when I talked to her in class.

  I should have been there when she reached out to me.

  I should have become better friends with her.

  I should have done a lot of things that I’ll never get another chance to do.

  Counselors are such a joke. They expect you to tell them things you can’t even tell yourself. They think that just because a girl who went here killed herself, we’re all sad. Don’t they realize that these kids made Ali’s life miserable?