When the bell rings, Daisy is waiting for me in the hall.
“Hey!” She’s a little too bubbly. Not just her greeting, but her whole persona. Her brass-colored hair has too much—what do barbers call it? Product? Yeah, it has too much product. And she wears too much makeup. And her clothes are just a little too perfect. Daisy is pretty in an airbrushed sort of way. If someone were to hose her down, she’d be pretty ordinary. Which would make her prettier.
“Hey,” I say back. “What’s up?”
“I’m a big fan of your band.” Okay, I’ll admit, this is the easiest and smartest way to get me to let my guard down, and it almost works. Almost.
“Thanks. Have you seen us play?”
“Not yet. But I’m definitely coming to your next show.” Inexplicably, she reaches out and squeezes my bicep. I’m not ripped like an athlete, but drumming does give my arms a decent muscle tone. She giggles. Giggles?
“So listen, I just want to make sure Eliana is okay.”
Wait. What?
“Why wouldn’t she be?”
“Well, you know, because of everything that happened last year.”
There it is again. Last year. I’m about to blurt out, “What the hell happened last year?” but something tells me that would be a bad idea. I don’t trust this girl, and I don’t want to tip my hand that I’m in the dark. Plus, I don’t think Daisy’s motives are all that honorable here.
“Yeah, but that was last year. Everything is okay now.” I lie. Or at least I think I’m lying. I have no idea.
“Okay, good.” She smiles. It’s the fakest smile I’ve ever seen, like her face is broken. “Mental illness can be so hard to cope with. We’ve all been so worried about Eliana, the poor thing. When I saw she was out of school the last two days, well…” Her voice trails off.
Three things occur to me all at once.
THING THAT OCCURS TO ME #1: Eliana suffers from some sort of mental illness. What is it? Schizophrenia? That’s the one I hear about the most. Does she have multiple personalities? Why didn’t she tell me? I can help her. I have to help her. I will help her.
THING THAT OCCURS TO ME #2: It’s very, very obvious Daisy is telling me this to throw Ellie under a bus. To drive a wedge between us. To make me not like Ellie, to look at her differently. And I don’t think Daisy is doing this because she likes me. I think she’s doing it because she’s a bitch.
THING THAT OCCURS TO ME #3: Daisy said “we.” Who’s “we”? Is Janina part of this? That’s what I need to do. Right now. I need to talk to Janina.
“Right,” I say, coming over the top of her fake smile with an even faker smile—seriously, I think it might be causing damage to my lips and cheeks. “Thanks for your concern. I’ll be sure to share it with Ellie.”
Daisy’s smile fades a bit; she’s probably wondering if I’m screwing with her.
“Oh, and hey, I’ll put your name on the guest list for the next Unexpected Turbulence show.”
She lights up again. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Can you put my three friends, too?”
“Sure, I’ll put Daisy plus three.”
“Thanks!”
No way am I putting her on a guest list. I’ll have to remember to tell the person at the door, whenever and wherever our next gig is, not to admit someone named Daisy trying to scam her way in.
But that’s for later.
Right now I need to find Janina and get some information.
Right.
Now.
Eliana
My mom pulls up in front of the school. I feel like we’re in the opening scene of The Breakfast Club. Who does that make me? The princess? Hardly. The jock? Not so much. The basket case? Great.
“Remember what Sheila told you to say to yourself: ‘I may not like it, but I can get through it.’” My mom loves to quote my therapist. I guess she figures if she pays her a ton of money to “help” me, it might as well come with some handy-dandy pocket quotes.
“That worked fine when it was getting a shot at the doctor’s office, Mom, but I don’t really see how it applies to school.” Actually, it’s pretty glaringly obvious how it applies to pretty much everything I may or may not want to do, but I feel like being contrary. My mom did manage to get me out of my room, into the shower, dressed, and in the car. How did she do that? My mom should be a hostage negotiator.
“Eliana, you’ve got this.” Mom bores into my eyes with a look that reads, “You better got this, or we are going to have to do something drastic and I don’t know what that looks like anymore.”
My stomach lurches. I don’t know if I do got this. Or if I do have this. Or if I want this at all. Why couldn’t teleportation exist? Or Floo Powder? Why isn’t there someone inventing something useful out there that can just get me the hell out of here?
I close my eyes and practice some deep, circular breathing. I envision my inhale creating the right curve of a circle, my exhale the left side. Two more times, and I secretly pray that my mom thinks I’m asleep and takes me home. I wink open my left eye. Mom watches me with impatience.
“Eliana, I have to get to work. I don’t want to sound insensitive, and you know I support your emotional needs. I just think your emotional needs are to go to school like any normal day.”
“‘Normal,’ Mom!” This word is off-limits when I’m dealing with my shit. She knows that.
“You know I didn’t mean ‘normal.’ I meant, ‘regularly scheduled.’ This isn’t about semantics, Eliana. Get out of the car, and go to school. The end. Period.”
Mom is resolute, and I am too nervous and tired to try and argue. I flap open the door handle and slug my backpack over my right shoulder. I am angry at my mom, but I’m also right there with her: If only I could be normal. If only she could have a normal daughter. If only my mom didn’t have to ask me to try to be normal. What must it be like to actually be normal?
Now “normal” doesn’t even sound like a normal word.
“Please don’t be mad at me, Eliana. Or if you are mad, at least try and go to school the whole day. Use that anger, right? Constructively!”
Mom has run out of useful things to say. I’ve already missed most of first period, another tardy to add to my tarnished record. Do colleges look at numbers of tardies?
How can I even think of college when I can barely make it to high school?
Mom is still talking to me as I attempt to put one foot in front of the other. “You can do it, Eliana. I love you.”
I do my best peeved-teen face and slam the car door. That even feels like I’m pretending. Mom drives off without a care and leaves me alone at the gates of Hell.
I laugh to myself, at myself, for being so dramatic.
Now to go hide in Mr. Person’s office.
The front office knows me well. Not in the way they know class presidents or the kid who lit off a bunch of fireworks in his locker. They know me because of all of my late/tardy/absent/messed-up-schedule situations. They know my face and my name, and they don’t ask questions. I guess it’s cool and kind of respectful in one regard, like they’re trying to give me privacy. But on the other hand, it would be kind of nice if they asked me how I was doing or why I’m late or if I’d like to lie down with a bag of powdered Donettes and a coffee in the nurse’s office and just forget the rest of the school day altogether.
I sign in, and the secretary, Mrs. Blair, acknowledges me without a word but with a late pass thrust upon the counter.
I’m fine. Really. I’m only late because I couldn’t get myself out of bed. Thanks for asking.
“I need to see Mr. Person,” I tell her.
Mrs. Blair can’t be bothered to look up from her extremely important paper shuffling when she replies, “Is he expecting you?”
“Probably,” I say. I mean, he knows at some point I’ll be in to see him again.
“Go ahead.” Mrs. Blair gestures down the hall that leads to the guidance counselors and goes back to ignoring me, the on
e thing she seems overly qualified to do.
The door to Mr. Person’s office is closed, a rare occurrence, and I hear voices inside. How dare he meet with a student other than me!
I pass the time playing a Harry Potter game on my phone. Phones aren’t technically allowed out during school hours unless it’s an emergency, but since it’s keeping me from having a panic attack and running out of the school and into oncoming traffic, I think they’d let me slide. Not like anyone would notice anyway. The guidance counselor hall is a relatively deserted wasteland at high school. The only time it’s ever busy, at least as far as I can tell, is the first day of first semester when everyone thinks they were placed in the wrong classes. I do see a few random regulars: the kid who keeps getting kicked out of classes because he’s an asshole and the kid who insists he should be in more challenging classes because he’s an asshole. As I begin to contemplate whether or not I happen to be a guidance counselor asshole, Mr. Person’s door opens up. I don’t recognize the boy who walks out, but he is most definitely a freshman who has not had the good fortune of a growth spurt. His eyes are red, and he sniffs in that “post-crying” way. I should say something because it feels so negligent when no one says anything to me. But what would I say? “I get it, dude. Life sucks. School sucks. Let’s get out of here and binge-watch the last sixty years of Dr. Who without taking a breath. No one will notice we’re gone.” The only thing I manage to do is avoid making eye contact, and I weasel my way into Mr. Person’s office.
Without being invited, I sit in the only spare chair. The chair should have my name stenciled across the back, like I’m starring in this show. Or at least I’m the special guest star.
“Eliana.” Mr. Person leans back in his springy old chair, his favorite posture for me. The “what can I do for you this time?” posture. “Didn’t you start a new class yesterday? Don’t tell me you already don’t like it? Although, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Less sarcasm, more support, please, Mr. Person. I am in a vulnerable place today.” I was trying to sound snarky, but it was a completely truthful statement. Which now makes me feel truly vulnerable. Dammit. I choke on my next words, holding in what I can of my newly quavering voice. “I missed school yesterday. The only reason I’m here today is to appease my mom, and I don’t know if I can do it. Yes, I want to switch out of yearbook because there is no way in hell that I am going to be able to feign mirth and revelry about a school that I can hardly get myself into.”
Mr. Person is less fumbly than usual. Maybe he can see I’m telling the truth. Or worse, maybe he sees the beginning of another fall.
“Sure, sure, we can get you out of yearbook. What did I say your other options were?” Mr. Person starts clicking around on his computer, but I already know my choices.
“It’s either shop or study hall,” I remind him.
“So what are you thinking?” He leans back again in his chair, this time less annoyed and more concerned.
“I like the idea of shop,” I say. “But I had an incident with a planer in middle school. A huge wedge of wood jammed underneath my fingernail when I was attempting to build a napkin holder, and I had to go to the doctor to get it removed. I fainted. There was blood. It was not a good scene. I hate to say it, but I think I’m going to have to choose study hall.”
I actively wince the moment the words escape my lips. Study hall is such a waste of time. I could be at home watching movies or devising schemes on how to not leave my house, instead of sitting at a tiny desk listening to people breathe and flirt and fart all around me. No one ever accomplishes anything in study hall. It’s a fact, and Mr. Person knows that.
“You could…” Whatever Mr. Person is about to say is obviously something he knows I do not want to hear. “… go back to film studies?”
Gah! I twist and turn in my seat as though the room is suddenly filled with my kryptonite. It’s like my fear of relationships and my fear of failing as a student are waging an invisible war inside my gut. “Or not?” Mr. Person recognizes my, shall we say, reluctance. “Here. Why don’t we make a pros and cons list? You always like those.” He doesn’t wait for my answer and grabs a sheet of paper, jotting down “Pros” and “Cons” at the top.
After a solid twenty minutes, we come up with:
Pros
Cons
I will get an A in film class
I will have to see Dmitri
I like movies
I will have to talk to Dmitri
Film class is more interesting than study hall
I will have to continue avoiding Dmitri
“I don’t know how comfortable I am with this conversation, Eliana. Are you sure you don’t want to set up a meeting with one of the social workers? We have some nice girls’ groups in the school, too.”
“Do you know who is in those girl groups, Mr. Person? All of my old friends who ditched me after I was hospitalized last year, thanks to said school social workers who convinced my parents I should be hospitalized. No, thank you.”
“Is this Dmitri fella really all that bad?”
The biggest problem is that he’s not bad at all. He’s sweet. And he writes me songs. And I think he loves me. But it’s not enough to change who I really am, which is this insecure weirdo who would rather pretend to be in a relationship with magical guys than in a real one with a guy who is kind of magical.
“Fine. Put me in study hall. But I can’t promise I won’t be back in your office.”
“I would never assume that,” Mr. Person concurs.
“And I’m staying in here the rest of the day.”
“Um.”
“Or else no deal, Mr. Person!”
I realize I should have no upper hand in this matter, but Mr. Person doesn’t argue. I spend the rest of the day in his office, an excused non-absence, doing my schoolwork and helping Mr. Person with his daily Jumble. When the final bell rings, I am proud to say I’ve made it through a day of school. If only tomorrow could be this easy.
Dmitri
Janina tells me everything.
I corner her at her locker after fourth period and ask what the hell happened last year. At first she tries to fend me off.
“You’re going to have to get Ellie to tell you about it, Dmitri.” Janina won’t make eye contact, which isn’t like her. Then I say what must be the magic word, or rather, name.
“Who is Daisy and why is she asking me about last year?”
Her head jerks up. “Shit.”
And the floodgates open.
Janina tells me about depression and anxiety and hospital stays and time missed from school. She tells me about Daisy and the other members of the Bitch Patrol—that’s what she calls them—and how they totally dissed Ellie. She uses words like “lost,” “adrift,” “stuck,” and “gone” to describe what Ellie went through.
Gone.
A thought pops into my head. “Did she try to … hurt herself?”
“She fought her way back is what she did. Eliana Hoffman is the bravest person I know, and so much tougher than she realizes.” Janina’s voice catches. I can’t help but notice she didn’t answer my question, but I don’t push it.
“And she’s…” I don’t have the vocabulary to even talk about this so I just end with, “Again?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it my fault?”
Janina breaks eye contact, which feels like an answer. “I don’t think anyone, even Ellie, knows what makes her feel this way.”
“So what do we do?”
Then this tall, beautiful, superconfident girl says, “I have no idea. Love her, I guess.”
That fills me with both terror and hope. Terror, because if Janina doesn’t know what to do, I feel sunk. Hope, because loving Ellie is something I can do. And I can do well.
I notice a flyer on the wall over Janina’s shoulder and it gives me an idea. I reach forward, causing her to flinch—which, after she brutalized and humiliated me at my locker yesterday, makes me a tiny bit happy
—and take the flyer down. “I’m going to fix this,” I say, and I start to head for my next class.
“Dmitri,” she calls, and I turn around. “This isn’t something you can fix. You have to let El tell you what she needs, and be there when she needs it.”
Bullshit, I think to myself. What she needs is to know how much I love her. Because love is everything.
* * *
The bike ride to Ellie’s house after rehearsal takes only twenty minutes. When I ring the doorbell, her mother is so happy to see me her eyes well up. She pulls me inside and wraps me in an embrace.
“Thank you for coming, Dmitri.” It’s almost like she called and asked me to be here. I wonder if I missed a message from Mrs. Hoffman and make a mental note to check my iPhone later.
I’ve been to Ellie’s house a few times before and have met her whole family. It’s weird for me to see a house with so many kids. It makes me realize there’s an energy missing from Chez Digrindaki. Or maybe it’s just different. The energy here teems with life and possibility. At my house it’s … I don’t know … Greek.
“Dmitri! Dmitri!” Ellie’s youngest sister, Ava—complete with pigtails and a doll in her hand—dances circles around me.
“Ava,” Mrs. Hoffman says, “can you take Dmitri up to Eliana’s room?”
I’ve never been up to Ellie’s room. I’ve had dinner with the family in the dining room, watched TV in the living room, and hung out with Ellie in the basement and on the patio in the backyard. But never upstairs. I’ve wanted to go, but have never been invited.
Given the reason I’m here, the idea of going to Ellie’s bedroom now feels like I’m entering the final level of a dungeon on a D&D campaign, and the Dungeon Master has saved his best tricks for last. In other words, I’m shitting a brick.
Ava chatters all the way up the stairs, but I’m so nervous I don’t hear a word of what she says. We enter a bedroom with bunk beds and posters of princesses and unicorns, but Ellie’s not here. I worry Ava has diverted me away for a tea party or something—I don’t have a sister, so I’m not really sure what little girls do; I figure it’s got to be tea parties—but then she crosses the room and bangs on the closet door. Ellie told me her room was a closet; I figured she was just being dramatic.
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