“This is great,” said Emily. After chopping for a few minutes, she asked, “So, how did you and John meet?”
“We first dated in college, but we didn’t really get together until a few years after we graduated,” George said as he minced cilantro. “He was one of those moody artist types in school, but he wasn’t an artist. He was a business major.”
“So, he was just moody,” Emily said with a laugh.
“Basically,” George said and smiled. “I tried to work around it, you know, and then one day I asked him, ‘Do I make you happy?’ and he said, ‘Yes,’ and that was it.”
“That’s so sweet.” Emily dumped the green pepper pieces into the sauce, stirred, and then offered Kevin a taste.
“It needs garlic, Dad,” he said.
Emily took over chopping the cilantro while George started on a clove of garlic.
“No, I mean that was it, as in I let him have it and we broke up.”
“What? Why?”
“Because no one can make another person happy,” said George. “He was happy when he was with me, but otherwise he wasn’t. That’s not enough. I mean, in a relationship, you have your ups and downs, sure, and you help each other through, but if a person is genuinely unhappy, it won’t work. No amount of love or laughter from the other person can fix that. Each person has to love and laugh on their own. They need to feel it for real, deep down, in here.”
George tucked his fist into his abdomen. Emily flattened her palm on her belly.
“In the stomach? Really, Dad? Don’t ever think about writing Hallmark cards, okay?”
John walked into the kitchen with his suit jacket over his arm and a hand pulling at his tie. He patted Kevin on the back and said, “He’s not telling our story again, is he?”
“She asked for it,” said Kevin.
“So what changed?” asked Emily.
“I did,” said John. “And once I did, we got together and the rest is history. The end.”
“You are the worst storyteller ever,” said George.
“I like to cut to the chase,” said John. “Plus, I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”
“It’s almost ready. Can you and Kevin set the table? Thanks.” George then whispered to Emily, “We’ll talk more later.”
After dinner, Kevin challenged Emily to video game baseball.
“That’s not fair,” said Emily. “Baseball’s your sport. We have to play something neutral, like tennis.”
“Fine, tennis it is. Prepare to lose.”
“I don’t think so,” said Emily.
Kevin yelled like Serena Williams whenever he hit the virtual ball over the net. Emily taunted the refs like John McEnroe whenever Kevin scored a point. During the final match, Emily dived and swung at the same time. When she pulled her hand back, she clocked Kevin in the face with her nunchuk.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” Emily said, but she was laughing too hard to sound sincere. Kevin laughed, too, and collapsed on the couch, calling a much-needed time-out.
“You know, tennis isn’t supposed to be a contact sport,” he said, rubbing his face.
“I’m sorry,” she said and kissed his cheek where she had hit him. “I got carried away.”
“It’s okay.” He smiled and then looked at her seriously. “I hope my dad’s relationship advice earlier didn’t bother you.”
“Why would it?”
“Em, I may not be on the honor roll, but I’m not stupid.”
“What are you talking about?”
Kevin pulled Emily toward him. She turned so that she sat with her back against his chest, his arms wrapped around her.
“I know you’re happy when we’re together, but …”
“Kevin …”
“Let me finish,” he whispered. “I’ve got lots of love and laughter, and it’s all for you, Em, but I know something is going on with you. So, if you want or need me to do something, I will, okay?”
“Okay,” said Emily. She closed her eyes and gripped his arms, but she couldn’t talk about it. Could she even explain it, find the right words, if she wanted to? So, instead, she turned toward him and forced a grin. “I need you to answer three questions for me. That will make me feel better.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“Have you really dated most of the sophomore class?”
“No.”
“Did you sleep with a high school girl when you were in eighth grade?”
“No. Would it matter if I said yes? Would you feel differently about me?”
“No. Just curious.”
“What’s the third question?” he asked.
“Will you drop out of high school and join the circus with me?”
“Yes,” he said. He pulled her close again. “We could be clowns or ride elephants or do something dangerous like walking the tightrope without a net.”
“Being a clown or riding elephants would be okay, but I couldn’t do the tightrope.” She pulled his arms tighter around her and added in a whisper, “I need a net.”
Chapter 21
Letter #2
Dear Ms. Diaz,
I’m sorry about what happened in class on Friday. I know you didn’t like the drawing, but you didn’t give us a chance to explain. Anyway, better late than never. Here goes: Society tied the girl to the chair. “They” covered her eyes, so she doesn’t experience the world completely. She’s a blinded, caged animal screaming in frustration. Haven’t you ever felt that way? Like you’re being held down and you want to break free?
The picture is black and white because the gender issue was black and white then: Men were superior. Women were inferior. Period. The blindfold is pink. Get the symbolism? I assumed you’d like that. It’s actually a reference to a No Doubt song called “Just a Girl.” Do you know it? It was out in the ’90s. That’s when you were young, right? Well, at least younger. The song reminded us of Dickinson and how women were held back by society. That picture is based on the background information you gave us. The other two are based on the poem. The girl is small in size because she’s unimportant in her male-dominated world. She’s so unimportant, she dies and no one notices.
Come on, it totally works. If you had let us explain, maybe things wouldn’t have gotten ugly. You might not like the drawing, but it’s a slam-dunk A+. Didn’t you tell us once in class we might not like everything we read or do in class, but we should be open-minded?
Ms. Diaz made a copy for herself and another for Ms. Gilbert. This time the note read, Suzanne, another letter from Elizabeth. She’s begging for a reaction, so she’s going to get it. I’ll keep you posted.
Dear Elizabeth,
This might be awkward, having me write to you, but I need to explain a few things after what happened in class. I liked your drawing, and yes, it does fit the poem. I get it: the girl tied down by society yearning to break free. The pink ribbon, while the rest is black and white—very clever. Really. Great interpretation. It’s not because I disliked your picture that I wanted to talk to you—I’m concerned that you see yourself as the girl in the chair, being tied down and frustrated, or worse, as the girl in the corner.
Can I help in any way? If I can, I will.
Sincerely,
Ms. Diaz
Chapter 22
“We talked as Girls do –”
On Monday, Emily walked alone in a near-empty hallway with her arms crossed, as if she were hugging herself.
“Hi, Emily,” Ms. Diaz called out.
Emily snapped out of her daze.
“Oh, hi.”
“Are you okay?” Ms. Diaz asked as she stood in front of Emily. “We had a tough class Friday. I’m sorry you were in the middle of that.”
“I’m fine,” said Emily. “I was surprised and, well, a little embarrassed, but I’m okay.”
“You know, despite what happened, I still think you two can learn from each other. I wanted to tell you that I paired you up for a reason, beyond your writing and her drawing abilities. Elizabeth takes chances, alt
hough obviously she can get carried away sometimes.”
They both laughed.
“But, you tend to be cautious,” said Ms. Diaz. “You’re a great student, Emily, but your work is almost too neat. Your writing is mechanically perfect, but it lacks voice.”
“Voice?”
“I can’t hear you on paper, Emily,” she said. “I know, without looking at the name, when I’m reading Elizabeth’s work or Tommy’s or even Kevin’s. Their personalities are on the page. They have a voice when they write. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah,” she whispered. “I’ll work on that.”
“If you want me to read a rough draft or need an extension, let me know.” Ms. Diaz smiled and walked away. After a few moments, Emily said, “Thanks, Ms. D,” but she didn’t hear her.
Ms. Diaz continued on to the small in-school suspension room. Elizabeth sat bent over a desk, arms stacked under her face to serve as a pillow, her messenger bag anchored on the floor next to her feet.
Ms. Diaz waved at Mr. Wilson, who was nicknamed “The Warden,” and then said, “Hi, Elizabeth.”
No answer.
Ms. Diaz grabbed a nearby chair and sat opposite Elizabeth, who stirred but didn’t raise her head.
“Elizabeth?” Ms. Diaz said louder and reached over to shake the girl’s arm a little.
Elizabeth finally lifted her head, one eye still closed.
“Did you get the note I slipped into your locker?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said.
“I was hoping we could talk.”
“No offense, Ms. D, but I ended up here after our last conversation. I don’t feel like talking to you.”
“That’s fair, but I’d still like to talk to you.”
“All right, talk,” Elizabeth said, holding her head up with a hand on her cheek.
“You look tired.”
“Thanks. You look great, too.” Elizabeth put her head back down.
“Are you getting enough sleep?”
“Obviously not,” Elizabeth said, head still down.
“Why not?”
Elizabeth whipped her head up.
“Is this really what you want to talk about? Why I’m not sleeping? It has nothing to do with literature or poetry or your favorite female recluse. So, why do you care?”
“Watch your tone, Miss Davis,” said Mr. Wilson.
“Thanks, Chris, but it’s okay.”
“Holler if you need me,” he added.
Ms. Diaz turned back to Elizabeth. “I don’t know why. I just do,” she said.
Both sat silent for a while.
“You’re not going away, are you?” asked Elizabeth.
“No. So, why aren’t you sleeping well?”
“I want to ask you a question,” said Elizabeth. “Why did you become a teacher?”
“Because I love literature. That’s the short explanation.”
“Interesting,” said Elizabeth. “You didn’t say anything about your students.”
Ms. Diaz didn’t respond.
“So, do you really care?” Elizabeth asked.
Ms. Diaz hesitated and then said softly, “Yes.”
The bell rang.
“I’ll see you later,” Ms. Diaz said before she left. Elizabeth watched her go and then put her head down on her arms and dozed off.
After school, once the buses cleared out, Elizabeth cut across the grass to the nearby wooded area. She was almost where she fell from the tree when she noted swishing leaves and snapping twigs behind her.
“Who’s there?” she yelled as she spun around. The movement stopped.
“If you don’t show yourself right now, I will beat you to a bloody pulp,” she announced.
The sounds of someone walking through the woods started again. Elizabeth’s heart raced and she balled her hands into fists. She lowered her messenger bag to the ground in case she had to run.
“Relax, Davis, you’re not in The Hunger Games,” Emily said as she became visible from the trees and walked toward Elizabeth.
“What are you doing here, Delgado?” asked Elizabeth with a mix of relief and annoyance.
“I saw you walking this way and was curious,” she said.
“So, you’re following me. That’s creepy.”
“What are you doing?” asked Emily.
“I’m returning to the scene of the crime. This is where I hurt my knee the first time. I think it knows because it’s twitching with pain.” Elizabeth leaned over and touched her knee with her fingertips. She wore jeans and a long, dark gray T-shirt with Georgia O’Keeffe’s “Summer Days” printed across the front. Over her T-shirt, she wore a black hooded sweatshirt, zipped partway, hood up.
Emily laughed and walked past Elizabeth.
“Where are you going?”
“Like I said, I’m curious. Come on.”
The two stopped once they were deep into the woods, much farther than where Elizabeth fell. The trees here were broad, tall, and numerous. Bright autumn sunlight pierced through the branches in interesting angles, like mini-spotlights from the sky. In the center of this area was a small clearing, a place where a few trees didn’t grow. There was enough room for a person to lie down comfortably, so Elizabeth did. She crossed her legs at her ankles, closed her eyes, and rested her arms away from her body, palms up.
After a few moments, she opened one eye and caught Emily staring at her.
“Listen, Delgado, if you’re going to chill here, sit down and stop worrying about getting your designer clothes dirty.”
Emily smiled and lowered herself to the ground.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” said Elizabeth.
For several minutes, they observed the surrounding nature. Leaves of varied hues fluttered to the ground, while the evergreens stood tall, full of themselves, like a group of confident teenagers huddled together, talking and throwing their hair back slightly when an occasional breeze blew by.
Elizabeth sat up and dug out a package of Pop-Tarts from her messenger bag. She turned to face Emily and handed her one.
“So, I’m looking at your hair and I remembered something,” Emily said, breaking the silence. Elizabeth squinted her eyes and braced for what she figured was coming—questions about how she looked before, why she changed, what happened. Instead, Emily said, “When I was little, I hated washing my hair, so one day I dumped all of the shampoo into the toilet and put the cap back on the bottle, so my mom wouldn’t notice. The problem was, I didn’t flush the toilet, and our dog drank out of the bowl. He walked right into my mom with suds all over his snout.”
Elizabeth snorted a laugh and shook her head.
“Once, my sister was helping my mom with the groceries. She dropped a soda bottle, but didn’t say anything and put it into the fridge. Well, a few minutes later, I opened the fridge and grabbed the soda, but did she warn me? Of course not. I opened the bottle and the soda erupted like a volcano. My mom was shouting, ‘Get out of my kitchen.’ We ran outside and laughed so hard it hurt.”
“That’s funny.” Emily mentally scanned her memories. “When I was little, I was afraid of the dark, so I used to sleep with a pile of stuffed animals. There were so many, you couldn’t see me. I still have a stuffed dog I named Abercrombie way before I knew anything about the clothing store. I know it’s silly, but I can’t part with him.”
Elizabeth didn’t hesitate. “I hate thunderstorms. I used to run into my mom and dad’s room and jump into their bed. My mom would sing lullabies to calm me down. Now, when a storm passes, I put in my earbuds and listen to music.”
“Punk?”
“No, classical.”
“Cool.” Emily hesitated and then said, “My parents want me to see a doctor because I’m always tired and I ache all over like I have arthritis. They think something’s wrong with me.”
“You might be anemic or have a vitamin deficiency or something,” said Elizabeth.
“Maybe.”
Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Last year, my father
left us. He fell in love with another woman, a family friend who was also married. I found out because I caught them kissing in his car near Rogers Park. At first, I froze, but then something snapped inside me. I ran to the front of the car at an angle, leaped on the hood, and started jumping up and down.
“When my dad got out of the car, I dived on him. We landed on the street and I started hitting him. After a while, he wrapped his arms around me, like he was hugging me, and he let me flail until I was spent. He kept saying, ‘I’m sorry, Elizabeth. I’m sorry.’ I told him to shut up. I turned away from him and crawled to the sidewalk. He reached out to me, but I kicked his hand and told him I hated him and to leave me alone. Part of me wanted him to get away from me, but another part of me wanted him to pick me up like I was three and tell me everything was going to be okay, that he would fix everything.”
“What did he do?” asked Emily.
“He did what I told him to do. He left. We don’t talk anymore. He tries, but …” Elizabeth shook her head. “And my mom pretty much hates me. I don’t blame her. So, my parents want me to see a doctor, too.”
“Why?”
“Really, Delgado?” she said with a laugh as she wiped her tear-streaked face with the sleeves of her hoodie.
“Yeah, well, maybe something is wrong with you,” Emily said with a smile. “I’m sorry. I knew your parents weren’t together, but I didn’t know the details.”
Elizabeth nibbled on her Pop-Tart. After a while, she said, “I’m sorry about Friday.”
“Okay,” said Emily.
And they sat on the ground in comfortable silence, letting colored leaves and the cool wind hit them, until their Pop-Tarts were gone and the late bus arrived to take them home.
Chapter 23
My Letter to the World
Going to the doctor was less of a nightmare than I expected. He asked lots of questions: Are you sleeping too much or too little? Do you have headaches or other physical pains? Is your energy level low? Is it hard to make decisions? Do you feel like a failure? Has your appetite increased or decreased? Have you considered self harm or suicide?
When Reason Breaks Page 11