Mo joins his family in the front row, tucks his heavy arm around his sister, a mother bird pulling her hatchlings close. Howard makes a few closing comments, then leads us all in the Serenity Prayer to close out the meeting. And then the rows of people start to shift, funneling into the center aisle that points toward the refreshment table at the back of the rec room.
Will makes a beeline for the donuts, and Red starts after him. “You want anything?” he calls back to me.
I wave away the offer, spotting Libby in the crowd. “Later.”
Red follows Will to the swarming refreshment table. I steal a glance over my shoulder, keeping a sharp eye out for Richard Fisher. But he’s in deep conversation with Mo’s mom. I weave through the crowd deliberately, moving pieces like Candy Crush, until Libby and I happen to be standing side by side in the haphazard lines that stretch out from the refreshment table like twin rows of marching ants.
I lean in, close enough to whisper, “The wait’s a nightmare in this joint. You want to find a better place to eat?”
Her profile stretches into a sly grin, but she doesn’t turn around to face me. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
I look straight ahead into the wavy brown hair of the girl in front of me and talk out of the side of my mouth. “You’re not talking to me. You just happen to be standing next to me in line. You happen to be talking, and I happen to be listening.”
Libby’s fingers find mine. She gives them a quick squeeze, her eyes flitting over my face with a look that sends a rush of nerves through my body. Then she lets go, looks away. And all I am is need.
Libby casts a quick glance in Mo’s direction. He’s surrounded by hugging, weeping family members, not to mention residents and staff. Libby sniffs. “I hate goodbyes,” she mutters, tears thick at the back of her throat.
I steal another furtive glance at Richard Fisher. He’s one of many enthusiastic staff members who have gathered around Mo, waiting their turns to say goodbye. “So, let’s skip it,” I offer.
Libby peers up at me, her eyes questioning.
“Who needs all that mushy goodbye stuff anyway?”
Libby chews on her lower lip, considering. She looks at Mo again. He’s hugging another resident, his cheeks streaked with tears. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Really?” I must look surprised because Libby laughs out loud.
“Yeah,” she says. “And you better have something good planned, because so far this date’s a dud.”
A date. My brain’s fuzzy all of a sudden, and I have to force myself to think straight. It’s just like me to come up with some elaborate escape plan and then crash and burn on the execution. I wrack my brain for a place to take Libby. Not outside; the exterior doors get locked automatically after the evening meeting. Nothing like a facility-wide alarm to alert Richard Fisher. And not my room—I don’t have to worry about a roommate anymore, but I’m not stupid. A co-ed sleepover would be a guaranteed ticket out of LakeShore. I glance at the refreshment table, still surrounded by residents.
I tip my head toward the kitchen door. “I know a great ice cream place.”
“You treating?” Libby teases.
“As long as it’s free.” I take her hand. “This way.”
Libby pulls back, tips her head toward Richard Fisher. “What if someone sees?”
She’s right, and as much as I don’t want to think about Richard right now, I definitely don’t want him barging into the middle of my ice cream date either. Libby and I decide I’ll go first, and she’ll follow a few minutes later.
I weave through the crowd, keeping my eyes low. Finally, I make it to the door and turn to make sure Libby’s following me. At the outer edge of the crowd, she pauses, scanning the room. When she spots Mo, she blows a kiss, quickly, but deliberately, like she’s wishing on dandelion seeds. She watches that kiss travel over the expanse of people between her and Mo, and I almost change my mind. She should stay; she should give him a real goodbye.
And that’s when I see Red. Head and shoulders above most of the people around him, Red’s eyes settle easily on me. His brows raise in a question mark, and then he turns slightly, his searching eyes traveling the invisible thread that connects me to Libby. She turns away from Mo and begins to weave through the crowd, moving in my direction.
Understanding floods Red’s face.
Please. I put my finger to my lips, silently begging him not to say anything to anyone.
Red points toward Mo. The look on his face says everything I already know. He’s my roommate. He’s the first of us leaving. I should stick around; I should tell him goodbye.
I shrug, I can’t help it, because now Libby’s speed-walking toward me, eyes bright with tears or mischief or both, and I don’t care if I’m a selfish jerk as long as I’m with her.
Red shakes his head.
“This way.” I take Libby’s hand and pull her out of the room.
The freezer is full of ice cream, leftover from Sunday Sundaes, LakeShore’s catchy weekend dessert. Half-empty cartons offering a variety of flavors line the upper shelf. “Let’s see . . .” With my upper body tucked inside the industrial upright freezer, my voice bounces off the walls like I’m exploring a mine shaft or climbing through a heating duct. “We’ve got mint chocolate chip, cookie dough, peanut butter cup—”
“Any frozen yogurt left?” Libby asks.
“Gross.” I rummage through the cardboard cartons until I find some (cherry) and then grab the good stuff (peanut butter cup and mint chocolate chip) for myself. I hip check the freezer door and unload my bounty on the stainless-steel cabinet. “Welcome to Sundae Monday.”
Libby casts a nervous glance at the kitchen door.
“Are you going to find us some spoons,” I ask, “or do I have to do everything myself?”
She flashes me a shaky smile and grabs a couple spoons out of the drying rack. “I have a bad feeling about this,” she says, passing one to me. “What if somebody comes in here?”
“Relax.” I pop the lid off the yogurt. “All the food’s out there, remember? And everybody’s going to be way too busy with Mo to come in here for at least another half hour.”
She gives me a wary look, forehead puckered, conflicted. I wonder if she’s wishing she’d stayed in the rec room. I wonder if she’s thinking about Mo. I scoop up a heaping spoonful of cherry fro-yo and offer her the spoon. “Wanna bite of fake ice cream?”
Libby stares at me for a second. Then she hoists herself up onto the counter and takes the spoon, licks it cautiously, like a baby bird. I, on the other hand, spoon a huge chunk of peanut butter cup into my mouth and cringe from the instant brain freeze. Libby laughs.
“It’s weird, isn’t it,” she says, between delicate nibbles from her spoon, “how normal this feels? You and me, I mean.”
I nod. If I don’t look around me at the industrial range top and doublewide fridge, if I pretend not to notice the Drug Free posters that plaster the white cement block walls, then I could almost imagine that Libby and I are at one of our houses—hanging out in the kitchen after school.
“Especially because you and I would never be friends if we’d met somewhere else.”
Libby’s words slash at my thoughts. “Of course we would,” I say, but she cuts me off with a searing scowl.
“C’mon, Eli. Don’t try to tell me that you would even give me the time of day if we went to the same school. I saw your girlfriend. I have guys like you at my school, too, you know.” Her eyes flash something dark and painful. “I wouldn’t matter to you at all.”
I put down my spoon and edge around the counter to face her. I rest my arms on her legs, interlock my fingers behind her hips, and pull her to me until the knobby edges of her knees poke sharp into my chest. “Can I tell you something true?”
Libby nods, small and child-like.
“You are the most interesting person I have ever met,” I say.
She b
links, wet lashes smudging black beneath her eyes. I lift a hand to smooth back her hair, softly touch her cheek.
“You scare the shit out of me,” I tell her, and she gives a choking laugh.
“When I’m around you, I feel alive, like I’m all the way myself, and I didn’t even know until now that I’ve only been part way myself. But you make me better. You matter to me. I would never let you go unnoticed.”
Libby dips her head, wipes her nose on the back of her shirt sleeve. “That was five.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Five true things,” she whispers.
“Yeah, well, here’s another.” I grab her empty spoon and dip it into the cherry fro-yo. I take a big bite and talk out of the side of my mouth. “You have terrible taste in ice cream.”
And that’s when Libby kisses me.
There’s no buildup, no anticipation. No moment of quiet wondering. There is only her mouth on mine and cherry frozen yogurt and a single breathless moment that I never want to end.
And then it does. Libby pulls away, slides down off the counter so that her body presses full against mine, and I can’t stand how close she is, I can’t stand this wanting. I slip my hand behind her neck, lean down to kiss her again, but she ducks slightly, reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a folded-up piece of paper that she presses against my chest. “I meant to give you this earlier,” she says, gently swiping frozen yogurt from the corner of my mouth with one soft finger.
I take the paper and start to unfold it, but she covers my hand with her own. “It’s no big deal. Look at it later, okay?”
She watches me slip the folded square into my back pocket, and then she slides out from between me and the counter and heads for the door.
“See you later, Eli,” she says.
As soon as the door closes behind her, I take the folded paper out of my pocket. It’s a picture of me. Not a disfigured abstract sketch—it’s a clear depiction of the day we fell asleep together on the lawn. I’m lying on my side in the grass, tall trees in the background. For a second, I wonder if Libby sketched me while I slept, except that my eyes are open. My hair is swept back enough to reveal my scar. But the eyes are the most prominent. Staring out at me from the page, they are a stranger’s eyes, brimming over with feeling. They carry pain and sadness, sure, but it’s something else that makes my breath catch and my chest tighten. Another feeling, deeper and powerful enough to penetrate the surface pain. The eyes in the picture are hopeful. They are courageous. They are all the things I want to be but can’t.
I trail my finger over the drawing, down to Libby’s scrawled message in the bottom corner. I see you, and under that a hasty heart above her signature.
I tuck the folded picture back into my pocket and look around the kitchen at the sad remnants of my “date” with Libby: melting ice cream, the lingering whisper of a cherry flavored kiss, and the nagging feeling that Libby just told me goodbye.
Day 17
“Well, well, well,” Will says, sliding his breakfast tray down next to mine and slipping into the seat beside me. “Fancy seeing you here.”
I shovel another bite of soggy pancake in my mouth and shoot him a sideways look. “Where else would I be?”
Across the table, Red clears his throat and sends Will a warning glare that he promptly ignores. “I don’t know,” Will says. “Maybe holed up in your room somewhere, jerking off to ‘Damaged Girlz R Us?’”
I cast Red a seething glance. “Thanks a lot, dude.”
“I didn’t tell him anything,” Red says. “He saw you leave.”
Will smirks. “I had fifteen bucks on you getting kicked out last night. You’re lucky I like you. Otherwise you’d owe me big time.”
“You have a serious problem, you know that?”
Will chortles into his coffee, and I laugh, too.
Red tosses down his fork. It bounces off his tray, splattering syrup in my direction.
“Dude!” I exclaim. “What’s your problem?”
“You’re my problem, Eli.” Red’s face is pink under his freckles, and his hands tremble. “You don’t even get it, do you? Will’s right! If Mr. Fisher or Howard or any one of the orderlies saw you last night, you’d be gone. And it’s like you don’t even give a shit.”
I peer up at him, surprised at his outburst. “She’s leaving soon.”
“So what? You’re just going to float until she does? Then what? I’m sure there’s another crack whore on her way up from detox. Oh, that’s right, you got a thing for cutters.”
His words sting like tiny shards of glass. “Back off, Red,” I say, my voice low, dangerous.
Red snatches up his tray. “You know, being here is a big fucking deal for me. I don’t have some polo-playing prick with deep pockets to pay my way.” He stares down his freckled nose at me, his pale lids grey and heavy, his voice thick with disappointment. “This place is probably my only chance.” His stiff shoulders rise and fall, the helpless gesture of somebody who doesn’t know what else to do. “It might be yours, too.”
Will and I sit silently for a minute, both of us watching Red lope across the dining hall, dump his tray, and head out through the double doors. Will breaks the silence first. “Damn,” he wheezes.
“Yeah.” I stare at my tray, my appetite swallowed up by guilt and embarrassment. I stab a piece of pancake and swirl it in aimless circles.
“Well, the good news is, this isn’t a long-term problem,” Will says.
I peer at him sideways.
“That chick goes home today. She gives her final testimony tonight.”
And then I can’t breathe. I scan the room for Libby, like it’s already too late, like I won’t even get to say goodbye. I spot her on the far side of the room, dumping the rest of her breakfast in a trashcan. I pick up my tray and head after her, leaving Will sitting alone.
I catch up with Libby in the hallway outside the dining hall. She’s talking to someone, a girl I don’t know, with hipster glasses and dreads. I stride right up to them, take Libby’s arm rough in mine, and spin her around.
“Hey!” she exclaims.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
The hipster girl gives me a look like she’s wondering if she needs to call for help or something, and I realize that I must look deranged, because that’s how I feel. Like I’m going out of my mind.
Libby’s eyes search my face, and I don’t know what she sees there, but her arm relaxes in my grasp. She turns to look at the girl beside her. “It’s okay, Celeste. I’ll meet up with you in group, okay?”
The girl nods, casts me one more furtive glance before scurrying off down the hall. I drop Libby’s arm. I am a madman. I am out of control.
“What the hell, Eli?” Libby demands.
“You’re the one that owes the explanation. Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”
For a second, Libby looks genuinely confused. “You knew I was leaving.”
“Not today!” The words explode out of me, and even though I know how ridiculous they sound, there is a tidal pool of emotion rising inside me, and I’m powerless against it.
A small group of kids pass us on their way out of the dining hall. They send suspicious looks our way, and Libby grabs my arm, dragging me farther down the hall, away from the dining hall exit. “Keep your voice down,” she hisses.
“I just . . .” I take in her fierce stare, the rigid posture of her back, and all the anger drains out of me. My arms are suddenly dead weights hanging limp from my sides. “I thought we had more time.”
Libby laughs. The sound is vicious, and it cuts deep. “More time for what, Eli? More clandestine kitchen visits? More walks in the woods? Or was it more kisses you were after?” Libby’s upper lip curls, and her eyes flash dangerously. “Grow up, Eli. This is real life, not summer camp. It’s hard and it hurts. I’ve got enough things on my mind without some rich junkie with a serious case of denial tagging around all the time.”
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Libby’s anger is toxic and sudden, like a plug pulled from a smoke bomb. It seeps out of her pores and annihilates anyone in its path. I thought we were past this, this maniacal need to flatten anyone who gets too close. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe this is who Libby really is.
“Who did this to you?” I whisper, peering down into her face. “Who made you this way?”
Libby winces, and for a second, I can see her, the real her, free of angry, screaming scars. For a second I can see through her pain. Then her expression freezes over, and the look she gives me is one of disgusted pity. “I was always going to leave, Eli. This was always going to end.”
She turns and storms up the hallway. I want to swear at her, throw something. I want to beg her to come back. I scream after her, not caring who hears me. “You’re crazy, you know that? You’re fucked in the head!”
At the end of the hall, Libby shoots me the bird over her shoulder. And something snaps inside me. I aim my words at her heart. “You think I don’t see your game? All you want to do is hurt people! But nobody is as damaged as you. You’re the one that can’t be fixed!”
Libby disappears through the double doors at the end of the hallway without so much as a backward glance. I sag back against the wall, suck in deep, ragged breaths.
“Dude,” Will says.
I look up to see him standing in the dining hall door, a steaming cup of coffee in each hand.
“You okay?”
I shake my head.
I’ll never be okay again.
At group, I slouch in a chair next to Will, hood up so Howard won’t call on me, pass when he does anyway. I skip my session with Richard Fisher and head to the nurse’s office where I claim a migraine that earns me a couple ibuprofen and a few precious hours of avoiding Libby.
At lunch, I have to walk right past her, tray in hand. She’s sitting with a couple of girls I recognize—the hipster glasses and dreads and a pint-sized goth chick with ear spacers and neon green braces. Libby’s hands flutter wildly while she talks, and laughter rises from their table like birdsong.
Lifeline Page 17