When You Were Everything

by Ashley Woodfolk

  I didn’t think it could get any worse once she was standing there, frozen. But then it did. Someone in the audience shouted, “You sure are some t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t,” in a high, mean voice and a few people even laughed.

  Layla’s eyes went wider than they already were—huge and round and frightened. She was a deer in headlights, a kid whose recurring nightmare was coming true. A moment later a teacher rushed down the side aisle looking for the culprit, and someone else said, “Shut up, asshole,” but the damage had already been done.

  Trey Parsons cleared his throat and whispered something to Layla that shook her out of her frozen state. She took a step away from him, swiped a quick thumb under her eyes, and said, “George Bailey, you are some talker.”

  She pretty much sang the whole sentence, though I was almost certain it was supposed to be a spoken line. Then Trey said, “It’s not just talk, Mary,” and they were back on track.

  But my heart still skipped a beat every time she had to speak for the rest of the show. And whenever I looked over, I could see Mason gripping his armrest like it was the edge of a lifeboat.

  * * *

  —

  I went looking for her after the show. I didn’t know if she wanted to be found, but I felt like I had to make sure she was okay. She probably hated me, but some things, like public humiliation on what’s supposed to be the best day of your life, were more important than everything else. Especially after what I’d said. I suddenly wanted her to know I hadn’t meant it. I needed to say I was sorry for that, if nothing else. I waved goodbye to Jase, and though Mason had flowers for Layla, I knew she wouldn’t be rushing into his arms anytime soon.

  I found her exactly where I thought she’d be, in the very corner of the library where I went whenever I wanted to hide. She was sobbing and alone.

  “Lay?” I said softly. I heard a faint buzzing, but I didn’t know where it was coming from. I leaned against the nearest shelf and kept some distance between us. “Are you—”

  “Are you happy?” she hissed, cutting me off. “I bet you’re ec-c-cstatic right now.”

  I frowned and shifted a little farther away. “Of course, I’m not happy, Layla. I was coming to apologize. And to make sure you’re okay.”

  She stood up and swiped her sleeve across her eyes, smearing her makeup so much that she didn’t look like herself anymore. I heard the buzzing again and I wondered if there was someone else, one aisle over in the stacks, texting or getting a call.

  “You’re apologizing now?” she asked.

  “I wanted to do it sooner, but after Sloane…”

  Layla crossed her arms. When she spoke again she mostly sounded exhausted. “But after Sloane wh-wh-wh-what, Cleo? You say that…that awful thing t-t-to me and then you say nothing else? For weeks?”

  “You let Sloane and all those other girls say awful things to me!” I countered. “And you said nothing to me for weeks either! Not to mention all the stuff that happened before that. Leaving me behind. Leaving me out. You’ve been leaving me bit by bit for months. So don’t pretend this is all my fault. It isn’t, Layla. And you fucking know it.”

  I was breathing heavily when I finished talking, my chest moving quickly up and down. I hadn’t planned to say all that, but once it was out, I realized it had been building for forever. And it was all true.

  There was also so much about my life now that she didn’t even know. At this very moment, my father was unpacking boxes in a different apartment and it felt like nothing would ever be the same again with us or with my family. I hadn’t gotten into the Shakespeare program, and I felt inadequate in every way a person could. I was lost in my own life, and I didn’t know how to get found.

  Layla shook her head, and something about her face turned hard and apathetic. “You’re right,” she said softly. “And you were right about me. You said this w-would happen and you were right. I knew it could happen t-t-t-too, you know. I’m not an idiot. But I was trying to b-be b-b-brave.”

  She shrugged. And I could tell that she’d given up on this conversation, on me, from the way her arms flopped at her sides.

  “Maybe we c-c-could have forgiven each other if you’d apologized b-before it all c-c-came true and if I’d stopped Sloane when she t-told me they were going to g-give you a taste of your own medicine. But I wanted them to hurt you, b-because you hurt me. And now that this has happened, I d-d-don’t know how to t-talk to you, C-C-Cleo. Do you get that? I don’t even w-want to.”

  The worst part was that she didn’t even sound mad. She sounded like she was explaining something simple to someone who didn’t understand. Like she was tutoring me on the basics of intricate and unforgivable things.

  “If you never wanted to speak to me again, why’d you come to the one place you knew I’d be able to find you?” My voice was thick with the beginning of tears, and I sounded weak and desperate. It was embarrassing, but I didn’t stop talking. “Of all the places you could have gone, you came here to our spot.”

  Layla picked up her coat. She slipped her arms into the sleeves without looking at me. “I came b-b-b-because I knew no one else w-w-would know to look here. Not b-because you would.”

  I realized then that the faint buzzing I’d been hearing was her phone. People were looking for her, to congratulate or comfort her, and she was here hiding from them. She wasn’t in this half-hidden corner of the library because she needed or wanted me, but precisely because she didn’t.

  She walked past me then, brushing my shoulder the way she had in the hallway. Like I was anyone. Like I was no one at all.

  My eyes filled, but I didn’t turn around to watch Layla leave. I took out my phone and I texted her instead. Because texting had always been the way we could communicate best. Even if we were mad. Even when we were in the same room.

  Lay, I typed out. But I didn’t know what else to say.

  Just like the time in the cafeteria, when I first realized something had gone wrong between us, I watched as she looked at her phone, then at me, and shoved it back into her pocket without writing me back.

  I watched Layla’s back, her black hair straight and falling against her jacket like strips of ribbon. I didn’t want her to go and I didn’t want to go home. But a second later, she was gone and I knew I’d have to face everything I’d been avoiding.

  * * *

  —

  That night, Layla finally wrote me back. I was sitting on the couch and I’d actually been laughing at a funny commercial on TV when my phone buzzed. I looked down at it and the smile fell from my face.

  You don’t get to call me that anymore.

  now

  SHE TELLS ME EVERYTHING

  I go back to class.

  Now that I know exactly who my anger should be directed toward, it’s easier to handle the looks and whispers. I’m calm and collected as I take my seat in first period, and I actually listen and pay attention to most of the physics lecture. I raise my hand to answer a question Mr. Frick asks about friction.

  “Pressure is the force exerted divided by the area of contact,” I say. “The amount of friction can increase or decrease depending on how small or large the area is between the two objects that are in contact.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, they feel like a sign.

  “That’s exactly right, Cleo,” Mr. Frick says, and I don’t look at anyone else as I copy down the equation from the whiteboard, because I’m laser-focused on getting through this class and getting to Sloane.

  The second we’re dismissed I’m up and out of my seat, thinking about friction. I pack my bag quickly and swing it over my shoulder, and I walk down the hall to where I know Sloane will be. There has been a palpable tension between Sloane and me since the day we met, and this rumor might be the last straw.

  When I turn the corner, I hear her voice, high and clear over the other voices in the hall. She’s calling out to L
ayla, who’s approaching from the opposite end of the corridor as me. Layla sees me but doesn’t let her eyes linger on my form. She probably thinks I’m just passing through, the way I normally would be.

  “L!” Sloane calls, and I want to shout back, That’s not her damn name. “Oh my God. You’re not going to believe what happened to Cady in first period.”

  I’m getting closer. In a few steps I’ll be right beside them, the Chorus Girls, with their perfect hair and fake smiles. I’ll be right next to Layla, whose hair is always straightened now; whose eyes are always made up and whose tongue is quick and cruel. New Layla, the one who doesn’t look like she ever would have hung out with someone like me—someone unrefined and geeky and weird. But I can’t think about Layla right now.

  “Sloane,” I say when I’m close enough. The other girls, including Layla, look at me like I’m not worthy of speaking to her. They collectively shift their weight—taking a step back or pushing out a hip to get a little farther away from me—like the unworthiness is catching.

  Sloane turns around, and her smile falls from her face the second she sees it’s me calling her name. Her features rearrange themselves into what I can tell is her own version of a poker face, but hers isn’t as good as mine. I can see the anger brewing just beneath the surface. I can tell she’s seconds from losing her cool.

  Good, I think. So am I.

  “It was you?” I ask, the irony not being lost on me that this is exactly what she said to me when she found out I was the one responsible for letting Todd into her party.

  But unlike me, hers wasn’t an honest mistake, so she knows exactly what I’m talking about right away and she doesn’t deny it. She slips a notebook into her backpack and closes her locker.

  “I only told Melody,” she says guiltlessly. But that just makes me angrier. Everyone knows you don’t tell Melody anything you want to stay secret.

  “Well, it isn’t true,” I say. “And I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t go around talking shit about my family.”

  Layla’s looking at me. I can feel her eyes, and the weight of them makes my blood feel like it’s on fire. This is as much her fault as it is Sloane’s.

  “How do you know?” she asks next, and I’m caught completely off-guard.

  “What?” I say.

  “How do you know it isn’t true?”

  “I just do,” I say. “I know my dad.”

  “Do you, though?” she asks, tilting her head, and I frown at her. I feel my resolve wavering, because she has a glint in her eye that makes me wonder if she knows something that I don’t somehow. But if that’s really the case, I don’t want it to be revealed right now, in front of all the Chorus Girls. I don’t say a word more, but Sloane fills up the silence.

  “I mean, he left school in such a hurry and without any explanation, really. Didn’t you ever wonder why?”

  She shifts her weight and gestures with her hand like she’s talking about the weather and not the downfall of the most important person in my life. I want her to stop talking, but I also need to know what she’s acting like she knows.

  I swallow hard, and a drop of sweat trickles down my spine.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask quietly.

  She squints at me. “Did you even see the text?”

  “No,” I say, “but that’s not the—”

  “I never said he hooked up with a student,” Sloane explains, cutting me off. “I said he left Chisholm because of an illicit relationship.” She raises her eyebrows like I’m supposed to know what that means. “But you know how facts can get distorted. You know how these things can take on lives of their own.” She studies her fingernails like they’re infinitely more interesting than I am.

  I blink away from Sloane and look around at the other girls. They’ve shifted away from us the tiniest bit, and they’re all huddled around Layla’s phone like they’re watching a video or something, but I can tell they’re still listening. My throat feels tight.

  I was sure that it was all made up. That Sloane was just being bitchy and that my dad was the victim. I wanted to be right, but suddenly I’m not sure I am anymore.

  Sloane says, “Well, I don’t want to be late to class,” knowing she’s clearly won our little standoff, if you could even call it that.

  When the other girls turn and start to walk down the hall away from me, Layla looks back once and her eyes seem sad. But I don’t want her pity. I don’t want a thing from her anymore.

  Just before Sloane leaves me behind too, she takes a step closer to me and leans down to whisper in my ear. “Your mom and Layla’s mom are still tight, right?” She barely pauses long enough for me to nod. “Well, Mrs. Hassan tells Layla a lot more than she probably should. And Layla? She tells me everything.”

  I jerk away from her, and I try my hardest to keep my face composed. To keep myself together while she’s watching me, clearly looking for a reaction. I don’t give her one even though alarm bells are ringing through every inch of my body. I’m almost shaking trying to keep my cool.

  Sloane smirks. Then she jogs a little to catch up with her friends. She tosses an arm around Layla’s shoulder, and it only sharpens the pain that is slicing its way through me. The second they’re out of sight, I lean against the lockers to try to catch my breath.

  I don’t believe the rumor—no way—but there’s clearly more to why Daddy left Chisholm. If Sloane isn’t lying, Layla knows something, and that makes me more upset than maybe anything else. That she kept something this big and painful from me but told Sloane. And while I’d love to say I’m surprised, I’m not. At all.

  I want the truth, so I know I need to go straight to the source.

  MEN SHOULD BE WHAT THEY SEEM

  All the days that I’ve missed this month were days when I didn’t enter the building at all. So I’m not the kind of kid who would normally need to know how to sneak away from school—how to skip, say, one class—and I have no idea how to get out of here before last bell undetected.

  I know I can’t use the front door, so I head to one of the side stairwells. Some of them have emergency exits, doors that have to remain unlocked in case of a fire or some other disaster. But this feels like an emergency to me. Bits and pieces of my life have been going up in flames for months, so I need to get out of here to save myself, to get away from everything that’s burning.

  The first stairwell I check has no exit at all, and the next one has a sign that says an alarm will sound if the door is opened. In the third one I find two people making out against the only way out, and while I’d normally pretend I hadn’t seen anything and keep moving, I’m desperate.

  “Hey, look, I’m sorry,” I say. A brown-skinned guy with curly black hair pulls away from the person he’s kissing—another guy, with cornrows and a round hickey on the left side of his neck. Looks like they’ve been at it for a while, but you wouldn’t know it by the annoyed expressions on their faces. “I just need to—” I point to the door behind them.

  They both move, as one, to make room for me to pass. “Thanks,” I say. I don’t look back, but I bet they’re making out again before the door even closes.

  The subway isn’t crowded because it’s only a little after eleven a.m., so rush hour is over, and no one’s headed out for lunch yet. My mood lightens a little as I fade into the bigness of the city and become just another face in the crowd. On the platform, no one is staring at me. On the train, no one knows what the kids at my school are saying about my dad. On the windy sidewalk, I’m just like everyone else: cold, busy, and on my way.

  I don’t text him. I don’t want to give him a chance to know I’m coming, or a chance to charm me with one of his all-caps replies. Once I get there, I skip up the library stairs two at a time and head straight to the ground floor.

  This part of the library is never exactly quiet, but it seems oddly empty today with
the riot going on inside my head. I step into the reading room, and he looks up from the computer on his desk and smiles.

  “Well, this is quite a surprise,” he says softly. He doesn’t scold me for being out of school like I thought he’d do right away. He doesn’t ask why I’ve come. And instantly, just from the sight of his crooked glasses and bow tie, and the sound of his Librarian Voice, I feel the ice around my heart start to melt. I don’t want to cry here, but the weight of it all comes crashing down at once. I sniff, and before the first tear falls, Daddy is out of his seat, stooping in front of me.

  “Baby Girl,” he says. “What’s going on now?”

  I don’t want to ask him, because I feel like I should know that this isn’t true, not about him. That this is an evil rumor made up by someone who wants to destroy me. But I’m so unsure of everything now. Every piece of the life I knew has turned out not to be true. So I have to ask. I have to hear him say that I’m not an idiot to think I know the man he is.

  “Someone at school started a rumor about you.”

  “About me?” he asks, and I watch his face closely for anything that lets on that he might know where I’m going with this. I don’t feel any twitches in his fingers, which are holding mine. He isn’t avoiding my eyes.

  “Yeah. They’re saying…” And I don’t know if I can say it out loud. I don’t know if I can speak of this in front of him. He squeezes my hand.

  “It’s okay, Cleo. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together.”

  “They’re saying you left Chisholm because you had an affair. With a student.”

  He blinks a few times. He slips his glasses from his face and my heart seizes. I’m no longer someone he can see clearly, and blurry daughters are easily lied to. He says, “Honey. I swear. That isn’t true.”

  “Why’d you leave, then?” I ask. And I watch him even more closely. The second he looks down, away from my eyes, I know I won’t be able to believe whatever he says next.