Hollow

by Rhonda Parrish

  Still did.

  Now, Keith seems to fill up more of my thoughts than Aric. I feel a little stab of guilt from that, but at the same time I wonder if maybe that isn’t all right. That maybe I’m slowly moving on from that horrible day in December, even though my mother cannot.

  The buzz of the bell snaps me out of my thoughts. I look around, blurry eyed like I’ve just woken from a nap, as my classmates shove their books and binders into backpacks. I hear them laugh and talk with one another, and I wish, not for the first time, that I was one of them. Any one of them. Anyone but myself.

  And then I remember that Marcus is going to meet me at my locker, and I take it all back.

  Chapter Seven

  “MORGAN?” STACY’S VOICE separates itself from the rustling white noise of the hallway, the students all emptying into it from their classes like salmon into a river. I pause on my way to the door, unsure if I want to deal with Stacy. Marcus is waiting! I could pretend I didn’t hear her. . . Still, we used to be good friends, so I stifle the paranoid voice in my brain, step out of the current of students, and face her.

  Stacy is gorgeous. The kind of pretty I had always wanted to be but never would. The kind of pretty that doesn’t need makeup, nice clothes, or even a good haircut to stand out in a crowd. She has long red hair, deep red hair, that cascades down to the middle of her back and shines like something out of a shampoo commercial. Her eyes are green and shaped like a cat’s, and a mole just above her upper lip is the only imperfection in her pale complexion. Usually she looks like a spokesperson for “Happy Teenager”, all smiles and giggles with an honest-to-goodness bounce in her step, but not right now. Right now she’s chewing on her lower lip, and her eyes dart around the room like she’s afraid of something. “Uh, can I talk to you for a second?” She pauses and takes a step deeper into the nearly empty classroom. “Alone?”

  I feel the frown on my face and don’t try to do anything to hide it. For the last two years I’ve been on a nod and smile basis with Stacy, but in all that time we’ve never, as far as I can remember, had a conversation which would require being alone. The paranoid part of my brain is whispering that this must be some sort of trick, but I think back to all the fun times Stacy, Sevren, and I had in junior high and elementary, tell that voice to shut up, and weave my way through the lab benches to where Stacy is waiting in the middle of the room.

  She’s chewing on her lip like bubble gum and clutching her books to her chest like a shield.

  “I, I heard about what Keith said about you today—”

  “I don’t want to talk about that,” I say, as coldly as I can. I’m afraid if I show any other emotion I’ll start crying.

  “I get it,” Stacy nods. “I totally do. I just—the thing is, when I was dating Keith . . .”

  She stops chewing on her lip, becomes very still, in fact, only her eyes display any energy. They bore into me, so intense I halfway think she’s trying to communicate with me without speaking. Exactly what she’s trying to get through to me, I can only guess. “Yes?” I prompt. I try not to sound impatient but I wish she’d get to the point.

  “Well, when we broke up,” she says, with the air of changing the subject. “He said some horrible things about me. Things that weren’t true. Things like what he’s saying about you—”

  “He’s an asshole,” I say, but I feel my cheeks flush all the same.

  “He is. And he’s also—” Stacy’s shoulders rise as she sucks in a great lungful of air, then fall again as she lets it go. “He’s also—”

  My mouth goes dry. Does Stacy know? Does she know what Keith did to me? Does she know because he’d done it to her too? I lean forward, desperate to hear how she is going to end that sentence, then she glances up, looking at something over my shoulder, and her entire posture changes. It is like a curtain coming down at the end of a play or perhaps, more accurately, going up at the start of it. Stacy’s face is suddenly a mask, all happy, perky, and super casual. Her eyes dart back to me and she smiles, “A jerk. He’s a big, fat liar and a total jerk. I’m sorry, Morgan, and for what it’s worth, I don’t believe what he says about you.”

  “Neither do I,” Marcus says from behind me.

  I jump, nearly dropping my binder, and then laugh nervously. “Dude, you scared me,” I say, turning to face him. He grins, and for a second, nothing else matters. Not Keith, not his lies, not even Stacy and the questions she’s left me with. Nothing.

  “I’ll leave you two love birds alone then,” she says and practically skips out of the classroom, any sign of the serious nature of our conversation wiped from her completely.

  “What was that all about?” Marcus says.

  “I don’t know,” I lie. Perhaps it’s wishful thinking but I got the impression Stacy was trying to tell me I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t the first . . . Or, maybe she was trying to make me feel better about the fact the whole school was talking about me.

  “Well then, shall we?” Marcus gestures toward the open classroom door, and when I step through into the tumultuous hallway, he places his hand at the small of my back, as though he is guiding me through the stream of students all around us, to the front door. I hear whispering and see people looking at me, but for once I don’t mind. In fact, I like it. That’s right, I think, he’s with me. He’s touching me. Take a look!

  My smile feels foreign on my face. My school day is definitely ending on a much better note than it started on. In fact, I’m almost disappointed when we reach the school doors and I push them open. As we step outside, into the clear autumn sunlight, Marcus lets go of me and moves to stand beside me. I can still feel the residual warmth from his hand through my hoodie.

  He smiles down at me. “I really do prefer it when you look happy.”

  I can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t sound totally cheesy so I laugh, and Marcus joins in. “So,” I say as we begin walking toward my house, “are you often in the habit of walking girls home after school?”

  I regret the words the instant I say them. They don’t sound light and flirty like I’d planned but needy and somewhat desperate. Please say no, I think, please say no.

  Marcus laughs, his teeth a bright flash against his brown skin, and shakes his head. “No. Can’t say that I am. Are you in the habit of running out of class?”

  Normally, had anyone other than Sevren asked me that I would have flipped, but the way Marcus says it, so nonjudgmentally, so casually, makes it easy for me to answer, even if I do feel a little heat creeping up my cheeks. “No.” I duck my head and keep walking, my eyes averted. “Not usually. In fact, you witnessed history in the making today.”

  “I did?”

  “Uh-huh.” I nod and sneak a glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s watching me, a smile on his face and his expression the perfect mixture of interest and concern. “It was a one-time-only show, too, you ought to be pleased.”

  “That it’s a one-time show? I am,” he says, sliding his arm around my waist like we are boyfriend/girlfriend. He pulls me against him, our hips bounce off one another awkwardly as we walk, but then he pulls us to a stop and looks down at me, his brown eyes making my belly flop like a gymnast on the rings. “I don’t like it when you cry.”

  My heart stops in my chest, or at least it feels like it has. All around us little groups of students ebb and flow, but right at this moment I feel like Marcus and I are insulated from the rest of the world. All alone but for each other. Then, before I can formulate a reply to his words, Amy’s voice bursts through the bubble that had contained us, shattering it to bits. “Morgan!”

  Marcus’ hand moves from my waist as I turn to look down at Amy, exasperation and disappointment bubbling in me like a witch’s cauldron. “What?” I say, sharply.

  Amy blinks and takes a step back, and I see the change come over her expression and recognise my mistake. Her face turns hard, determined. Her eyes narrow and her lips purse. She puts one hand on her hip and shifts her weight to that side. “Well, I
was going to ask you to tell Mom I was going to the library to play on the computer, but now I think I’ll walk home with you.”

  Beside me, Marcus laughs. “Wow. You’ve got some spirit. You two must be sisters.”

  “Sisters, yeah,” I say, not quite seeing the humour in the situation. The last thing in the world I want is to have to share my time with Marcus, or his attention.

  “I’m Amy,” she says, tilting her head like a bird to study Marcus. “Who are you?”

  “Marcus. You going to walk home with us?”

  “Yeah.” Amy bites her fingernail and I can see the indecision in her eyes. She doesn’t want to like Marcus but somehow he’s already winning her over.

  “Yeah? Can you run?”

  “Faster ’en you,” she says.

  “That so?”

  “Yeah.” Amy lifts her chin defiantly and I feel a tiny bit of my irritation dissipate. I haven’t seen that competitive streak come out in Amy in quite some time, but there it is, clear as day and suiting her well.

  “Well then, Amy, wanna race to that stop sign?”

  “What do I get if I win?”

  “If you win,” he pauses and taps a finger against his chin. “If you win, not only can you walk home with us, but I’ll give you a piggyback and your sister will carry your backpack.”

  “You’re on!” Amy says. Then, before Marcus has a chance to think or change his mind, she shouts, “One, two, three, go!” and is off like a bullet.

  “Oh you little—” Marcus says.

  It wouldn’t be a problem, even with Amy’s head start, for Marcus to beat her to the stop sign. Not only are his legs nearly as long as she is tall, but he is also the strongest runner I’ve ever seen in real life. Including myself. Still, his pace is the right speed to make Amy think she has a chance the whole way to the corner, and as I follow in their wake, I can’t help but smile at the interplay between them. They reach the stop sign, and Marcus slaps it a heartbeat before Amy does but both of them are flushed and laughing.

  “Aww man,” Amy says, but her disappointment doesn’t seem entirely real and the smile on her face reaches all the way up to her eyes.

  “Here,” Marcus says, reaching into his wallet and pulling out some money. “Give your backpack to me and go to Rosie’s to buy two slushes. One for you and one for Morgan and I to share.”

  “Yoink!” Amy says, snatching the bill from his hand without a second thought. She shrugs out of her backpack, leaving it on the ground at our feet, and rushes off down the street to the nearby corner store before I even have a chance to say a word. I laugh. “You sure have a way with kids.”

  Marcus picks up Amy’s backpack. “Yeah, back in England my folks were respite foster parents, so there was always a foster kid or three around. Even when I was younger, I always seemed to be the oldest kid in the group. It teaches you a little bit about how to handle ’em.”

  “Foster kids?” I fall into step beside Marcus as we head toward my house, our pace one that would be leisurely even to a snail. “That must have been hard to have kids always coming in and out of your life.”

  “It was tough sometimes, but harder for them than me. Some of those kids had been through hell.” His mouth turns up at one side in a wry smile.

  “Yeah, yeah, I suppose they would have. Still,” I say, thinking over the past year. “Someone else having it worse doesn’t necessarily make your situation easier.”

  “No.” Marcus looks at me, and I know he wants to ask me something. About Keith, or the accident, perhaps. Gossip about both must have reached him by now. He doesn’t say anything, just hip checks me affectionately. “No, it doesn’t, but sometimes it helps to keep perspective.”

  “I suppose.”

  The feeling of bliss from the heart-wrenchingly perfect moment when he’d said he didn’t like to see me cry while he looked at me like a precious thing was gone, but the melancholy which settles over my shoulders like a familiar shawl is tempered by its afterglow and by the feeling that, should I need to talk, I could find a sympathetic and understanding listener in Marcus. Maybe.

  Of course, I’ve been wrong before. Once upon a time I’d trusted Keith. Hell, I’d even doodled “Mrs. Keith Holmes” on a page in my journal. I’d been so stupid then. So naïve. I can’t believe I’d ever been blind to what kind of person he was.

  From behind me I hear the familiar clop-clop-clop of Amy’s shoes on the pavement, and I laugh. “We’ve been moving too slowly,” I say. “We’re about to have company again.”

  Marcus turns and laughs, “Wow, you move faster with slushes in your hands than you do without them.”

  Amy smiles and hands one over to him. “You didn’t say what flavour you wanted so . . .”

  The slush is a rainbow of colours, each layered one on top of the other. Orange, pink, yellow, blue, and brown all slowly seeping into one another. Marcus trades her the large plastic cup for her backpack. “It looks perfect.”

  He takes a drink through the straw and I think it’s tough for anyone to look sexy drinking a slush out of a straw. For anyone. Even someone as hot as Marcus.

  “Do you want to come in?” I ask Marcus as we reach our front yard. Amy looks up at him, giving her best puppy dog eyes.

  “I wish. I can’t though. Another time?”

  “Tomorrow?” Amy asks.

  I make a disapproving sound and swat her shoulder. I say, “Amy, don’t be so pushy.” But I’m glad. She only asked what I wanted to.

  Marcus laughs. “Can’t do tomorrow, but how about the next day?”

  Amy squeals with delight, and I think I manage to look casual as I nod and say, “Sure.”

  Then Marcus looks up at me, melting my knees with the look in his eyes, the velvet in his voice. “It’s a date.”

  Chapter Eight

  MAYBE IT WAS watching Marcus go or the emotional rollercoaster ride the day had been, but the house felt even more painful than usual.

  I buried myself in some Jane Austen until dinnertime, which was about as fun as getting a cavity filled because I felt bad for what I’d said at lunch. Finally, it ended, which allowed me to escape to my bedroom where I could flip through today’s photos on my phone, cropping and filtering them before uploading.

  My favourite shot of the day is one of Amy’s empty slush cup, the disposable plastic straw bent at a right angle by her teeth, that I want to filter and title to say something about human consumption and waste. I settle on a dramatic over-saturated filter and am trying to think of a title when Sevren’s ringtone interrupts me. For a moment I consider ignoring the call, but it is Sevren so I press Accept.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “What’s goin’ on, Morgan?” He sounds worried and I feel guilty. Of course he’s worried. I haven’t texted him all day and the gossip mill must have been working full-time since before lunch.

  “It’s been a crazy day.”

  “I’ve heard. Wanna catch me up?”

  I do. I try to minimize the bad bits and play up the parts about Marcus.

  “Sounds like a good guy,” Sevren says when I’m done.

  “I think he is.”

  “Just,” Sevren hesitates a moment, and I can almost hear him deciding how to finish his sentence. “Be careful, eh?”

  I wonder how else he might have ended that, but not enough to push. Not today.

  “I will,” I say, and we leave the conversation there. Sevren goes back to his scary movies and I title the photograph “Hunger”, upload it, and then watch cats say “Hey” on YouTube until I fall asleep.

  AMY’S SCREAM WAKES me, and for a moment I think—I hope—it’s only an echo from my nightmares. Then it repeats. Amy’s voice, raw with fear. “No! No!”

  I kick off the blankets and stumble out of bed and down the hall. I shove Amy’s door open and flick on the light. A dozen My Little Ponies stare at me from the posters on her wall, and Amy, sweet Amy, sits upright in bed, eyes unseeing but wide, mouth wider, screaming, “No! No! No!”

&
nbsp; “Amy,” I say, but she doesn’t hear me so I touch her shoulder. She starts, spins her head like something from The Exorcist to look at me, and dissolves. Her back curls, shoulders slump, and face goes slack, then she begins to cry. “Oh, Morgan!”

  “Shh, it’s okay, Amy.” I sit on the edge of her bed, put my arm around her, and let her soak my shoulder with her tears. I don’t mind, I really don’t, but this isn’t my job. This isn’t my place. Mom should be doing this, comforting Amy. Not me. I should be sleeping. Like every other normal teenager in the world. Except I’m not. Normal, that is.

  “It was the rollercoaster,” she says between sobs, like I couldn’t have figured that out already. It was always the rollercoaster.

  Amy is terrified of rollercoasters. Hates them. Dad took her on one once, when she’d been a bit too small for it. Amy swears the harness didn’t fit her right. She says every time the cart went upside down she fell a few inches before the too-big shoulder harness caught her.

  I’m not super sure that reflects reality but it doesn’t matter, it’s what Amy believes. She’d been traumatized. Each time the car went upside down she thought she was going to die, to fall like a raindrop from the top of the loop and splatter on the tracks below. Since then, even the sound of a coaster is enough to bring her to tears, and since the accident, her nightmares about them are a weekly event. She should really be in counselling, but all the grown-ups in her life are too busy to notice.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Only a dream. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

  I smooth her hair and let her cry. When her sobs turn to hiccups and she pushes me away, looking embarrassed, I leave so she can compose herself.

  It’s too early to go to school and too late to go back to sleep, even if I could, which I couldn’t. There’s only one thing to do.

  I dress and pull on my running shoes. On my way by, I knock on Mom’s door. She doesn’t answer, which makes sense given she slept through Amy’s screams, so I slip inside and shake her lightly until she opens her eyes.