by Bryan Bliss
“Nobody will ever accuse you of being subtle,” she says, folding the shirt and putting it on her lap.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about, honey. Not to me. Not to anyone. Okay?”
“Okay.”
She reaches over and lifts my chin so she can see my eyes.
“I wouldn’t care if you wore this shirt every day for the rest of your life. That’s not it. I was so proud of you, honey. I am proud of you.” She hesitates. “But I don’t want things like what happened today to . . . well, I already worry every time you leave the house. And I know I can’t stop people from being idiots. Still.”
She smooths the shirt one more time before putting it back in the box.
“I guess I’m trying to say that you can show them who you are in other ways. You don’t have to be only the person they think you are.”
Tyler doesn’t wait for lunch.
“I already heard what happened,” he says when I pick up. “Fucking assholes.”
I don’t want to know how he already knows or, honestly, have this conversation right now. I just want to go bed and only get up for basketball games and the occasional slice of pizza.
Tyler sighs and says, “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked if you are okay.”
“I’m pissed,” I say. “But other than that, fine.”
“Good,” he says. “And, uh, I saw your dad at school this morning.”
“What?”
“He didn’t look happy, Boone.”
I have no idea why Dad was there, but his patience and tolerance of anything related to Ford has been on a steady decline since the shooting. Mom won’t let him go in for parent-teacher conferences, or even to sign the most basic of permission slips because he’s always on the verge of, as my grandmother might’ve said, showing his ass.
“I should probably go tell my mom,” I say.
“That’s right. Ronnie got banned, what, six months ago?”
“I wouldn’t call it a ban, but more of a suggestion.”
Tyler laughs. “Hey, do you want to do something tonight? You can’t go to practice, right? So, I thought maybe we could go somewhere. Do something. A date, even.”
“I don’t know, Tyler. I just want to stick around the house and not see anybody.”
“Like, anybody, including me? Or anybody, as in the ninety percent of this town that are insufferable rednecks who wear T-shirts with lightning bolts and wolves on them—not ironically, I might add—because they’re not only fashionable, but easy to find at your local gas station?”
“I’m pretty sure there’s a picture of you wearing a wolf T-shirt on the wall at your house.”
“That was for the wolf sanctuary and you know it,” he says, laughing.
I can practically see him leaning up against a wall in one of the quiet hallways at Ford, shielding his voice from anybody who might walk by. Keeping all of this between us, which had always been his best trait—the ability to make it seem like he was giving me the entirety of his attention whenever we were together.
“Okay, we can do something,” I say. “But only if you dig out that wolf T-shirt.”
“Deal. It’s probably going to fit me like a crop top at this point, so warn your parents.”
Tyler shows up at my house an hour after school, refusing to tell me anything except to “wear good shoes,” which is kind of amusing, because it’s not like I make a habit of wearing heels.
When he walks into the house, I show him my feet—slip-on skate shoes—and the asshole actually spends a few seconds trying to decide if they’re appropriate.
“I’m seriously happy to just stay home,” I say, and that ends his deliberations.
“It should be fine” is all he says before grabbing my hand and practically dragging me out the door. I could probably physically stop him from moving me if I really wanted to, but I let him pull me out the door and across the driveway. When we get to his car, I refuse to get in without some kind of explanation.
“We’re losing daylight.”
“We’re losing daylight?”
Tyler looks up at the sky and then back at me, a mischievous smile on his lips.
“Trust me, Boone. When have I ever steered you wrong?”
“Uh, sophomore year for starters. The Carowinds Incident.”
I do air quotes because I know it will piss him off.
“You literally ate nachos before you went on that ride! What are you even talking about, Boone?!”
“Still, I blame you.”
He looks positively flummoxed by the idea that I might’ve secretly been harboring a grudge from a theme park date two years ago. He shakes his head and opens his door.
“Fine, blame me. But get in the car because—”
“Yeah, yeah—daylight.”
We drive to the other side of the county, where the roads are narrow and they cross back and forth over one another as the hills begin to turn into mountains. The radio is turned down low, but neither of us is talking. The sun is slowly dying, a few inches lower every time it reappears from behind the trees that line both sides of the road.
I can feel my eyes closing. It’s the soft murmur of the road beneath us, the warm sunlight.
“Are you falling asleep?”
“I don’t sleep,” I say, smiling.
When I was younger, as the story goes, I would refuse to acknowledge or admit that I ever slept. Every morning I’d wake up and my mom would ask, “How did you sleep?” And I would respond with something to the effect of, “I don’t sleep.” Every morning, the same thing—Mom asking a normal question and me answering bizarrely, and with conviction.
I think Mom and Dad thought I was being precocious, and as an only child I was certainly guilty of turning the spotlight on myself more than once. But that wasn’t the case with this. I honestly didn’t remember sleeping. The days ran together in one continuous stream, which maybe sounds horribly tedious—but it wasn’t. If anything, it was a testament to my desire to stuff every minute of my day with something.
When Tyler parks the car, he says, “We’re here.”
Outside, I see a sixty-something-year-old man wearing what looks like an oversize Boy Scout uniform—brown shirt, brown shorts, hiking boots. He’s even got a floppy sun hat.
He smiles and waves, stretching as he stands up.
“Where are we?”
“Bakers Mountain,” Tyler says, waving to the park ranger. “C’mon.”
He opens the door and greets the ranger by name, which of course makes me wonder if he’s living some kind of double life because we’ve never been to this park once and suddenly he’s on first name basis with Ranger Rick, whose name is actually Dean.
“Dean runs the trails every morning before the park opens,” Tyler tells me. I look up at the mountain, which is admittedly small when compared to, say, the Rockies or even the Smokies, but it’s still a serious grade, so I must look skeptical because Dean nods.
“Cheaper than a gym membership,” he says, patting his nonexistent gut. “And from what I hear, you could probably give me a run for my money.”
“I’m not much for running. But my friend Claire might be willing.”
Dean laughs, knowingly. “Tell her to come up here sometime and we’ll see what she’s made of.”
My body tenses at the thought of Claire, who might as well have disappeared. Ten years of friendship, of basketball tournaments and laughter, and then, poof—gone. Not that I didn’t understand. Didn’t dream about my own escape, usually at moments just like this, when somebody is about to dispense with expected pleasantries and show me who they really are—how they really feel.
Instead, Dean smiles—an actual warm and genuine smile—and hands me a map.
“We just cut out a new trail here.” He points to a place on the map near the peak. “It’s not on the map yet, but it’s ready and I think you two will like it. Very private.”
He winks and Tyler blushes, which makes me r
eally wonder what in the hell is happening here.
“Yeah. Anyway,” Tyler says, moving toward the trailhead a little too quickly. I kind of want to give him some shit, to press Dean for more information. But he’s moving so fast I have to jog to catch up with him.
“I have so many questions,” I say, and all he does is smile, taking the map from my hands and acting like he needs to do some serious orienteering or whatever, anything to avoid this conversation.
We’re the only people on the trails, which is nice. And even though we have the entire mountain to ourselves, we don’t talk—just walk. Up, up, up, winding around a mountain that, according to my dad, used to be the place to escape your parents, and sometimes the police, so you could camp out, smoke some weed, and generally escape your life.
I never asked any more questions whenever he mentioned Bakers Mountain, but it strikes me this still is the perfect place to escape. The tree cover blocks out the entire sky on certain parts of the trail, and the only sound is the birds or the occasional hidden critter scrambling through the fallen leaves.
After one final climb, we come to the peak and the entire city of Hickory, my entire life, is spread out below us like a child’s puzzle. I can see the road leading to my house. Ford High School. The start of the real mountains just west of us.
Tyler puts his arm around me and then just as quickly steps away.
“Oh, gross. You’re all sweaty.”
I punch him once in the ribs and he laughs, pulling me close to him. He kisses the side of my head and we stand there together, watching everything. The whole world looks manageable from up here. As if I could move the pieces whenever and wherever I needed them. Maybe it’s the complete silence, Tyler’s arm around me—simple biology—or just the mountain air, but I feel like I can breathe. I close my eyes and take another breath, a third.
And then I punch Tyler again, hard.
“What the hell, Boone!”
But he’s laughing.
“You’re all sweaty. I should push your ass off this mountain.”
“You know I was kidding.” He rubs his ribs gingerly. “Have you ever thought about going into MMA? If the whole basketball thing doesn’t work out? Because, Jesus, Boone. You hit like a truck.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Not about the punching, although I do consider that a compliment. Thank you for bringing me up here.”
Tyler nods and then looks down into the valley. “I thought you could use a break. And this is where I like to go when I need a break.”
“To hang out with your buddy Dean.”
“That, too. Yes.”
I lean my head against his shoulder and take another long, deep breath.
“I love you,” I say.
“Me, too, Boone. Me, too.”
Chapter Eight
THE NEXT MORNING I’M UP HOURS BEFORE I NEED TO be, still floating after the hike with Tyler. I walk into the kitchen and find Dad at the table, coffee in hand, checking the news on his phone.
“Is the world ending yet?” I ask him.
“Just about, kid. You want some eggs?”
“I’m not that hungry. But thanks.”
He puts his phone down. “So I went up to the school yesterday. I assume Tyler told you.”
“Yeah. He did.”
“The little traitor,” he says, smiling weakly. “Anyway, I went up there and let Mr. Townsend know what happened.”
I shouldn’t be angry—and until this moment, I wasn’t. If anything, last night had been one of the best nights in the past year. The first time I could unplug from all the anger, all the bullshit. And while I know that Dad was just trying to protect me, I’m still hot.
“They didn’t need to know,” I say. “They could’ve just thought I was sick.”
“Well, the T-shirts and then this . . . Eleanor, it feels like there’s a trend. And I want to make sure you’re safe.”
“Safe? I’m never safe. I’m always ready to run. And it really never ends, not when I’m at home, on the court, or even asleep. I never feel safe, Dad!”
Mom comes rushing into the kitchen, but I can’t stop myself even though I know I should.
“I need everybody to stop trying to protect me and realize that you can’t!”
“Eleanor, honey, calm down,” Mom says.
But I shake my head. I want to run out the door the way I would in middle school, when my only defense against perceived injustice was to slam the screen door as hard as I could, trying to bust the hinges.
But I’m scared that if I get in my car and drive away right now, something will happen. I don’t know what, or whether the anxiety is credible. But fear presses down against me like an elephant, seven tons pushing me back into the chair I had risen out of in such glorious righteousness.
It’s the moment after a tornado, when the birds start singing and everybody wonders how they didn’t get blown away. Dad looks at Mom and then picks up his phone, dialing a number which turns out to be Dr. Holston, who says she can stop over before school, no problem.
Dr. Holston comes with her own tea, maybe because she knows my parents drink single-cup brewed coffee. Or maybe she was on her way to yoga—she’s dressed for it—or maybe she was just sitting at home enjoying her morning, expecting to do anything but show up once again to fix whatever is wrong with me.
“So, how’s your world today, Eleanor?”
“Nonexistent,” I say. “My world doesn’t start before eight thirty a.m. at the earliest.”
She doesn’t smile at my joke, just stares at me until I give in.
“It’s not good. I guess.”
“What do you mean by ‘not good’?”
This time I stare at her because we both know what she’s doing—she already knows that I freaked out on my parents for no reason. Because I’ve been not good for a year.
“I’m pissed off. And scared. And exhausted. And now I’m hungry, too.”
“Do you want to talk about what happened at Carol’s?”
I shake my head. She opens her tea and takes a sip, content to sit here in complete silence because she’s some kind of psychopath who is more than happy to just “be in the moment” or whatever it is she’s always saying.
“Do you remember when you told me that anger was a second emotion?” I ask.
“Mmm. Yes.”
“Well, I don’t understand it,” I say. “And maybe that’s why I’m not good.”
This time she smiles.
“Anger often masks our pain. Our trauma. It doesn’t make it less”—she thinks for a second—“valid, perhaps. But whenever I’m angry, I often ask myself, why?”
“I’m angry because that asshole wanted me to be scared,” I blurt out. “That’s the only reason he showed the gun to me! Because he wanted to scare me.”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what he was trying to do. And guess what? Your reaction is a hundred percent normal. If somebody threatened me with a gun, I’m not sure how I would react. But I can tell you that, afterward, I would be angry and terrified and confused—just like you are right now.”
She reaches over and puts her hand on top of mine.
“Eleanor, I want you to know that it’s okay to be upset. To be angry. That anger is an expected and normal response to this. But I think I hear you saying that you can’t seem to pull the plane back up. That you’re stuck in a nosedive.”
That was more true than I wanted it to be. But what if I’ve always been in a nosedive? What if nobody has realized it and they thought we were just flying and not falling? And perhaps scarier, what if I want to be in the nosedive?
“What if I like being angry?” I ask her.
Holston barely blinks an eye. She drinks her tea and watches me, swallowing two sips before putting the cup back on the table and speaking.
“Well, I think it’s a good recipe for tearing yourself apart if you can never throttle back.”
But I have throttled back. I tried not being angry. And what changed? Peopl
e still tell lies on social media and make T-shirts and, now, rednecks show me guns tucked under their waistbands because they think it will make me stop—which it never, ever will.
At the same time, I can feel the hundreds of tiny cuts, the tears of countless barbs and attacks, in every bone of my body. None of them are fatal, but they’ve slowed me down in ways I can’t begin to explain.
So what if I can’t be angry and I can’t hide? Am I just supposed to pretend? Forever?
I try to smile. I nod and shrug and generally play the part I’ve been playing for the last nine months of my life. The one that screams out—Happy! Happy!—that everything is fine. Nothing to see here.
But it’s failing and everyone can see it.
“I just want to be okay,” I finally say.
When I get to school, Tyler is waiting for me in the parking lot with an iced mocha and a big smile. I decide to play my part with him, too, not to let him know anything about this morning or how I’m still seething.
I take the mocha, which is undeniably good and I think, maybe, this is what Holston is talking about—the ability to enjoy something simple. To not let my hot anger turn it into a bubbling mess.
Tyler waves a hand in my face. “You with me, Boone?”
“Yeah, sorry. Hey, thanks for the drink.”
Thankfully, the bell rings and even though we’ve been late to Hoffman’s class a hundred different times, I tell him I don’t want to be late and start walking. And of course, he sees that I’m doing everything I can to avoid him—everything I’m feeling—so he jumps in front of me.
“Did I make you mad? Was it something last night?”
I shake my head and try to move around him, to join the rest of the students as they make their way to their classes, every single one of them seemingly happy. Unaffected. As if they don’t remember every single second of that day.
“Hey, hey—what’s up with you?”
“Nothing,” I say. And then, because I can’t stop myself, “It’s not like you want to hear it.”
He flinches like I hit him with an elbow.
“Whoa. What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
I try to step around him again, but he’s too quick for me—a first. I push him into the lockers, which makes him laugh at first. But when I start walking away, not playing one bit, he runs to catch up with me.