To be fair, my parents went through a tricky divorce recently. There wasn’t any abuse or anything like that, but there were lots of entanglements where money was concerned, because Mom and Dad owned a company together, and when things were finally settled, Dad moved all the way to New York just to get some space. Mom tends to see the things that happen to other people through the lens of her own experience, so she couldn’t help comparing what was happening with Mike to her own breakup.
“At least there’s no shared home, or kids to fight over, or financial dependence to figure out.” She spoke very fast, like she was trying to convince me—or maybe to convince herself—that everything would be okay.
She continued, “And it’s only high school. This doesn’t have to change everything. You and Mike and everyone else still have your whole lives ahead of you, right?”
“Right,” I agreed, because it seemed like she wanted me to reassure her. But I didn’t really see why it was less significant because it happened in high school, when we all had our lives ahead of us. If we were talking about anything else—drugs, drinking, sex—it would’ve been a bigger deal because we were only in high school, because we had our whole lives ahead of us, because the things that happened now would impact our futures.
“What does Mike say?” Mom asked, speaking at a normal pace now. Mom always loved Mike. To be fair, everyone loves Mike. But Mom loves any male who comes around the house, because ever since the divorce—and Dad’s subsequent departure across the country—she acts like having a man in the house is a complete novelty to her. Whenever Mike stopped by, she’d ask him to change light bulbs and dust cobwebs she couldn’t reach on her own. I had to explain that Mike wasn’t there to see her. In front of Mike, I’d tell her she was embarrassing herself. (A fact Mike always disputed when Mom could hear—No trouble at all!—and agreed with me about when Mom couldn’t hear—A woman needs a man in the house.)
“I haven’t talked to him yet,” I said.
“Of course not,” Mom agreed, talking fast again. She was probably picturing him sequestered in the principal’s office until this all blew over.
“It’s just such a mess,” I said, and then I hung up because even though I wanted Mom to know what was going on, I didn’t really want her opinion about it, because it’s not like Mom knows anything about anything.
I didn’t tell Mom that Mike wasn’t actually in the principal’s office. Principal Scott’s assistant had pulled him out of homeroom, I assume taking him to the office, where she told him about the accusations—but then they’d let him go back to class. Being accused of hitting your girlfriend is no reason to miss third-period physics lab, right?
I have history third period, but I know Mike has physics. (Everyone in our friend group knows everyone else’s schedules.)
I follow the lunch crowd outside after fourth period. We’re California kids—spending as much time as possible outside is practically written into our DNA. The school has an indoor cafeteria in case of inclement weather, but even when it’s pouring out, it’s mostly empty. We’ll picnic in the halls and in empty classrooms before we’ll eat in the cafeteria. But as long as it’s dry, we crowd onto the tables outside anyway, even though the old wooden benches have splinters so sharp they’ll stab right through your jeans.
I text my best friend that I have to study through lunch—I’ll be in the library, text if you need me. I miss lunch at least a couple times a week—everyone knows that I’m very studious. I have to get straight A’s so I can get into any college I want and follow my dad across the country.
He’s not the only one who wants to get the eff out of Dodge.
Four
The Burnout
“Man, this shit is messed up,” Hiram says, playing with his lighter. I inhale, hold my breath, exhale.
“Yeah, it is,” I agree, though I wonder how Hiram even knows what’s going on. As far as I can tell, he never steps foot inside the school.
Hiram’s fingers brush against mine. I don’t mind. It’s not like I don’t know Hiram has a crush on me. I’m stoned but I’m not stupid.
“What’s it like in there?” Hiram gestures vaguely to the school across the parking lot. I look up and gaze at all the cars. The school building seems farther away than it did before.
We’re in Hiram’s car. I don’t know why he bothers driving to school every day. From what I can tell, he only goes to class about half the time, if that.
But I’m grateful he’s here. I’m not the only one who sneaks off to his car between classes. I wonder if anyone would bother hanging out with him if it weren’t for the chemical incentive. After all, that’s why I started coming here in the first place, months ago.
“It’s not good,” I answer finally. I squint in the yellow April sunlight, wishing I had sunglasses. “Everyone’s on edge, Hiram.”
What a funny name: Hi-Ram.
High Ram.
Hi, Ram.
I run my fingers along the window. I feel like laughing.
“Bad energy, man.” Hiram shudders, like he’s literally shaking off all that badness. Hiram doesn’t ask if I’m on edge. He doesn’t ask how I feel about everything that’s going on. He’s understood, from the first time I knocked on his car window, that I’m not interested in talking about things like that. Instead, he looks at me and taps the car keys, which are in the ignition even though the car isn’t turned on. “You wanna get out of here?”
He’s never offered that before. It was always a very wham, bam, thank you, ma’am sort of exchange.
I look back at the school. Inside, no one is talking about anything but Mike and his girlfriend. Everyone from the geeks to the jocks to the stoners (like me). The teachers and the administrators. The coaches and the guidance counselor.
If I leave, I’ll get a call from the guidance counselor later.
I heard you weren’t in your afternoon classes. We should talk.
I roll my eyes. They feel sandy inside my head. I blink slowly—who knew it was possible to blink so slowly?—and fix my gaze back at the school.
Somewhere inside that building is a boy who beat up his girlfriend. If I weren’t so stoned, maybe I’d be angry that they didn’t expel him on the spot. Screw innocent-until-proven-guilty and all that BS. Doesn’t the victim deserve protection? It’s the twenty-first century.
No, I remind myself. I don’t care. That’s why I came to Hiram’s car in the first place. To not care.
Because here, I’m not that kind of girl. Here, I’m chill, I’m cool. Here, I don’t have to care about anything.