Coming Up for Air Page 12

  Becca and I should be able to talk normally again, eventually, and that includes expressions like I’m going to kill you! Why can’t that start today? It has to start sometime.

  I reach over and squeeze her hand. “It’s fine, Bec. It’s so funny, and Greg is going to die when he sees you in Mrs. Davis’s bra.” I pause. “Also, that’s not a sentence I thought I would ever say.”

  She looks relieved. We both feel it, the lifting of a weight. After months of feeling lost, maybe I’m finally finding my voice again.

  * * *

  Becca navigates through the traffic into her assigned parking space, puts the car in park, and turns, looking at me holding my coffee. She goes straight for the elephant in the room. “Hadley, you’re going to get through this. I promise.”

  She’s said this to me so many times that I’ve lost count. I pretty much ignore it, but today, it burrows between my ears. I feel it take root. I can decide to be brave. “I know.”

  Becca’s eyebrows rise to her hairline. She looks like an owl with her hair pulled back so tight, and at the sight of her, I laugh from deep in my gut. I can’t believe how surprised she looks about me agreeing that I’m going to literally survive.

  And once I start, I can’t stop.

  I laugh like it’s the first laugh the world has ever heard. After she realizes it’s okay, she joins me, and our laughter is an earthquake that only the two of us can feel. It’s the shifting of the tectonic plates of our friendship; closer, and to their rightful positions.

  Becca exhales the weight of the world. “Oh, thank you, baby Jesus, I was starting to think I was never going to hear that sound again. Let’s go inside. We’re going to be late, and it’s totally your fault.”

  Feeling more content than I have in a while, I move to get my stuff together. I’m bracing myself to open the door to start another day, when I decide to get it out of the way.

  “Becca, I have to tell you something. But I don’t want you to say anything. I don’t think I can handle any commentary.”

  Her face is concerned, but she nods. “Okay. What is it?”

  I stare at my lap. “I threw away my portfolio.”

  I can feel all the things she’s fighting not to say.

  “I have the raw images. I can make another one. But I missed the early application deadline.”

  We both know that applying early to Great Lakes could have made a huge difference for me.

  I watch Becca swallow her scolding with decided concentration. “I’m not going to say you shouldn’t have done that, okay? As much as I really want to.” A resolve forms in her eyes. “Tyler’s having a party this weekend. The music will be as loud AF. We can yell and dance it out, all right? And then I’ll help you put a new one together. Like, immediately.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hadley,” she says more seriously, “we’ve got this. I’m here for you. Everything is going to be okay.”

  I open the door, feeling a swell of gratitude. “Thanks, Becs.”

  We move toward the building slowly, soaking up the moment, shoulder to shoulder, resolved to find a new normal.

  * * *

  “Hey, Had, how was school?” Judd leans back from the fridge, a long piece of string cheese sticking out of his mouth, as if he were a single-toothed walrus. He takes three big bites, and it disappears. He was supposed to be away at school like Remy, but after this past spring, he decided to defer for a year.

  “Not bad.” I don’t really want to elaborate. I don’t want to tell him that today was the first day that nobody passive aggressively asked me about Braden’s status, insinuating not so subtly that I was responsible. Today, at least, I didn’t hear their whispers: She dumped him right when he needed her most. And then, well, you know. And he’s been unconscious for a week. They don’t know that the last thing I wanted was to break up. Or that I hear Braden’s own words echoing constantly: I love you, Hadley…you have to forgive me. I need you.

  But I didn’t. I just slammed the door in his face.

  Nobody seems to care that I’m angrier with myself than anybody else could possibly be. Or that he broke my heart too. Or that the last conversation we had runs on a loop in my head, keeping me up all hours of the night. Knots start to form in my stomach as I try to forget, and I remind myself that—after almost two weeks of school—today was a decent day.

  Today was a decent day, I repeat in my head. I managed to talk to Becca and pay attention in class. And at lunch, Tyler and Greg made me laugh by having a contest to see who could eat three pieces of pizza faster, but they had to stop because Greg started gagging. I even turned in my first English paper of senior year. Am I allowed to feel relieved about those things? Am I allowed to be happy when Braden is stuck?

  “Good.” Judd pauses and then says under his breath, “Although it really had only one way to go.”

  “Yeah.” I shrug in an attempt to seem nonchalant. I don’t want my family to worry about me; they’ve done enough of that lately.

  My phone buzzes, and I look at the screen: Remy. At my sister’s name, frustration simmers in my stomach. Judd watches as I ignore it.

  “At least she’s trying with you,” he says. “She won’t answer my calls. She keeps leaving me on read.”

  “I don’t really get it. It’s not like she thought you guys were going to be roommates or something.”

  Judd continues, “The last thing she said to me was that I was trying to be the good twin. Like, how does that even make sense? Mom was pissed when I deferred.”

  “Remy probably just feels guilty for leaving.”

  “I wish she’d get that I was just trying to do what felt right for me. And that it doesn’t mean she’s wrong.” Judd sighs. “Whatever. We’ll work it out. I just don’t know how to apologize for this.”

  “Then don’t.” The words are a little sharper than I intend.

  He shakes his head. “Let’s talk about something else. Mom’s taking a nap. I was thinking I could make some pasta for dinner. Want to help?”

  I look at him in disbelief. Judd basically never stops watching cooking shows. He knows his way around a kitchen and never asks for assistance.

  “All right, so maybe I don’t need, like, actual help. But I could use some time with my sister.”

  “Okay.” Shoving him affectionately out of the way, I peer into the fridge. “What can I do?”

  * * *

  A trip to the grocery store and a couple hours later, Judd and I have put together some semblance of a meal. I’m finishing chopping the veggies for a salad, and Judd’s setting the table, when I hear the back door swing open.

  “Hey, Dad,” I call from the barstool, turning around to see his face.

  He looks surprised to see me downstairs, instead of hiding in my room. “Hey, Had—you feeling better today?” For a minute, I think he’s going to ask me if I’ve heard anything about Braden, but instead, he asks about dinner, which is spaghetti with meatballs, and a salad. Which actually smells good. Probably because Judd limited my help to the salad.

  Then he’s distracted by my bag sitting on the floor by his feet. “And if you are feeling better, would it kill you to put that thing away?”

  It’s sort of comforting that, in Dad’s mind, no amount of personal drama will ever excuse a mess. And that he’s no longer walking on eggshells around me. I slide off the stool and grab my book bag off the floor. “Sorry,” I say as I go to hang it on its hook in the mudroom.

  When I walk back into the kitchen, Dad is opening a can of craft beer with one hand and using his other arm to pull me into a hug. He squeezes me tightly and says, “Want to go check on Mom? See if she’s ready to eat?”

  * * *

  I pad down the hall to their bedroom door. It’s shut. I knock twice quietly, and I think I hear her answer.

  Cracking the door open, I peek m
y head inside. “Hey, Mom, are you up?” She’s sitting on the worn-in chair next to her bed, with her pixie haircut ruffled, and reading a paperback. She’s wearing black leggings, a dark green sweater, and slippers. Comfortable, but dressed. She’s okay.

  “Hey, hon. Yeah, I’m up.” She gestures down at her novel. “I’m deep into this ridiculous love story, but up.”

  Her smile, once a thoughtless, though pleasant, part of my everyday life, now makes me feel so much that I clam up, embarrassed by how much I need her.

  I try to stamp down my emotions, ready to just be normal. “Okay, well, Judd and I made dinner.” I put my hand up before she can reply and add, “Don’t worry. I only chopped.”

  She laughs. “Your dinners are great.” Mom is the eternal optimist. Also, a total liar. Her eyes twinkle as she gets up and puts a gentle arm across my shoulders. She smooths my hair and kisses my head. “Let’s eat.”

  “All right, but just so you know, handing this to me is permission to play what I want,” I tell Becca as she hands me the aux cord for the speaker in her bedroom. I’m looking up at her from my spot on the floor.

  Becca’s skirt swings as she walks in a pink bra back to her closet, looking for a top. “Okay, whatever. I need to focus on my outfit anyway.”

  We both jerk to attention when one of her brothers screams something from the other room. Becca opens the door to yell at them. “Guys! Seriously chill, okay?”

  I can’t help but appreciate how familiar it feels.

  For as long as I can remember, Becca’s house has run off pure chaos. The Gomez family has four kids; Becca’s the oldest and the only girl. Her younger brothers are in eighth, sixth, and fourth grades, and they always seem to have friends over. When you walk into their house, you almost have to choose which to process first: the noise of TVs, music, video games, and shouting, or the smells of food from the restaurant. It feels like home.

  With the door firmly closed again, I hit play on my phone. The music fills Becca’s room and almost covers the virtual explosions.

  “Do you know what you’re going to wear?” Becca asks from inside her closet.

  Tonight is the party at Ty’s. His dad, Dr. West, is away at some medical conference, so Tyler is using it as an excuse to play music as loud as it will go. Becca and I are convinced he cares more about forcing his playlists on everyone than the actual party.

  I look down at my clothes. “I don’t know. Just this?”

  Becca peeks her head out of her closet. “Okay, this music is more depressing than I was expecting. Do you have any…upbeat options?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “We couldn’t even make it all the way through one song?”

  “Sorry,” she says, and then turns, sliding her neat hangers carefully back and forth.

  I listen quietly for a minute. This song is sad. Why didn’t I notice that before?

  Becca’s words are muffled as she pulls yet another option over her face. “What about some Bey? Something fun?” Her head reemerges, and she examines her reflection in the giant full-length mirror.

  “Beyoncé reminds me too much of Remy.” I try to push away the flood of feeling at the mention of my sister’s name.

  “Okay, I know you’re not in the best place.” Becca shifts her weight onto one leg. “But you can’t ever hate on the queen. Period.” She looks at me more seriously. “And, Had, you really should talk to your sister. This has gone on long enough.”

  There’s an angry mess inside me. “I can’t.”

  “You know she was only looking out for you.”

  A fire burns in my gut, and I snap, “But I wasn’t the one who needed looking after. I was the one doing the looking. And if I hadn’t listened to her, maybe—”

  “Hadley.” Becca looks pained. “You don’t really think it’s her fault?”

  I study her face. “Have you been talking to her?”

  “What?”

  “Have you guys been talking about me?” My skin starts to feel hot.

  Her shoulders fall. “We’re just worried.”

  “Well, I’m sorry for worrying you.” I sound snotty and sarcastic. I try to steady myself, but emotion is building and tangling in my chest. “And maybe it’s not Remy’s fault, but then who do you want me to blame?”

  “Hadley—”

  I interrupt her. “I can’t stop thinking about it, Becca.” My voice cracks. “Every single day, I find someone new to hate. It’s a fucking awful list.” I look her right in the eye. “And do you know who’s at the top of it?”

  “Hadley.”

  “I am.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “It’s me.”

  “It isn’t your fault.”

  Tears run down my cheeks as I nod. “Yes, it is. So…yeah, I’m pissed at Remy. But she’s not the only one.”

  Becca sits next to me. “It’s not your fault, Hadley. That’s bullshit, okay? I was there, I saw what you did.”

  “Yeah, you were there.” I force the words out. “So you know that I knew and I didn’t do anything. And I gave him an impossible choice—”

  “What about—”

  “Braden is in the hospital!” I look around her room. “And what am I doing? I’m getting ready to go to a fucking party. And I don’t even know if he’s going to—”

  “You can’t stop living your life—”

  The thought explodes out of me. “Why not? He did.”

  Now she looks angry too. “He didn’t do that for you. He—”

  “Stop. I…” I shake my head. “I can’t hear it.” I can’t even think about it.

  She swallows what she was going to say, and tries to calm down. “He’s going to be okay, Hadley. It’s going to be all right.”

  Incredulous, I brush her off. “Come on, Becca, you don’t know that. Nobody does. Not even the doctors.”

  “The doctors? I thought…Did you go over there?”

  I don’t answer.

  “You know what? It doesn’t matter.” She takes a deep breath. “Hadley, look—I don’t want to fight with you. I…I hate this, all of it, so much.”

  “I hate it too.”

  She squeezes my shoulder. “And if you want to be mad at Remy, that’s fine. I’ll stay out of it. Because honestly, if you want to be mad at the whole freaking world right now, I don’t really blame you.”

  I twist my rings. “Sometimes it’s like it’s eating me alive.”

  She pauses for a minute. “I have an idea.”

  “What? Becca—” I object.

  “No, come on”—she opens her bedroom door—“meet me on the driveway. I’ll be right there.”

  * * *

  Becca’s house is on a dead-end street, and as I’m waiting alone in the evening light, too many feelings press on the inside of my skin, looking for a way out. Thankfully, Becca joins me after only a couple minutes. She’s got a broom in one hand and a cardboard box sitting on her hip.

  She sets the box down, contents clattering. “My parents brought these home from Belavinis last night. They’re all the chipped plates that they don’t want to use anymore.”

  Quickly, she picks one up, raises it above her head, and chucks it down onto the concrete. It shatters into a million pieces.

  “Becca! What the hell?”

  She just looks at me. “Your turn.”

  “What? I’m not—”

  She lifts another. And again, the ceramic explosion packs a satisfying punch, soothing something ugly inside me. I replay it in my head, watching her frame by frame, imagining the photographs I could be taking.

  “Aren’t your parents going to be pissed?” I ask, but I’m already thinking about picking up a plate.

  “I took these from the garbage. And I’ll clean everything up.” She nods to the broom.

  It’s enough to convince me. I walk over to th
e box.

  Now, when my anger flares, I let it.

  I whip a plate onto the ground. I want to scream, laugh, destroy.

  For Remy, who told me to walk away.

  I do it again, a furious grunt expelling itself from my throat.

  For Braden’s parents, who should have known.

  Another.

  For Coach Jones, who only cared about accolades and records.

  I whip them, one after another. And I don’t know when I started crying, but a sob fights its way through me.

  For the fucking doctors.

  Again.

  For my camera.

  And when I throw one for Braden, I don’t even worry if I’m allowed to be mad at him. I just let myself be consumed by the flames. Sharp edges fly through the air, and I’m burning from the inside out.

  I pick up two plates at once, sick satisfaction running through my veins. I feel ridiculous, bordering on scary, like I’m going to send Becca running, but instead, she stands next to me, ready with a dish of her own.

  Together, we shatter everything until there is only one plate left.

  In the sudden silence, she looks to me, and we’re both breathing shakily. She takes the final piece from the box and lifts it in my direction.

  “Here,” she urges.

  But the blinding light of fury has subsided in the middle of this broken mess, and suddenly I can’t do it. I’m exhausted, and I can’t stand the idea of breaking a single other thing. It must be written on my face, because Becca sets down the plate, whole, and wraps her arms around me.

  And then, into her shoulder, I finally manage to say the only things that really matter: thank you and I’m so sorry, over and over.

  And, somehow, I think Becca knows I’m not talking just to her.

  * * *

  An hour later, I still feel raw, but I’m lighter. A strange kind of relief courses through me.