Page 30 of The Last to Let Go
“Maybe.” He shrugs, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I guess she thinks it’s all too much to handle—correction, too much formeto handle.”
“Is that what you think?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know if it is.
He opens his mouth but doesn’t answer right away, like he’s debating several different responses. “We’ll be fine,” he repeats, and it’s not clear whether he means “we” as in him and Carmen or “we” as in us.
Then he takes the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and gently taps it against the palm of his hand twice; three are loosened, extending from the pack like tiny skyscrapers of varying heights. He brings the pack to his mouth and pulls one out with his lips. His hands tremble slightly as he lights it.
“I thought you quit,” I say.
“I did,” he says with a laugh, looking off into the distance again. He clears his throat—always his tell that something else is up. “Got a call from Mom’s lawyer today. No real news yet. They’re waiting for a date to be set. But he needs me to come and fill out some kinda paperwork for the guardianship thing. Not a big deal. Standard stuff, I guess. Make it official and all. I just wanted to keep you in the loop, right?”
“Yeah.” I pause, not sure what to say. “Good, I mean. Thank you.”
He nods silently and flicks his cigarette. The ashes seem to float, suspended on the air for a moment before they descend toward the ground. “Hey, new subject, okay?” he says, an uptick in his voice. “How’s the fancy-pants school?”
“It’s good, I think,” I tell him, happy for the topic change. “Or it will be, anyway. I get the impression the teachers do not mess around—I think it’s gonna be tough, but that’s the whole point. That’s what I wanted.”
“Well, you’re a masochist, so—sorry, go on.”
“It’s cleaner. Bigger. Everything’s new and shiny and high tech. Lots of screens everywhere. Smaller classes. More teachers, fewer students. They seem like mostly assholes—”
“They are everywhere, aren’t they?” he interrupts.
“Except... there were maybe a couple of nonassholes—one for sure.”
“A nonasshole?” he repeats, a smirk pulling up the corners of his mouth as he considers this for a moment. “That’s pretty high praise coming from you.”
“Too soon to tell, but there’s potential.”
“Potential, even,” he marvels. “Might this potential nonasshole be... a guy?” he asks, elbowing me in the side, with this stupid grin on his face.
I try to cover my mouth with my hand, but I can’t quite stop myself from smiling. “Shut up, it’s not even like that.”
“Oh wow—it is, isn’t it?” he teases, pulling my hand away from my face.
“No, for your information, it’s not. I’m talking nonassholefriendpotential—acquaintance potential, nonasshole study partner potential.”
He turns his head to the side and squints at me like he doesn’t quite believe me. I don’t quite believe myself, either.
“Not everything is about a guy, you know,” I tell him.
He nods, sticking his cigarette into a dirty pot full of old soil and ashes, whatever once lived there now long gone.
We don’t say anything else as I follow him down the fire escape and through the open window, across my bedroom and into the living room. He immediately catches sight of my orange juice glass sitting there on the coffee table. I wonder if he thinks much about that grape-juice-spill day, if he could still find that old stain. He doesn’t say anything about the orange juice I left out, though, as I bring my glass to the kitchen table.
“You know,” he says, not looking at me as he pours himself a glass of juice from the refrigerator. “It would be okay. I mean, if it’snotabout a guy.”
“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind,” I try to joke, but I’m aware that neither of us laughs.
“Good,” he says, taking a reckless sip of his own orange juice as he passes me on his way over to the couch. He sets the glass down on the end table, without a coaster, even. I join him, taking my glass back into the room with me. He turns on the TV, the volume higher than was ever allowed, and we don’t mention the fact that we’ve both suddenly become freaking rebels here.
AQUARIUM
MY FIRST WEEK ATJeffersonHell, as the locals refer to it. The first week back home. I’m doing okay, I reassure myself. I’ve been finding my way around, keeping up with homework, and the buses have been relatively on time. I’ve even had a lunch table to sit at all week—that’s more than I can say for my old school.
We’realldoing okay. No fights. No arguments. Balanced meals and everything. I’m starting to feel things falling into place. The first step to getting our lives back on track. We just need to keep everything running smoothly a little while longer, I tell myself, until Mom can get back home.
That’s what keeps me safe in my little bubble, an invisible barrier between me and everyone else, between me and all the shouting and the excitement of weekend plans, and these hundreds of people who have known one another forever. People who don’t know anything about me. It’s better this way, I assure myself. Less complicated. But as I tack that last thought onto the never-ending monologue that continually runs through my mind, something bursts through, a needle popping the delicate bubble that surrounds me.
