BEA FORBIDS ME TO CALL the police.
She says, “I’ll handle it.”
I say, “Like you’ve done before?”
“You don’t understand what it’s like,” she says. “To be the girl others need, look to, for all sorts of things.”
I shrug. I know more than she thinks, but now isn’t the time to argue about our similarities or differences. She’s gone through hell and I’m in the middle of it with her. There are few places I’d rather be.
We don’t run after Reed. Bea says he won’t be back now that there’s a witness. I’m not as confident.
I ask her if it was Reed all along. If he was the one hurting her. She nods and tells me Toby is the only other person who knows what Reed’s like. He’s known for a long time. But I don’t understand why Toby doesn’t do something.
She says, “He tries, but it’s not really his fight. Is it?”
“Toby dwarfs Reed. Sheer size alone should solve your problem. Can’t Toby just kick Reed’s ass?” It seems simple, but is it?
Bea says, “He’s tried. But they used to be friends, and they’re on the same team. It’s not his fight, though. Ultimately, it’s mine.”
When it hits me that I’m still wrapped in Reed’s coat, I can’t tear it from my body fast enough. Bea tells me Reed wasn’t always this way. He snaps sometimes. I tell her she shouldn’t make excuses for him. She repeats, “You don’t understand.” I nod. She’s right. I’m not her. I can only understand what she chooses to tell me.
Before we leave the room, Bea stuffs the sheepskin in the toilet, splashing my piss water with each shove.
I sponge her brow with a washcloth and find cola in the kitchen to dab on the blood staining her dress. The damage to her beaded neckline looks worse than her eye. But the pain inside her probably drowns out everything else.
“Are you going to be okay?” I ask when we reach the front door.
She nods. “Probably.”
“Stay away from him.”
She sighs. “I try.”
“He doesn’t own you.”
“He just thinks he does.”
I reach for her hand. “There are people who can help. Like Mr. George. Principal Falls.”
We both smile because it sounds so clichéd.
I tilt my head to the side and say, “I should have done something that day I was at your house, cleaning for your mom. I should have gotten more involved.”
She shakes her head. “Not your job.”
I pause and examine her face. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call someone?”
Bea nods. “I’m sure.”
“Do you want me to find Beth?”
“I’ll find her myself.”
We stand facing each other for what seems like an hour. I lean in to hug her and am okay that she doesn’t hug back. She shouldn’t have to do shit.
I lock the door on the inside before squeezing it shut. I have to help her in some small act, even if she won’t let me.
When I reach the driveway, Seung’s car is gone, which means my belongings are gone, too. I don’t have the energy to walk to Seung’s house, especially not now, after my adrenaline dumps. I’d rather eyeball Triangle Park for Ham. Maybe Seung’s there, too. I cut through Beth’s backyard, down the hill toward the park.
Before crossing the street, I check to make sure there are no motorcycles or monster trucks. I guess it was wishful thinking that Seung would be on the swings, waiting for me, or Ham would be snoozing on a picnic table awaiting rescue before a deputy arrives to arrest him.
I rock back and forth on a swing, shivering and staring at the sky, shoving thoughts of Seung aside. Like the look on his face, seeing me kiss another guy. I cringe. Reed had his tongue in my mouth. I suddenly have the urge to spit. I don’t feel right thinking about Seung. I should be thinking more about Bea. What would have happened if I hadn’t been in the bathroom or banged on the door? These thoughts make me shudder.
I tap my phone, but the screen stays black. I have no idea if Ham made it home or if Seung will ever speak to me again. If only I had my license and a car, I could have avoided this entire mess. Taken Ham home and put him to bed, made sure everyone was safe. It wouldn’t have helped Bea, though. And now I’m worried I made her mess worse.
I jog across the street and climb the dirt hill beside the main road. Avoiding traffic, or a motorcycle engine whining my name, is in my best interest. Halfway up, my leg slips and I slide all the way down to the base of the hill, landing against a pile of tumbleweeds mixed with sagebrush. The plants scrape my legs and dig into my bare back. When I reach the top of the hill again, the ground that’s jagged with rocks, I step sideways on an uncovered root and my ankle rolls. I land flat on my back. And when I sit up: Rrrrrip.
The back of my borrowed dress opens wider and wind whips against my skin. I pinch the fabric like a bath towel and hobble toward Hinderwood High.
Few cars cruise the main road, and the only traffic light in town blinks yellow, signaling that the clock has struck midnight and my houseguests, at school, have vacated.
I slink through the chain link fence and pass by the baseball dugout on my way to the back of the school. At the top of the fire escape, I lean over the railing and stare at the parking lot dotted with the flickers of streetlights refusing to center against the black asphalt. Lights bounce and dance, even when I squeeze one eye shut. My teeth chatter, but I feel like standing here, catching my breath, at least for a moment.
It was easier when I first arrived in this town. Money and a grandmother were what I had to lean on. I ignored the fact that my grandmother had dementia and every day another piece of her mind and memory vanished. It’s not like she knew who I was anyway. But she didn’t have to know me to expect me. Every day after school when I arrived to brush her hair, paint her nails, or tuck an extra blanket over her lap, she didn’t know I was her granddaughter, but she knew I cared. I didn’t need her to know me. I needed her to connect me to family. When she died, the only person left to lean on was myself.
A motorcycle engine whirs in the distance and reminds me to seek safety, fast. The last person I want to face is Reed, especially after he saw me wedge the door. I should never have let my guard down. Tomorrow, in the daylight, life will look better, brighter. It’s these dark spaces that mess with my mind.
There should be several hours before the homecoming cleanup crew arrives. Time enough to clean the dirt from this dress, then maybe sleep, if I’m lucky enough to turn my mind on mute.
I feel my way along the stairwell to the gym. The black room looks nothing like it did during the dance, except for outlines of pagodas and a dragon that appears more cartoonish than Asian. A figure at the door causes me to jump. It’s a plastic Buddha, life-sized.
I imagine Buddha saying:
Peace comes from within.
No one saves us from ourselves.
If you light a lamp for somebody, it will also brighten your path.
I shout, “You’re a flipping statue!” and push the locker-room door open.
Spooked by the statue, I punch the light switch and flip the deadlock. Just in case Statue Buddha or someone else decides to join me.
I beeline for the mirror, and my eyes target my borrowed dress and Mrs. Rhee’s necklace. That is, what’s left of it. One blossom, no stones, the chain wrapped up in my bra strap, barely holding itself together. It must have broken when I slipped and fell down the hill. My chest tightens, my stomach aches. This necklace meant so much to Seung’s mom, to their family, to me. I unwind the metal and undo the clasp. I dig my hand into the back of the towel cabinet for my emergency bag and slide the necklace into a plastic bag. I’ll need to figure out how to replace an irreplaceable piece of jewelry.
My eyes fill with tears as I slip into my spare change of clothes. Sweats and a T-shirt. Tomorrow I’ll scrub the dress clean and figure out how to mend the rip, but tonight it stays in my locker. I’m exhausted, mentally and physically, so I won’t shower; besides, after the time I spent in Mrs. Rhee’s bathroom, the grayed-out locker room suddenly looks like shit.
I dab wet paper towels in soap and wipe away the dirt and debris, then mop up the sink, making it cleaner than when I arrived.
As I’m leaving the locker room, I notice something fixed to the wall. A piece of duct tape with a clump of cantaloupe-colored hair stuck to the back. Orange dye dots the floor and leads me to a stall. I pause. Nobody’s in here with me. Are they?
I jump back and listen, then drop to my knees—the scratches on my legs remind me they are there—and peek beneath the door. No feet in sight, so I kick the stall open and witness the carnage of what I think is Ham’s revenge plot.
The supposed-to-be-white-now-yellow toilet seat has turned a showy shade of tangerine. Whoever busted out of here did so with rage, because the toilet’s tilted and the seat’s on the floor.
I haul ass out of the locker room and walk straight into a fake bonsai. I’m met by Statue Buddha again, so I mutter a prayer for Ham, his safety, and imagine the statue shutting its eyes, nodding, and saying, Yes, my child. Maybe one right tonight will cancel out so many wrongs.
I open the main door that dumps into the corridor (my foyer) and pat the walls so I don’t bump into another tree. The check-in table is now gone and the photography backdrop dismantled. I wiggle the locked library door handle. Guess I’ll sleep with the theater curtains tonight.
I wish I were at Seung’s or Ham’s or someplace with at least another breathing body. A comfortable couch, where I hear barking dogs instead of clanging water pipes. I wish Kristen was working on a late-night project, or Bea, even Bea. We could talk about what happened, or talk about everything but what happened. I can’t imagine what would have happened had I ignored the voices from the bathroom. As much as I didn’t want to care, how could I not? Bea said it wasn’t Toby’s fight. Does that mean it isn’t mine, either? Because the last time I hid from something, my whole world fractured and fell and dropped straight to hell.
I picture Statue Buddha waving a red flag, signaling me to stop before I cross the line from caring too little to caring too much. Maybe Statue Buddha knows what he’s not-talking about. Maybe he knows I’ve reached a crossroads.
At the back hallway, my foot crunches, and when I step again I crush glass. A draft whips at my hair. Wind hits my face. Stomp. Crunch. Stomp. Crunch.
My foot slips on something hard. Glass? Maybe metal? I strain my eyes but can’t even see my shoes in the dark. The only things visible are outlines of lockers and trophy case frames. I shuffle around the corner and slide against the wall. My shoulder hits something big, hard, and not supposed to be here. I pat my way to a front grille, bend down, and come face-to-face with the front of Toby’s truck embedded in the wall.
Ham?
My foot slips when I take off sprinting down the hall to the nearest light switch. I scramble to the lockers, running my hand along the metal until I reach the end of the row. If I turn the light on, I’ll signal the cops for sure. But there’s no alternative. I need to know if Ham’s here. I have to see what the hell happened.
One. Two. Three.
I punch the light.
Seconds pass until my eyes adjust.
Definitely Toby’s truck. Definitely poking through the wood-and-glass wall. Windows on both sides are smashed and the trophy case shattered.
I race for the nearest exit, shouting, “Ham! Ham!” and once I am outside, I see the truck, stuck in the wall, driver’s door ajar.
Someone’s on the ground, rolling back and forth. “Ham?” I spring toward the body. “Ham? Are you okay?”
It’s Toby. Duct tape wrapped around his arms, legs, and stomach. His hair is darker than normal and his face looks like it’s smeared in blood.
I drop into a squat at his side. “Toby? Are you okay?” He moans and swats the air, his breath bitter and ripe. “Ham!” he groans. “Did I kill Ham?”
I gasp. “Where is he?”
Toby slaps the air again, and I have to jerk back to avoid being hit. That’s when I see Ham’s shoe wedged beneath the truck tire. I run to the hood, drop down on my knees, and check under the cab.
It’s hard to see in the dark. But on the other side of the truck, a body sprawls in the bushes against the building. Half naked, flat on his belly.
I race toward the familiar body, the one I care about more than myself. I know exactly who it is. It’s when I reach him that I haven’t a clue what to do. Tears shoot down my cheeks.
Do I run? Scream? Get more damn towels?
“Get up!” I whisper-yell, brushing glass from his back, pushing and poking his shoulder. “Please. Please! Get up!”
I’m shouting now, but he won’t move. He won’t do anything he should. He’s piled on his stomach, cold and bloody, with a gash at his ear, another on top of his head.
Near the truck, Toby moans, “Help! Somebody help!”
My body shakes. I can’t breathe.
I rub my best friend’s back, his flesh like ice. “Ham! Ham! Please move. Please get up.”
I push at his side, breathing in and out, not for myself but for him. He won’t budge. He won’t make a sound.
“Why aren’t you moving?” I’m sobbing now. “Why won’t you get up? Don’t you know how much I love you?”
“Is he dead?” Toby moans. “Oh God! Did I kill him?”
I drop my head to Ham’s waist and groan from my gut. “I should never have left you alone. I’m sorry! So fucking sorry!”
I fall onto the bushes splattered with broken glass and scream.