3:24 a.m.
I’m wide-awake.
I’m so wired—it’s as if there are different Evans, all with completely different plans percolating inside me.
I walk over to my door, hold my breath, and listen. Nothing. I look under the door. Completely dark. I grab my notebook and phone, slowly slip into my laceless Chucks, and make my way to the window. Even though it sucks in the summer to be without window and door screens—mosquitoes are pretty much part of the backdrop around here—it’s times like these that I’m grateful for my father’s procrastination. I lift the window as quietly as I can and tuck the notebook into my pants and my phone into my pocket. The key is to grab a firm hold of the tree with one hand and use it as leverage while closing the window with the other. For a minute or two it looks more precarious than it actually is. It’s just one story. I’ve fallen from higher. Plus I already look pretty bruised up, which means if I fell I wouldn’t have to lie about my appearance later at school. I swiftly climb down and head to the back of the house. My bike is under the kitchen porch. I grab it and start riding.
I’m riding so fast that my face tingles like crazy.
I can see the monastery. It’s less than a few blocks away and I’m pedaling with as much force as I can. It’s used as some kind of part-time storage facility for farm equipment. I get off my bike. I’m winded and now everything is tingling, not just my face. I walk with my bike to the right side of the building and head toward the back. There are very tall windows that start about three feet above ground and then go down under the surface at least another three feet. It looks like it’s a partial basement. I prop my bike up against the wall, get on my stomach near the cutout by the windows, and, in one swoop, flip into the space below the ground. I’m right outside one of the tall windows. I reach for the window handles and jiggle them. When they give a little, I look behind me, just to check I’m alone. I slowly open the window and slip inside.
I’ve been coming here for years. This room is filled with statues, like at least fifty of them. The very first time I discovered them, it was sensory overload. Talk about feeling like everything is trying to communicate with you—every statue seemed like it had something to say.
Some of the statues have their hands outstretched, others are holding goblets or books. Others seem to be in the midst of battle and some are just hanging out. In robes. Mingling. As they do.
Over the years, I’ve given them roles to play. The statue with the outstretched hands has a very noble face. He looks strong. I always thought of him as the one who would find a way to lead me out. Out of this town. This life. I’m still waiting.
The female statues holding books and goblets are in charge of my future.
The warrior statues, the ones in battle, are many. They are imposing. Formidable. I’ve decided they can be my army.
I pull out my notebook and sit in the middle of the room. I grab my phone and put it on the ground in front of me, when the screen lights up. There are three texts from Henry:
Ru up 4tennis 2morrow?
Mom wants 2no-can u do dinner our house this wknd?
Down 4 icecrm?
Yes, to all of it, but I can’t. Can I?
I open the notebook.
Every day there’s at least one entry.
September 8
I close the notebook. I don’t know what to write. Things had been feeling like they might actually be going okay for a while. Now it’s . . . too much. Everything is too much.
When the beatings were at their worst, I used to think of ways to die. Usually, I hoped that she would just go too far one day and kill me. It would have been easier. That was about two years ago. Since then I’ve grown. I’m now taller than she is, plus it’s getting more difficult for her to explain the bruises. The cuts. The burns. They threaten to disrupt the story of the perfect Greek family. I thought the beatings had been replaced by more insults and psychological mind games. I allowed myself to relax a bit. A dream of a different future was starting to take root. But today proves that all of it was just temporary.
I open the notebook and flip to the next blank page. I start to draw the statues, but not in this room. I draw them out in the world—in the same poses, but free.
I flip through the notebook again and stop on an entry from this summer’s Bible camp.
June 19
It’s only been a day and already everything is fucked. Gaige was assigned as my study/workshop partner—he’s a year older, from California. Way too friendly, big sexy smile and a swagger that was making it difficult for me to concentrate. Maybe I can get a different partner . . . like the kid who smells like hot dogs could work. Liam? Tomorrow I request Liam!
June 20
Apparently his name is Limm. Really, God? Limm? And changing partners isn’t allowed.
My phone starts to ring. It’s my father.
“Where are you? Do you want to go get doughnuts?”
“I went for a bike ride.”
“You should come home before your mother wakes up. Do you want me to wait?”
“No. I’m heading back now.”
I hang up and look at the next entry.
June 21
Gaige and I kissed.