The Secret Side of Empty (19 page)

“That’s bullshit. And so cliché. Is that the best dare you’ve got?”

“Okay,” she says, leveling her little deep-set pixie eyes at me. “You’re so brave? Go lay down on the double yellow lines in the middle of the road.” As if to add drama to her dare, a van zips by her with a loud whine. Then another car.

“Ha. Your dares are weak,” I say, and step into traffic. A big SUV blares his horn at me, swerves to avoid me, and zooms very close as he makes it by me. The road is dark in both directions, nothing but the liquor store light on about four house-lengths down. There is a streetlight by the liquor store, and another one about as far in the other direction, then the road curves and you can’t see anything but trees and darkness. Another car swerves by me and beeps.

“Get out of the road, you idiot!” screams the driver.

I reach the double yellow lines. Sit down.

Quinn is still standing by the side of the road.

“Okay, you made your point,” yells Quinn. “That guy’s right. You’re an idiot. Get up!”

I feel another car zoom by me, fast, a blur of blue. I put my head down on the road. I am now straight on my back, parallel to the double yellow lines. They are narrower than I am.

“That’s enough! You won Truth or Dare! Get up now,” says Quinn, louder.

Another car rustles by me and I feel cold air on me. This could be the last second. This. Could. Be. It. It feels like a new idea, a revelation that has just occurred to me. More than that: I kind of wish it would be It.

I could end it here.

“Get up! You’re so stupid! Come on!” Quinn sounds really frantic now. “Stop!”

I close my eyes. Zoom. Zoom. That last one felt so close. Thrilling. Right.

Suddenly I feel a hand on my wrist, pulling me up. It’s Quinn. She’s like five feet tall, but she pulls me up and drags me to the other side of the road. A minivan honks at us and honks as it drives away, its sound reproachful as it gets farther away. I look at Quinn and see that she is crying, her old little mouth scrunched up.

“You’re so stupid, you know that? You were always a crazy little freak. Ever since kindergarten.”

“You dared me.”

“Those cars missed you by like a foot.” She’s really crying now.

“Calm down,” I tell her. “They’re never going to sell you booze if you look like a blotchy leprechaun.”

“Short jokes. How original. Fine. Wait here.” She wipes her face with the backs of her forearms and goes inside. I sit on the little raised bumps in one of the parking spots. She comes out with two bags that look way too heavy for her to carry. She drops one on my lap and it almost crashes to the ground.

“You gotta acknowledge Frank and Leslie for the genius of naming their kids so you can’t tell whether we’re boys or girls,” she says, as if to herself.

“Genius.”

“Shut up. I’m not even talking to you. I can’t believe you pulled that shit in the road.”

“You
dared
me.”

“It’s a miracle the human race has survived at all. You idiots with death wishes only think of yourselves.”

I have a hard time keeping up as she takes a different way back to her house.

I go inside, leave the bag on her kitchen counter. Her kitchen is older, not marble perfection or stainless-steel modern chic. It’s got a faintly dusty, somewhat abandoned look about it, a couple of small appliances I can’t identify.

I walk into the dining room and see Patricia. No Jason.

“What’s up?” I ask her. She looks like she’s been crying.

“Nothing,” she says.

“Not good?”

“Guys are jerks.”

“Why don’t we go to the bathroom and wash your face?”

She gets up, and I walk down a hallway, looking for a bathroom. I see a family portrait, Quinn little, even smaller than I remember her being in kindergarten, with four boys, all with the same flaming red hair and almost identical faces. It seems like they got it from their mother, a big, squarish woman with smiling eyes but the same old mouth.

“Which one is Grady, do you know?”

“I think that one,” she says, pointing to the two-sizes-bigger-than-Quinn boy. “It’s so sad about him, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“He killed himself. You must have heard.”

“No. When?”

“Like a year ago.”

“How?”

“Their mother’s gun,” she says.

I think of Quinn’s voice, “
It’s a miracle the human race has survived at all
,” and the way she started to cry. “I didn’t know,” I say.

M
Y
PHONE
VIBRATES
. I
STARE
AT
IT
. W
HEN
I
SEE
N
ATE
’
S
NAME
on my caller ID, my heart thumps hard. I have cried about twenty times in the last three days about this. Nothing on Christmas Day. Nothing the day after that, or the day after that. And all those days, festering about Naomi. What he did with her. What he didn’t tell me. What he may still be doing with her.

I finally pick up.

“Hello.” I am pretty proud that I can pull off making “hello” sound like an accusation.

“Hey, M, how’s it going?”

“Like you care.”

“What do you mean? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“I’ve missed you.”

“Mmmm-hmmm.”

“Why are you acting this way? Are you busy or something?”

He sounds so casual, like he’s been fine.

“Yeah, I was on my way out, actually,” I lie.

“Oh, because I’m back from my grandmother’s and I thought maybe you might want to hang out.”

“I didn’t realize your grandmother lived on the moon.”

“My grandma in Minnesota? My dad’s mom? We just landed this morning.”

“Yeah, but were you, like, in the Witness Protection Program while you were out there? Not a single phone call? Nothing?”

“I sent you a text when I first got there. Did you not get that?”

“Don’t make up stupid stuff.”

“I’m not. Why would I? I texted you when I got there and then my phone died.”

“Really? You’re going with the whole ‘my phone died’ thing?”

“What? Why would I lie about that?”

“When is Naomi’s birthday?”

“What?”

“Your supposedly
ex
-girlfriend Naomi. When is her birthday?”

“Why is this—”

“
When
?”

“It was like a month ago. But what does this—”

“Did you see her?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Listen, I don’t want to keep repeating—”

“But you posted on her Facebook wall.”

“There is a difference between seeing someone and posting on their wall. Although we go to school together, so it’s possible I may have seen her walking around or something . . .”

“That’s not really an answer.”

“Was there a question?” Now he is sounding mad.

“The question was: did you post on her Facebook wall?”

“The answer is yes, I did post ‘Happy Birthday’ on her Facebook wall.”

“You actually posted ‘Happy Birthday,
rock star
’
on her Facebook wall.”

“She likes to sing. And anyway, what is the big deal?”

“The big deal is why did you break up?”

“I really don’t think that’s any of your business.”

Now I’m furious. “What? You’re really going to say that to me?”

“I think you need to calm down.”

“I don’t understand why you’re hiding things from me.”

“I’m not hiding anything from you. I just don’t want to talk about this
this
way. Why don’t I go pick you up and—”

“
No
! I don’t want you to come pick me up. If I’m not important enough to know why the two of you broke up, and you obviously still have a thing for her and if she hadn’t done what she did you’d still be with her.”

“Wait. What? Can we start over? Because you’re being the stereotypical crazy girlfriend right now.”

The things that pop into my mind to say are way too mean, so I hang up. My heart is pounding, my hands are shaking, and I am stunned that he got so cold and icy when I asked him questions.

All that needing someone ever does is give them the power to hurt you.

M
r. Not-Ms. North has black hair and ginormous, black, bushy eyebrows and lips that look like they’ve been painted on. He is in a checkered button-down shirt and corduroy pants pulled up way too high. As soon as he opens his mouth, I decide I’m going to hate him.

“Welcome, class. I am your new professor,” he says in an accent I can’t place or completely understand. It sounds a little like Nate’s Universal Accent. Nate. Argh. The thought of him makes a little ooze of sadness spread across my chest.

Mr. Not-Ms. North is still talking. “I have written my name on the board. It is pronounced Abedifirouzjaie.” He says it the way it is spelled, which is to say, indecipherably. “Say it with me, please.”

I scoot a little lower in my chair. A couple of people mumble something like “Abedifiblblb . . .”

“So, it is my understanding that you last read
The Winter’s Tale
, is that correct?”

Ever-helpful Quinn says, “We were assigned to read
Othello
over break.”

“Ah, yes, good, the Moor’s tale. Of special significance to me. A fine play.”

I am not sticking around for this. I don’t want to stick around for anything. Ever.

I raise my my hand.

“Yes, young lady? And you have read the
Othello
, yes?”

“I have read the
Othello
, yes. I need to go to the office.” I figure if I say it with enough authority, he’ll think it’s just a normal part of the routine.

“Ummm . . . this is . . . yes, you may go.”

I take all my books and make sure to leave nothing. I’m done. Done. The plan is never to go back to that class.

I run down the stairs, down to the senior locker room. I sprawl across a bench, and don’t even realize when I fall asleep.

When I wake up, I check the time: 1:15. I have soccer practice after school. The thought of it makes me want to fall back asleep. I realize there is no more point to soccer either. I walk over to the gym to find Coach Woods. I find her by the supply closet.

“Ms. Woods?”

“M.T., why aren’t you in class?”

“I’m not feeling well. The nurse. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about the team.”

“What about it?”

“I’m . . . I think I need to quit.”

“Quit? Why? What am I supposed to do for a forward?”

“I have to concentrate on my grades.” Lie after lie starts to blur together, leaving me numb to them.

“That’s never been a problem for you before.”

“I know, but it is now.”

“Look, I know it’s important to concentrate on schoolwork. Why don’t you skip practice today and then come to my office tomorrow and let’s talk about some options?”

“Okay,” I say. Even as I say it I know I will never go talk to her. I will stop going and eventually she’ll just have to get it. I am perversely happy to cut one more little string holding me.

I figure it’s late enough that anyone seeing me walking in the street will think I’m a student who got out early. I go back to my locker, put all my books in it, and leave. It feels strange to be out in the street before anyone else I know. I want to go somewhere, but I can’t think of any place.

Chelsea gave me her old laptop during Christmas break, after she got a new one plus an iPad. It’s opened up a few more options. I can check email at the coffee shop on the strip. They have Wi-Fi. I bike down there and sit in the corner farthest from the door. I fire up the laptop and get online.

There is new mail from Josh on Facebook. Every week, he’s been sending me obscure songs. Today’s is “Blackberry Brandy” by T-Bird and the Breaks. Serious hillbilly music.

As I’m playing it, up pops a message from Josh.

“Did you like the song?”

I write back. “No.” Is it weird to write to Chelsea’s cousin’s boyfriend?

“Well, that’s good, Puff. It’s like medicine. You’re not supposed to like it.”

“You’re weird.” I add, “What are you up to?”

“Actually, I’m coming down to your little neck of the Jersey Shore in a few weeks.”

Hmmm
. “I’m nowhere near the Jersey Shore. Why are you coming down?”

“I’m coming down to interview at Chelsea’s mom’s firm. I’ll have to have my chest waxed and get a fake tan to blend in with the natives.”

“I thought you’d be above stereotypes.”

“True, true. You and Chelsea seem eminently reasonable. Even if you are from New Jersey.”

“I guess.”

“What about you? What are you doing this summer?”

“Nothing.”

“Your enthusiasm is contagious.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do next.” I mean, it’s true, but I don’t know why he’d care.

“You should come up to Worthington. This would be a good school for you.”

“I guess. I don’t know.” I am so tired of this senior year crap. Of people being oblivious.

“You sound pretty gloomy today. I have just the song for that. A classic. Painfully underrated.” He sends a link. It comes over. “17 Ways to Say I’m Leaving.”