Hold Still

Back in front of the classroom, Ms. Delani says, “Your next assignment is to take a self-portrait. Build off what you learned last year. And please,” she says. “I want some depth. Some substance.”

  The bell rings and I slide to the edge of my chair. I don’t want to see her.

  I try to follow everyone out the door, but Ms. Delani catches me.

  “Caitlin.”

  I shuffle to her desk.

  “Yeah?”

  She reaches for the photo in my hand.

  “Caitlin.” She shakes her head. “What is this? This is not art.”

  I give her my iciest stare. “You didn’t help me with my goals,” I say. “I asked you, but you ignored me.”

  She sighs. “First a moving car for a still life. Now an empty lot for a landscape. I know that you are capable of much more than this.”

  I look away from her, up at the walls. I scan all the photographs until I find the one of me. “Actually, that was Ingrid,” I say. “Ingrid was capable of more than this; I always sucked, remember?” I snatch my landscape from her, crush it in my fist, and shove it in my backpack.

  She takes her glasses off and rubs between her eyes like I’m giving her the worst headache. She leans over her desk and puts her head in her hands. I stand there, awkwardly, waiting for her to look up and suggest that I drop the class, or tell me not to waste her time, or send me to the therapist again. I wait, and keep waiting. The freshmen start to come in for the beginning class. The bell for second period rings.

  “Um,” I say, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “I kind of have to go.” She still doesn’t respond.

  Then she sits up. And my heart stops beating. Ms. Delani’s lips are trembling, her cheeks are flushed. She closes her eyes and tears run down and pool at the sides of her nose. She doesn’t say anything. The freshmen are quiet, staring down at their desks, trying not to look at us. She reaches for a pad of paper and writes something. She hands me the paper and walks back into her office. I look down.

  It says, Please excuse Caitlin from second period tardiness.—V. Delani

  8

  “So, hey,” Taylor says as he’s cramming his stuff into his backpack. “I’m going over to Henry’s to wait for Jayson. We’re gonna go to this kick-ass restaurant in Berkeley to get Ethiopian food. Wanna come?”

  We’ve been comparing notes about Jacques DeSoir in the library after school. So far we’ve decided that we’re going to start our presentation talking about how and why we chose him. We also decided to buy a map of Europe so that we can chart all the places he traveled for the class.

  I feel kind of nervous about going to Henry’s, but I also don’t feel like saying no and walking home alone when I could be spending time with Taylor, so I say sure. Henry probably doesn’t even know I exist, even though we’re in English together and I know which block of which street he lives on. I know he lives in a three-story house and that his parents are never home. I know this because he has parties almost every Friday night, and because Ingrid and I would sometimes decide to go, get as far as the front yard, and then turn around when we saw the shapes of all the people inside, heard them talking and laughing, saw all the cars parked out front, and recognized whom they belonged to. Even though we wanted to go, we just couldn’t bring ourselves to walk into Henry’s house, see everyone already talking to people, already settled and gathered into little exclusive groups, and watch them look up at us and wonder why we were there.

  So this is why I know the outside of Henry’s house so well, but once I follow Taylor through the door, nothing is familiar. Not the huge family portrait that hangs in the entryway, not the marble floor, or the fountain that spurts water in the middle of it. I wonder what a kid does who lives here alone practically all the time. We turn into the family room.

  Henry and a couple other guys I recognize but don’t really know are sitting on an expensive-looking sofa, drinking Coronas and staring at the TV.

  “Hey,” Taylor says. “You all know Caitlin, right?”

  One of them, not Henry, says, “Hey.”

  They all turn back to the screen. This is exactly what Ingrid and I feared all the times we turned around and walked away from Henry’s house. I stand caught in this moment, feeling so unwelcome.

  I would like to say that a million possibilities are running through my mind and that I’m just having trouble choosing which brilliant exit line to use, or which joke to deliver that will make all the guys laugh, make Taylor look less nervous, make the tension in the room vanish. But really, I’m just trying to think of one possibility. I’ll do the first thing that comes to me. But before I’ve decided on anything, Henry speaks.

  Still looking at the screen, he says, “Hey, so you’re friends with that new girl, aren’t you?”

  I guess I was wrong; he does know I exist.

  “Yeah,” I say, and wonder if this is still true. I guess he really is oblivious if he hasn’t noticed that Dylan and I haven’t sat together for half a month.

  He nods. “She’s hot,” he says. “Does she like guys, too?”

  I shake my head, but realize that no one is looking at me, not even Taylor, who is studying his shoelaces as intently as he had been our Jacques DeSoir book. So I say it out loud: “I don’t think so.”

  “Does she have a girlfriend?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Is she hot?”

  “Um . . .” I roll up onto the balls of my feet and then back down. “It feels kind of weird to talk about this,” I say.

  “It’s not a big deal,” Henry says. “It’s a simple question. So is she?”

  “Taylor, I’m gonna wait outside,” I say. I step outside and shut the heavy door behind me.

  A second later, Taylor is beside me. “Sorry about in there,” he says. “Henry’s usually pretty cool.”

  “I’m sure he is,” I say, kind of deadpan, and I don’t know if Taylor can tell I’m being sarcastic. I’m so confused right now. I don’t even want to work on the treehouse or fall asleep in my car. I don’t even want Taylor to kiss me. The only thing that sounds remotely good is tracking Dylan down to tell her that I’m sorry about everything and that I understand I was being irrational and weird. A rumble comes from around the corner, and then a yellow Datsun appears with Jayson behind the wheel.

  “Look, I’m gonna go,” I say to the concrete.

  “But you need to try this restaurant. It’s really good, I swear. You won’t be sorry.”

  “I’m just gonna go,” I say.

  Jayson slows and stops in front of us.

  “At least let me drive you,” Taylor says.

  I raise a foot and step off the curb, pivot toward Taylor, and say, “I feel like walking.” I manage a smile and add, “Thanks, though.”

  Taylor looks like a kid who didn’t get what he wanted for Christmas.

  I say, “If you have leftovers, you can bring me lunch tomorrow,” and then I turn and head toward the strip mall.

  I go into the noodle place. It smells like coconut milk and pineapple. Elvis is singing on the jukebox. Dylan isn’t in there.

  I decide to get some soup anyway. I sit in our usual booth and eat alone.

  9

  I’m headed away from fourth period, when I feel a tap on my shoulder. It’s Alicia, her red hair piled on top of her head in a huge mess. I mean mess in a good way. Alicia always looks perfect.

  “Caitlin,” she says. “I’m glad I found you. I never see you at lunch. Where do you sit?”

  I can’t really bring myself to tell her that I’ve been spending my lunches hiding in bathroom stalls, so I shrug and say, “Different places,” and hope that it sounds vague in a cool way and not like I’m too embarrassed to tell her the truth.

  She doesn’t seem too concerned with my answer anyway. Her eyes are busy darting from side to side, like she doesn’t really want to be talking to me right now. Once she’s convinced that no one more important is around, she looks at me again.

  “Listen,” s
he says. “Caitlin.”

  She pauses like I’m supposed to say something.

  “Um, yeah?”

  She takes a breath and launches into her speech. “We’ve been friends for so long. I mean a really, really long time. So I feel like it’s my responsibility to tell you that people are starting to say things about you and that, um, girl.”

  “Dylan?”

  She scrunches her nose and nods violently. “I mean, not that I would ever believe them, but it’s really something for you to think about. I know that this is a hard time for you, and I’m just telling you this because I care. I would just hate to see you fall in with the wrong crowd.”

  I don’t bother pointing out that one person does not really equal a crowd. I also don’t mention that this advice is coming a little late.

  “You have your reputation to consider,” she concludes. And tilts her face. And smiles.

  I look at each strand of red hair lacquered perfectly out of place, at her bright green eyes darting away from me to somewhere in the distance, and without thinking, I blurt out, “Alicia, do you consider yourself a shallow person?”

  Alicia’s attention jerks back to me. “What?” she asks.

  “Because I don’t consider myself a shallow person, either. But I think that people who make judgments about people they don’t even know are shallow, and people who start rumors are shallow, and I really don’t care about what shallow people say about me.”

  Alicia’s eyes are open wide and fixed on my face. I can practically see her brain ticking. She says, “I’m just telling you for your own good. Because we’ve been friends since first grade. But now I see that you aren’t grateful, so I’ll stop caring. It’ll make my life easier. So, thanks.”

  “No,” I say, with my heart pounding and a brick in my stomach. “Thank you, Alicia.”

  Then I turn and walk away from her, toward the bathroom.

  I stand in front of the mirror. I didn’t turn in a self-portrait this morning. I didn’t even take a bad one. Ms. Delani told us to turn them in at the end of class and I just grabbed my backpack and left as everyone was lining up to drop their photographs in the pile.

  Behind me, on both sides, are long rows of empty bathroom stalls with silver doors. I lean over the sink, closer to my reflection, and stare at myself hard. I don’t know what I see, I don’t even know what I want to see.

  Some days I like to think of myself as visibly wounded—like Melanie, only quieter. I imagine people wondering about what went wrong in my life. But other days I want to be like Dylan and Maddy and their friends, who seem like they’ve lived a little, have been a little bad, but seem so healthy at the same time.

  Really, when it comes down to it, I don’t know if it’s something I can decide. I back away from the mirror. I don’t know what I see.

  After school is over, I follow Dylan from English to the science hall. We turn our combination locks at the same time. I keep glancing over, trying to say hi, but she ignores me. A buzzing noise comes from her pocket and she reaches in and takes out her phone.

  “Hey,” she says to someone on the other end. “Yeah, I’m just leaving now.” She slams her locker shut and walks out, still talking.

  And I think how perfect this is, that the one time I actually speak up for myself, the one time I actually know what to say, it’s over a nonexistent friendship.

  I walk the back way home, fast, go straight to my room, unzip my backpack, and start reading. I need her.

  By the time I’m finished reading I’m shaking. Everything gets blurry. I bury my head in my pillow, grab my comforter in both hands and try to rip it but nothing happens. I think about where she is now, in a coffin, underground in a cemetery I’ve only been to once and will never go to again. How it’s so easy for her to not feel anything at all, to be just completely gone, to not be around to see how fucked up she’s made me. She got to disappear completely and I feel like I’m about to combust. I stuff the corner of the blanket into my mouth until I can’t fit any more of it in and then I scream and scream and the sound comes out muffled. And I wonder what was so bad that she couldn’t do anything about it. What was so terrible that she felt she could never get over. When it gets too hard to breathe, I pull the blanket out and see that my teeth have only made little marks, tiny, invisible frays in the cotton. I can barely see them at all.

  10

  It’s already getting dark when I wake up later that night, Ingrid’s journal still open to the last entry I read. I can hear my parents downstairs making dinner. I have to clean my room—Taylor’s coming over soon—but I’m hungry.

  “Well, hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” my dad says as I walk into the kitchen.

  “Hey,” I mumble.

  My mom comes up to give me a hug, but I lean over to peer into the pantry and she goes back to the stove. I know it’s mean of me, but I have this feeling that if I let her touch me, I would shatter into pieces.

  “How was school?” my dad asks.

  “Fine,” I say.

  I rummage through all the weird snacks my parents eat: dried apples, instant oatmeal, wheat crackers.

  “Well,” my dad says. “My day was fine, too. Thanks for asking. And let’s hear how your mother’s day was. Margaret?”

  “It was nice, sweetheart,” she says to my dad, but like she’s really answering him, not trying to give me a lesson in social etiquette.

  I find a bag of pretzels and tear it open, put one in my mouth, and taste the salt. My mom glances over at me. “Honey, have you been crying?” she asks.

  I stare at the food she’s making and shrug.

  “Taylor’s coming over to work on our project for precalc,” I say. “So I’m not going to be able to eat with you guys.”

  “Can’t he come over after dinner?” my dad asks.

  “This is important,” I say. “You know it’s, like, for school?”

  “Well, he’s welcome to join us.”

  “Uh, no thanks.”

  “Why were you crying?” my mom asks. “Are you okay?”

  “I just had a bad day. Is that not allowed?” I say, and it comes out a little harsher than I meant it to. I turn away and start heading back up to my room with the pretzels. On my way out I grab a Popsicle from the freezer.

  At eight-fifteen, the doorbell rings and I rush past my parents to let Taylor in. He looks around nervously and catches sight of my parents. They are sitting at the dining table, eating something that smells really good.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner,” he says to them.

  He’s carrying his backpack and his skateboard, but it’s clear that he’s tried to make himself look nice. He smells like shampoo.

  “We’re having penne and a beet salad,” Mom says. “May we offer you some?”

  “Thanks, but I already ate,” Taylor says, taking off his jacket.

  “We can go upstairs now,” I say.

  “Okay, great. I brought the map and those little pushpin things.”

  We start to walk away when my dad calls out, “That’s a nice shirt you have on, Taylor.”

  It’s just a plain T-shirt, solid green.

  Taylor’s whole face turns red. “Um, thank you,” he stammers. He pauses, then adds, “Sir.”

  Once my door is closed, he says, “Oh my God. Your dad totally hates me. He thinks I’m trouble. I knew I should never have bought that stupid sex shirt. I knew it was a stupid thing to do.”

  “You should get a new one,” I say. “One that says something like ‘Will work for forgiveness.’ ”

  “Or ‘redemption.’ ”

  “Or ‘approval.’ ”

  He smiles. “Think it would work?” he asks.

  “Maybe.”

  “Should I make the effort?”

  He’s standing close to me; his breath smells minty, I can’t concentrate, so I say, again, “Maybe.”

  We both stand there, not knowing what to say or do next, until Taylor sets his backpack down and starts taking stuff out. I si
t down on the chair by my desk. I get up and sit on my bed. I get up again, and plant myself, cross-legged, on the carpet.

  Taylor has already taken out everything we need to get started, but he doesn’t stop there. Soon pencils and paper napkins and paper clips and books for other classes form a small mountain beside him.

  “Looking for something?” I ask.

  “What? Oh. No, just taking inventory.” He dumps it all back in. Once everything is packed up again, he looks at all the stuff on my walls.

  “Nice room,” he says.

  And then, a second later, he says, “Oh.” It comes out kind of shocked, like it wasn’t something he meant to say. I look at him, then up to where he’s looking. It’s a picture of Ingrid tacked up on my wall. She looks pretty, standing on the grass by the reservoir smiling.

  “You must miss her a lot.”

  I can’t say anything. I pick at the carpet.

  “If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s okay.”

  I keep picking at the carpet, hoping that I won’t start crying again.

  Taylor slides a rubber band off the map he brought and spreads the map out across the space between us.

  “Okay,” he says. “So this is Nice, where Jacques DeSoir grew up. We should put the first thumbtack here. Where was the next place he went? I’ll look it up.”

  He opens the book and flips through the pages. I don’t want to talk about geography; I just want to be close to someone. I know that I’m only a couple feet away from him. I know that my parents are only a staircase away.

  But still, I feel alone.

  Silently, I pull my shirt over my head.

  My heart is beating in my throat.

  Still staring at the book, he says, “Okay, so it looks like he went to these Greek Islands.” No boy has seen me in just a bra before. I wait for him to look up.

  Then he does.

  His face flushes and he swallows slowly. I ease forward, across a thousand pastel-colored countries and into his lap, wrap my legs around his waist, and kiss him.

  His mouth feels cold and my tongue grazes his mint gum. He touches my back with warm hands and I wonder if he’s fantasized about something like this, if he’s ever thought of me like this before. I hope he has, because I’m not really this brave. We kiss and kiss. I wait for him to start fumbling with my bra strap like boys in movies do, but he doesn’t. His hands move across my back gently and I still feel far away. I still feel alone. I start hearing these words in my head. i want you to touch me. i want you to take my clothes off. I hear them over and over, like the chorus of a song, before I realize that they’re Ingrid’s words, that I’m feeling what Ingrid felt, and it’s then I start to panic. I don’t stop kissing Taylor. I don’t stop anything. I don’t know what I’ll do when this moment is over and I’ll actually have to see him look at me.