More Than We Can Tell

  I snort. “Close enough.”

  “Really?” For the first time, her voice turns sharp. “You think it’s so perfect that my best friend thinks that something important to me is a waste of time?”

  “What?”

  “How about how perfect it is that I spent months playing a game because it was important to you, but when I do something, I get a bunch of snarky comments.”

  I bristle. “Cait, I don’t know what you’re—”

  “You constantly complain about how your mom doesn’t respect what you want to do, and then you treat me the same exact way.”

  The words hit me like a fist to the face. “I do not!”

  “You do too!”

  “Cait, it’s just makeup!”

  She shoots to her feet. “Yeah, Emma. And it’s just a stupid game.” She shrugs her backpack onto her shoulder. “I guess I need to get my perfect self back to class.”

  I glare at the floor when she pushes through the door. I wait to feel vindicated or justified. I don’t.

  I have now alienated the first boy I’ve ever liked and my best friend. Go, me.

  I don’t treat her that way. I’ve never had a problem with the makeup.

  Maybe you could have given me a makeover.

  She’s right. Tears prick at my eyes.

  I slide my phone out of my pocket. Ethan hasn’t sent any more messages, but his last one sits on the screen.

  Emma. You’re lying.

  Emma: I just got into a fight with my best friend.

  Ethan:

  Emma: I’m not having a good week.

  Ethan: Would it sound trite if I said it will eventually get better?

  Emma: Yes.

  Ethan: Would you feel better if I remind you that you’re a badass, even without OtherLANDS?

  I smile, but it feels halfhearted.

  Emma: Yes. Yes, I would.

  I really am lying to him.

  I don’t feel better at all.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Rev

  The weather matches my mood. Rain pours down in sheets, beating on the cafeteria windows, keeping everyone inside. The fluorescent lights are giving me a headache. Kristin has packed me a huge lunch, as usual, with pita pockets stuffed thick with lunch meat and cheese, bags of grapes, and a container of bean salad.

  I don’t want to eat any of it. I shove the bag toward Declan.

  He starts prying lids free. “I thought for sure you weren’t coming back.”

  I shrug. I don’t want to talk about Emma.

  Her words hurt more than they should have.

  Or maybe they hurt every bit as much as she meant them to.

  The cafeteria is packed. Our school does one big lunch hour for everyone, which is nothing short of insanity. Juliet is working in the photo lab during lunch, but it’s so crowded that we don’t have the table to ourselves. I don’t know the guys at the opposite end. They seem content to ignore us, so we can return the favor.

  Declan pushes a pita pocket in my direction. “I can’t eat all this.”

  I guarantee he will. “Whatever.”

  It’s not a response I use often. His eyebrows go up. “Emma isn’t what I expected.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about her.”

  “You’re guessing right.”

  “Why was she crying?”

  I give him a level glare across the table.

  “What?” He looks back at me and eats a spoonful of bean salad. “You want to talk about Matthew instead?”

  “Dec.”

  “You just want to sit here quietly?”

  “Yes.”

  He shuts up. He eats.

  I study the surface of the table. My emotions are like a cue ball being knocked all over a pool table, colliding with thoughts at random. Emma, the way she clung to me in the hallway, sobbing, then shut me down. My father, the way he promised he would not wait forever, leaving me to wonder what that means. Matthew, who still isn’t talking to me, who’s somewhere in this school, doing who knows what.

  Disappointment and fear and guilt weave a lattice through my thoughts.

  And also, a little dark satisfaction. A little aggression. I cut class. I got away with it.

  I’ve never done something like that. An unfamiliar belligerence has set up camp in my head.

  “You think Matthew is having a bad day?” says Declan.

  That pulls me from my thoughts. “What?”

  He nods toward a table about thirty feet away, where Matthew sits. Nothing is on the table in front of him, though Kristin definitely would have packed him something. No backpack sits near him. His face is red, his jaw set. Two boys stand beside him, and I can’t hear what they’re saying, but nothing about the situation looks friendly. Other kids are at the table, but they’re doing nothing. Just watching.

  One of the boys flicks him on the side of the head.

  I’m off the bench without a thought. I must look intense, because other students clear a path and I draw stares.

  I step right into the boys’ personal space, putting myself between them and Matthew. They’re underclassmen. I don’t recognize them at all. “What’s going on?”

  The bigger one, the flicker, gives me a dismissive look. “None of your business, creeper. What are you, his new boyfriend?” He reaches around me to flick Matthew on the side of the head again. “I told you to move.”

  I don’t realize I’ve drawn back a fist until Declan has a hold of my arm, and he’s half blocking me.

  “What are you doing?” he says low, under his breath.

  I don’t know what I’m doing.

  Seriously, I don’t know what I’m doing. My thoughts spin.

  My muscles are tight, but I don’t want to fight with Declan. Words grind out. “Let me go.”

  “Rev.” He sounds incredulous. I don’t blame him. In the past, our positions have always been reversed. “Dude. If you start a fight, you’ll be suspended.”

  I’m embarrassed and angry and I feel like a caged animal. My voice is a growl. “I said, let me go.”

  He hesitates. I jerk free.

  “What’s going on here?”

  A teacher’s voice. Mrs. James, who teaches freshman Health and also monitors the cafeteria at lunchtime. She’s tall and imposing and doesn’t take any crap.

  “Nothing,” I snap.

  The other boy says, “We were just going to eat lunch. He came over and started hassling us.”

  Mrs. James looks at me. “Is that true?”

  “They were hassling him.” I nod my head at Matthew.

  She looks at him. “Is that true?”

  He says nothing. His eyes are locked on the tabletop. His cheeks are still red.

  We’re very much the center of attention in the middle of the cafeteria.

  “Maybe you should all go your separate ways,” Mrs. James says.

  That will solve things for exactly thirty seconds.

  “I’m not leaving him alone,” I say.

  The flicker snorts. “Ha. I knew it. Does Neil know?”

  Neil?

  “Who’s Neil?” I say.

  Matthew flinches. He shoots up from the table, yanking his backpack from underneath the bench. He all but runs from the table.

  “Enough!” snaps Mrs. James. “You boys. Move. Now.”

  They move, heading for the food line, laughing as they go.

  I shift to follow Matthew.

  Mrs. James steps in front of me. “No. You go in another direction.”

  Across the room, Matthew slams through the double doors to exit the cafeteria. I move to push past the teacher.

  “Hey.” She blocks me again. “I told you to take a walk. Cool off.”

  “Rev.” Declan pushes at my shoulder. “Come on. Leave it.”

  I don’t want to leave it. I’m coiled like a spring, waiting for someone to turn a dial so I can explode. The world feels edged with electricity.

  She’s tall, bu
t I’m taller. I could force my way past her without too much trouble. I take a step forward.

  She takes a step back, one hand up. “Either you take a walk,” says Mrs. James, “or I’m calling security.”

  No teacher has ever threatened to call security about me.

  It’s terrifyingly addictive. I’ve stepped over a line I didn’t know I had. A part of me wants to know how far I can push this.

  “Declan.” Another teacher’s voice. Mrs. Hillard. Declan’s AP English teacher. She’s got a tray in her hands, and she’s one table away. “What’s going on?”

  “Rev is losing his mind.”

  His voice is dry, but he’s not kidding.

  She puts her tray down and steps around the table. “Come on, boys. Why don’t you eat in my classroom? We can talk it out.”

  Declan doesn’t move. His eyes are on me. “Rev?”

  “Fine.” I turn away, and when no one says anything to stop me, I return to our table to grab my backpack. My hood falls lower over my forehead, blocking more of the light from the room. It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to see the other students’ eyes to feel them on me. The entire room seems filled with whispers. In my head, the whispers aren’t just about this moment. They’re about my father.

  I told you to answer me.

  I will not wait forever.

  A threat. A promise. There are penalties for failure.

  Tension forms a vise grip around my chest. My throat.

  My head wants to explode.

  A hand grabs my arm. Red colors my vision. I whirl. My arm flies. I make contact.

  Declan hits the ground.

  I fall back.

  My heart is a roar in my ears. I can’t speak. I can’t think.

  I hit my best friend. I hit my best friend. I hit my best friend.

  They call security.

  A parent has to pick me up.

  That means I have to wait.

  It’ll probably be Kristin, since she works from home, but I’ve been sitting in the front office for an hour. Rain whips against the windowpanes. People have come and gone, attending to their business, but my head is down, the hood low. My hand hurts, but I don’t want to ask for ice.

  Declan is fine.

  I don’t know if our friendship is fine.

  When I was young, when I failed a test, my father would make me wait, much like this, to see how I could earn a way back into his good graces. You’d think the abuse would be the worst part, but it wasn’t.

  It was this. The waiting.

  Mr. Diviglio, the vice principal, told me that because this was a first offense, I won’t be suspended longer than the rest of the afternoon. A letter will be sent to Geoff and Kristin. I have to attend a class on peaceful resolution of conflict.

  What a joke. I didn’t hit the kids who deserved it. I hit my best friend.

  I think about the moments before I punched him. My thoughts were almost those of another person. I can’t re-create my mental state. I don’t even know why I lashed out.

  A part of me wishes they’d called the cops, so I could be locked in a cell, away from my phone and my father and all the conflict that’s keeping my brain tied up in knots.

  My phone chimes. An e-mail.

  My stomach twists. I can’t make myself pull it out of my backpack. No message would be good right now.

  “Rev?”

  I look up. Geoff stands at the desk. I expected him to look angry. He doesn’t. He looks confused.

  That’s worse.

  I have no idea what to say to him. Apologize? Explain? My feet seem rooted to the floor.

  “I’ve signed you out,” he says. “Come on.”

  I’ve never been defiant, but as I stand and throw my backpack over my shoulder, I wonder what would happen if I walked past him, out of this building, and just kept right on walking.

  I don’t.

  Geoff is silent as we climb into the car. Rain clings to everything. The doors close, turning the car into a cage, the seat belt into a noose.

  My phone chimes again. My breathing goes quick and shallow. I leave it in my backpack.

  “Did you and Declan have a fight?” Geoff says.

  “No.”

  “Do you want to tell me why you hit him?”

  I swallow and pick at the line of stitching on the door handle. My eyes are locked on the silver strip along the window. “It was an accident.”

  “An accident?”

  I nod. I don’t want to elaborate.

  “Mr. Diviglio told me that you were involved in some kind of altercation with other students. Do you want to tell me what happened there?”

  Confusion still colors his voice. He sounds like he’s trying to decide whether to be empathetic or stern.

  I get it. This is not the type of conversation we’ve ever had. I have never been involved in an “altercation.” I’ve never even had a detention.

  I shrug a little. “Some boys were hassling Matthew. I tried to stop them.”

  A pause. “Hassling how?”

  “I don’t really know. They were just—hassling him.”

  His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Do I need to turn around and go back to the school?”

  “What?”

  “If they’re suspending you because you were trying to defend him, I’m going to go have a word with that vice principal—”

  “They’re suspending me because I punched Dec. Matthew is fine.”

  As I say the words, I realize I don’t know if they’re true at all.

  What are you, his new boyfriend?

  Does Neil know?

  “Was Declan hassling him?” asks Geoff.

  “Of course not.”

  He sighs. “Okay, then why did you punch Declan?”

  Because violence is in my genes. Because my head is broken. Because I’m a threat to everyone around me. A ticking time bomb.

  Declan experienced the first detonation.

  My fingers are going to peel the upholstery apart.

  “Something is going on with you,” says Geoff. “I think you need to start talking about what it is.”

  We make the final turn toward home. I say nothing.

  “Rev.” He’s chosen stern. “Answer me.”

  I stiffen. My father’s words. Answer me.

  I don’t answer him.

  “Rev.” Geoff glances away from the road, but I refuse to look at him. He rarely raises his voice, but when he does, he means business. “Answer me. Right now.”

  I don’t. Again, this defiance is addictive. Not in a good way.

  He pulls into our driveway, and I’m out of the car before he’s even put it in Park. Kristin’s car isn’t here. Rain beats down on me, just like on Saturday night.

  I explode through the front door, flinging it closed behind me.

  Geoff catches it, dogging me all the way. He’s in great shape, but so am I. “Rev. Stop. We are going to talk about this.”

  Not if I can help it. I try to slam my bedroom door in his face.

  He catches it. Pushes it open. Follows me in.

  I turn on him. “Leave me alone.”

  “No.”

  I get in his face. “Leave. Me. Alone.”

  He doesn’t back off. “No.”

  My hands form fists. “Leave me alone!” I’m shouting now.

  His voice grows quieter. “No.”

  “Leave me alone!” I shove him, and I’m strong enough to push him back a step, but he doesn’t move beyond that.

  “No.” His voice is so quiet. “Rev. No.”

  “Go away.” I shove him again, harder this time. “Go away.” My voice cracks. I’m panting like I’ve run a mile. “I don’t want you. I don’t want you.”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “Get out!” I shove him again. He’s up against the wall now. “I don’t want you! Get out.”

  “No.”

  I put my hands against his chest. I have fistfuls of his shirt. The fear and anger spooled inside of me
are beginning to uncoil, and I can’t think. I’m not even sure what I’m going to do. Every muscle in my body is rigid, primed to fight.

  Geoff catches my hands. Not in a defensive motion. He just puts his hands over mine.

  “It’s okay,” he says softly. His voice is low and calm and sure. “Rev. It’s okay.”

  I’m breathing so hard I might be hyperventilating. I force my fingers to unclench. My arms are shaking.

  “I’m sorry.” My voice breaks. I’m crying. “I’m sorry.”

  Geoff doesn’t let go of me. “It’s okay.”

  And then I’m crumpling, falling against him.

  He catches me. He holds on.

  Because he’s not my father. He’s my dad.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Rev

  Geoff makes grilled cheese.

  No, Dad makes grilled cheese. He slathers both sides of the bread with butter, and it sizzles when it hits the pan. Four slices of cheese go on each sandwich. The crack and spit of butter in the pan mixes with the patter of rain against the sliding glass door. It’s the only noise in the house, but it’s a good sound.

  Mom is apparently meeting a client on the other side of the county, or she’d be here railing on him about his cholesterol.

  Or she’d be sitting here holding my hand.

  I’m wilting in a chair, my eyes raw. He hasn’t pressed me for answers anymore, but some dynamic has shifted. I don’t feel alone. I don’t have to hide.

  He tells me to get out sodas and plates for us, and his voice is gentle and even. Like it’s any other day.

  I do. And then he’s sitting next to me.

  All of a sudden, it’s like he’s dropped a blanket of expectation onto my shoulders. My hands fold against my stomach.

  “Hey.” He gives my shoulder a gentle shake. “We’ll get through it. Okay? Whatever it is.”

  I hold my breath and nod until my lungs are screaming for oxygen. Even then, I only let a bit of air in.

  Dad hasn’t touched his grilled cheese. “This has nothing at all to do with Matthew, does it?”

  I shake my head slowly.

  “Eat your sandwich, Rev.”

  I clear my throat. My voice is low and rough, but not broken. “I need to show you something.”

  “Okay.”

  My father’s letter has been between my mattress and box spring since last Thursday. It’s not the most original hiding place, but I make my own bed, and I’ve never given Mom and Dad a reason to search my room.