You'd Be Home Now (24)

Last year in PE, I heard her tell Mandy Hinkle, “I’m removing my body from the male gaze.”

Mandy said, “Okay, fine, but everybody can still see you, you know that, don’t you? They’re just imagining what’s underneath.”

Every time I see Liza, my heart hurts. Even though it’s been four years, it still hurts.

    Joey pulls the car over.

“What are you doing?” I whisper. “Don’t!”

“Hey, Liza!” Joey rolls the window down. “You want a ride?”

Liza stops. She bends down to see into the car and deliberately looks past me, to Joey. I stare at my hands, my face burning.

“I did miss my bus,” she says, considering. “Fancy new ride, Joseph.”

“You know our mom.”

“I do. I remember her quite well. Her high standards.”

She lets that hang in the air.

It was my mom who severed my friendship with Liza, because of Liza’s parents. I don’t like thinking about that time.

But I wonder, now, if my mother might have more sympathy for what happened with Liza’s parents because of what happened with Joey.

“Yeah,” Liza says finally. “I’ll take a ride.” She opens the back passenger-side door and slides in.

Joey says, “You two going to acknowledge each other, or what?”

“Hello, Emory,” Liza says in a monotone voice.

“Hello, Liza,” I say back, in the very same way.

That’s the most we’ve spoken in four years.

Joey whistles. “All righty, then.”



* * *



—

When we pull into the parking lot, Liza says, “Thanks for the scintillating conversation and the sweet ride, Joseph. Stay out of trouble.” She pops out of the car and takes off.

That’s Liza for you. No one said anything the entire ride and she has to be snarky about it.

    Joey and I stay in the car.

Eventually, I say, “We can leave. We’ve got this car. We can drive away, start a whole new life in the woods. Build a cabin with our bare hands. Live off the land.”

“Kind of did that all summer. Not as good as it sounds.”

My brother takes a deep breath. Pulls the hood of his jacket up.

“Let’s go.”

We walk through the parking lot. It only takes a few minutes for the stares and whispers to start. Joey keeps his head down.

We go through the metal detector. In the middle of the front hall, Joey stops abruptly, and I bump into his back. One guy walking past us suddenly looks over his shoulder. “Hey, man. Look at you, back from the dead.”

Joey says, “Hey, Noah.”

“You got Stetler this year for first period?”

Joey nods.

“Me too. Dude sucks. See you in a few?”

“Sure.”

“Rock on.” The lanky guy drifts down the hall.

“Friend?” I say. “Or foe?”

“That guy smokes a bowl just to wake up. Not a friend candidate,” Joey says, hiking his backpack higher on his shoulders. “If I don’t see you, meet at the car after?”

“Sure.”

We squeeze hands. He whispers, “Whatever happens, don’t react. Stay cool. Remember the ocean, Emmy.”

Then he lets go, turning left, while I turn right.

On my first day of freshman year, Joey pulled me aside in this very same hallway of Heywood High and leaned down, breath warm in my ear. I felt protected by the very heat of it. I’d spent most of the morning in the bathroom, my stomach in knots.

    Listen, he said. The way you have to think of it is this: high school is like the ocean, like when we went to Mission Beach. There’s a lot of it and sometimes it seems scary, like if you go too far out, you’ll never get back. You’ll lose sight of land. And remember all the times we went under and came back up and how great it felt, the sun on our heads, like we beat something? Everybody here is just a different kind of sea creature. Some of them suck, literally and figuratively. Some of them are so beautiful you can’t believe they even exist. And some have scary teeth and weird floppy things, but they’re beautiful, too. And some want to eat you, because that’s just the way it is. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t make the rules of the ocean. The ocean, like high school, has its own laws. But remember this: sometimes the waves knock you down and it seems like you won’t have the strength to push back up, but you do, because whatever the water takes down, it gives back. But you have to adapt or die. Now, go swim.



* * *



—

Midway down the hall, halfway to the counselors’ office, heads whip around. Kids peer at me.

I try to keep my eyes focused on the end of the hallway, on the glossy brown door to the counselors’ suite.

Girl who was in the car

Candy MontClair.

Brother OD’ed in the backseat.

Is that her?

Oh my god, is it?

Didn’t think she’d be back

Don’t react, I tell myself.

Remember the ocean, like Joey said. There’s Mandy Hinkle, the Heywood High newspaper editor. She’s extremely talkative and kind of clenchy, like always touching your arm and leaning close to you when she talks. She’s probably a barnacle. There’s a kid with a lot of teeth in his mouth. Maybe he’s an anglerfish. There’s Suki Rappaport and her band of worshippers. She’s so petite and pretty and in her own world. Maybe she’s a seahorse, lovely and perfect. There’s Nick Rabinowitz. I’ve heard girl stories about him. He could be a shark, always on the hunt for prey. There’s a speckled crab, there’s a ray, there’s a jellyfish, there’s…