You'd Be Home Now (25)

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    The walls of Ms. Diaz’s corner office are loaded with aspiration.

aim high! everyone has a chance to make a difference! your attitude will determine your altitude!

I wish she had more honest posters, like good job for getting out of bed! yay, you brushed your hair! hooray, you got a c! your brother didn’t die of an overdose, go you!

Ms. Diaz looks at me over her glasses. She started last year, when I was a sophomore, and I don’t think she’s even thirty yet, so I’m assuming the over-the-glasses gesture is her way of seeming older and more in charge. I don’t know why she has to do that, though. I mean, of course she’s in charge. It’s her job to be in charge, but who is she trying to fool? She went to high school and college and then…here, so what life has she lived that means she can tell us the right way to live ours? She’s always been in school.

I grit my teeth. Adults never tell you the truth about anything, anyway.

“Hello, Emory. How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

She tilts her head. “I’m not going to ask how your summer was. I think I have a pretty good idea. I’m here if you want to talk, and Mrs. Kim is also available. We have resources for you.”

    “Fine.”

“Fine to talking to me? To Mrs. Kim?”

Hi, Mrs. Kim. Last night I had a dream about Candy MontClair, the girl who died, and a boy went through the windshield and then they sent my brother away to get sober. My parents haven’t hugged in years. My dad sleeps in the den. My leg hurts. I steal things. And let me tell you about Gage Galt.

Probably Mrs. Kim would choke on her Earl Grey tea.

“I’ll think about it.”

She glances at her computer. “You’ll need to register for the PSAT. Remember, there are only two test dates this fall and you’ll want to be prepared in case you need to redo the study course.”

“I will.” I bite my lip. “I promise.” The other night I thumbed through Maddie’s old prep book, but everything just swam before my eyes, because I was listening for Joey down the hall. What was he doing? Was he okay? I thought I would feel relief when he got home, but I don’t. It’s as though I’m waiting for a sign that rehab didn’t take, some small tell that he’s just biding his time, and this makes me feel guilty as hell, because if I don’t believe in Joey, who will?

Ms. Diaz is murmuring. I snap back to attention.

“Obviously, because of your injury, you can’t do dance team anymore,” she says.

I wonder if she can see the relief on my face.

“We need to make sure you’ve got some extracurriculars for applications next year, not just pure academics.” She starts tapping away. “What about ceramics? Not too physical, not hard on the knee, some out-of-school exhibits, the art festival in the spring at the community center?”

Joey did ceramics last year. He said he found clay in areas of his body he didn’t even know existed. I hate the wheel. If you mess up, everything flies off and goes everywhere. Not a fan of getting slapped in the face by hard, wet things.

    “Not a fan of getting slapped in the face by hard, wet things,” I blurt out.

Ms. Diaz laughs. “Inappropriate, but funny. You’re usually so quiet. I’d like to get you out of your shell a bit. How about Drama Club?”

“Like acting? I can’t do that. I can’t get up in front of people. They’re already…”

“Already what?”

Whispering about me.

“Nothing,” I say.

She frowns. “Emory, we have to put you somewhere. If you don’t want to act, there are other things you can do. Scenery, costumes. Might help you make some different connections here.”

“Okay,” I say, “but my brother…my mother said he’s supposed to take me home every day after school. I kind of have to watch out for him, so I don’t know if that will wo—”

She taps again at her computer. “Joseph will be in tutoring after school, on the days he isn’t in outpatient. I’ve got his schedule here. He needs the tutoring to stay focused and catch up. I can certainly call your mother and explain.”

The last thing I need is my mother getting a phone call from school.

“All right. Fine.”

My fine is just like Joey’s okayokayokay.

She starts to print out my schedule, but the paper jams halfway through the cycle. She clicks her teeth. “I hate this printer. I’ll print it on Mrs. Tisby’s in the front office. Wait here.”

I hold my backpack against my chest. Ms. Diaz has dishes of candy on her desk. Butterscotches, Smarties. A collection of shells, like the ones I bought on the boardwalk in San Diego.

    I listen to Mrs. Tisby murmuring to Ms. Diaz.

I palm a shell. It fits perfectly in my hand. I put it in the front pocket of my backpack.

Better.

Ms. Diaz comes back in and hands me my schedule and sits back down.

She looks at me over her glasses again. “Your grades dipped last year.”

Dipped means all As to A-minuses and some Bs. It’s hard to get all As when you’re doing your brother’s homework, too.

“I don’t see what’s wrong with some Bs.”