Every Shattered Thing (Come Alive) (18 page)

I aim high, Mrs. Peabody. You should know this by now.

“Have you checked out USC?”

I return her gaze and shrug. “They called a couple days ago, but my dad answered. He isn’t too keen on me leaving and going to school so far away. Pretty much told me it wasn’t going to happen.”

“Why?”

I focus on the computer screen, giving me something to do, even if it’s researching the incredibly boring and highly “intellectual” junior college just down the street from where I live.

Why does she have to stare at me like that? It’s like she’s trying to see into my soul or
something...maybe she’s been reading too many of those vampire books. Or Harry Potter. Wasn’t there a
teacher in Harry Potter who claimed to see the future?

I hide a smile and glance back. “Money, first of all.” I notice her mouth opening in protest and I move to finish before she starts talking. “I know they are offering a possible scholarship, Mrs. Peabody.

But what if I don’t get it in time? Scholarships take time. And letters of recommendations? I haven’t necessarily been the world’s best student lately. I don’t know of many teachers who would vouch for me.”

She leans her head on her hand and wrinkles her lip.

“Have you even taken a look at the site?”

I shake my head.

Motioning her hand toward the screen, she looks at me. “Go to their webpage. It doesn’t hurt to look. Just go—your dad never has to know.”

I do as she says and she clicks her tongue with excitement.

“Go to the admissions page for undergraduates.”

My breath catches when I see pictures of the campus and students laughing behind their

computers. I know it’s all advertising, and some of these students most likely posed, but the
freedom
in these pictures is enough to make me click on the “start your application now” button blinking every three or four seconds. I start doing research, and my heart rate quickens.

“Do you think I could get into the Honors Program?”

Mrs. Peabody smiles at me and nods. “Certainly. It seems as if the Culture and Values course as well as the Writing Seminar may be well suited to your interests.” She touches my arm and I turn my head from the screen.

They have annual research conferences. And a Narrative Study major. I could totally double
major in Creative Writing and Narrative Study.

“
Stephanie, what do you want to do with your life?”

Survive my father.

“I love to write. I love to tell stories and formulate problems of characters—digging them deep into a hole and watching them work their way out stronger than before.”

She smiles. “Sounds like you.” She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms against her chest.

“What do you think about USC so far? You haven’t really researched extensively, but you know what you want.”

I glance back at the computer, noticing again all of the programs offered. “It’s definitely captured my interest, I will say that. But, I have to be honest —I really see no way my father will let me go. It’s just not possible. I mean, there’s the money issue but...he’s just overprotective. Can’t imagine me living anywhere that isn’t within a two-mile radius.”

Mrs. Peabody sighs and leans forward. “You know I am the last person to encourage familial rebellion. But. Is it you or your father who is applying for college? Is it your life or your father’s that will be forever impacted by the choice you make of where to go to school? Think about this, Stephanie. You have an incredible opportunity waiting for you here...”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I haven’t been this excited about a possibility in a long time. I stare at the screen, wondering if I have what it takes. It wouldn’t be hard to fill out the application.

But what if I were to get accepted? And what if my dad intercepted the acceptance letter before I had the chance to even see it? My pen starts tapping on the desk in nervousness and I look around—as if he’s lurking in the corner, waiting for me to fill out the application so he can throw a fit and raise a scene.

I click on the application page and create an account so I can come back later this afternoon or tomorrow morning and finish what I don’t complete in class.

***

Once I get to Pre-Cal I throw my stuff on the floor under my desk and hide my face in my arms. I let the conversation fall around me and start breathing deep once the lecture starts on derivatives.

“What do you think, Stephanie?”

I jolt awake and glance up at the front of the classroom. Mrs. Houghton is waiting for an answer.

Again. I lower my head and shrug my shoulders—I’m not even going to attempt to pretend to know the answer.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Houghton. I have no idea.”

She purses her lips and moves on to another student, but I can sense her anger and frustration. I sigh, knowing I’ve screwed up again. I make an attempt for the rest of class to listen as closely as possible, hopefully rectifying her belief that I just don’t care. It’s no use. Again, it’s too late. As the bell rings, I hear my name. Turning toward the front of the class, I see her watching me.

“May I see you for a moment?”

I avoid the sly smiles of students passing me by on their way out the door and lean against a desk, inspecting a fingernail that seems ingrown.

“You know, Stephanie. Your attitude in my classroom is beginning to concern me.”

I look up and meet her gaze and nod.

Remember: be polite. Don’t get worked up. Smile. Agree with her.

“I understand, Mrs. Houghton. Things have just been a little rough lately. I have a lot on my mind, and I haven’t been getting much sleep.”

She crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. “Well. Sleep is certainly important; however, if I catch you nodding off again I will be forced to contact your parents. I’m sure they wouldn’t be pleased to know you’ve missed another day of instruction because you’re drooling on one of my desks.”

I laugh. “Chances are, my mom would be punch drunk on cough syrup and pain pills if you got a hold of her. And if my dad answered? Well. Just be prepared for a verbal beating because you interrupted his midday poker game with his buddies. Heaven help you if you interrupt his nap.”

Apparently, I’ve said the wrong thing. I wasn’t even planning on getting personal; the words just kinda fell out of my mouth. She bristles and taps her papers on her desks before standing up and walking toward me, her heels clanging against the linoleum. I’m not gonna lie. I’m intimidated. I look around to see if any other students are left in the classroom. We’re alone.

“Stephanie. I don’t care where you come from. I don’t care what your family situation is when you walk through your door at night. But, when you walk into my classroom, you better show respect and an eagerness to learn. You will get nowhere in life with this woe-is-me attitude you give off everyday.”

She thinks I have an attitude?

I tilt my head and glance at her out of the corner of my eye. “I’m sorry...I know you probably don’t really know where I’m coming from...”

“Stephanie, I dropped out of high school chasing a drug addict boyfriend who abused me. I finally got my GED when I was 25 and fought my way through junior college so I could gain scholarships to study at a university. I know hardship. But I’m not going to make excuses.”

I bite my lip to keep from exploding. Clenching my fists so tight my skin starts to crack underneath my nails, I fight to smile and gather my things. “Mrs. Houghton, you need to understand something. You have no idea the hell I live. You see the scars, but do nothing. You see me cry, but ask no questions. So, please forgive me if I fail to have any emotion when I’m in your class or if you feel I lack respect. The truth is, I know the answer to every question. I’ve aced every exam you’ve given. But you wouldn’t know that because you don’t know me. Here’s the difference between you and me: you chose your hardship. You dropped out of high school. You chased the deadbeat drug addict. Me? There is no choice. I’m left with the mess and chaos and expected to survive. And in my world, I’ve learned to not trust those who don’t take the time to know who I am, because chances are, they are only out to take something from me. And I’m sorry, I can’t let it happen. I have nothing left to give.”

I turn around to walk out the door before the tears begin to fall down my cheeks. I hear her try and follow me, but like every other time, she talks herself out of it and stops. I walk out the door, wiping my face of any evidence that what she said got to me. My hands are still shaking though.

Kevin is waiting for me outside.

“Hey, beautiful. What took so long?”

I wave my hand as if to brush the thought away. “Nothing. Mrs. Houghton just needed to talk to me about something.”

Kevin studies me for a little while longer before clearing his throat and handing me the coffee in his hand. I smile. He always remembers to get me coffee if he stops by The Caffeine Drip. I take a sip and exhale, the tension fading from my shoulders.

“So uh, I was talking to my parents this morning.”

I pause mid-sip and force myself to not freak out. “Yeah? About what?”

He looks at me and grins. “Are you freaking out?” Taking my hand, he pulls it to his lips and kisses my fingers. “Relax, Stephanie. They just want to invite you over to Thanksgiving. Can you come?”

“Really? They want me to come over?”

“Yeah. I mean, they really want to meet you, and I told them I didn’t know if you would be doing anything for the holidays.”

I chuckle and shake my head, “Yeah. Doubtful. Last year I spent Thanksgiving in my closet hiding from mom and dad's friends stumbling through our house drunk off their asses.” I look at him and nudge his shoulder with my own. My voice drops.

“I’d love to come, Kevin.”

He kisses the side of my forehead and we continue to maze through the crowd and toward the office. Being an office aide is probably the most wasteful and useless class I have, but in an attempt to avoid having off periods, I had to fill my schedule. We walk into the front of the office, a wave of cinnamon and vanilla hitting our senses—a mixture of all of the air fresheners from secretaries’ desks merging as one.

“You need a ride home today?”

I give him a hug and hear the head secretary clear her throat. Rolling my eyes, I step away and smile at him. “Yeah. You wanna meet here or by your car?”

“I’ll come pick you up here.” He looks at the lady staring at us under her bifocals and smiles.

“Have fun,” he whispers. I just wrinkle my nose and watch him walk out the door towards the gym. As soon as the door closes, I turn around and stop cold at the look coming from the registrar.

“I’m uh...gonna go deliver these messages.” I grab the slips of paper with students’ names on scrawled on top, beckoning them to certain assistant principals, most often for disciplinary reasons.

Running out the door, I breathe another sigh of relief.

Old people make me nervous.

Chapter Sixteen

It’s an understood fact that the only students who sign up for office aide are the seniors who have no courses left to take. Because of this, it’s a complete joke. Rarely do I ever actually “aide” the office in anyway. The ritual is pretty simple. I roam the halls for the majority of the period, trying my hardest to take as long as possible to deliver the passes to students. The longer I take the less likely I have to return to the office and either talk with the secretaries about their latest quilting party or clear another jam in the copier. Even more important: the longer I take out in the halls the less likely I am to run into the principal.

In her mid-fifties and hair sticking out every which way, she barrels through the hallway like a German drill sergeant. This period though, she’s always in her office. No one at this school intimidates me more than Mrs. Renthro. So I tend to walk real slow to the classrooms. Like I said, pretty simple and obvious.

I turn the corner and almost run into a couple talking in whispers. I snarl and roll my eyes, prepared to clear my throat and make known my distaste. But then I see the long dark hair and realize it’s Marisol. I don’t know who she’s talking to though so I pull back and hide near one of the lockers in order to hear.

“I told you. I can’t tomorrow.” she stops short and her sniffs become louder. “Listen. I can get you the money. I promise. Just please don’t make me go.”

Wait. Is she crying? Who is she talking to?
I make an attempt to look but am too chicken to show my face so I sit tight and wait. I hear a throat clear and a low rumble of a voice respond. My heart stops.

“Why do you think I came? To just talk? You’re coming with me. I’ll come pick you up tomorrow during third. You’ll need to tell your parents you’re spending the night with a friend for a few days. Oh and bring your fake ID. We have out-of-state clients waiting.”

My hand flies to my mouth and I stifle the gasp. I know this voice. When I peek around the locker I see the leather jacket and torn jeans and I realize this guy’s been to my house. He plays poker with my dad. Joey is his name...I’m pretty sure. I’ve never liked him, never liked the way he always seemed to look me over every time I’d walk in the room.

So it’s true. All of this is connected!

“What was our deal?”

She’s quiet and he repeats the question, a little firmer.

“
What was our deal
?”

“You-you told me all I needed to do was offer favors to the football players —give the money to you for my dad’s gambling debt. But then you got another guy to threaten the other cheerleaders to join in or else you’d show their parents pictures of them partying—pictures you guys doctored.” Her voice cracks. “Joey, I’ve paid you thousands of dollars. I’ve had to have paid you everything my dad owes...”

“Listen. Your dad gave you to me as collateral, I get to choose when I’m finished with you. And, I think I need more money. You’re not performing as well as I’d hoped for someone like you. I mean, you’re a cheerleader, right? Don’t you know how to shake it a little better? Do I need to get Kristi to come in again as a cover? She could do a workshop or two with the cheerleaders and no one would even know.”