Prom Queen of Disaster (12 page)

“There’s nothing else we can do.”

“The hospital,” I said.

“No.” Kaleb tried to haul himself back to the floor in protest.

Mom sighed. “Flesh wounds.” She cooed Kaleb. “He’s coming home with us.”

We guided Kaleb to the spare bedroom. I held him under one arm, and my mom had the other. He didn’t tell us what happened, but there was bruising on his body and blood had stained his clothes. He wasn’t cut, only a bloodied lip, but there was enough blood to suggest he’d been stabbed.

I tiptoed out of my bedroom to see my mom peeking through a space in the bedroom door. She raised a finger to hush me.

“Is he okay?” I asked.

“He was beaten pretty bad,” she said. “Your dad wanted me to call the cops.”

“Did you?”

She shook her head. “I’ll let him decide,” she said. “I still can’t believe what he said about his brothers; I’m in half the mind to go see what happened.”

I glanced at my watch. “Maybe in the morning.”

“You should be sleeping,” she said and kissed me on the forehead. “Did you tell his girlfriend, maybe he can stay with her. If not, we have the spare room; he’s more than welcome to stay.”

“Yeah, Ava said she’d be around after school tomorrow,” I said, biting the inside of my cheek. “Hope he’s okay.”

I climbed back in bed and stared at the ceiling. There’s nothing worse than sharing the house with someone who’d been hostile since we’d met. I squeezed my eyes to try and force sleep, but nothing worked. I was thankful it was Friday tomorrow; that meant a half day followed by gym and cheer practice.

Ava and Char rushed over that morning. They woke Kaleb to see how bad he looked. Char sat at the end of the bed, and I stood in the doorway, watching as they poked and prodded him like pre-med doctors in a mortuary.

“Baby, what happened?” Ava said, holding him in her arms. “Zo told me, and I wanted to come over straight away, but my mom wouldn’t let me.”

“That’s okay,” he said, pushing himself against the backboard.

“This is a comfy bed.” Char bounced on it. “Has it been broken in?”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s the guest bedroom.”

“Thank you,” Kaleb said. He glared at me. I could see the honesty in his eyes, it hurt, the pain stuck in my stomach. I gave a half-ass smile.

“I’m not allowed to bring you into the house,” Ava said. “But we can work something out with your brothers.”

He shook his head and clenched his jaw. “They threw me out. Like they give a shit.”

Char snapped her fingers. “Do they
know
who they’re messing with? Did they do this to you?” He didn’t answer. “Whatever.” She huffed. “We’ve got to go.”

“We’ll find out who did this,” Ava added, planting a kiss on his cheek.

I hummed, breaking their moment. “We’ll find out,” I said, “and, if you remember who did it, that’s good too.” I watched as the corners of his mouth turned up into a smile, he nodded.

Char stood and slapped her hands against her denim stretch jeans. “Love that sound.” She pulled her bag up on her arm. “Are we going then?”

“Oh! Did you pin anything on them?” Ava asked.

He shook his head, breaking the crack in his throat with a cough. “Didn’t have the time.”

“Shit,” Char said. “Maybe next time.”

We left Kaleb alone. My mom had waited at the bottom of the stairs before we left the house. “I’ll take care of Kaleb,” she said. “I still have to go to work. Nothing a little something extra in his breakfast won’t do to help make sure he gets plenty of rest.”

Nobody said anything until we were in Char’s car. We sat for a moment silently before Char laughed out and Ava smiled.

“Did your mom say she was going to drug Kaleb?” Char asked, looking me in the rear-view mirror. She smacked her lips together and pulled at a new lip gloss to reapply.

“Technically yeah, she’s drugging him, but it’s better than taking him to the doctor.”

“Glad your mom has a spare room,” Ava said.

“His parents were family friends, apparently, so it’s the least she could do,” I said, “I think she’ll try and get him back to his brothers. It’s the Christian thing to do.”

It wasn’t the first time my mom had brought someone into the house; she’d done it several times before when we were younger, we used to have houseguests my mom brought in from the church, some when they lost their homes. For the longest time, I thought I had a million aunts and uncles, but they were all strangers.

News about Kaleb spread through school and social media. Ava had taken a selfie of Kaleb in bed; he looked twice as bad. It was being shared around, asking for prayers and likes. They were one step away from holding a candle-lit vigil in his honor.

“Hope Kaleb’s okay,” Dylan said, hooking his arm around me.

“He’s fine,” I said. “Well, he’ll be fine.”

He kissed my forehead. “Sure he’ll be better for the competition; we’ve got to bring it on down to LA.”

“Like a sequel?” Ava said, placing a hand between us. “Is it the one after
Bring It On: All or Nothing
.”

Dylan didn’t get the reference, he looked at me, his eye glazed over. I laughed. “I’ve tried to get him to watch them,” I said, “maybe he’ll watch them before the competition.”

Although nobody had mentioned it, with everything that had happened to Kaleb, my tanned complexion was radiating. I noted my reflection in the bathroom mirror. With my bag on the sink, I raised my t-shirt slightly to see if I had tan lines.

Brittany walked out of a cubical catching me observing myself. “You’re looking healthy,” she said, flashing a smile. She washed her hands and staring in the mirror.

“Thanks, Britt,” I said. “How’ve you been?”

“Well, we see each other all the time,” she said, combing her black hair to one side. “I’m good. I take it you and your posse are doing fine.”

I rolled my eyes. “You mean the cheer squad? Yeah, we’re great, you should’ve tried out, you don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Please, I’m with the student body now,” she said. She turned to face me. “Delilah there’s too. We saw your mom the other day, ask her if she liked the red heels she bought.”

Delilah worked in one of the shoe shops; an expensive shop, my mom doesn’t hide her receipts from my dad well. “Aw, she loves those shoes,” I said. “How’s she liking the warehouse work? I’d hate to be stocking shelves all day, not even working on the floor for the commission, must hurt.”

Brittany stuttered, but before she could get anything out, I grabbed my bag and waved her a goodbye.

All I needed to make my mind up, their bitchy little front, pretending to be nice, it was something Char would do, it was something
we
would do. The further I found anger, the faster I found myself smiling and forgiving it. I knew, from some church sermon that anger only hurts the person who is angry.

I found the girls sitting on the track field. Char had laid a towel to keep away grass stains. It was a track and field fitness day.

“You’ll never guess what Sara just asked,” Char said, as I dropped beside her on the ground. “She came to me after first period and asked to drop out of the squad.”

“Shit, but she’s a flyer, if we didn’t have her it wouldn’t be even, there’s 16 of us,” I said.

“That’s what I told her,” she said, flicking her hair. “
Apparently
she feels like she’s been
shafted
. I mean, we invite her places, but she’s a Sophomore. So
lame
.”

Ava threw her head in a chuckle. “Mr. June’s already told her she has to wait until after the competition.”

Char lead with a heavy sigh. “It’s beyond me, if
we
knew, we’d have given the bitch a pacifier.” The image of Char throwing small candy pacifiers at Sara wasn’t the weirdest thing she’d done, but it would’ve been the funniest.

Quentin took a seat. “So, it’s my birthday when we’re away, and I know you love parties, so I was thinking—”

Char’s eye grew. She slapped a hand on Quentin’s thigh. “Yes!” she said. “We’ll plan a party for you.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Just make sure we win,” she said, moving her hand to reveal the outline of her hand on his leg. “This is going to be so good.”

“And if you have a boy or girl friend that you want to bring along, that’s fine too,” Ava said. “It’s your birthday!”

Char had already texted a round of messages. My phone buzzed. “Being in LA, I’m sure we can get someone to buy alcohol,” Char said.

“What are you getting?” I asked him.

“My mom and dad have gone all out, so I’m glad we’re away,” he said. “They were going to invite my entire family over, but I guess they’ll have to schedule that after Thanksgiving now.”

“So do you?” Ava asked.

“What?”

“Have a boy
or
girl friend?”

Quentin forced out a laugh, like he’d been asked the same question every day. As a male cheerleader, the stereotypes were killer to a teenager’s dating life, but his uncle was an Olympic gymnast. “Well, I have plenty of friends who are boys, and plenty of them are girls,” he said, almost diplomatically.

We didn’t have any
out
kids at the school, of course, they were there, but none of them ever admitted it, they were just allowed to be who they were without question, often in the confines of a
safe
space with a guidance counselor. Ava so desperately craved a gay best friend, and if they were anything less than how she had imagined them, then it wasn’t worth it.

The bell rang for final period. I was in AP art, the class I loved to be good at, but found myself floundering this far in. I was being asked to deliver quality work and also be vulnerable, but vulnerable me was messy and careless.

“Think of a time you were hurt most in your life,” Mrs. Galloway said, weaving between us. “Channel the emotion, the trembling in your skin, the adrenaline. Catch yourself, take a picture, a snapshot!
Now
transport yourself, transform what you see to your canvas.”

Her eyes burnt holes through my canvas as she walked around,
judging
and giving her critiques. I guessed with a look or the way she sipped her tea, her inner thoughts. A slurp from behind drew my shoulders in.

Staring at the blank canvas, my pencil ready to sketch. I needed something broad or
bland
to start myself with, but I couldn’t find myself hurt or upset. I was in a good place; I didn’t want to pull from bad memories. We weren’t allowed to speak, because speaking was a tool of procrastination.

My mind wouldn’t admit to being in pain.

“Still some
empty
canvases,” Mrs. Galloway spoke up, the clink of her china cup as she placed her teacup on the saucer was a piercing sound. “If there’s no emotion inside you, how can you pull emotion for the piece? How can you function as a full autonomous human being if you have
no emotion
? Class, you’re the best the senior year has to offer. Now, show it!”

We were in a circle so none of us could see other canvases. I imagined the others to be doing well, but as I looked past my canvas, from the edge, I noticed Alec, across me, sat on his stool, spinning a thin paintbrush between his fingers. He rolled up his sleeve to check the time, before noticing me and grinning.

Mrs. Galloway touched my shoulder. I turned, she nodded back at the canvas. I’d sketched the bare bones of a scene. The only time I could remember being devastated was when the dog died. I was eight. She was named Daisy, a chocolate colored Labrador. I’d sketched a tree in fall, but the tree was dying, and beneath it was a makeshift grave from two sticks in a cross. That was it. Looking at the sketch, it wasn’t much, I didn’t feel anything from it. I barely even remember it happening.

The bell finally rang.

“Color me unimpressed,” Mrs. Galloway said. “Hopefully you can find yourself in a better state of mind and find
courage
to be creativity.”

Nobody said a word. We left our work there, grabbed our belongings and left. It was usually how class went, unless we were being taught new techniques, and considering this was advanced placement, it was time to put our skills into practice, whether or not it was by the curriculum – it probably wasn’t.

Libby and Hannah swooped me in their arms. “Zo!” They said.

“Han, Lib.”

“You okay?” Libby asked, stopping the stream of students rush out of the school door. “Lemme guess, art?”

I nodded. “I can go in there, super happy, and always come out wishing I had a razor blade,
but
I hate blood, so maybe not.”

“Don’t be a downer,” Hannah said. “You should drop it if it’s not making you feel good, or talk to Principal Sanders, because you’re usually happier than that.”

“I know, I know, everyone is just so
ugh
in there, it’s so depressing to go in there. Mrs. Galloway is Ursula the sea witch, stealing our souls.”

“You’re not a good singer. Otherwise, you could’ve been in real trouble,” Libby said. “But you know I’m kidding.”

We continued to cheer practice.