The Way I Used to Be (3 page)

That night I close my bedroom door gently. I turn the lock ninety degrees to the right and pull on the knob as hard as I can, just to make sure. Then I turn around and look at my bed, the sheets and comforter clean and perfectly made up. I don't know how I can possibly go even one more minute without telling someone what happened. I take my phone out of my pocket and start to call Mara. But I stop.

I turn on the ceiling light and my desk lamp, and then pull out my sleeping bag from the top shelf of my closet. I roll it out onto the floor, and try to think of anything but the reason why I cannot bring myself to sleep in my bed. I lie down, half falling, half collapsing, onto my bedroom floor. I pull my pillow over my head and I cry so hard I don't know how I'll ever stop. I cry for what feels like days. I cry until there are no more tears, like I have used them all up, like maybe I have broken my damn tear ducts. Then I just make the sounds: the gasping and sniffling. I feel like I might just fall asleep and not wake up—in fact, I almost hope I do.

IF THERE'S A HELL
, it must look a lot like a high school cafeteria. It's the first day back from winter break. And I'm trying so hard to just go back to my life. The way it used to be. The way I used to be.

I exit the lunch line and scan the cafeteria for Mara. Finally I spot her, waving her arm over her head from across the crowded, rumbling cafeteria. She was able to secure us a spot in the drafty corner near the windows. Every step I take is intercepted by someone walking in front of me, someone shouting, trying to be heard over the noise but only adding to the disorder of everything.

“Hey!” Mara calls to me as I approach. “Stephen got here early and saved us this table.” She's smiling hugely, which she's been doing all day, ever since she got her braces off last week.

“Cool,” I manage. I knew scoring this table was like hitting the jackpot. We would be inconspicuous, not as much of a target as usual. But I can only give Stephen a small smile.

Stephen Reinheiser, aka Fat Kid, is a nice, quiet boy we know from yearbook who occasionally sits with us at lunch. Not really a friend. An acquaintance. He is a different breed of nerd than me and Mara. We are club-joining, band-type nerds. But he just doesn't fit in, really, anywhere. It doesn't matter though, because there is a silent understanding among us. We have known him since middle school. We know his mother died when we were in seventh grade. We know his experience has been just as tragic as ours, if not more. So we look out for each other. Meaning, if one of us can snag a decent lunch table, it belongs to us all and we don't have to talk about why this is important.

“Edy?” Stephen begins in his usual hesitant manner. “Um, I was wondering if you wanted to work together on the history project for Simmons's class?”

“What project?”

“The one he talked about this morning. You know, he handed out that list of topic ideas,” he reminds me. But I have no recollection of this at all. It must show because Stephen opens his binder, smiling as he pulls out a sheet of paper and slides it across the table. “I was thinking ‘Columbus: Hero or Villain?' ”

I look at the paper for what I'm sure is the first time. “Oh. Okay. Yeah. That sounds good. Columbus.”

Mara takes out her compact mirror and examines her new teeth for the millionth time, obsessively running her tongue over their smooth surfaces. “God, is this what everyone's teeth feel like?” she asks absently.

But before either of us can answer, a whole fleet of corn kernel pellets shoot down over our table. Mara screams, “Ew, God!” As she shakes her hair the little yellow balls tumble to the floor one by one. I follow the path of the ammo, leading to this table full of sophomore guys, each one in his pathetic JV jacket, keeled over in their chairs laughing hysterically at Mara as she frantically combs her long hair with her fingers. I hear her voice, almost like an echo in my brain, “Did I get it all?” I look at her, but it seems like it's all happening at a distance, in slow motion. Stephen sets his bologna sandwich down on top of its plastic baggie and clears his throat like he's about to do something. But then he just looks down instead, like he's concentrating so hard on the damn sandwich, there's no room to think about anything else.

“Fire in the hole!” I hear someone shout.

My head snaps up just in time to see one of them—the one with the stupid grin and pimply face—line up his sight, the cheap, malleable metal spoon poised to launch a spoonful of pale green peas right at me. His index finger pulls back on the tip of the spoon slightly.

And some kind of hot, white light flashes in front of my eyes, harnessing itself to my heart, making it beat uncontrollably. I'm up from my seat before I even understand how my body moved so quickly without my brain. Zitface narrows his eyes at me, his smile widening as his tablemates cheer him on. His finger releases like a trigger. The spoonful of peas hit me square in the chest and then drop to the floor with these tiny, dull, flat thuds that I swear I can hear over all the other noise.

Suddenly the planet stops orbiting, pauses, and goes silent for just a moment while all the eyes in the world focus on me standing there with mushy pea splat on the front of my shirt. Then time rushes forward again, the moment over. And cacophony erupts in the cafeteria. The Earth resumes its rotation around the sun. The sounds of the entire cafeteria's oooohhhhs and shouting and laughter flood my body. My brain overheats. And I run, I just go.

I'm aware of Mara watching me storm out of the cafeteria, her palms facing up toward the mind-numbing fluorescent lights, mouthing,
What are you doing?
Aware of Stephen looking back and forth between me, Mara, and his bologna sandwich, his mouth hanging open. But I can't stop. Can't turn around. Can't go back there. Ever. Without a hall pass, without permission, without a coherent thought in my head except
Get the hell out
, I get the hell out.

In the hall I walk fast. I can barely breathe, something strangling me from the inside out. On autopilot, my feet race down the hall and up the stairs, looking for a place—any place—to just be. I shove through the double doors of the library and it's like I've just walked outside. Things are somehow lighter here, and everything moves at a more normal pace, slowing my heart down along with them as I stand in the entryway. There are only a few kids scattered throughout the entire library. No one even looks up at me.

The door behind the circulation desk opens and Miss Sullivan walks through cradling a stack of books in her arms. She smiles at me so warmly. “Hello. What can I do for you?” she asks, setting the books down on the counter.

Hide me,
I want to tell her. Just hide me from the world. And never make me go back out through those doors again. But I don't. I don't say anything. I can't.

“Come on in,” she gestures me forward. “Here's the sign-in sheet,” she tells me, centering a clipboard in front of me.

I take the pen tied to a string tied to the top of the clipboard. It feels like a chopstick between my fingers, my hand shaking as I press the pen against the paper. You're supposed to fill in the date, your name, the time, and where you're coming from. We have to do this every time we come or go anywhere.

Miss Sullivan looks at the scribble that's supposed to be my name. “And what's your name again?” she asks gently.

“Eden,” I answer, my voice low.

“Eden, okay. And where are you coming from?” I've left that box blank.

I open my mouth but nothing comes out at first. She looks up at me with another smile.

“Lunch. I don't have a pass to be here,” I admit, feeling like some kind of fugitive. I can feel my eyes well up with tears as I look across the desk at her.

“That's okay, Eden,” she says softly.

I dab at my eyes with my sleeve.

“You know, I think I have something for that.” She nods toward the green stains on the front of my shirt. “Why don't you come in my office?”

She pushes open the half door at the side of the counter and leads me inside. “Have a seat,” she tells me as she closes the door behind us.

She rifles through one of her desk drawers, pulling out handfuls of pens and pencils and highlighters. Her office is bright and warm. There's a whole table in the corner just filled with different plants. She has all these posters pinned to the wall about books and librarians, and one of those big
READ
posters with the president smiling and holding a book in his hands. One of them says:
A ROOM WITHOUT BOOKS IS LIKE A BODY WITHOUT A SOUL—CICERO.

“Ah-hah. Here it is!” She hands me one of those stain removal pens. “I always keep one of these nearby—I'm pretty klutzy, so I'm always spilling things on myself.” She smiles as she watches me pressing the spongy marker tip into the stains on my shirt.

“Please don't make me go back there,” I plead, too desperate and exhausted to even attempt to make it seem like I'm not desperate and exhausted. “Do you think maybe I could volunteer during lunch from now on? Or something?”

“I wish I could tell you yes, Eden.” She pauses with a frown. “But unfortunately we already have the maximum number of volunteers for this period. However, I think you would be a great fit here, I really do. Is there another time you would be interested in, maybe during a study hall?”

“Are you really sure there isn't any room because I really, really can't be in lunch anymore.” I feel my eyes getting hot and watery again.

“May I ask why?”

“It's . . . personal, I guess.” But the truth is that it's humiliating. It's too humiliating to be in lunch anymore, to have to hide and still get food thrown at you anyway, and not be able to do anything about it, and your friends are too afraid to stand up for you, or themselves. Especially when you just got attacked in your own house—in your own bed—and you can't even stand up for yourself there, either, the one place you're supposed to be safe. For all these reasons, it's personal. And questions like “why” can't truly be answered, not when this woman is looking at me so sweetly, expecting a response that leaves her with something she can do about any of it. But since there's not, I clear my throat and repeat, “Just personal.”

“I understand.” She looks down at her fingernails and smiles sadly. I wonder if she really does understand or if that's only something she says.

Just as I'm about to stand up and leave, something in her face changes. She looks at me like she's considering letting me do it anyway, like she's going to take pity on me.

“Well,” she begins. “I do have this idea I've been toying with, something you might be interested in?”

I inch closer, literally pushing myself to the edge of my seat.

“I've been thinking about trying to put together a student group, a book club that would meet during lunch. It would be open to anyone who's interested in doing a little extracurricular reading. It would be like an informal discussion group, more or less. Does that sound like something you'd want to do?”

“Yes! Definitely, yes, yes. I love books!” Then, more calmly, I add, “I mean, I love to read, so I just think a book club, um, would be great.” I have to force my mouth to stop talking.

“Okay, well, that's excellent. Now, according to school policy, any club must have at least six members to be official. So, first things first—do you know anyone else who you think might be interested?”

“Yeah, I think so, two people maybe—one for sure.”

“That's a start—a good start. If you really want to do this, I'll need you to do a little bit of the legwork, okay? Because basically my only role is to be a faculty adviser, a facilitator—the group itself is essentially student run, student organized—it's your group, not mine. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, yeah. So what would I need to do then, to make it happen?”

“You can start by making flyers, putting them up around school. Start by seeing if we can get enough people interested.”

“I can do that. I can do that right now!”

She laughs a little. “You don't have to do it right now—although I do appreciate the enthusiasm. In fact, you don't have to do it at all. You can take some time to think about it if you want.”

“I'm sure. I want to, really.”

“Okay. All right then. I'll take care of the paperwork this afternoon, how does that sound?”

“Great!” I shout, my voice all high and trembling as I fight the urge to jump over the desk and throw my arms around her neck. “That sounds really great!”

I make the flyer right then and there and have the walls plastered by the end of the day.

SATURDAY MORNING, PROMPTLY AT TEN,
the doorbell rings. I call from my bedroom, “I'll get it,” but Mom beats me. I get to the living room just as she's swinging the door open.

“Good morning, you must be Stephen! Come on in, please, out of the rain.”

“Thanks, Mrs. McCrorey,” Stephen says, walking through our front door cautiously, dripping puddles of water all over the floor, which I know is making Mom secretly hyperventilate.

I stand there and watch as Stephen Reinheiser hands my mom his raincoat and umbrella. Watch as this person who knows me in one very distinct way crosses this unspoken boundary and begins to know me in this way that's entirely different.

“You can just leave your sneakers on the mat there,” Mom tells him, wanting to ensure he does indeed take his wet shoes off before daring to step onto the carpet. This is a no-shoes house he's entering. Watching him stand in my living room in his socks, looking uncomfortable, I realize that he has boundaries too.

“Hey, Stephen,” I finally say, making sure I smile. He smiles back, looking relieved to see me. “So, um, come in. I thought we could work at the table.”

“Sure,” he mumbles, following behind me as I lead him to the dining room.