I flip to another picture and pause, stumbling upon another familiar face.
Meghan.
“You see Meghan?” I ask, surprised—although, I shouldn’t be. If anybody would be there throughout the years, loyalty unwavering, it would be Meghan.
“All the time,” she says. “She’s babysitting right now.”
“Meghan babysitting? You sure the kid’s still alive?”
She laughs and snatches the phone back, pressing a button so the screen goes dark. “I’ll have you know, your sister’s great with children.”
“My sister,” I mumble. “Don’t let her hear you call her that.”
My sister. Another amend I have to make.
She won’t make it easy.
“On a scale of one to ten,” I say, “how pissed off at me would you say she still is?”
“One to ten? I’d say she’s about a seventy-three.”
I cringe. “Figures.”
“Anyway, I should get going,” she says, standing up from the picnic table. “Need to get home before it gets too late.”
“Did you drive?” I ask, realizing I haven’t seen a car anywhere out here.
“I got dropped off. Figured I'd walk.” She hesitates, looking at me, like she isn’t sure she wants to continue. “I have an apartment.”
“Oh.”
Oh. That’s all I say, like a fucking idiot, as she grabs the shoes from the ground, not bothering to put them on. She takes a few steps away, barefoot, eyes still guarded.
“Can I walk with you?” I ask.
“I can make it there myself.”
“I don’t doubt that, but…” I hesitate. “Do you mind? I’d like to walk with you. Not to be some misogynistic asshole, but I just…”
“It’s fine,” she says. “But you don’t have to.”
“I know.”
We’re dancing around the fact that I want to, that she’s doing me the favor here and not the other way around, but she motions with her head for me to come along, so I shove to my feet and fall in place at her side.
“So, this sponsor of yours,” she says as we start to walk.
“Jack.”
“Jack,” she repeats. “Must be one hell of a guy if he’s kept you clean.”
“I wouldn’t say he’s kept me clean. He helps, but he’s not why I’m sober. You are.”
“Me?”
“And Madison,” I say. “This. That’s what has kept me clean.”
She’s quiet, her face twisted in concentration, like she’s considering my words, but she doesn’t seem to be buying it. After a moment, her footsteps stall. We haven’t even made it out of the park and she’s already stopping.
“What did it?” she asks.
“What do you mean?”
“What makes this time different?”
“I, uh…”
“Most of the stories they print about you might be lies, but I know you’ve been to rehab a few times, I know they’ve held interventions and detoxed you but you went right back to it. And we were here. We’ve been here. That hasn’t changed, so what did?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “The last time I came here… last year… when your mom died, I wanted to be there for you, but I showed up drunk and I knew you were grieving, and you looked at me like…”
“Like what?”
“Like nothing had ever hurt you as much as me being there did,” I say. “Up until then, I only saw your anger, but that day I saw your fear, like you were afraid of how much more pain I was going to cause you, when I wanted nothing more than to make it all better.”
She starts walking again, her voice quiet when she says, “I wish I could believe you.”
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Me, too.”
“I’m glad, though,” she says. “Whatever did it, I’m glad you’re sober, and I hope you stay that way. For Maddie’s sake, yeah, because she deserves to know her dad, but for your sake, too. I know I was never enough for you, Jonathan, but I hope you find something that is.”
You’re back in Drama Club.
You’ve been back at it for a month.
This is the fourth week in a row you’ve shown up and participated. Julius Caesar bores you, but it’s better than nothing. An addict will take whatever hit he can get. Besides, you find becoming someone else for a while therapeutic.
Maybe that’s why you love acting so much. Maybe you’re tired of being yourself.
The girl still sits in the auditorium every week. Sometimes, she writes. Mostly, she watches. When she’s not watching you, you find yourself watching her. Your eyes meet on occasion in the middle, and she always smiles. Always.
Somewhere, within the past month, things changed. The two of you grew closer. She kissed you for the first time last week. In the library, during lunch, she just leaned over and did it, making the first move. It was unexpected.
You’ve stolen kisses from her every day since then.
Well, except today.
You’re having a bad day.
You mess up a few lines. You’re distracted. You’ve had this look about you all afternoon, like you’re not quite there.
“Christ, Cunningham, get it together,” Hastings says, running his hands down his face. “If you can’t handle being Brutus—”
“Fuck you.” You cut him off. “Don’t act like you’re perfect.”
“I don’t make rookie mistakes,” Hastings says. “Maybe if you weren’t so preoccupied with trying to screw the new girl, you might—”
BAM.
You shut him up mid-sentence with a punch to the face, your fist connecting hard, nearly knocking him off his feet. He stumbles, stunned, as you go at him again, grabbing the collar of his uniform shirt and yanking him to you. “Shut your fucking mouth.”
People come between the two of you, forcing you apart. Hastings storms out, shouting, “I can’t deal with him!”
Drama Club comes to a screeching halt.
You stand there for a moment, fists clenched at your side, calming down. You flex your hands, loosening them as you approach the girl. She’s watching you in silence, expression guarded.
You sit down near her. There’s an empty seat between you today. It’s the first time you’ve not sat right beside her in weeks. You’re giving her space.
It doesn’t take long before Hastings returns, but he isn’t alone. The administrator waltzes in behind him. The man heads for you, expression stern. “Cunningham, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t expel you.”
“Because my father gives you a lot of money.”
“That’s what you have to say?”
“Is that not a good reason?”
“You punched a fellow student!”
“We were just acting,” you say. “I’m Brutus. He’s Caesar. It’s to be expected.”
“Brutus stabs him. He doesn’t throw punches.”
“I was improvising.”
The girl laughs when you say that. She tries to stop herself, but the sound comes out, and the administrator hears it, his attention shifting to her.
“Look, it won’t happen again,” you say, drawing the focus back to you. “Next time, I’ll stab him and be done with it.”
“You better watch yourself,” the administrator says, pointing his finger in your face. “One more incident and you’re gone for good. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And rest assured, your father will be hearing about this.” The administrator’s attention shifts back to the girl. “Garfield, some advice? If you want to be successful here, find yourself a new friend, someone with their priorities in check… someone more like Hastings.”
Hastings stands in the aisle, rubbing his jaw. Despite the fact that it’s going to bruise, he’s grinning. Gloating.
“Because Cunningham will cause you nothing but trouble,” the administrator continues. “And you can do better.”
The man walks away. Hastings follows suit. He’s afraid to be near you without backup. The two of you have some longstanding rivalry, like Batman and the Joker… or Breezeo and Knightmare.