“She looks peaceful,” my dad said on the ride to the hospital. “Like she’s sleeping.”
In the ICU, my mom was connected to all these tubes and wires, and a machine was breathing for her. I didn’t know what to do, so I sat by her and then I took her hand, and she was still warm, but not as warm as usual. I squeezed her fingers, but not too hard because I didn’t want to hurt her. Her head was back, her eyes open, like she was just waking up. She didn’t look peaceful. She looked empty.
I said, “I’m here. Please don’t go. Please stay. Wake up. Please wake up. Please don’t leave me. Please please please. If anyone can come back, it’s you. Please come back. Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me alone.” Because if she went away, that’s what I would be.
Outside the school, the sky is a mix of white and blue, but the cool air feels like a kiss against my hot, hot skin.
I dig a marker out of my bag. I find a blank space on one sneaker. I write: You just hold your head high and keep those fists down. (Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird) I tell my brain to focus on the good—the fact that no one tried to ride me like a bull in the cafeteria today, the fact that I seem to have three actual friends, and the fact that Terri Collins is moving to Minnesota. The Damsels will need to replace her. Yet I can’t seem to shake the feeling that everyone belongs here but me.
I think about Mary Katherine Blackwood from We Have Always Lived in the Castle. I’ve always loved her and felt sorry for her because she’s quirky and weird, just like me, and—I’ve told myself—misunderstood. But right now I have this unsettling, someone’s-hiding-in-the-closet feeling, like maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’s better that she’s locked away from the rest of the world. Maybe she’s not cut out to live like other people with other people. Maybe she belongs in that house forever.
In the ocean of people, I see this very large girl coming toward me, and it’s her—Libby Strout. A group of girls elbows each other, and even though they’re whispering, I can hear them say something about Fat Girl Rodeo. They stare at Libby, and that’s the moment it hits me, square in the face. This is what I’ve done to her—painted a giant red target on her back.
As they’re gawking, she stops in front of me and hands me a note. “Here.” This sends the girls into a giggling fit, and I can already hear the gossip mill churning.
After school, I walk down a flight of stairs off the main hall to the creepy basement, which is where the old basketball court is, the one they used years ago before they built a million-dollar sports complex that seats ten thousand people. Jack Masselin leans back on the bleachers, legs stretched in front of him, elbows propped on the riser behind him, chatting with Travis Kearns from driver’s ed, a smiling girl with long brown hair, and a boy with a smooth, shaved head who I think is Keshawn Price, basketball star. They’re hanging on Jack Masselin’s every word, and he looks up, sees me, and keeps right on talking.
Or maybe he doesn’t see me. Although I am the largest girl in here.
I sit apart from them, on the front row. This gym can fit probably six hundred, and there’s something about it that feels sad and neglected, which, of course, it is. With every laugh coming from the group above me, I feel more and more invisible. Two other kids wander in, but I don’t know their names. The girl sits next to me, about a foot away, and the boy takes a seat one row up. The girl leans over and goes, “I’m Maddy.”
“Libby.”
“Is this the Conversation Circle?”
But right then Mr. Levine moseys in. “Hello, hello. Thank you all for being here today.” He stops in front of the bleachers, hands on hips. He’s wearing an orange bow tie and matching orange sneakers, and except for the gray hair, he looks like he could be one of us.
He says, “Let’s get this out of the way. I’m not going to talk to you about the importance of tolerance, equality, and realizing that we’re all in this together because I don’t think you’re stupid and completely lacking moral fiber. I think you’re smart individuals who did really stupid things. Who wants to start?”
We all sit there. Even Jack Masselin goes silent. Mr. Levine keeps on. “How about ‘Why are you here?’ The real reason, not ‘Principal Wasserman made me do this.’ ”
I’m waiting for someone to say something. When no one does, I say, “I’m here because of him.” And point at Jack.
Mr. Levine shakes his head. “Actually, you’re here because you vandalized school property, and because you punched him.”
One of the guys goes, “Nice.”
Jack says, “Shut up.”
“Gentlemen. And I use that term loosely.” Mr. Levine says to me, “You could have walked away.”
“Would you have walked away?”
“I’m not the one he grabbed.”
“Okay.” I take a breath. “How about I’m here because I lost my temper. Because when someone grabs you out of the blue and won’t let go, you panic, especially when everyone’s watching you and no one’s doing anything to help you, and everybody but you seems to think it’s funny. I’m here because I didn’t know if it stopped there or if he was going to do something more than just hold on.”
Everyone is staring at Jack, at me. Mr. Levine is nodding. “Jack, buddy, feel free to jump in.”
“I’m good.”