“’Scuse me.” Two girls stood near our table at lunch the next day, one watching me, her mouth in a fierce line. “You’re Edie, right?”
“Yes.”
“I, ah . . .” When she hesitated, the second girl started rubbing her back. They were both in cheerleader uniforms, pretty, and slim. A couple of days of turning down every request for marijuana assistance had cooled off the interest in me, happily. But here we go again.
“You were there when Isaac died,” said the second girl. A statement, not a question.
I nodded, a little startled.
Tears slid down the first girl’s face, her voice tightening. “Did he suffer? Or was it fast? Did h-he . . .”
“It’s okay, Liv,” her friend said softly, before turning to me with sad eyes. “They’d been together for nearly a year.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
Familiar feelings of hopelessness and loss stirred inside. Death and pain were all shadows and isolation. But seeing the desperation of the people left behind, of being part of the debris of someone’s life, it tore me apart. Behind her tears hid the recriminations, the blame, and I had no words of healing, nothing real to offer.
Why was I still here when Isaac was gone?
Small chance something special would come of my life. Fate and luck were bullshit. Things just did happen sometimes, and searching for meaning in them didn’t get you a damn thing.
“It was fast,” I said, fingernails pressing into the flesh of my palms. “I don’t think he even felt it. He was just gone.”
Lips trembling, she nodded, though it looked more like a shiver.
“He saved my life, him and John. You should know that.”
“He did?”
I nodded.
“We were going to take a gap year, go down to South America,” she said through her tears. “There’s this program for helping to build houses.”
Useless, I just sat there.
“He’d be glad you got out all right,” she said.
“Would he?”
“Yes.”
Silence stretched. Finally, the friend led Isaac’s girlfriend away.
I’d thought I was done with crying; however, the old scratchy, swollen-eyed feeling came easily. “I have to go.”
Hang sighed. “Edie . . .”
All but running, I headed straight for the nearest bathroom. Not stopping until I’d locked myself into one of the stalls. With the toilet lid down, I sat and just tried to breathe. In and out, lungs moving, there was nothing to it really. So why the hell was it so hard?
I stayed there for the rest of lunch. Sometimes, hiding was best. I should probably do it more often.
The problem started with The Catcher in the Rye.
Sure, it might be just a book. Pages, ink, and glue, nothing more. But it sat on my school desk, staring at me, taunting me, while the English teacher babbled on up in front of the class.
“. . . your essay will involve giving me an interpretation of the themes contained in Holden’s journey through New York in the fifties, blah, blah, blah. It’s due next Friday and will account for twenty percent of your grade, blah, blah, blah. Any questions?”
My hand shot up.
“Edith? Paying attention for once, are we? Good work.”
So my focus was a little shot to shit these days. Everyone had their issues. “It’s Edie. And can we please choose a different book?”
“No, Edie.” Mrs. Ryder gave me a tired look over the top of her glasses. “The Catcher in the Rye is the book.” She turned to the rest of the class. “Does anybody else have any questions?”
I put my hand up again.
The teacher gave me a sour look.
“It’s just that I already studied this book at my last school.”
“Then you should have no trouble this time around,” she said.
“But it’s pointless,” I continued. “He’s a depressed kid wandering around New York, having random encounters with friends and strangers, none of whom particularly make him feel any better, then he gets sick and goes back to school, the end.”
Absolute silence. Every eye in the class was on me. The ones behind me belonging to a certain boy held particular weight.
“It’s a work of great American fiction.” Mrs. Ryder’s lips were pursed.
“But it’s a book that comes with a body count.” I couldn’t shut up; I wouldn’t. I had to make her understand. “People have died because of it. I’m surprised the NRA hasn’t slapped a certification sticker on the front cover, for Christ’s sake.”
Behind me, John swore.
“Edith.” Her gaze gentled and she rose to her feet. “Calm down. That’s enough.”
“But what if it happens again?” I asked, also standing, heart and lungs working hard. “What if Holden Caulfield’s teenage masturbatory angst yet again sends someone into a rage and they go shoot a few people? What then? It’s happened before, but this time it’ll be on your head.”
“Edie—”
“Holden Caulfield is a killer!”
The couch in the shrink’s office was comfortable. Seriously comfortable. I could have curled up and gone to sleep if not for all the dumb questions.
“And how do you feel today, Edie?”
“Fine.” I slumped back into the peach-colored sofa, a smile stuck on my face. Not sure if I could keep it up for the full fifty minutes; my cheeks were already starting to ache. “Thanks.”
Everything in the office had been decorated in a soothing, nonthreatening off-white. A neat line of framed college degrees hung on one wall. Out the window, a lovely view of a park. Nice.
“Why don’t we talk about the night of the robbery?” said Mr. Solomon, his eyes kind, curious.
I could do without either emotion coming from a stranger. “Because it was horrible, shitty, and messed up and now it’s over?”
The counselor frowned.
“Look, let me explain my open aggression to you. You see, my mother made me come here,” I said, wiping damp palms on the sides of my jeans. Like I needed more stress in my life. Honestly, I could have screamed. “I’m here to make her feel better. I don’t want to talk about the robbery. Not to you, not really to anyone, not ever. You see, this can’t help, us talking, because it’ll just make me think about it more and I’m really doing my best to avoid that.”
“All right. What do you want, Edie?”
“I want to leave.”
Mr. Solomon looked at his watch. “With your mom waiting out in the reception area, I’m guessing you’re probably not going to want to do that for another forty-five minutes.”
Awesome.
“So why don’t we talk about something else?”
I sighed, stared at the ceiling. “Do you read?”
“Mostly medical journals.” He scrunched up his lips, obviously thinking deep thoughts. “I don’t suppose you’re into bowling?”
“Not in this lifetime. You watch movies?”
“Only every chance I get.”
I leaned back, crossed my legs, and got comfortable. “Okay then. Let’s talk.”
At the end of the hour he referred me to a doctor for a prescription for some happy pills. Guess my predilection for zombie films gave him concern.
For the rest of the week, I had after-school detention due to tardiness (a.k.a. hiding out in the bathroom during a couple of minor freak-outs) and not paying attention in class once or twice. Or a few more times than that. I’d never had detention before; I was always the bookish and quiet type. A good girl. Punching people, arguing with teachers, and running late to class . . . good girls generally didn’t do that sort of shit. Unfortunately, I found it hard to care. I mean, what did it matter? Life went on; no one had died as a result. The principal said it would go on my permanent record. Permanent? Please. Bullets were permanent. Everything else was temporary.
Mom would even get over it eventually.
The usual array of naughty types surrounded me. One girl with cool blue mermaid hair was scratching her name into her desk. Some were reading, doing their homework. Others stared at the ceiling or out the window. Up front, the teacher stayed busy on her cell phone, probably playing Candy Crush or sexting someone.