31 McKenna
McKenna
There’s a text waiting for me from Leo.
I haven’t heard from him since that day we went walking around his neighborhood back in July, and truthfully I’ve been a little
hurt. But I didn’t think it was my place to reach out to a high schooler whose family didn’t want anything to do with me.
Beck had made it clear that he didn’t want any drama in his life, and after everything that happened at Hollyhock, he didn’t
think we should see each other again.
Whatever.
It wasn’t even a real date.
I click the text and see a very long message from him.
Hi, McKenna, this is Leo Becker writing this text message. I was your teaching assistant for the Mighty Marlins, when you
used to give swim lessons at the country club called Hollyhock in Cedar Woods, Long Island.
I can’t help but smile at the introduction, which is so quintessentially Leo.
Do you remember I told you I want to be a teacher?
I know you can’t answer that question while I’m still texting to you.
I wanted to tell you that I’m going to apply to college next year.
There is a program where I can learn to be a teacher.
I thought it would be good if you told me more about how to be a teacher before I start the program so I can have NO BAD DAYS in college.
Hahahahahaha. That was a joke. Because you taught me to say no bad days.
The message goes on and on, listing topics Leo would like to study and all the different subjects he’d like to teach, though
it sounds like he’s especially focused on kids in the lower elementary grades. While I’m reading through his rambling thoughts,
I remind myself that Leo’s parents probably don’t want him talking to me.
But looking down at his message, I just don’t care. I’ve missed the kid, and the fact is, he matters to me. I’m not just going
to turn him away. Especially when I don’t have anyone else in my life. It’s entirely possible that I need him way more than
he needs me.
The further I read through the text, the clearer it becomes that he’s not really asking for advice about teaching anyway.
He tells me his dad has been too busy recently and hasn’t been free to work on airplane models, and Leo doesn’t like this,
even though his dad is “very bad at aligning and installing control surfaces.” His mom has also been busy trying to get some promotion at work. He doesn’t mention Beck in the text. My main takeaway
from his eight paragraphs is that he’s lonely. Not that he says it outright, but it’s pretty obvious.
I respond immediately.
Hi, Leo. I’m so glad you wrote to me. I’m sorry if you were waiting awhile for my response. I was visiting with my grandmother, and
I wasn’t looking at my phone. I’d love to hear more about how you’ve been spending your time since July. Write me back whenever
it’s a good time for you.
I’ve wondered if he’s seen any of the kids from our lessons, assuming they’re all still spending time at the Y, but I haven’t felt like I could ask anyone. I set my phone down in the cupholder, and before I’ve even pressed the button to turn on the car, the phone vibrates with another text.
Right now is a good time to write. The right time to write. Haha. They’re homophones.
I laugh and then start my drive back to the free parking lot near school. The whole way over, I hear the phone vibrating with
more incoming texts. The first thing I’ll have to do once I find a good spot for the car—somewhere I’ll feel safe, or safe-ish,
overnight—is to write back to teach him some texting etiquette. Despite the barrage of texts he’s sending, I’m smiling. It
feels really nice that another human wants to talk to me, and especially nice that it’s someone I like as much as Leo.
After I’m finally parked, we text back and forth for about forty minutes, until I’m startled by a knock on my window.
It’s a cop.
“Yes, Officer?” I ask while the window’s still rolling down.
“You’re going to have to move along now, young lady.” He’s an older Black guy with a puffy police jacket open over his paunch.
“Oh, okay.” I hold up my phone for him to see. “Just wanted to catch up on some texts before I hit the road. I’ll just be
a few more minutes,” I lie, hoping he’ll leave.
“Nope,” he says, and now I see the pity in his eyes.
“I’ve seen you here the last few nights.
You can’t be sleeping out in your car like this.
It’s not safe.” His gaze travels to my backseat, where there’s a pillow and a blanket crumpled up on one side, a pile of laundry in the footwell.
“There’s a shelter in Port Jeff. I can call over and see if they’ve got space.
” He reaches for something at his belt, but I interrupt him before he gets hold of it.
“No, no, it’s fine. I was just having an issue with my roommate in the dorm, wanted some time away. I can go back now though.”
I am not going to a shelter. I’ve heard enough horror stories about women being assaulted, belongings being stolen, drugs,
weapons. It’s not like I’m the same as those people anyway. I’m a college student, for god’s sake. This isn’t my real life.
Doesn’t everybody rough it a little in college?
He hesitates a moment, clearly trying to decide whether he should believe me. Then he gives a quick nod.
“Good thing,” he says. “Just remembered that the Port Jeff shelter is for men only. You under twenty-one?”
I nod. “For a few more months.”
“Closest one for you then would be out in Riverhead. But like you said, you got somewhere to go. So let’s get to it. It’s
okay if you want to leave the car, but please don’t let me find you inside it when I circle back this way in an hour.”
I’m not driving forty-five minutes out to Riverhead only to stay somewhere that might be less safe than this parking lot.
I shift the car into drive and start running through alternate ideas in my head. I’m pretty sure the health sciences library
is the only twenty-four-hour library on campus, and as a nursing student, I know the space well. The problem is that the quiet
study carrels close at eight p.m. Only the common area is open overnight. I can probably get away with falling asleep on my
books for a night or two.
With few other options, I suppose it’ll have to do for now.
When I finally walk through the mahogany doors of the library, it’s almost eleven p.m. There’s one woman working behind the service desk, her fluffy gray curls like a cloud around her face.
A few students are set up at tables in the common area.
I head over to the table farthest from the service desk and pull a study packet from my backpack.
Next I position my laptop in front of me, plugging it into the outlet on the table so it can charge.
I hope it’ll hide my head from the librarian’s view when I lean down on the table to sleep.
I have just a few more things to take care of first. Pulling out my phone to open the Citibank app, I stare at the number
in the account. I ask myself again whether I really need to be living this way, or am I punishing myself? For not accepting
sooner that Glory needed help, for not checking on our finances when she started exhibiting signs of dementia. I’ve learned
over and over in class that when brain function deteriorates from diseases like Alzheimer’s, older people can begin to make
poor financial decisions. Some end up trusting scammers, and I keep wondering if Glory did, or if she lost so much money another
way, or if we just never had it at all. Maybe I’m trying to repent for screwing up my Hollyhock job so royally when it was
one of the few things that could have helped us. The list goes on and on. And the fact is, yes, I am leaning into the suffering.
It’s what I deserve.
Another text comes in while I’m staring at the numbers on my screen. Leo again.
Even though it feels indulgent to soak up his adoration, there’s no universe in which my self-flagellation should result in
him being punished too. So I get busy reading all the messages he sent while I was relocating to the library, and then I tell
him what I know he needs to hear.