Chapter 8 Broken #5
Hannah pictures them at a fancy restaurant, strolling up to the ma?tre d’ hand in hand, pleasing the world with their complementarity. Clay must pull her chair out for her, and Baker must smile shyly and thank him, and the older couples sitting nearby must nudge each other and say, Look how cute.
But is Baker’s heart in it? Does she laugh at his jokes, does she agree to split the appetizer, does she let him take her hand when he reaches across the table?
I got you a side of fries, Baker says when Hannah returns from the bathroom.
You did? Hannah asks, sliding into the booth across from her.
I could tell you were getting hangry, she says with a smirk. The server said he’d rush them.
Hannah lies on the floor, playing music through her iPod speakers. Eventually she starts to talk to God. Small phrases, monosyllabic words. Why does this hurt. Can You hear me. Can You make this go away.
Her eyes fixate on a patch of green stars on the ceiling. That section’s my favorite, Baker whispers, lying in the dark in Hannah’s bed. It looks like an upside down Big Dipper.
You’re the one who did that section, Hannah teases, nudging her foot against Baker’s.
You distracted me with ice cream, Baker says, turning toward her in the dark. You know what that does to me.
Hannah’s back starts to hurt from the fibers in the carpet, but she doesn’t move from her spot. Maybe she’ll fall asleep here, because what does it matter, anyway?
I wish I could sleep here all the time, Baker says, her breathing slowing as Hannah scratches up and down her arm.
You can.
Hannah stares at the upside down Big Dipper and imagines an alternate world in which she is the one who takes Baker on a date.
She imagines picking her up, kissing her hello in the car, breathing in the scent of Baker’s perfume.
Sitting across from her at the table, both of them giddy and bashful, Hannah sweating in a brand-new sundress, Baker fiddling with the strands of hair her straightener couldn’t tame.
Pretending to be friends when the server comes over, but sharing a secret smile as soon as he walks away, a smile that means no one can touch the sacred little world they’ve created together.
What are you looking at? Baker asks.
Nothing, Hannah says, but they both know.
She stands up and pads into the bathroom and stares at the reflection of her pale face and bloodshot eyes.
She turns around and lifts up her shirt, searching for the rug burn she knows will be there.
Sure enough, her back is screaming with angry red marks.
She presses her fingers against the raw skin and watches the flesh shine white.
“So, what do you want to do about prom pictures?” Wally asks her during Monday’s unassigned period.
Hannah doesn’t look up from her French homework, too distracted by an idiom she doesn’t know. “What about them?”
“Do you still want to go to the picture party at Clay’s house?”
“Oh. I didn’t think about that.”
Wally watches her carefully. “I think we should still go. I’d like to be with Clay and Baker, and I know Clay would want you to come.”
“What about Luke?”
“Luke’s not going to prom.”
Hannah looks up. “He’s not?”
Wally frowns like she forgot the sum of two and two. “No. Now that he and Joanie aren’t going together, he doesn’t want to go at all.” There’s a loaded pause, and Hannah knows the question is coming before he even asks it. “Haven’t you talked to him?”
Guilt sweeps over Hannah. She breaks eye contact, feeling embarrassed, and admits, “No, I haven’t.”
“Have you tried apologizing to Joanie again?”
“No,” Hannah mumbles.
Wally sets down his pencil. His voice becomes unusually harsh. “Really?”
“She won’t talk to me.”
Wally stares hard at her. Hannah wishes he was angry, but it’s worse: He is disappointed. He shakes his head, picks up his pencil, and goes back to his Calculus homework.
“I don’t know how to say sorry for what I did,” Hannah pleads. “I mean, I basically ruined their relationship. I broke Joanie’s trust. I really hurt them both. How do you say sorry for that?”
“I can’t tell you how to apologize, Han.”
“But it’s like the wrong is too big to be forgiven, you know?”
“No, I don’t know,” Wally says, his voice full of anger now. “What you just said is a total cop out, and you know it.”
Hannah hangs her head, knowing he is right. For the millionth time this spring, her face burns with shame.
“You might have to work at it,” Wally continues, cutting her no slack, “especially when it comes to Joanie—I mean, you might have to sit down and really talk to her, you know, not like she’s your little sister but like she’s your friend. Like she’s Baker.”
“Joanie could never be Baker.”
“See, there you go,” Wally says, glaring at her.
“You’re not trying, Han. You’re not. They can forgive you if you try.
Anyone can forgive you if you try. Christ, I’d probably even forgive my own father if he—” He stops abruptly, bites his lips into his mouth, takes a long breath. “Anyway, you need to keep trying.”
He looks back down to his Calculus textbook. Hannah pulls at the pleats on her skirt while the silence fills up around them. Finally she says, “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Wally says gruffly.
“Wally—I’m really lucky I have you. I’m really lucky you haven’t left, too.”
Wally looks up at her, surprised. The anger is gone from his eyes, but there is still a hardness there she isn’t used to. “I’d never leave you,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like he’s tired of her not understanding that.
“Thank you,” she says again, trying to make it mean something.
He nods and goes back to his homework.
That afternoon, when Hannah and Joanie get home from school, Hannah follows Joanie into the kitchen. She leans against the counter, gathering her words, while Joanie stands in front of the fridge, scanning her snack options.
“We could heat up that leftover meat loaf,” Hannah offers.
Joanie ignores her.
“I could make you some mac and cheese, if you want.”
Still nothing.
“Joanie,” Hannah says exasperatedly, “I’m sorry. Okay? I am really, really sorry.”
Still Joanie ignores her, moving things around in the fridge like she’s on a scavenger hunt. Hannah waits another full minute before she tries again.
“I know I was an asshole. I was worse than an asshole. I was a cat’s asshole.”
It’s a joke that would have made Joanie laugh under normal circumstances, but it doesn’t work right now.
“I screwed up really badly,” Hannah goes on. “And I would take it back if I could. I didn’t mean to ruin things for you and Luke.”
Joanie wheels around, her eyes blazing with anger. “Are you kidding me? You ‘didn’t mean to’? Is that a joke?”
“I wasn’t thinking—”
“Luke hasn’t spoken to me in six days,” Joanie bites out.
“Not a single word. Not a single text message. He won’t even look at me.
And this is the guy who was my best friend.
My real best friend. The only person in our group who made me feel like he absolutely wanted me there, even if I didn’t always get that vibe from everyone else, and especially not from you, who always made me feel like I was stupid, and annoying, and a nuisance.
But I tried so hard to be your friend anyway because I”—her voice starts to break—“I thought maybe if I was just a little bit funnier, or a little bit less annoying, then you’d let me in.
Hilarious, right? How fucking pathetic to be starved for validation from my sister, from the person who used to be my best friend until one day you started putting up walls for no reason.
And now you’ve gone and sabotaged the only real friendship I had.
Luke made me feel special and wanted and included, and now he can’t even look at me.
And you know whose fault that is, Hannah? It’s yours.”
She slams the refrigerator door and storms out of the kitchen. Hannah stands frozen in place, too shaken to go after her. She hears Joanie pound up the stairs to her bedroom and slam the door. Then the house is absolutely silent except for the tick of the grandfather clock in the family room.
Hannah slides down the counter, her back bruising against the wood. She slides until she’s sitting on the cold white tile of the kitchen floor, her elbows digging into her thighs and her sinuses pounding beneath her skin. And for the first time since that night on the beach, she lets herself cry.
On Friday, the day before prom, Hannah trudges to her locker just before the first warning bell rings.
She trades her French workbook for her Calculus binder and ignores the flurry of students buzzing with excitement as they discuss their plans for tomorrow night.
She hears words like “limo” and “pictures” and “after-party,” but she tries to block it all out, wishing prom wasn’t happening at all.
But then, out of the corner of her eye, she catches a burst of bright color. She turns to find Baker and Clay, just a few yards down at Baker’s locker, trading smiles over the bouquet of flowers in Baker’s hands.
Roses. Clay has brought Baker a dozen roses. And they are a brilliant, cheerful, perfect yellow.