Chapter 15
LACHLAN
What’s the name for a sudden onset of nausea combined with a tightening chest? For grins and giggles, add in a headache.
Frustration? Disappointment? Dread?
All three?
Stop being so melodramatic, and solve the problem. 224 days until college starts, per Countdown, the app on my phone.
I’m standing with a group of guys outside the boys’ locker room door, which is closed and has a piece of paper taped on it that says Closed for Repairs.
“What’s this about, Coach?” I call as he approaches.
Coach scrubs a hand over his face. “Sorry, guys, the locker room is going to be out of commission for at least four weeks for plumbing work. Might be longer. Weight training is canceled until it’s fixed. At least this didn’t happen during football season.”
There are grumbles all around, but I feel like I’ve been hit in the stomach with a baseball bat. What the hell am I supposed to do now? Go home?
Absolutely not. I run through my options.
There are no club meetings this week, since we’re all still gearing back up again after winter break.
The library’s closed. I could drive somewhere or hang out at a friend’s house, but I never know when my mom will decide to wonder where I am and stalk my phone.
I should turn that feature off, now that I’m eighteen, but then she’d ask more questions.
I never have to answer any questions if I’m at school or work.
Most of the other guys take off fast, happy for the freedom to fuck off and do nothing, but that’s my idea of a nightmare.
I pull out my phone.
Me
Any chance of getting more hours this week and next? My schedule opened up.
Wendolyn
Sorry, kiddo. I can only afford to pay you what I already do. If sales increase, I’ll let you know.
Wendolyn’s an author, and I help her out with her online store on a very-part-time basis. It’s understandable that she doesn’t suddenly have extra work for me to do, but still. Damn. I glance around. What else can I do?
Nothing.
With heavy feet, I shuffle to my car. When I turn the key, it takes a moment for the engine to respond. That’s what I get for having a cool car, not a reliable one.
It’s sentimental, too.
“Please make it home,” I mutter. Then I roll my eyes at myself, because being stranded here at school—or hell, on the side of the road somewhere—would be a thousand times better than going home.
For better or worse, the car runs smoothly. I park in the driveway, and my footsteps drag on my way to the front door. Uncle Norm barks at someone inside. Probably Ivy. I flinch.
Can I just turn around and leave? Go back to school and sit in the quad? I could tell my mom I’m at the library. She probably wouldn’t check whether it’s open.
I scrub my face and walk inside.
Ivy screams wordlessly, her face red, her eyes raging, and storms past me, her shoulder hitting me in the bicep. “I’m moving out! Leaving you fucking people!”
Yeah, like she could. She has no job or money of her own. I’ll have a place once I’m in college, but not until then.
224 days. I can do 224 days. I drop my backpack.
Uncle Norm shouts at Ivy from the TV room.
I rock from foot to foot and start to head to my room. But Mom intercepts me, calling from the kitchen, “Lachlan! Why are you home so early?”
I knew I should’ve stayed away. I clear my throat and call back, “Weight training is canceled until they repair a plumbing issue, and Wendolyn didn’t need me.”
I go into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. Mom is stirring something on the stove while Grandma sits at the table reading a magazine. “We get new glasses?” I ask, holding up the tumbler.
“Went to Costco,” Grandma says.
None of us mentions why we keep having to buy new glassware. We all wear shoes in the kitchen so we don’t get cut because Ivy or Mom has lost her temper. I do my best to keep Quinton from coming into the kitchen, period.
Speaking of which, “Where’s Q?” I ask the room.
Grandma mutters, “His dad has him tonight.”
“Need help cooking?” I ask Mom.
“You can make the salad,” she says. So I get to work.
We don’t eat dinner together. Uncle Norm takes his plate back to eat in front of the TV, and Grandma eats in her room. Mom eats standing up at the kitchen counter and then goes to her room. Ivy is texting furiously and says she’s not hungry.
I sit at the dining table by myself, wishing desperately that the people I live with behaved differently.
After dinner, I do my dishes and the rest of the ones in the sink, then go to my bedroom.
Homework takes about twenty minutes, and then I scribble down a poem in my notebook and do a Linguikk lesson in French.
There’s still too much of the day left, so I curl up on my bed and cue up a thirty-minute rug-washing video.
They’re my favorite, because it’s so satisfying that they can take something filthy and make it brand-new. When it finishes, I watch it again.
Raised voices invade the peace of the spraying water on the video. My sister and Norm, of course.
And they keep going and going and going.
No one in this family knows how to deal with life, least of all me.
I have nowhere to go. I’m stuck here with these horrible people, and there’s no escape. 224 days is forever, and who knows whether college will even be that different.
I’m just here for people to kick. I’m not someone they actually want to have around. I’m a waste of space.
I’m no good.
That’s it. At bottom, I’m no good. And I never will be good.
I stare at the closed desk drawer.
I need to release the pain. I need relief.
I draw the curtains. I don’t want Isak to see me.
I pull the knife from my drawer and hold it in my palm. Its weight is comforting. The metal is initially cool, but it warms quickly in my hand.
I uncap the knife. Then I bring the blade to my thighs, first one and then the other.
Tears well up as blood dribbles down my legs.
I watch myself bleed, fascinated. I wobble. I close my eyes and breathe through the pain.
My fingers are covered in warm wetness. I’ve escaped.
I’ll be all right.
Finally.
After a moment, I take tissues and wipe up the blood, then bandage my cuts and put on sweats.
I get my ball cap, my hoodie, and my shoes and take off out the back door. I slip into the January darkness and just start walking. From the street in front of Isak’s house, I can still hear Ivy yelling, and I cringe.
What must he think of us? I can’t even pretend he doesn’t hear it. But he’s kept our secrets.
The Hammond family home has a happy glow.
My house is too bright in some areas and pitch black in others.
At his, the flicker of a television shows through the slats in the blinds, and I can just tell the vibe is different from Uncle Norm planted in front of his political shows.
Is it a movie? Is Isak watching with his mom?
A slight growl rises in my throat, and I clench my teeth. No one there is yelling. I bet they even pop popcorn and eat it together.
Okay, yeah. I’m jealous. I’ll admit it. I wish my life were like Isak’s.
I kick a rock and keep going. I don’t know what I want to do. Other than escape, that is. My thighs rub together, making my fresh cuts burn.
224 days. A few more hours, and it’ll be down to 223.
I look toward the stop sign at the end of the street and start running—running so fast my heart is going to burst. I’m going to get a stitch in my side and double over in pain, and I don’t even care. I’ll take all of it.
Noises come out of my mouth. Am I singing? Screaming?
Is there a difference?
In the morning, I paste on my smile and chat with Gabe in the quad. 223 days. “What are you doing next year?” he asks.
Getting the fuck out of my house, I want to say. “Albrecht College. You?”
“UC San Diego.”
“Nice.” I look around. A prom ad is up on the wall. I need to figure out who to go with. An image of Isak comes to me, but I shove that shit down and start racking my brain for girls. “Who are you going to invite to prom?”
“I was thinking Natasha.”
That’s her name. Not Asha/Sasha/Tasha. “She’s cool.”
“What about you? Who are you going to ask?”
“I dunno.”
“You are going to go, though,” Gabe says.
I give him a look like he’s being ridiculous. “I’m class president and helping to plan the event. Of course I’m going.”
“You just don’t know who to ask?” He laughs. “Ask Cheska. She’s into you.”
“Maybe,” I say dubiously. Although it’s not a bad idea. If I can’t have who I really want, I might as well go with a pretty girl.
Vince calls to us from across the way, and Gabe looks up. “Oh, I gotta ask Vince something about economics.”
I shoo him off. “See if he has an idea of who I should ask to prom.”
He laughs and claps me on the shoulder.
While I want to get out of here—meaning my family’s house and this town—I love being on campus, and I love being surrounded by friends. As I head to Spanish, I start humming an upbeat Julian Hill tune.
I hear a group of kids behind me, and then one of them calls, “Lachlan?” She sounds surprised.
I spin around. It’s Isak’s friend Zanita. I smile at her. “Hey!”
Her black-painted mouth hangs open for a second, and then her entire countenance brightens. Well, as much as it can while painted chalk white. “OMG you can sing?”
“Kind of, I guess.” I scratch the back of my neck.
“No way. You can. I can tell. You just have one of those voices.”
I shrug.
“You should audition for the school musical,” she says.
“Me?”
“Absolutely!” She’s bouncing on her toes now, her hands clasped together.
“Um, what? No.”
“Oh, definitely yes. I think you’ll be a shoo-in.”
“I’m not going to be in a musical. Acting? Dancing? That’s not … not me.”
“You’d be great at it. Go out with a bang, you know?”
I shake my head.
She gives me a long look, then shrugs. “I guess you’re right. We don’t even know what show we’ll be doing yet. And it will take a lot of time. Rehearsals are brutal. You probably wouldn’t want to commit to all that.”
That makes me pause. I may be the only person around who is looking to have too busy a schedule.
I want to be so swamped with school, work, and extracurricular activities that the only thing I can do when I come home is fall into bed, so I can avoid my family as much as possible.
And it’s too late to sign up for any other sports.
So … this might be an idea.
Then she adds, “I’m still trying to talk Isak into doing it.”
Isak.
Being in the musical could give me an excuse to spend more time with Isak.
I’m not vain enough to think that I could nail some major role without trying, but I know I can carry a tune.
Plus, it’s just a high school production. We don’t have to be professionals.
Still. I can’t get up onstage and sing in front of other people, and I can’t allow myself to have Isak, no matter how much I want him.
“I’ll pass,” I say.