8. Parker
Chapter eight
Parker
Mr. Robillard closes the door behind us and goes back to hall duty. The noise of the hallway resumes on the other side of the glass, muffled and far away, like a television in another room.
It strikes me that this is the first time we’ve been truly alone in the past week.
Even in his bedroom, there is always the sense that the walls are thin and there is someone five feet away, ears pricked for evidence that we’re doing things we shouldn’t.
Here it’s different. Here we are insulated.
The room smells like dry-erase markers and old coffee.
I sit at a random desk and imagine just staying here, all day long, like a ghost.
Lance takes the desk next to me and pulls out his phone.
“So I think I can meet you after your first two classes, but it’s a stretch getting from your Art to my Algebra II, because then I’ll have to book back to the other side of school.
It’ll only be about thirty seconds to check in, So it might be just better if you shoot me a text for that one.
Is that okay?” he says, scrolling. “And of course, there’s lunch. You’re on B lunch, right?”
“Yeah.” I have no idea how he knows that.
“I’m on A lunch right now. Good, We’ll at least pass by each other as we change, so I can check in on you.”
We. There’s a we now. I wasn’t ready for a we. I’m barely even a me anymore.
“I don’t want you to do that,” I say.
“I know it’s all a bit sudden, but I need to know you’re okay.”
“I’m okay.”
“Are you sure? Honey, I’m worried about you.”
It’s the endearment that gets me. I’m not your fucking honey, I want to say. But that’s not what comes out. What comes out is worse.
“You’re not my boyfriend, Lance.”
He goes very still.
“We never got there. You don’t just get to claim me. I never said yes to that.”
I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to.
He looks away. When he looks back, there is a mask on his face that wasn’t there a minute ago. It’s not open to me the way it was before.
“I’m trying to do everything for you,” he says. His voice is careful now, controlled.
“Except give me space. We sleep three feet apart. We eat together. I can’t go to the bathroom without you checking on me. I want to carry my own backpack. I want to walk into school without someone holding my hand.”
He nods eagerly “Done. Okay. I can do that.” Lance says it too quickly, the way you agree to something before you’ve had time to argue.
And I realize that he will. He will keep that promise if it kills him, in the hope that one day I’m going to love him.
And all the while, I am going to string him along.
He’s going to give me every inch of space I asked for, and he’s going to be kind about it, and it’s going to cost him something every single day, and he will never once let me see the bill.
And I’ll be the reason. For as long as I stay, I’ll be the reason.
“Thank you.”
“But I can be your friend, right?” He looks at me, and behind the mask I can see what he’s trying not to show me.
His heart is breaking, and I can see myself as if I were across the room, looking at us both.
I don’t like what I see. He is so wonderfully open-hearted and I am angry, selfish, and bitter.
I am a hole in the shape of a human. I am a vortex of rage.
And there is a part of me that knows that for as long as I dangle the promise that someday I’m going to come around, he will put his life on hold for me.
“Yes,” I choke out. “Friends.”
It’s a lie, and giving it to him costs me nothing. That’s the part that makes me want to be sick.
He nods again. “If you ever change your mind about—” He stops.
“You’ll be the first person I tell,” I say. And I mean it. I just don’t think I’ll change my mind.
The bell rings. Mr. Robillard opens his door. “Mr. Bishop, Mr. Broussard,” he says, as if he hasn’t noticed the tension between us. “I’ll write you notes for your first period classes.”
I stand up and grab my backpack before Lance can reach for it. I tell Mr. Robillard my first-period teacher’s name, collect the slip, and leave without waiting.
Once in the empty hallway, I take the stairs fast. I don’t go to History. I walk past my classroom and keep going until I reach the front office, where Mrs. Banker—short, round, wearing a cardigan the color of a traffic cone—comes out from behind the desk and folds me into an enormous hug.
“Parker, honey, I’m so sorry,” she says.
“Thank you. I just need to know, if I transferred schools, how long it would take to process.”
She gives me a sad look. “Come sit in my office. There’s a form. Normally we’d need proof of address in the new district before we’d even start it—”
“I don’t have an address yet.”
“—but nobody’s asking Hemingway Road kids for proof of anything this month.” She pulls a folder out of a drawer without looking. “We’ve done eleven of these in nine days. Mostly to Central. Where’s your aunt at?”
“Flint Street, I think. Next to the university.”
“That’ll do for now.”
Central. Aunt Shelley’s apartment is in that district. I can catch the city bus. I take a pen and write BISHOP, PARKER JONATHAN at the top of the form.
After first period, while everyone else is changing classes, I walk out the front doors and order an Uber on my phone. It costs eleven dollars I don’t really have. Nobody stops me. Nobody even looks up.
I let myself into the Broussards’ house with the key they gave me and stand in Lance’s bedroom for a long time.
The air mattress is still on the floor, the sheets tangled from last night. His room smells like him—deodorant and clean laundry.
I fold the sheets into a square and set them on the end of his bed. I pull the plug on the mattress and kneel on it to push the air out, and it makes a long flat sound like something giving up.
Then I go through what’s mine, which takes almost no time, because two weeks ago everything I owned burned.
The clothes go in the garbage bag. Three shirts from Target with the creases still in them. Jeans that are too big. The black pants I wore to bury my family. Socks Mrs. Broussard bought in a six-pack. The sweater Bree picked out because she said the color looked good on me.
In the bathroom I take the razor I’ve used twice, and the deodorant, and the green toothbrush with Kermit on the handle. I stand there with these things in my hand for a second. Then I put it in the front pocket of the backpack where it can’t get crushed, and I zip it shut.
I leave the shampoo, because it’s theirs. I leave the towel folded over the rail.
The drawing is still on his desk with a pencil laid across it to hold it flat—the one I gave him, the one he made me sign. He hasn’t got it framed yet. I stand there and look at it for a while, and then I leave it where it is.
That’s everything. Eighteen years, and it fits in a backpack and a garbage bag, and I carry both of them to the front door in one trip.
Then I sit at the dining table and write two notes.
The first one is for the family. I take my time with it.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Broussard, and Bree—
Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I will never forget your kindness. Aunt Shelley and I are going to figure things out together. I’m transferring to Central so I can be closer to her. Please don’t worry about me. I’m going to be okay.
Love, Parker
The second note is harder. I stare at the blank page for a long time. Then I write:
Lance—
I’m sorry. Please don’t come looking for me.
—P
I leave both notes on the table, weighted down with the salt shaker. I look around the kitchen one last time—the coffee pot, the coloring books on the counter, the fridge still crammed with neighbors’ casseroles—and I pick up my things.
I could still take it back. I could call Mrs. Banker at Farley and tell her I don’t want to transfer to Central.
I could slide the notes out from under the salt shaker and tell Lance I felt sick and had to go home, and then nobody would ever know I almost left.
I stand with my hand on the front doorknob and have to take three deep breaths and a small coughing fit before I can open it.
The bus stop is three blocks away. I sit on the bench with the garbage bag between my feet and my backpack in my lap. I pull up Aunt Shelley’s contact in my phone and start typing.
I left the Broussards. Can I come to you?
The dots come up. Then they stop. Then nothing at all for long enough that I start writing the second message, the one where I say never mind, forget it, I’ll work something out.
Aunt Shelley
Come. Right now. Don’t you dare go anywhere else.
The sun is warm on my face. I am so tired.
When the bus comes, I get on. Then I turn my phone off, because at three o’clock Lance is going to walk out of that building looking for me, and sometime after that he’s going to start calling, and for the first time since the fires, I won’t be the thing taking him apart.