Just Like Fate (17 page)

I try not to cry. I’m sitting in a blue-upholstered chair in the
principal’s office, looking on as she fills out a form before
sliding it in a manila folder with my name on it. My body
hitches each time I take a breath, tears ready to spill over at
any second. I’m embarrassed that I got jumped. I’m sorry that
I didn’t get in even one decent punch. And I’m mad as hell
that someone would do this for no good reason. I hate school.
I hate
this
school.

“Miss Cabot,” the principal says, her eyes suspicious
behind her glasses. “I don’t understand. The other girls say
that you started this. You called Miss Allen a bitch.”

I point to my face, the spot where my cheek is throbbing—
the skin raised and turning black and blue. “Last I checked,”
I say, “I’m the only one with bruises. Did it occur to you that
they cornered me in the bathroom?”

“Yes, it occurred to me,” she says, seeming moved by my
shaky voice. She reaches to pluck out a tissue and then hands
it to me over the desk. When I take it, she presses her lips
together in a show of sympathy. “Regardless of how it started,
it’s district policy to suspend all parties involved.”

“What?” I snap. “I didn’t
do
anything!”
“I’m sorry, Caroline. The other girls have already been
escorted off campus, and they’ll be out until next Monday.
The length of time is at my discretion, so how about you
return on Thursday?”
“Are you asking or telling me?” I say, ready to run out and
never come back. I can’t believe this is my life.
The principal exhales. “Telling.”
I nod, grabbing my backpack from the floor and wincing at the weight. There’s probably a boot-size bruise on my
shoulder and another on my thigh, but I refuse to let it stop
me from escaping this madhouse. I walk through the empty
halls on my way out the front door and into the rain. And the
minute I’m inside my car, I cover my face and cry.

I don’t text Chris or Simone about the fight. I’m not sure
why—I guess I’m ashamed, even though I shouldn’t be.
Instead I drive back to my
hick town
, looking for something.
Comfort that I know is no longer there.

I pull to the curb in front of Gram’s house, bumping it
with my tire. I whimper when I see the
SOLD
sign on her front
lawn, struck with the thought that it’s all over now. She’s really
gone. I miss her so much—I’m not sure how I’ll ever survive it.

“I need you,” I say, looking up at the ceiling of my car. “I
can’t do this without you.” I wait there a long time, wishing
away the pain in my face, the pain in my heart. “I didn’t tell you
enough,” I say quietly, letting the tears streak down my bruised
cheeks, “but I love you, Gram. I love you more than anyone.
And if I could do it all over again, I would have stayed.”

I plan to sit there all afternoon, but after only a few minutes my phone buzzes and startles me. I see my dad’s cell
phone number on the caller ID.
“Hi.” My voice is thick with tears, my lips raw from crying.
“Caroline,” he says. “My God, where are you? The school

I’m quiet. I don’t want to alarm him or ask for sympathy. I
have no desire to talk about the fight or relive what it was like
to be helpless on the floor while two people kick your ass. So
when he says my name again, I answer as simply as I can. “No.
I’m not okay.”

Rain pounds against my window like the sky is crying
with me. I go over it again and again, the ten minutes . . . no,
two
minutes that changed me forever. Regret tries to eat me
alive.
He said he loves me
, I think.
Does that make it all right?
I
laugh bitterly at myself, thinking of all the times I said casually
to Simone, “I love Joel.” Beautiful Joel. But it was a crush. It
wasn’t love. And his words yesterday—they were just words,
too. I didn’t
feel
them. I should have never—

My phone buzzes.
YOU WERE EPIC.
My stomach lurches and I roll to my side, curling my legs

up to my chest. I am so disappointed by him. I want him to
instinctively know how badly I need to talk about what happened instead of just calling it
epic
and moving on to
FREAKSHOW IN ONE WEEK! STOKED?

I type back
SURE
and wonder if he’ll get it. If he’ll hear
me.
Ask me what’s wrong. Ask me how I’m feeling. Ask me anything about me so I will know that you care, so I’ll know that
I’m wrong to feel like I gave myself to someone . . . unworthy.
Instead what buzzes through is
GOTTA GO. SEE YOU IN
CLASS.
The simple words sit heavy on my chest, and I lie still,
almost like I’m not breathing at all, until Mom comes in a few
minutes later, telling me I’m going to be late for school. I can’t
help but wonder whether I look different to her. Because I
feel
different. And definitely not in a good way.

When I walk into school, the halls are nearly empty—I’m late.
Almost to my locker, I smell lavender from somewhere. It’s
faint and then it’s gone, but it reminds me of Gram.

It’s been over a month since she died, and I’m starting to
forget things about her. I can’t picture her face as well. Hear
her voice as well. If I could, I think, looking for any excuse,
maybe I’d know how to make better choices.

I swap out the books from home for my English binder, but
when I consider sitting through class with Joel, my chest feels
like it’s caving in. So, snap decision made, I toss the binder
back in my locker and go to the library to hide in the stacks.
The librarian will give me a pass—I’ll tell her I’m researching
a paper. It’ll be fine.

I spend the morning ignoring Joel or writing back one
word answers to his texts. When
ONE MORE DANCE?
comes
through, thankfully I’m already in Simone’s car or I might run
to the auditorium and punch him.

“Ugh.” I sigh aloud.
“What?” Simone asks. I haven’t told her about last night.
Despite being positive that she’ll be supportive, I’m too
ashamed. So, I have a secret—but I’m not keeping it to hold it
close. I’m keeping it to bury it.
“Just my mom,” I lie. Thankfully, her favorite pop princess comes on the radio to distract her from asking more.
I eat nothing at the diner: Food is disgusting. And after
lunch, when Simone and I part in the hallway, supposedly
headed for class, I turn toward the main doors instead.
For the first time in my life, without even giving it much
thought, I ditch school.

Later I’m lying in bed, staring at the white sky outside my
window, when my mother comes in. “Caroline,” she says, her
brow furrowed. I have a quick worry that she found out about
my skipping school, but then she keeps talking. “Teddy just
called,” she says. “He asked if you’d come to dinner at your
father’s tonight.”

I haven’t seen my father since Halloween, even though I
promised to come back soon. I can’t even remember the last
time I saw my brother. Hell, even Natalie is a shadow. It occurs
to me that I’m avoiding everyone.

“I don’t feel like it,” I say. It strikes me that I don’t
feel
like
anything. I’m a shell of a person.
“Are you sick?” my mom asks, looking concerned.
“No,” I say. “I just don’t want to drive all the way to Clinton.”
I don’t want to move.
“I understand,” Mom says, “but it’s good to go now so
that you can spend Thanksgiving with us. Your aunt Claudia
is coming back.” She pauses. “It’s our first holiday without
Mom and, well, I’m going to need you by my side, Caroline.”
My unfocused eyes find hers. Suddenly I’m so sick
of hearing about how she needs me that leaving is the only
option. Running is the answer.
“Fine,” I say, lugging myself from the mattress. I walk over
to my closet to yank a Clinton sweatshirt off the hanger. As
I’m working my knotted hair back into a ponytail, my mother
continues talking, saying how my sister is going to be on the
dean’s list this year. I walk past her and out into the hall. I
don’t even say good-bye before leaving.
I drive to Clinton, and when I stop in front of my father’s
house, I think of driving away. Of ditching dinner, too. But
then I notice my stepmother peeking out of the living room
window. I’ve been spotted.
I start toward the two-story house, walking like the life has
been sucked out of me.
Who knows? Maybe it has.
I ring the
bell and blow out my breath just before the front door opens.
“Hey, sweetheart,” my father says warmly. But unlike last
time, his words seem more hollow. I want to ask him where
he’s been the last five years, how he let this happen to me. But
I just force a smile and let Dad lead me into the kitchen, where
Debra is making some sort of saucy meat concoction. My dad
tells me that Teddy’s not coming because he has a test tomorrow and needs to study. The minute my father turns his back,
I text my brother:
YOU LEFT ME!
I genuinely smile when Teddy writes back,
PULL ON
YOUR BIG-GIRL PANTS. YOU’RE FINE.
Dad and I end up in the living room where he quickly
leaves to get me something to drink. I stare at the muted TV,
the photos on the wall. There’s one of Gram in the dining
room; I can’t look at it right now. When Dad’s back, we sit in
awkward silence for a few seconds before he decides to take
control of the conversation.
“How’s school?” he asks.
I shrug. “Fine.”
Sip.
“Grades are good?” he asks.
I nod. “Yep.”
“Simone?”
“She’s fine.” I sip again, trying to think of something else
to say. Then, “The same as always: loud and funny. She always
has my back
.” I didn’t tell her about Joel
, I think.
I’ll never tell
her.
“Everyone needs a Simone in their life,” Dad says, finishing his own drink and setting it aside. “I know your gram’s
death has been hard on you, Coco. If there’s anything—”
“Dinner’s ready!” Debra calls from the other room. I’ve
never been so thankful for an out from a conversation as I am
in this moment. I mumble a thanks to my father, and then we
move into the dining room, which looks like it was decorated
out of a fancy catalog—I’m a little afraid to touch anything.
The table is set for three, but there seems to be enough food
for three hundred.
“I guess I went a little overboard,” Debra says, looking
embarrassed. I can see how much she wants me to like her. If
I were in a different head space, I might. But right now, she’s
just trying too hard.
“I love leftovers,” Dad says when I don’t answer. He goes
over and kisses her on the forehead with adoration so pure
that it stings. Way back before the divorce, he used to kiss
Mom’s forehead, but never like that.
Dinner consists of small talk between the adults and short
responses from me when prompted. The food is actually
good—Debra is a better cook than Mom, which may be why
Dad has a bit of a belly now.
At the end of the night, Dad and Debra offer up their
newly redecorated guest room, but I just thank them and smile
my fake smile. I text Mom that I’m leaving because she made
me promise that I would, then take the long way through the
middle of campus to get back to the highway. The old brick
buildings are spotlit from the ground up so that kids can find
their way.
I stop at a four-way sign, and a group of scarf-wearing, coffee-at-night-carrying students crosses the street. It’s two guys
and three girls, and one of the guys says something so funny
that all three of the girls toss back their heads like horses when
they laugh at him. The guy’s cute—he’s blond and all-American looking but not in an over-the-top way. He’s in a plaid
shirt with a puffer vest and his cheeks are flushed from the
cold. It seems like any one of the girls could be his girlfriend,
and when the tall dark-haired one takes his arm, I guess it’s
her.
I’m staring at him when halfway across the street, out of
nowhere, he looks at me. Our eyes hold each other’s long
enough for the girl to slap him playfully on his chest. I feel a
pang of loss when he turns away.
I watch the group disappear, feeling something like familiarity for Mr. Hilarious. I wonder if he’s a friend of Teddy’s
and think back to when I met a bunch of them at his dorm. I’m
lost in thought when the car behind me beeps. I drive through
the intersection, craning my neck for one last glimpse at the
guy. But he’s gone.

My father takes Tuesday off from work and stays home with
me, occasionally looking at my cheek underneath the ice pack
he bought just for this occasion. He’s sweet—never once
asking what happened, or even funny, like when he calls me
Rocky Balboa. All in all, his simple presence makes it better.

I tell Chris that I’ll be at my mother’s for a few days to help
her sort through my gram’s belongings (which has already
been done) so that he won’t come by and find me battered
and bruised. All I want right now is to erase the last month of
my life—erase every day since my gram had her stroke.

The week is quiet as I heal, and it isn’t until Thursday
morning at breakfast that my stepmother finally sets down
her fork and stares at me. “Since your father is never going to
ask,” she says, shooting him a pointed look, “I will. What happened? Why on earth would anyone hit you like that? I saw
the bruises when you walked down the hall from the shower.
You have a footprint on your back, Caroline. I think we should
press charges.”

“It was a boot,” I say, putting a soggy piece of waffle in
my mouth. It’s too sweet from syrup, too salty from butter. I
nearly gag on it and then choke down an orange juice chaser.
“I don’t want to press charges,” I say.

My father shifts in his seat, and I look up. His face is weary
and distraught as he folds his hands in front of him on the
edge of the table. “Do you want to move back to your mother’s? I understand if—”

As he continues to talk, saying he’ll support whatever
decision I make, I think of Gram What she would say if she
were here. I twist the charm of her necklace with my fingers,
and then all at once, like a dream, she’s here. I don’t see her or
anything crazy like that. But I feel her—a sudden force that is
equal parts hug and shove. She’d want me to be strong. She’d
want me to stop running. To finally stop running.