The Secret Side of Empty (24 page)

C
HELSEA
SITS
ON
HER
BED
PLAYING
A
GAME
ON
HER
COMPUTER
.
Outside, her mother is taking pictures of the iris, which have bloomed. The whole length of the lawn is lit up with flowers of every color. From up here, Chelsea’s mom looks ridiculously happy about it.

“So how long does this detention thing last?” says Chelsea.

“All next week.”

“That’s almost as bad as when you ignored me every day for Nate.”

The sound of his name hurts. I leave the window and sit down on the floor, my feet up on a poofy ottoman.

“Not nice,” I say.

“Well, it’s true.”

She looks awkward a little, like there is more to say. I think she’s going to get into it with me about being the kind of girl who drops her friends for a guy.

But what she says is, “Hey, so I got my letter from Boston. I’m in.”

I want to be happy for her. I don’t know how to be.

“That’s cool, Chels. Is that where you’re going?”

“Yeah.”

I let this sink over me, Chelsea gone, three states away. Everyone gone. Nate already gone. Just me and my father in that dank, dark apartment, with nothing but empty space where my grown-up life should be.

“M, what about you? What are you doing?”

“I really don’t know.”

“I don’t understand. Can you help me understand what’s up with you?”

“I don’t even know,” I say.

“I mean, but you have to know. You can’t just be the person who gets the great grades and then just stops wanting to go to school and not knowing why, right? Is there something going on? I mean, besides the Nate thing.”

“It’s not Nate.”

“Good, because if you’re just all falling apart over a guy, I’m going to have to stage a serious intervention.”

“He’s not just a guy.”

“No, I get it, but still. M, we’ve been friends since, like, the womb. You’ve totally got to tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Try.”

I close my eyes.
Try
. I want to try. The heavy feeling of dread spreads in my chest again.
Well, see, Chelsea, I’m an illegal immigrant and I can’t go to college or get a job because I have no Social Security number. And I can’t think of a way out, even though I think and think about it all day. And I am too disgusted and ashamed to ask anyone what to do.

I try to start, minus the illegal thing.

“Have you ever just wanted something to be over? But you couldn’t think of a way out?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Have you ever felt so bad, but there was no solution?”

“But
why
is there no solution, M? There is always a solution.”

She’s not getting it
. “There is not always a solution, can you just take my word for it?”

“No. Can you explain? Is it your family? Is someone sick or something?”

“Sometimes it’s complicated and it’s not so easy to explain.”

She gets down off her bed, sits next to me on the floor. “I don’t understand.”

I think maybe if I change the subject. “Why did Grady do it, do you know?”

“Grady?”

“Grady Ford. Quinn’s brother.”

“Oh my God, M. Is that why you’re . . .” There is a total look of horror on her face.

“I’m just talking, Chels. Relax. But Grady . . . was there a solution for Grady?”

“Grady was on drugs, M. Are you on drugs?”

I laugh. “No. Don’t you think you would know?”

She’s still not laughing. “I’m not sure now.”

“I’m just saying . . . sometimes you feel out of options.”

“Do you . . . feel out of options?”

“I’m just using him as an example.”

“M, you’re scaring me.”

I sit up to look at her.

“Try to see it from my side. Nate is gone. School sucks. You’re leaving. I’m just stuck here. What are my options?”

“M, please, you’re really scaring me. Please promise me you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

She tilts her head sideways, looking unconvinced. “Can you just sign up for the community college? For me? Or . . . do you want a job? I’ll help you find a job. And maybe next year after you figure some stuff out . . .”

“What if nothing is going to change next year either, Chelsea? What if this is all there is? What if there are lives like yours that go on into adulthood and others that . . . don’t?”

She starts to cry, just tears spilling out of her eyes. “M, please stop. Stop.” She hugs me. It feels weird. “You
know
how many people love you, right?” she says. It embarrasses me. It is weirdly intimate. And I know it is untrue.

“You’ve been such a good friend, Chelsea. I know you’re going to do great in Boston.” It’s all I can think to say in response.

She sobs into my shoulder. “M. Promise me you’re going to be okay.”

“I promise.” I don’t particularly mean it and she doesn’t seem to believe it. But at least it ends this horrible conversation.

I
n the weeks since Nate and I broke up, I have powered up my phone about 127 times a day hoping to see his number. I have been sure I would never hear his voice again.

But on Saturday morning, after I’m home, it happens.

“Hi, M, how are you?” Like nothing. It makes me want to laugh and cry.

“I’m good.”

“Hey, so I wanted to know what color your prom dress is.”

“My dress? Why?”

“Because there’s this thing about cummerbunds matching.”

“Blue,” I lie. I don’t have a dress. I’ve been pretty sure that prom thing was a way to get me out of his car, so I’ve been planning on skipping it.

“And are we getting a limo?” he asks.

I haven’t signed up for anything yet.

“Yeah, with some friends of mine.”

“Okay, so are we still on?”

“You don’t have to.”

“Do you have . . . do you . . . are you going with someone else?”

“No.”

“So it’s a date then.”

I go in to the kitchen where my mother is cooking.

“Ma, I need a prom dress.”

“Oh, I’m so happy you decided to go.” One good thing I’ve got to hand to her, she has totally gotten over the school-cutting thing. And has not told my father. I’m not surprised about the school thing, but I’m shocked about the not-telling.

“Can you make me one?” I ask.

“Sure, yes. Do you want to go to the city this afternoon and buy the fabric?”

“Yes.” I am grateful that she’s up for quick action.

We sit on the bus as it barrels toward New York. There must be fabric stores closer, but you need a car to get anywhere in New Jersey. In New York, the fabric district is a block away from the bus terminal. My mother has a goofy grin on her face as she sits with her ankles crossed and absently plays with Jose’s hair. Jose carries on a conversation with imaginary little people under the seat.

“Do you know what you want it to look like?” asks my mom.

“No, not really.”

She pulls a magazine out of her frayed tote bag. It is last year’s copy of a gossip magazine Oscar rundown.

“Show me on here which one you like best.”

I thumb through it. They’re all so gorgeous. Well, some are ridiculous, but most are amazing. I don’t know what any of the other girls at school will be wearing. They’ve been chattering, but I haven’t been paying attention. I pick a one-shouldered gown worn by an actress known more for her piercing blue eyes and knockout boobs than her Oscar-worthiness. She looks like someone I’d like to be one day.

I hand the magazine to my mother and point to it. “That one,” I say. “In blue.”

“I know just where to get that rhinestone buckle, too,” she says. The bus hits a bump, she smiles even goofier, and Jose tells all his imaginary little bus people to hold on tight.

W
E
HAVE
BEEN
HOME
FOR
ABOUT
AN
HOUR
WHEN
THERE
ARE
heavy knocks on the door. No one ever knocks on our apartment door. My mother goes to it, stands inside of it. The knock gets heavier. She looks through the peephole.

“Willow Falls Police! I’m going to need you to open the door.”

She turns to look at me, her eyes wide. “Oh my God, Monse,” she says, almost a whisper. The police at the apartment cannot be good news. I feel trapped.

I look at the window for a stupid minute, as if it were possible to get out that way.

Slowly, my mother opens it. She looks smaller than usual. Her hand is shaking.

The cop steps inside. I’ve seen him directing traffic in town. He says, “Is Monserrat your daughter?”

“Monserrat!” she calls me.

I walk over. These cops finally probably ran my name and now they’re here for me.

“I’m Monse. My mom doesn’t speak English.”

“Spanish?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll get a Spanish-speaking officer over here. In the meantime, I need to talk to you,” he says to me. “Can you explain to her?”

I do.

He comes with me into the kitchen. My mom stays by the door, like she’s guarding it.

The cop sits at the kitchen table and points to another chair. I sit down.

“Monserrat, is that what I call you?”

“I guess. Most people call me M.T.”

“Okay, M.T., let me explain to you why we’re here.”

“Okay.”

“We received a report that you are thinking of harming yourself. Are you thinking of harming yourself?”

My mind starts racing. The conversation with Chelsea? How would they know? Unless she told them? Did Chelsea call the cops on me? Is this whole thing going to be over because I tried to open up to my best friend? That can’t be true.

“M.T., can you answer me please?”

“No.”

“Let me explain something to you. People don’t usually go around calling us to report something like that unless they are pretty sure there is cause for concern. So do you want to tell me what happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Look, this is the situation. If I determine that you’re a potential harm to yourself, I need to take you in for assessment. Do you understand?”

“I’m not a potential harm to myself.”

“So the person that called us just made that up?”

“I guess.”

I hear another cop talking to my mom by the front door.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“No.”

“Would you rather speak to a female officer?”

“I would rather not speak to anyone. I’m fine. This is kind of ridiculous,” I say, my voice a little louder than I mean for it to get.

“Just calm down, okay?”

“I’m calm. I’m just . . . I don’t know what to say to you.”

Another cop comes into the kitchen.

“So what do we have?”

“This young lady denies making any threats of self-harm.”

“People don’t just call us, you know,” says the other cop. “You just broke up with your boyfriend? Not doing so well at school?”

Why would these cops know anything about that? I can’t believe Chelsea.

“I do fine at school. I’m National Honor Society vice president.”

“That’s not what we heard.”

“From who?”

“That’s confidential.”

“So people can just make up stories about other people and call you guys?”

The first cop leaves the room, goes over to my mother. The second cop sits down. “We’re just trying to help you.”

“Thanks. This is not exactly the kind of help I need.”

“What kind of help
do
you need?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

We sit there, quietly, for five minutes that feel like hours.

Finally, the first cop comes back into the kitchen.

“So, as I was just explaining to your mother, I’m going to have you talk to some people. We’re going to take you in to talk to them, and then we’ll see where we’re at.”

My mother, standing behind him, is sobbing.

“What does that mean? You’re
arresting
me? For what?”

“We’re just taking you in for an evaluation.”

“An evaluation of what?”

“Your mental condition.”

“You can’t just do that.”

“The law says that when someone potentially might harm themselves, we can take them in for an evaluation. So that’s what’s going to happen here.”

I feel the panic rising. It makes me want to run. I look at the door to the kitchen, wonder if I can bolt that way.

But maybe if I just sound reasonable. “Listen, I am not going to harm myself. I am fine. I don’t know who is telling you lies. I think someone is trying to get back at me. See? I’m calm. I’m fine.” But the calmer I try to look, the less calm I feel.

My mother is trying to talk to them in English. “Please. My daughter good. Everything fine. Okay?
Okay
?” The other cop is talking to her quietly in really bad, broken Spanish. Jose is hiding behind her, crying with his face buried in her hip.