Dealing With Trouble

CHAPTER 6?

I take a seat at the table, which is barely visible under the pancakes, yogurt, and fresh muesli. "This is a lot of food."

"No kidding," Layla says. "Taky's procrastinating."

Taky slides some odd-shaped pancakes onto my plate before I can ask what she means. "I'm suffering from writer's block," he says. "I figured some comfort food would get my creative juices flowing."

Layla shudders violently. "Never say creative juices again."

"Juices," Taky grins deviously, "juices, juices, jui—"

Taky's pan clatters to the floor unexpectedly. The sound startles me, and instinct takes over. My chin snaps forward, tucking into my chest. My arms rush forward to cover my face. I imagine his large, clenched fist rushing forward, only to withdraw at the last second.

Taky says, "Crap," but he sounds far away. "The handle overheated once more. Layla, I thought you said you were going to throw this pan away."

I flinch when something brushes up against the side of my arm. "I'm sorry," Layla says as she withdraws her hand. "I apologize for startling you."

"It's all right." I smile to reassure her, but my heart is still pounding against my chest, attempting to escape. "I think I'm just stressed out about today."

Layla grabs my hand and squeezes it across the table. "If you need a few more days to settle in, the school is still fine with you starting next week."

"No," I responded quickly. Taky, who is best friends with the principal, had to pull a lot of strings to get me off the Granada Hills Charter School waiting list. Not only would delaying my start make me look bad, but I also need to stay busy. Distractions and goals keep me sane.

"You'll never persuade her. Megan enjoys going to school."

"But everyone there despises me."

"That's now correct, Honey." Mom walks across the room to the opposite seat. She's dressed up as usual—fitted, pressed jumpsuit, dark hair carefully scraped into a bun—but her brown skin is ashen, and her dark eyes are riddled with dark circles. They're partly hereditary, like mine, but have gotten worse from lack of sleep.

My hand reaches out to squeeze hers. Maybe she was once happy and confident, but she doesn't remember it. I've only ever known this version of my mother: quiet and withdrawn, preferring to withdraw within herself rather than contribute to debate. Layla and the others blamed it on the split, but my mother was like this before we left.

"Like mother, like daughter," Layla observes. "Remember how you used to make Mom drop us off at school early so you could be there before everyone else?"

"I remember ," Mom says. She reaches for the pitcher of orange juice and pours herself a glass. She pauses, then says, "I've been meaning to inquire about their well-being. It's been quite some time since I've, well-"

"They're both fantastic. Can you believe they're on vacation in the Bahamas? Taky and I are considering taking a trip once the boys leave for college in the fall. Perhaps Europe or the Caribbean. We're still undecided."

Mom's face is clouded over. Dad would say, "We're going somewhere fancy this year." Somewhere hot, like the Caribbean or Turks and Caicos. He never meant any of it, but the difficult part was never the lying. It was knowing he was lying but still wanting to believe him.

"How is your job search going, Lori?" Taky inquires. "Are you a photographer?"

Her gaze was drawn to her lap. "I was. That is, I am." I can tell she's nervous because she stumbles over her words. Dad could almost be standing behind her, breathing down her neck. Lori, did you just look at him? Are you having an affair with him? "I haven't done much recently. Hanz worked so hard that he thought I didn't need a job, and caring for Megan was a full-time job. I'm just going to get a job in a store or something," she says with a playful look.

Lately would be an understatement. Mom worked as a freelance photographer for a while before quitting when her father complained that she wasn't spending enough time with her family. Instead, she turned it into a hobby, converting the fourth bedroom into her private studio, where she'd lock herself away for hours, flicking through her photos and editing them on her computer. It was unusual for her to let us in.

in, so going in there always felt like a special occasion, like seeing a side of my mother that she tried to hide.

She screamed one night as I was working on my homework upstairs. I dashed downstairs to find out what was wrong, only to find her in a ball in her studio, rocking back and forth. Her camera had vanished from its stand.

For a brief moment, I wondered if Dad had anything to do with it. While he was known to be controlling and impatient at times, he knew how important that camera was to my mother and would never have touched it.

When he arrived home, he removed his coat and hung it on the coat stand before placing his briefcase beside his feet. Mom sobbed and begged him to tell her what he'd done with her camera. Dad just looked at her with his brows furrowed and an innocent frown on his face. "I'm not sure what you're on about. What exactly is going on?"

"Mom can't seem to find her camera," I explained. "We've searched everywhere." My harebrained mother would lose her head if it wasn't screwed on, but this was the first time she'd lost something so valuable—both financially and emotionally.

"I haven't seen it," he said, taking my mother into his arms and stroking her hair as he cradled her close. "I'm always telling you not to leave things lying around," he mumbled. "Aren't I always saying that?" But his cotton shirt muffled whatever she said. "I promise, Lori, we'll find it." But we never found it, and Mom never returned to her studio. The camera had vanished, as had Mom's will to live.

I wave the breadbasket in front of Mom, who is still staring at the table in a daze. "Ensure that you have something to eat."

She sits up straight. "Oh, I don't have much of an appetite. However, I would appreciate some coffee."

Taky rushes over to the table, clutching the coffee pitcher. "I'm not a big breakfast eater, either, Lori." He pats his stomach, which is slightly protruding from beneath his T-shirt. "Breakfast is what gave me this little guy. Donuts for breakfast, to be precise." He waits for a response for a few moments, but he won't get one.

"These pancakes are incredible," I say to break the silence. I've been Mom's buffer to the outside world for as long as I can remember. The cashier at the supermarket, the person who thanks the delivery driver, or the person who answers the phone. I am the voice of a woman who has lost her voice.

"I'm glad someone appreciates my culinary skills," Taky says. "Layla always sticks to that cardboard tasting toast, and the boys are never up early enough to eat anything other than an apple on the way out the door. My potential is wasted."

Right on cue, the twins drag themselves into the kitchen, where they grab an apple from the fruit bowl. Taky gives me a look as if to say, I told you so, and I get to my feet, kissing my mother on the cheek.

"I love you," she says.

"I love you," I say back.

***

We pile into the Audi the twins share. It's warmer than I'd anticipated for this Time of year, and I can already feel the sun burning my shoulders as it beams through the open window.

The trees fly by, broken up by the oversize homes with their landscaped lawns. Granada Hills is like any other gated community, and north of the freeway where Taky and Layla reside are midcentury homes filled with hospitable neighbors. Lawn mowers growl over the bass of Dane's music; the clockwork sounds of suburban life. In one of the front yards, a man is mowing his lawn in a flannel shirt and khaki green shorts. He waves as we pass, using his T-shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

Back home, there was always this sense of freedom that came with knowing you could be anywhere you wanted in thirty minutes, but here, life has slowed to a crawl. There's no rush to get anywhere, no sense of urgency or purpose. An old couple stops in the middle of the street, a move that would earn you a side-eye in New York, but here no one cares. Strangely, I like it.

I concentrate on the notebook in my lap, going over my to-do list: join track, don't think, breathe. The last one is highlighted three times in case I forget.

This is the first time in years that I don't have anything major on my to-do list. I have a 4.0 GPA, I've been accepted to three of four colleges, and while I still have finals and graduation to think about, the difficult part is over. The issue is that it is the difficult part that prevents me from unraveling.

After completing my checklist, I neatly rip the page from my notebook and place it in my pocket. Jamie thinks I'm crazy for making lists, especially on paper rather than on my phone, but writing things down is therapeutic.

He's sent his fifth message in ten minutes, but it's nice to know he's thinking about me. I take a picture of my view out the window and send it to myself via w******p with a heart emoji.

He replies, "Can't wait to see you in L.A."

Dane lowers the volume on the stereo to be heard above the din. "You've gone silent on us," he observes. "Are you feeling nervous?"

He's staring at me, waiting for me to say something. "Are there people who do not get nervous on their first day?" I ask. "Because that makes you a psychopath in my opinion."

He smiles, and I'm surprised at how quickly it calms my nerves. "You'll be fine," he assures her. As if it were that simple.

"What do you mean, omniscient?"

A snigger breaks out from the backseat. "He believes he is," Olly observes. "I promise you, you'll never meet a bigger know-it-all than Dane."

Dane checks his rearview mirror. "Do you believe I know everything?" "Trust me, it won't be long before you start wondering how that skinny little body of his can carry around such a big head," he says, shaking his head.

When Olly throws an insult at Dane, Dane reaches back and thumps him. I watch as they go back and forth, unaccustomed to any of this.

""Look," Olly says, poking his head between the seats, "you look like someone who enjoys school, unlike Dane here, so I'm sure you'll do great." Just don't do anything that will make us look bad."

I'm embarrassed to admit that he's not wrong. Growing up, I was always the kid who raised his hand in class or asked for extra homework to do at home, and now that I'm a teenager, I'm even worse.

Initially, it was just my way of making Dad proud. He loved to compliment you: his favorite thing to say was that no one could paint like you, run like you, or sing like you. He took great pleasure in making you feel special. But being special meant that someone else was not—usually my mother. Looking back, most of my memories are of her standing on the sidelines, staring at us with what I assumed was adoration, but was actually hope that one day, he'd look at her the same way.

When I realized this, school became a goal to work toward, a way for me to divert my attention. If I wasn't on the track team or hanging out with Jamie, I was either studying to keep my perfect GPA, volunteering at nursing homes, or running homework clubs. Anything I could control, I did, and everything else I ignored.

""If you really want to know the truth," Dane says as he turns left, "I was always a bit of a jerk. Is it true that my third-grade teacher once told me she was wasting her time with me? She predicted that I would never be able to write properly."

"I can," Olly responds.

"That's terrible," I say.

"Yeah, it is," he confirms. "I suppose everything worked out in the end. Her remark inspired me to pursue music."

"Do you want to be like that?" I ask. "Are you a musician?"

"Not quite as corny. I'm not sure where I want to go with it, but I got into Northwestern for music, so I'll take it from there. What about you? Where are you headed?"

When Dane pulls into the senior parking lot, I'm relieved of the need to respond. I get out of the car, about to pull out my schedule to double-check it, when a loud black motorcycle zips past me. It moves into the space next to us, forcing me to jump back or risk having my feet crushed.

"Hey!" I exclaim.

The rider removes his helmet and looks around. His eyes narrow, and I try not to show my surprise. It's the same guy I met at the fight the night before—the kid with the red gloves. When I get a closer look, I notice he has the most manly face I've ever seen on a high schooler, with a sharp-edged jaw and tousled black hair that appears to fall into perfect waves. A faint shadow sits beneath his eye, a lingering bruise from the fight the night before.

"Yeah?"

I lose track of what I'm saying for a split second. Then I recall the danger I'd just been in. "I was on my way here."

"That's why there's a sidewalk." Then he gets off his bike, stuffs his helmet into the back compartment, and walks away.

Dane opens his door and climbs out, his gaze fixed on the boy's receding figure. "Jeremiah Chastener," he introduces himself. "It's not very pleasant, is it?"

"N-no," I say as I follow him. "Certainly not."

He is the person who assists me! Now I understand why he is so well-known! He was the person who assisted me back then.

Jane's convertible pulls into the space beside us as we step onto the curb. She switches off the engine, takes a quick glance in her sun visor, and throws open the door.

"Hey, losers," she says as she pulls me into a bear hug. "Has anyone else been traumatized by last night?"

Olly looks at Jane for a split second and his expression changes completely. His eyes brighten slightly, and his smile has a boyish shyness to it that makes me wonder if he likes her. "I am," he says as he swings his bag over his shoulder. In comparison to Jane, who barely reaches my shoulder, he appears to be a colossus. "I'm traumatized because I lost two hundred dollars."

"You get what you deserve for gambling." As we approach a long, yellow building with green pillars, she hooks her arm through mine. Kylan joins us in the middle of the walk, accompanied by her boyfriend, Zion, and the six of us fall into step as we cross a student-filled courtyard. There's a peaceful, hopeful buzz in the air. Other seniors walk by us with a spring in their step, giddy with excitement about prom and graduation. Everyone appears to be a little lighter, as if we've all caught a glimpse of the light at the end of the tunnel. I can be that way if I learn to relax.

"You'll be fine," Kylan says, like she can sense my discomfort. I wonder if it's because she has four siblings-all younger, all girls--that she's so tuned in to others' feelings. "Everyone's already pretty much checked out. There's a serious case of senioritis going around."

"She's right," Jane says, "but there are a few things you need to know."

And in the two minutes it takes for them to drop me at the reception, she gives me a crash course on all things Granada Hills Charter: what food to order from the cafeteria, what rumors are currently making their rounds, what teachers are lenient with missing homework. By the Time I'm walking up to the main desk, I feel like I somehow know everything and nothing.

The receptionist spends the next fifteen minutes going over my schedule before leading me down the corridor. We make a right, stopping in front of a door with its blind pulled down. She opens the door and steps inside, explaining to Mr. Shipman that I am the new student he's been expecting.

Heads swivel to look at me as Mr. Shipman, a tall, balding man with glasses, points to the table with an empty chair at the back, right behind Jeremiah Chastener. Slowly, I make my way down the aisle, slip into the seat behind him, and try to make myself as small as possible.

When I'm no longer under a spotlight, I take a moment to look around the room. It's long and narrow, with eggshell white walls softened only by a canvas of inspirational quotes. Be braver than you were yesterday, one reads. Always follow your heart, reads another, like it is just that easy.

In front of me, Jeremiah is leaning so far back in his chair, he's practically on my lap. He's looking ahead, tapping out a rhythm on his jeans with his pencils. I should be focusing on Mr. Shipman, but instead I'm repeating our encounter last night, over and over.

Apologies are free, Dad would say. What have you got to lose? It's true too: sometimes it felt like he never stopped apologizing.