Keep Holding On (22 page)

Ms. Scofield asks me to stay after class. I can tell by her face that something’s up.

“Mrs. Henley wants your mom to come in for a conference,” she tells me.

“Why?”

“Remember when she was here for grief counseling? She was concerned that you were keeping too much anger in.”

Mrs. Henley could tell I was angry? I didn’t think it showed.

“And right before that counseling session, Mrs. Henley heard about your bruises from the nurse.”

“My mother doesn’t hit me or anything. Those were from paintballs.”

“The nurse said she asked you who shot the paintballs, but you wouldn’t tell her.”

“It gets worse if you tell.”

Ms. Scofield sighs. “I know exactly what you mean. But no one should get away with doing that to you.”

“So why does she want my mother to come in?”

“We’re all … we’re concerned about you. We just need to talk to her.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Because I care about you, Noelle.”

My throat gets tight. It’s really hard not to cry.

When I get to Mrs. Henley’s office, mother is waiting on the bench outside. Now that I have to deal with her being here, crying seems like a definite possibility.

“Do you know why they called me?” mother asks my shirt.

“Not really.”

“It’s highly disturbing to get a call at work asking me to come to your school, you know?”

“Not really.”

She shifts her gaze closer to my face. “What?”

“I don’t really know what that’s like, no.”

“Why are you—”

“Ms. Wexler?” Mrs. Henley comes out of her office, smiling and extending her hand to mother. “I’m Robin Henley. Hi, Noelle.”

“Hi,” I say.

Mother is not smiling back. She says, “I’m sorry, you’re … the social worker?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know they had one of those.”

“They do. Shall we?” Mrs. Henley waves us in. I didn’t really notice Mrs. Henley when she did her grief counseling thing. She’s pretty and her clothes are a lot nicer than teachers’ clothes and her office is cheerful and welcoming. When I go in after her, Mrs. Henley touches my shoulder for a second. The hostility I felt toward her before has disappeared.

The mortification starts right away. Mother sits down in one of the two chairs across from Mrs. Henley’s desk. And, I’m not even making this up, she says, “I’ll just take my jacket off. Not that I’m warming up to you.”

I turn away, wishing that when I look back mother will be gone. Where’s the Normal Mom Act? How can she think being rude will help? Does she seriously want a social worker to know how damaged she is?

I try to tell Mrs. Henley how sorry I am with my eyes.

She gives me a reassuring look. Then she says, “Actually, Noelle, would you mind waiting outside? I’ll call you back in soon.”

Out on the bench, I put my feet up and pull my legs in close, resting my chin on my knees. I can hear some kids laughing in the classroom across the hall. A boy gets a drink at the water fountain. The fluorescent light above me buzzes.

Then I hear mother yelling, “How dare you accuse me of neglecting my daughter!”

My stomach lurches. I’m sure mother thinks this is all my fault. She probably thinks I went to Mrs. Henley and told her everything. As if I really want mother anywhere near this place. And
I definitely don’t want all the teachers gossiping about me. Teachers would never admit that they gossip about students, but they totally do.

When Mrs. Henley comes out to get me, the last thing I want to do is go back in. But of course there’s no choice. I don’t even have to look at mother to absorb how mad she is. She’s giving off vibes so toxic I’m worried that Mrs. Henley’s bamboo plant will wither and die.

“We’re concerned about you, Noelle,” Mrs. Henley says. “We won’t tolerate bullying. We need to know who hit you with those paintballs so we can help you.”

Mrs. Henley seems like a sweet person. I believe her when she says she wants to help. Part of me even wants to sit back and let her take care of me. But there’s no way she can understand what goes on for real. Which seems to be a common problem among grownups.

I stay quiet.

“Can you please explain to Mrs. Henley here that I feed you?” mother says in her Scary Voice.

“Huh?”

“I feed you, right? You’re not malnourished or anything? Apparently, the nurse thinks you’re malnourished.”

Is she really that stupid? Of course I’m malnourished. I’m always trying to hide in oversized shirts and stuff. Except I have been wearing new tees that fit lately. And the nurse did see the way my ribs stuck out when I lifted my shirt.

Mother sighs dramatically. “Will you tell her?”

If I admit how horrible mother is in front of Mrs. Henley, she could get in a lot of trouble. Sherae said they could even take me away from her. Which sounded awesome at first. But I’d have to live in some foster home with strangers, which would be hideous. As bad as living with mother is, there are worse things. And there’s only one more year left before I leave for college. So I’d rather not say anything.

But. I remember my promise to be done. Being done means not hiding anymore. It means not letting fear or shame dictate my decisions. Maybe if I told the truth in front of someone other than mother, she’d emerge from the delusional world she lives in.

“No,” I say. “I mean, yes. I mean … there’s not enough to eat. There’s never enough to eat. Don’t pretend like you don’t know.”

If I’d just slapped her, mother would be less shocked.

“Of course there’s enough to eat,” she contends. “Don’t be ridiculous. I put dinner on the table every night.”

“Hot dogs and frozen fries don’t count as real food. And when the only thing I can make for lunch is a mayonnaise and mustard sandwich—if I’m lucky—that’s a problem.” My face immediately gets hot. It is mortifying to admit that in front of someone like Mrs. Henley.

“Hey, kid,” mother says. “We’re eating. That’s real enough.” Mother rolls her eyes at Mrs. Henley. “She doesn’t understand how hard it is for single mothers.” As if Mrs. Henley would ever be on her side. Doesn’t mother realize how deranged she sounds?

I lock eyes with Mrs. Henley. She truly sees me. Whatever happens next, I have to believe that it’s the right thing. I have to
trust that there are people in my life who actually care about me.

And I have to let them help.

I’m alone in the lit mag office when Sherae comes in. “How’d it go with your mom?” she says.

“How’d you get out of class?”

She holds up her hall pass. “I have like five minutes. What happened?”

I tell her everything.

“Oh my god,” she says. “Your mom is unbelievable. It’s like nothing ever fazes that woman.”

“I know. You should have heard her with the whole warming-up-to-you thing. I was
mortified
.”

“Did Mrs. Henley say if she’s going to do anything?”

“She wants me to come in for counseling twice a week next year. And she told my mother she was going to follow up with her, but I’m not sure what that means. I could tell Mrs. Henley was not a happy unit. I’d really like to know what they were talking about when I wasn’t in there.”

“She probably told your mom she needs to shape up or she’ll get in trouble. Remember those kids who were so starved they snuck out at night and scavenged food from their neighbors’ garbage cans?”

“I’m not exactly eating out of the garbage.”

“You know you can come over for dinner any night you want, right?”

“Or I could just move in. Your mom would totally adopt me.”

“Totally.”

Sherae has also been in to see Mrs. Henley. It took her a while after the whole parking lot confrontation with Hector. But she eventually told Mrs. Henley everything. Mrs. Henley assured Sherae that she’s not alone. Lots of girls feel like having sex before they’re ready is something they have to do to keep their boyfriends. Or that it’s what everyone does. But about half of teen girls are virgins. Mrs. Henley explained that any time you have sex when you don’t want to, it’s not okay. Even if you’re in a relationship. Even if it’s someone you love.

Mrs. Henley was proud of Sherae for coming to her. She said that most girls never report attempted rape or even rape. They’re usually too embarrassed to speak up. Which is really sad. The boys who took advantage of them should be the embarrassed ones.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Sherae takes our latest cootie catcher out of her back pocket and holds it out to me. “Here.”

I take it from her. It’s almost finished. After I finish this one, it will officially be our last cootie catcher of the year. I think I’ll make the fortunes extra hopeful this time.

Simon comes in, carrying a box.

“Is this an authorized visitor?” he jokes. Ever since the Carly attack, he’s been super protective. He only leaves me alone in here for a few minutes when he absolutely has to. But he knows Sherae.

“Sherae is always authorized,” I confirm.

Sherae gasps at the clock. “You guys, I am
so
dead. I’ve been gone for fifteen minutes. There’s no way I can explain that.”

“Yeah, no, that’s not good,” Simon agrees. “You should just stay here for the rest of class.”

“You should. Do you really want everyone thinking you were in the bathroom this long?”

“It’ll look even worse if I wait until class is over.”

“No, it won’t,” I say. “If you go in after the bell rings, everyone will forget you were gone. And anyone who sees you will know you were cutting. Trust me, I’m an expert on timing classroom entrances.”

Sherae thinks it over. “Okay,” she decides. “I’m staying.”

“What’s in the box?” I ask Simon.

“The
Spectrum
.”

“Sweet!”

Simon grabs some scissors and slices the box open. I can’t wait to see how they look.

The cover is gorgeous. It’s a photo of a country road leading into the woods. The tone is all dreamy and nostalgic. It looks like the photo was taken right after a sun shower. There’s the slightest hint of a rainbow in the distance. When I first started lit mag, Simon explained that every year the cover design has to incorporate a spectrum in some way.

“They look amazing,” Sherae says. “Can I see one?”

“You can
have
one.” Simon gives Sherae a copy. “Aren’t you glad you’re friends with the editors? You get yours a whole day before everyone else.”

Sherae flips through the magazine until she finds my piece. She hugs me with one arm as she reads. This feeling builds up
inside me like a balloon. I can’t tell what it is at first. And then I realize that, maybe for the first time ever, I’m proud of myself.

No one should be ashamed to speak up. Shame makes it easy for neglect and abuse and bullying to stay huddled together in their dark corner. It’s time to throw the switch on this spotlight. If I can inspire other kids to speak their truth, then everything I’ve been through will have been worth it.

I’m getting stuff out of my locker for my last two classes when my radar detects Carly coming down the hall. A surge of Done rushes through me. I almost don’t care if she attacks. She was in the last English class I read my lit mag piece to. Something about the way she was slouched in her seat smirking made me say, “This is dedicated to Ali Walsh” before I started reading.

Carly passes behind me. She says, “Good thing she killed herself. One less loser in the world.”

“What?” I ask Carly’s back. “I don’t think I heard you.”

She whirls around. “Hmm?”

“What did you just say?” I ask louder.

Carly gets right in my face. “I
said
. One less loser in the world.”

“You’re part of the reason she killed herself. Don’t you get that? How can you go around trash-talking Ali when you’re the one who pushed her over the edge?”

Shock flickers in Carly’s eyes. She can’t believe I’m calling her out. She even shrinks back for a second.

And then she lets loose.

“You think it matters that freak’s gone? You really think anyone cares? Who cared when she was alive?”

“A lot of us! Me and her family and—”

“I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t even do anything.”

“Seriously? You tortured her every day. You’ve been harassing me since eighth grade. How do you think it feels to always be worrying about what you’re going to do? Or what you’re going to shout in front of everyone? And that thing with the paper cutter? You acted like it was some kind of game. That’s just twisted.”