Sometimes Never, Sometimes Always (35 page)

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Authors: Elissa Janine Hoole

Tags: #Fiction, #Family, #english, #Self-Perception, #church

BOOK: Sometimes Never, Sometimes Always

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I do not have a miraculous epiphany that results in me finding Jesus and being born again and speaking in tongues and ascending to heaven in a chorus of angels.

I don’t look up as the music swells to see Drew Godfrey standing backstage with tears in her eyes, and she doesn’t run to me and hug me and tell me she forgives me for everything now that she’s heard my beautiful poetry. That definitely doesn’t happen.

And I guess I can’t say for certain, but I’m pretty sure that all of the students at Gordon High do not undergo an instant transformation into super-tolerant, inclusive, and supportive individuals who turn away from drama to link arms and sing together or something.

Okay. So that doesn’t happen, but there is a smattering of applause when I finish my song and hand the microphone back to Martin Shaddox, who does announce that Eric’s snow sculpture of Northstar wins first prize, and when he does, the crowd cheers like crazy. And when my brother runs up onto the stage to pick up his trophy, they do start to chant and stomp their feet—“GIVE HIM THE RING! GIVE HIM THE RING!”—until Eric’s face is a deep red color and my hands are sore from clapping, and Darin pushes Gavin up onstage, and Eric does give him a nice silver Claddagh ring and a big hug. My parents do applaud, if a little hesitantly, from their spot at the back of the crowd. Mr. Dawkins does pull me aside and shake my hand; he tells me he knew I could do it and that he’ll be changing my grade before he leaves for the weekend.

“You know I have to take off points for lateness, but that was A work, Cassandra.” His smile fades. “I’ll put in a good word for you with Ms. Clark, but I think you’d better go talk to her right away.”

Ms. Clark does explain to me, in great detail, all of the articles and sub-articles of our technology use code and anti-bullying policy that she feels I’ve violated by creating the blog and allowing it to get out of hand. However, she acknowledges that, since I created the blog from my home computer, and since I (allegedly) didn’t actually post any of the hateful messages, that I will not be suspended from school. Instead she explains how I will have to pay back the ad fee for the space I stole in
The Gordon High Gazette
, a considerable sum of money. I do agree to work long hours at Joyful News in order to pay it back, doubling up my church newsletter hours with filing and cleaning duties. Ms. Clark also does admit that she admires what I said out there, at the carnival, and that she hopes people were listening.

“It’s easy to talk about bullying,” she says, “but it’s hard to connect that talk to all the little moments in life where you really could be the person who steps up.”

My parents, one sitting on either side of me, each put an arm around me and squeeze, and it’s not a squeeze of “all’s forgiven,” or even a squeeze of “we’re so proud of you,” but, at the heart of it, it’s a squeeze of “we love you anyway,” and that’s one thing that does happen.

58. Right now you are …

March comes in like a lamb, and Darin convinces my mom to let me leave the house unsupervised—for driving lessons, of all things. “Cass needs some sun,” he says, smiling that bashful smile of his and shaking the hair out of his eyes. He quirks an eyebrow. “It would help her mood, don’t you think?”

I roll my eyes, but he’s right, and my mom knows it too. I’ve been imprisoned for exactly a month, confined to my room with no phone and no computer—no contact with the outside world except at school and during my “counseling sessions” with Pastor Jake Marshall, my brother’s mentor and, it turns out, a pretty good listener. He’s also a pretty good racquetball coach, which is sort of a strange context for religious counseling, but it works surprisingly well. Also, I’m getting good at racquetball.

“Oh, fine,” says my mother with an obligatory sigh, but I see the way her eyes soften toward Darin, and I think she’s starting to like him, despite his role in my recent disobediences. “
Safely
.”

Darin catches my hand as we walk out to his car but he keeps quiet, and for a while the only sound is our shoes in the slush. The sun feels nice on the top of my head, warm in a way that feels forgotten, and even though I know we’re not done with winter yet, the smell of the breeze is enough to convince me we’re on our way to spring.

“I’ve been thinking about Cassandra of Troy,” I say at last. “I wonder if things could have been different for her, even with her blessing and her curse. I wonder if she could have made her
own
future. Her own truth.”

Darin smiles and opens the driver’s door. My hands are sweaty, but driving isn’t the only thing making me nervous. Today is Drew’s first day back at home, and it’ll be the first time I’ve seen her since … since she swallowed a bottle of antidepressants and didn’t wake up for several days.

“She wouldn’t make a very interesting tragic hero, in that case,” says Darin. He leans in close, pretending like he’s going to show me how to adjust my mirrors. Instead he kisses me, and he smells like sunshine.

I laugh, pushing him away. “My mom’s probably watching!”

“I’m keeping you safe,” he says, and makes a big show of tugging on my seat belt. “Now check your mirrors, shift it into reverse, and look over your shoulder as you back out. Let’s do this.”

Let’s do this. I drive slowly, my first time on the actual streets by myself, and Darin directs me in a soft, patient voice until we pull up at the curb beside Drew’s house. Then he takes my hand and draws a little stick-girl on the inside of my wrist. She has spiky hair and she’s flexing her muscles, which bulge from her right arm in goofy bumps. “You’re stronger than ever,” he says, and we both laugh as he pokes me in the arm. He’s been teasing me for weeks about my racquetball arm. “You can do this.”

I nod, and I unbuckle and get out of the car, but I have no idea
how
to do this—how to walk up to that front door and make things better. I march up to the porch, wishing I had something to carry.

Drew opens the door before I ring the bell, so I know she saw the car pull up, and I’m glad that she had a moment to prepare for my arrival, to gather up her own strength. She looks different, her stringy ponytail gone and the rest of her hair cropped close and uneven. Her eyes are different, too—she looks directly at me, no more of the wavering hairline gaze. She has a steadiness about her that’s new.

“Hey,” I say, and then I lose track of all the things I thought I might say. “I … I’m glad you’re okay.” The gravity of what could have happened is heavy all around her, and I’m drawn in, throwing my arms around her in an awkward hug.

She hugs me back. It’s not a made-for-TV moment, but she smiles and squints up at the sun. “Yeah, I’m glad too,” she says. Then she nods. “I really am.”

“Drew, I had no idea. I wish I’d known … I wish … ” I trail off, struggling to find the words.

“I know,” she says. “I read the poem you sent.”

“I was hoping you would—”

“I read it a lot.” She glances over her shoulder and gives a little nod, as if to reassure someone she’s okay, and I catch a glimpse of her mom hovering nervously in the hall. “Sorry, Cass, I’d invite you in, but … we’re in the middle of packing, and … ” She pulls her sleeves down over her hands and crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Everything’s a mess, you know.”

I know. “You’re packing?”

She shrugs. “Yeah, my mom doesn’t want … well, it’s not really working, with her gone all the time and stuff. We’re getting a condo in the Cities, and I’m going to try the traveling thing again. I’m doing online high school for the rest of this year, and probably senior year too.”

“Oh.” We stand there, and I realize that, even though I’ve never wanted to be Drew’s best friend, I’m disappointed she’s not coming back, that she won’t be at youth group, that she won’t be a part of the graphic novel Kayla and Darin are writing and I’m doing layout for, that she won’t get to see how Britney has started sitting with us at lunch.

I step back, onto the porch, taking my leave. “I’m sorry, Drew. I’m going to miss you.” It’s the truth.

“Bye, Cass. Thanks for stopping by.” She starts to close the screen door, but she stops halfway and looks me in the eyes again. “I think there are good things in the future, for both of us,” she says, and then she smiles. “Truth.”

I smile back, and then I turn before she can shut the door, before I can lose sight of her face, and I walk toward Darin, who’s standing by the gate. The wind has picked up, bringing with it a soft muddy smell of new beginnings, and his shaggy hair whips around his face. I reach into my pocket for the card I’ve been hanging on to all month.

“Knowing the future is useless if you don’t understand the truth about right now,” I say. I lean in, my eyes locked on his until we’re too close to focus, and we both close our eyes, our foreheads touching.

“I’m glad you’re not a tragic hero,” he says.

I lift my hand, feeling the card flutter against my fingers in the wind, and then I let it go.

59. You celebrate yourself …

60. You sing yourself …

Photo by David Hoole

About the Author

Elissa Janine Hoole bought her first deck of tarot cards as a birthday gift to herself when she turned twenty, and even in the privacy of her own apartment, she felt like she should hide them. The three words she uses to describe herself are
curious
,
caring
, and
contemplative
. Suggestions from her husband and two sons include
crazy
and
cantankerous
. Elissa teaches middle-school English and sometimes makes her students write poetry that celebrates and sings themselves. She also wrote the YA road trip novel
Kiss the Morning Star
.