Suffer Love (10 page)

“Good. Now buckle up and tell me about this photography project you have to do.”

She heaves some air and gives me a small smile. My chest loosens a little. “Well,” she says slowly, still getting her breath back as I start the car. “Mr. Grayson says we can choose any subject we want, but the theme has to be about hope.”

“So you have to take pictures of candles burning in chapels or something cheesy like that?”

She laughs weakly. “Not necessarily. It might be a series of shots of a Coke can. I just have to be able to capture how my subject might communicate hope. To me. You know, like, interpretation.”

“Sounds cool.”

“Yeah. Except I have no idea what to choose . . .” She turns toward the window again. In her reflection, I see her eyes are vacant again, staring. “What gives me hope? I mean, real hope, not just some bubbly, temporary fix?”

It starts raining as I turn onto our street. I think of Mom and Livy. I think of that rainy afternoon and the notes and Dad's face the morning he left for Boston. I think of Hadley and the way she looked sitting in my kitchen, wearing my apron, talking about being lonely.

“I wish I knew, Livy.”

The next morning, Ajay's voice clips in my ear like gunshots. “Wow. That's. Sam. Just. Wow.”

“Thanks for that analysis,” I say into my phone as I wave goodbye to Livy at her locker. I hurry down the main hallway, which is clearing rapidly. Before we left for school, Mom freaked out about the length of Livy's skirt and told her that her eye makeup made her look like a raccoon with a hangover. Unsurprisingly, this led to a volcanic argument. Then Ajay called while we were driving. By the time we fought through the morning traffic and I'd filled Ajay in on the soap opera that is my life, I'm almost late.

The final bell rings as Ajay fires off another stuttering round, and I slow my walk. I'm already late, might as well enjoy Ajay's rare inability to form coherent sentences.

“And she has no idea who you are?” Ajay asks. I hear the buzz of an electric saw in the background. I'm not even going to ask.

“Nope.”

“Is she beautiful?” I laugh as I round the corner toward my locker. Ajay's always saying stuff like this. He sees a girl he likes and it's never “Damn!” or “She's hot.” It's “She's beautiful.” But I can't really give him shit about it. I'm the guy who thought a glowing halo surrounded Hadley's head the first time I saw her.

“Yeah, Age. She is.”

“Is she smart?”

I make a frustrated sound through my nose. “Can we talk about something else? What's up with you?” I get to my locker and throw my stuff in.

“Sara and I finally copulated.”

“Jesus. Do you have to call it that?” I get out my calc book, swallowing my laugh. “How old are you, forty-five?”

“What? You know I don't like saying ‘We had sex' or ‘We screwed.' I feel like a Neanderthal and it sounds dirty. ‘Making love' sounds like I'm a character in one of those abysmal Hallmark movies that my mom loves.”

“Well, ‘copulated' sounds like a science experiment.”

“How about ‘had intercourse'?”

“Maybe. If your name is Dolores and you're teaching Sex Ed.”

Ajay laughs. “Anyway,
it
happened and now she's acting strange.”

“Strange as in clingy or strange as in you're an asshole?”

“The latter, but I have no idea why. She's the one who planned out the whole night.”

Sara, Ajay's girlfriend of a year, suffers from a perpetually bad mood. She's usually pretty cool with me, but she's one of those girls who always seem to have their claws out for one reason or another. One time she laid into Ajay for fifteen minutes about how loudly he swallowed water, for Christ's sake.

“Maybe it's because you use words like ‘copulated,'” I say.

“Okay, okay. Point taken.” The sawing sound cuts off, followed by an electric drill, probably mine. “By the way, Sara said Nicole's been asking about you. Why haven't you called her?”

My stomach twists and I start down the hall again toward class. A teacher passes me and motions for me to get off my phone. I shoot her a thumbs-up and keep walking.

Nicole Gilbert. My non-girlfriend from right before all the shit hit the proverbial fan. We were never officially together, but I learned how to utilize a condom with her. Several times. All through this past spring of yelling followed by days of silence and my dad finally leaving. Ajay would call her my copulate-buddy. When we found out I was moving to Atlanta, she didn't seem all that upset about it. We texted for a while, but it eventually faded out.

“I don't know, Age. I haven't seen her in months. It's not like we had a deep, meaningful relationship.” Okay, we did, but just with our bodies. Her body got me through a very shitty time. And that makes me an asshole, I know. “She can call me if she wants.”

He sighs loudly, crackling the phone line. “Whatever you say.”

“Listen, I need to get to class.” I stop outside my homeroom and look around. “Maybe we can hang out this weekend or . . .” My mind goes blank as my eyes land on a collection of . . . What the hell is that? There's a pile of stuff on the ground in front of a locker down the hall. Hadley's locker. And she's standing in front of it, hugging her books to her chest.

“Sure,” Ajay says. “You should come here and we can—”

“Oh, hell.” I step closer and see one of those tall glass candles with Jesus Christ or some saint on the front on the tile floor. It's actually lit, the colors illuminated like a stained-glass window. Surrounding the candle are unwrapped condoms and several pairs of pink and purple thongs, a pair of handcuffs, a black whip, a freaking dildo, and five or six phallically shaped drinking straws. It's like an X-rated version of one of those memorials you see on the side of the road at the site of some fatal crash.

“Sam? What's wrong?”

“I gotta go,” I whisper into the phone, and end the call.

Hadley lifts her head and turns, her gaze meeting mine. Her mouth drops open and a flush floods into her cheeks. She squeezes her eyes shut and looks away.

I turn abruptly and head in the opposite direction.

I find a janitor's closet and wade through mop buckets and bottles of Windex and Drano until I find a garbage bag. I walk back to her locker. She's still there, glued in place, eyes blurry on the flickering flame. I kneel down, blow out the candle, and start shoving stuff into the garbage bag.

“Oh, God. Sam. No, please.” Hadley's voice cracks a little, but I keep cleaning up the mess. “Sam, stop.” She kneels down and pulls at my arm. “Don't.”

I stop and meet her eyes. They're so dark, I can't tell where the color ends and the pupil begins. They're also red and wet. “You want to leave all this crap here?”

She flinches and removes her hand. “No. But . . . you don't have to do this. Please . . . it's fine. I'll do it.”

I shake my head at her and keep stuffing. The candle is the last thing in and I throw it inside, spilling red wax onto a thong. She stands up and turns away from me, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.

I tie off the bag and get up. “Come on.”

She turns and frowns. “Where?”

“Just come on.” I take her elbow and she walks with me down the hall toward the nearest exit. She digs in her heels when we get to the doors.

“I can't leave.”

“Why?”

She juts a thumb behind her. “I have class. I have work to do.”

“Do you really want to go to class right now?” I heft the bag up on my shoulder. “If you do, fine. I'll throw this stuff away and we'll both go on with our day. But it looks like you could use a break.”

“If I leave, she'll know this bothers me.”

“Not necessarily. But if you walk around the halls looking like your kitten just got run over by a truck, then yeah, whoever ‘she' is will know you're a little bit bothered.”

She swipes under her puffy eyes. “Is that what I look like?”

“Yeah.” I pinch the air between my thumb and forefinger. “Just a tad.”

Her hands whiten over her books and she presses her teeth over her lower lip. I can almost see her mind running through her calendar, all the assignments she has due, all the makeup work she'll be responsible for. I should just toss the junk in the garbage and walk with her to her class, go to my own, forget this whole thing. But I don't want to do that. I want to know why some bitch is terrorizing her locker. I want her to come with me and I want her eyes on mine and her words to fill up the space in my car. There are a million voices in my head right now, screaming about what a delusional idiot I am, but with her standing in front of me, her lashes fanning her pink cheeks, they're easy to ignore.

I watch her square her shoulders and take a deep breath. I gulp down my own shaky little-boy breath, because I know I'm about to get exactly what I want.

“Let's go,” she says, and walks past me out the door.

Even before the sex-toy locker incident, the morning sucked. I woke up to the sound of vacuuming downstairs. Loud, clumsy vacuuming. I sat up and winced as the appliance banged and whacked into walls and doorways. Mom's usually an early riser, but cleaning before the sun came up seemed like a little much. I hauled myself out of bed, showered, and dressed. By the time I got downstairs, the vacuum was still running, but it was lying on its side in the family room,
vroom-vroom
ing while it attempted to suck up any errant dust particles from the air. Through the kitchen archway, I could see my parents sitting at the table, sipping coffee and buttering toast like this was completely normal.

“What's going on?” I yelled over the noise.

“What?” Dad yelled back.

I pointed to the vacuum. He shook his head and brought his cup and bowl to the sink. “She won't let me turn it off.”

“Mom?”

“Of course your mother.”

I glanced at Mom, already dressed in a gray pencil skirt and a light pink silk blouse for work. She was perfectly postured and coiffed, her mouth a tight knot.

“Why not?” I ask Dad, even though I was pretty sure I knew the answer. Dad's weekday mornings bordered on sacred and consisted of a steady diet of strong coffee and a bowl of granola, a newspaper, and
quiet.
In fact, both of my parents usually started their mornings this way, easing into the day the way one would start a long-distance run.

“Hell if I know, Had.” He scratched his chin and stared out the window for a few seconds, eyes glazing on the coloring leaves outside. He looked so lost, I almost reached out to squeeze his hand the way I would've done just a few months ago. A leftover reflex from a different life.

“I'm going to work a little early,” he said while I cemented myself in place. “Have a good day, honey. Maybe we can watch a movie tonight?”

I said nothing and he seemed to settle for my one-shouldered shrug. Without another glance at Mom, he picked up his work bag and left through the garage. As soon as Dad was gone, Mom stood and glided over to the vacuum. She flicked the power switch, filling the room with a ringing silence. I watched her slide a piece of bread into the toaster, presumably for me, and then go about cleaning up crumbs and drops of spilled almond milk.

“Mom?”

“Mm?”

“What was that about?”

“What?”

“The vacuum? Dad?”

“Oh.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing.” She wiped up a sprinkle of coffee grounds from the counter. “I might be late tonight.”

“Again?”

“A new client needs some coddling.” Buttering my toast, she flicked her gaze up to mine and back down. “Why? Do you need me at home?”

Her question sounded benign enough, but impatience edged her voice, like my potential
need
was an inconvenience. Over the past few months, she felt more and more like a housemate than a mom. Just someone who occasionally joined us for meals and helped out around the house from time to time, but who had very little interest in my comings and goings. It bothered me how much I wanted her to
want
to be at home, even though I could barely stand to be here myself.

“No,” I said. “No, it's fine.”

“Hadley . . .” We stared at each other, and her mouth twitched, as if it was full of words that wanted out but were trapped somehow. Finally, she settled for a weak smile and a “Have a good day” before gathering her things and heading off to work.

By the time I choked down my breakfast and got my stuff together, I was still so flustered by the whole morning that I was running late. At school, the late bell rang right as I walked inside, and I picked up my pace. I passed Sam Bennett laughing into his phone, but he didn't see me and I didn't slow down. I hated being late, and now the knot in my stomach that started with the vacuum had turned into a colossal tangle of worry and anger and irritation.

When I rounded the corner into the hall where my locker was located, I stopped abruptly. My boots squeaked on the shiny floor and I heard myself gasp. In front of my locker, Sloane Waters sparked a lighter and dipped it into a tall, glassed-in candle. I looked around for a teacher, anyone, but the hall was empty. She fiddled with some things on the ground that I couldn't make out, a satisfied grin on her face. Then she rose and took off down the hall, red hair flapping behind her.

As I walked to my locker, all I could do was stare at that candle's little orange flame. Tears welled up and spilled over on my cheeks before I could stop them.

Then Sam was there, looking at me with this horrified expression on his face, and all I wanted to do was dissolve into the floor and disappear.

Now, as I slide into Sam's car, embarrassment still warms my cheeks. I flip down the sun visor and inspect myself in the tiny mirror. I clean off the smeared mascara while Sam throws the trash bag into his back seat. His car is a mess. Empty soda bottles and books and balled-up papers cover the floor, mixed in with at least five baseballs, two gloves, and a mesh bag full of cleats and jerseys.