Unlocked (8 page)

Maybe Mom came in and picked up things while I slept.

But then my back stiffened.

The Disney World caricature was back on the wall. Mom would not have searched through my desk drawers for that cartoon. I snatched it off the wall and opened the bottom desk drawer, but before I dropped the picture in, I gasped. The picture slipped from my fingers and fell to the carpet.

I knelt next to the drawer and peered inside. All my botched attempts at writing a letter to Jordan's parents had been smoothed out and stacked together. The top letter read:

My hands began to shake. I never wrote that letter, and yet, it was my penmanship. Yes, Jordan was a jerk, but I would never say that to his parents. Never. The accident happened because of me, whether Jordan wore a seat belt or not.

I lifted the letter out and methodically tore it into a million tiny bits, letting the pieces fall back into the drawer. Then I grabbed the other failed letters and ripped them all to shreds. When I finished, I placed the framed caricature on top of the mess and closed the drawer. I sat at my desk and pulled out an unspotted piece of stationery. With deliberate strokes, I wrote:

I dabbed more concealer onto my chin and said to myself in the bathroom mirror, “You can do this.” I lifted the flat iron and pulled it through my hair, again, section by section. The hot enamel intensified the fragrance of my jasmine conditioner.

First day of our senior year.

Last week, Lily, Chelsea, and I had been so excited we bought coordinating outfits for today: new jeans with rhinestones on the front and back pockets and shirts in school colors. Mine was an emerald-green blouse with ruffles down the front. Lily's was a simple sleeveless marigold knit top. Chelsea's was a green-striped polo with a white collar. As student council members at Peregrine High, we planned to start the year with spirit. But now, Lily clung to life in a hospital bed, and Chelsea ignored my texts.

I slid an emerald sequined headband in place and smoothed my dark hair. A tear slipped down, and I swiped it away. Manny had bruises on his face, the least of his injuries. I felt guilty for wanting to look good, but today was my first time anchoring the morning broadcast at school. I had worked hard to earn that position, and Mr. Arnold expected me to show up and do my part. I touched up my mascara and promised myself: no more waterworks today. I spritzed myself with my jasmine body spray and returned to my room.

I finished putting my supplies into my backpack, but hesitated when I noticed the letter I'd written last night still sitting on the desktop. No tears, I reminded myself. I slid the letter inside a spiral notebook and added it to my bag.

I straightened the quilt on my bed and considered kicking off my shoes and climbing back under the covers. But if I ignored the world today, I'd still have to face it tomorrow, and it wouldn't be any easier. I'd still have to go to school alone. Hopefully, Manny would return soon. I grabbed my backpack and headed downstairs. In the kitchen, Mom rinsed a cup in the sink.

“You're up early,” she said.

“I need to get to school. Student council is passing out class schedules.”

She picked up her purse and then kissed me on the forehead. “Try and have a good day, sweetheart.”

“Wait,” I said. “I need you to take me.”

She checked her watch. “I need you to ride the bus.”

“Mom, I haven't ridden the bus since freshman year. And I just told you, I have to get there early.”

“Hurry up then. I can't be late for work.”

I grabbed a Pop-Tart from the cupboard. “I'm ready. Let's go.” I hoisted my backpack over one shoulder and followed Mom out the door. I bit off a large chunk from the strawberry pastry. Crumbs sprinkled down my blouse and onto the pristine floor mat of Mom's Toyota Prius. She narrowed her eyes at me and drove out of the neighborhood.

“Thanks for picking up my room last night,” I said.

Mom glanced toward me. “I didn't.”

“Oh.”

“Did something unusual happen?” Mom asked. “Should we call Dr. James?”

Now that I hovered in the shadow of Dad's mental illness, I needed to be more careful; otherwise, Mom would worry. And even though Dr. James was the expert to help me, he also held clout with the judge.

“Hannah?”

I doubted my ability to ease her mind, but I tried. “I'm fine. My room was just cleaner than I remembered. No big deal.”

She kept her eyes on the road. “You're sure?”

“Yup.”

She dropped me off at school, and I walked straight to the Commons. Chelsea's laugh rang out before I even spotted her. My pace slowed when I discovered football and volleyball players had already manned the tables. Chelsea and her teammates were all decked out in their matching game jerseys.

“Hannah!” The principal patted my back. “We weren't sure you'd make it today, what with the accident and all. How are you?”

“The student council is supposed to—”

“Don't fret about it. We changed things around, and we've got it covered. Take it easy, and let me know if you need anything.” He shuffled across the giant green-and-gold mosaic of our mascot—a falcon—and headed toward his office. I didn't want to take it easy. I wanted to hand out schedules with the student council members as we'd planned, but they'd changed things without me.

The tables were labeled with letters based on last names, and I stepped over to the
O
table, where Chelsea sat with two other girls. Their chatter stopped. Chelsea went stone-faced and avoided my gaze. I stood straighter and concealed my disappointment.

“Hi, Chelsea,” I said.

The other girls gawked at me. I blinked, again and again, to keep my imminent tears at bay.

“Did you get my texts?” I asked Chelsea. No response. My throat tightened, and heat rose from the pit of my gut. I waved my hand in front of her, and she locked eyes with me in a terrifying stare. She leaned forward, thumbed through her stack of papers, and then slid my class schedule across the table.

“You're just going to ignore me?” I found myself swaying back and forth between anger and aching.

She leaned back and batted her eyelashes. If she'd used any more mascara, those tarantula legs would have scampered right off her face. She was publicly snubbing me.

I snatched up the paper and stormed away. Chelsea spoke to the girls behind me. I only caught snippets:
Can you believe she came? Shouldn't she be in jail or something?
I clenched my jaw. No tears. Not here. I kept walking, shocked by her rebuke. Chelsea had been one of my closest friends since she'd moved here last fall, and I'd hoped she'd help me through this. If only I'd gone back to bed this morning. I should've waited for Manny, and we could have returned together. But silly me, I thought I was needed here today.

I plopped down on a bench in front of the school. A tear slipped and fell onto my schedule: Broadcasting III, AP Literature, an open period before lunch, Leadership, AP Statistics, Spanish II, and Introduction to Creative Writing.

The other upperclassmen on the student council and I had planned it out perfectly. We figured an open period before lunch gave us plenty of time to leave school grounds and go somewhere fun to eat. We'd be back in time for our leadership class together, but even if we returned late, our advisors would cut us slack. They usually did.

I lingered in a daze until other students began to arrive. They whispered and wandered by me. The pit in my stomach grew. I grabbed my backpack and headed off for broadcasting. Maybe Mr. Arnold needed help setting up the studio equipment.

Upstairs in the broadcasting studio, I found Chelsea rehearsing behind the anchor's desk. Mr. Arnold interrupted her and gave her pointers. Mark leaned against the wall, watching. There was also a guy working the camera, and through a side window, I spotted Eugene working in the equipment booth.

“What is Chelsea doing here?” I asked.

Everyone twisted in my direction. My backpack dropped to the floor with a thud.

“Chelsea,” I said, “a second ago, you were giving out schedules. Now you're here—”

“Oh, Hannah!” Mr. Arnold said and adjusted his brown spectacles. “We're so glad to see you. We assumed you'd be home recovering from the accident.”

Heat rose from my chest to my face. My voice cracked when I asked, “Why is Chelsea in my chair?”

Mr. Arnold tugged at his tan plaid shirt around his generous midriff. “She offered to fill in for you as anchor today.”

I glared at Chelsea. “You knew I was here.”

“You left.” Chelsea smiled like an angel. “I figured you went home. You're probably too emotional to stay the whole day. What with the accident and all.”

I lunged across the desk and swung at her. She ducked before my fist connected, but she screamed as though it had. And she kept screaming. Mr. Arnold seized me around the waist with one of his large fleshy arms and pulled me back from the desk. I wrestled free from him.

“You're a freaking psycho!” Chelsea popped up from behind the desk and swept her long blond hair from her face.

“Forget your meds this morning?” Mark turned against me and slunk around the desk to help Chelsea.

Mr. Arnold grabbed my backpack, and with his other hand, he gripped my wrist and led me out of the studio.

“I wasn't really going to hit her,” I said.

“Are you sure you're ready to come back to school?” Mr. Arnold wiped perspiration from the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Then he repositioned his glasses.

“I'm the morning anchor.”

“I know,” he said, “but maybe it's too soon. Emotions are running high. Maybe you should go hang out in the library this period, and we'll try again tomorrow.” He handed me my backpack. I let it thump to the floor. Then I dragged it behind me as I walked away.

In the library, students gawked at me.

“What?” I said. No one responded, except for the librarian, who shushed me. I feigned self-discipline, propped my backpack against a table, and repositioned my hairband.

I could barely breathe. I texted Mom and begged her to come and get me, but she had to stay at work.

She texted back: Hang in there!

I texted Manny, but he didn't respond. He was probably still at the hospital.

“Hannah?”

I glanced up. Eugene stood next to me.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Aren't you supposed to be in the control booth, helping with the morning broadcast?”

He held up the ginormous three-by-ten-inch wooden bathroom pass that Mr. Arnold made people carry. It had the words
I NEED TO PEE
painted on it. Mr. Arnold thought it was funny. I thought it was humiliating.

“I wanted to make sure you're all right,” Eugene said.

I suddenly recalled how Eugene had said those exact words to me over five years ago on my first day of school in Idaho. I had been eating lunch by myself when he joined me. He was kind and said that my eyes reminded him of his mother's eyes, full of legendary strength. Later, I got caught up in the excitement of being accepted by the popular group, and I only ever said hello to Eugene in passing after that.

“Are you all right?” Eugene asked again.

“You mean after my ridiculous outburst?”

He nodded.

“I'm fine,” I said. “Is Chelsea okay?”

“Only a bruised ego.”

“Thanks for checking on me,” I said.

“Don't let Chelsea's antics mess with your mind.” Eugene tapped his forehead, and then he strolled out of the library.

If only it were that easy. I rested my head on the table and waited for the bell.

• • •

When first period ended, I tromped back down the stairs to my literature class. Chelsea sat in the back row. I chewed on the inside of my cheek and debated what to do. I could apologize and work it out with her, or I could continue as an outcast all day.

I took a seat next to her.

“Sorry,” I said. “I'm really embarrassed I took a swing at you. This weekend's been bad, and I'm not—”

Chelsea took in a slow breath, stood, and then moved to the front row.

I flashed back to a time in the park when Mom walked away from Dad in the middle of an apology. My throat tightened as I considered Dad's perspective. He had sat alone on that park bench. At the time, instead of following Mom, I chose to sit and wait with Dad. After an hour we walked home together in continued silence.

And now no one sat on either side of me or in front of me.

Chelsea leaned across the aisle and whispered something to the girl next to her. She cocked an eyebrow at me. I bit down on my tongue and steeled myself against more tears. Not here. When the teacher started class, I faced straight ahead and used every ounce of energy to keep my composure. I needed the clock to move faster. Finally, the bell rang and everyone herded out.

Last week, at our end-of-summer party, the student council had agreed to meet in the Commons for our open period and carpool to lunch. I needed to patch things up with my friends.

“Chelsea, wait!” I hollered down the hall to her, but she kept going. I jogged to catch up to her. When I touched her back, she whipped around.

“Go home, Hannah!” Her spittle hit me in the face. “At least you still can. Jordan can never go home again. His mom will never see him again. You drove like an idiot, and you killed him—”

“I told him to wear his seat belt!”