Helping Hand

Karen and I hadn't exactly... Talked since the little incident. I didn't know why. If the issue was with chances, then, yeah, she had taken a chance talking to me and hanging out with me. But I had taken a chance with her in the library and trying to start the friendship. Was I supposed to prove myself to her? How could I even do that? I thought the only way to prove yourself to someone was by trying to be their friend. What did she expect me to do? At that point, I didn't even really know who I was to her. And all I really wanted to be was her friend. She made me think in different ways, and it was great. It was like going to school, almost. I was learning and growing as a person by listening to her philosophies. Her cynicism got in the way sometimes, sure. But that was to be expected. I always thought girls like her were cynical by default because they had problems and wanted attention, but I didn't really know with Karen. Either way, I didn't want all that to end. At least, not so soon. So the whole let's-not-talk thing? Yeah, that was bullshit. I thought, frankly, it was childish and beneath us. I didn't want us to become those friends in high school who have a falling out and have to face each other's awkward presence in the hallways. That was so dumb, it wasn't even worth it to try and avoid her.

So I didn't. I deliberately sought her out, and it didn't take long to find her. With seven minutes until the bell rang for Spanish, I found her talking boisterously to a friend. I approached the two and that's when I noticed Karen's pink cheeks and her clumsy sway.

"Karen?" I asked. "Can we talk?"

"What?" she mumbled as she fixed her glassy eyes on me. If everything else hadn't given it away, her breath did: she was drunk. I automatically looked to her hand, and to no surprise, there was a waterbottle in it. But she knew as well as I did that it wasn't full of water; it was full of vodka. That's just what kids at our school did.

And for some reason, this really set me off.

And, look, I get it. I'm a hypocrite because it's not like I haven't had my fair share of vodka in my days. But school? If you were going to just get drunk and high, what was the point of even coming to school? I don't know about you, but I'd much rather ditch than watch my teachers in technicolor. And, really, it was just disrespectful. I kind of had the feeling Karen didn't give a damn about respect, though. Or maybe it was just respect for authority. Probably the latter. Ultimately, I didn't know why she would bother getting drunk at school, and, above all, I didn't see any reason to.

"Are you drunk?" I hissed, although I knew the answer to my rhetorical question.

"You know what?" she retorted in all her slurred wisdom.

"No, what, Karen? God, just fucking enlighten me!"

"You're not the boss of me, Whit Bailey! Stop acting like my goddamn mother! You're not the mother-frinkin' center of the universe, so stop acting like it!"

"How am I acting like I'm the center of the universe? Because I care about the fact that you can't form a complete sentence right now without mispronouncing half the words? Because I'm trying to help you?"

"How the fuck are you trying to help me right now? By yelling at me? By trying to come in like frinkin' Prince Charming on a gallant white steed? God, Whit, who do you think you are?"

It was somewhere around "Prince Charming" that my blood had reached a boil. Prince Charming? Prince Charming? What was this, She's All That, and I was supposed to turn her from geek to chic and fall in love with her or whatever? At that point, I didn't care enough about her to even bother. I cared enough to become her friend. I cared enough to stay her friend. But I didn't care enough to love her.

"Do you think this was some ploy to get you to love me or something?" I yelled. Yes, we had reached the point of yelling, and, yes, that day, I was going to be late to Spanish. "Karen, Jesus, your life isn't a movie. It's not even that important - it's just like everyone else's. Stop acting like you're the only one on the face of the planet that has problems!"

"My problems are bigger than yours!" she screamed. "That's why I'm like this! That's why there's alcohol in my hand! People shouldn't pay so much attention to people like you when there are people like me who have more serious issues!"

"We're not products of our environment! You can't use your problems as an excuse about who you are! They don't define you! Fuck! Karen! Your problems aren't bigger than anyone else's unless you try and make them bigger! Everyone has problems! You've got to stop acting so fucking selfish!"

"Selfish? Try living in my shoes and see who's selfish! Try living with a terrible family!"

She didn't expand on the family part, and I didn't want her to. Because, right then, I could have told her everything. I could have told her about my parents' divorce and my brother's suicide. I could have told her my own sob story, but I knew she wouldn't listen - not because we were in a fight, and she was drunk, but because the truth is, people don't really care about other people's problems. We don't want to hear about everyone else's shitty lives when we think our lives are just as shitty. We never get the full picture of everyone, though. We can't just because we only hear snippets, we only see the smallest amounts of evidence of something short of a disaster in someone's life. We know it's there, but we don't care enough about anyone else to go any farther. It's almost as if everyone we see is through some sort of distorted lens, or door, or translucent sheet of paper. There's something there, and we can sort of see it. But if it's not in our face, we won't bother. And even the people who do have problems that are in our faces, like girls with scars along their wrists like a countdown of remaining days, or the kids with bruises in places their abusive parents know teachers won't see... We don't do anything.

And I guess maybe that was another reason I wanted to be Karen's friend. I thought she had problems - well, clearly, everyone does. But I thought I could help her. I wanted to make a difference because she seemed so fucked up, like a toy that's beyond repair. I thought if I figured her out, if I listened, if I deduced her life through a series of small details, I could help her overcome whatever it was that was making her so sad. Why? Maybe I wanted to be a hero to someone. Maybe I was trying to repent for not being able to save my own family. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

I looked at Karen without breaking eye contact. Her brown eyes could have been anything, from something amber-like or to as plain as a suitcase. She could have been anything I wanted her to be. I wanted her to be helpless, but she was really just a fiery, stubborn little thing. I wasn't sure where our "friendship" would go from here. I could have continued to shout, I could have given up. I really didn't have the heart to do either, so I did something that made me a huge-ass hypocrite, something that would make her feel as if she won this argument so she could go live in her dandy little world of always being unique and special and screwed up and always right.

I turned around and walked away.