Stand by Me

By the second week of school, things have settled down. The teachers are still “going easy on me," but everyone else has gone back to ignoring me. Once it became clear that I wanted no part of anyone's friendship, they stopped trying, which is fine with me. They took away the most important person in my life, so why should I treat them any different than how they treated her?

Chris is the same as usual: scarcely around, and when he is, he prefers to act like I don’t exist. Things are pretty much the same, except I’m alone. Completely and totally alone.

But finally, something good happens on Wednesday. I walk into the art room and find it empty, except for the teacher, Mr. West, who is sitting at his table in the back with a canvas in front of him. He looks up and waves, and I find myself smiling for the first time in what feels like forever.

“Hello Reagan,” Mr. West greets me. “I’m glad to see you. I didn’t think you were in my class this year.”

I shrug. “I switched.” I originally had AP Physics during my lunch period, but after a quick trip to guidance, the class was dropped altogether and I was put in Advanced Art. Normally, guidance would never let a student drop an actual academic class, but I’m beginning to get good at playing the pity card to my advantage. Some might argue that it’s disrespectful to Kristina’s memory to use her death as a way to get free passes, but I know for a fact she’d find it hilarious.

“Well, I’m honored you thought art was more important than physics,” Mr. West says with a grin. “Better late than never, as I like to say. Good thing I didn’t give away your cubby.” One of the walls in the art room is filled with cubbies where students store their work when class is done. I’ve had the same one since freshman year, #14. My name tag is still on there.

“Good thing,” I say absently. “Isn’t there a class this period?”

“They’re all at lunch. We’re in the third shift, remember?”

“Oh.”

“You can join them if you like. I think there’s about ten minutes left before everyone comes back.” Mr. West sees the look on my face and adds, “Or you can stay and eat in here. I don’t mind.”

“Is that allowed?”

“A student eating in a classroom instead of the cafeteria? I’m not sure, but I know it’s not uncommon.”

“Okay,” I say slowly. “Where should I sit?”

“How about your usual?” Mr. West nods at the seat adjacent to his. On the first day of freshman year, I chose the seat because it was the first one I saw and I didn’t want to be that kid who wanders around looking for a place to sit, not knowing that it was at his table, next to him no less. Not only that, but I was the only freshman who (unintentionally) had the balls to actually sit with the teacher, so it was just he and I the entire year. Fortunately, I found that I liked sitting next to him and vice versa, and that’s been my seat ever since.

I smile a little and grab a piece of watercolor paper off of the paper shelf before sitting down and taking out a pencil. “No lunch?” Mr. West asks.

“No, I’ve got one. Just not very hungry,” I say, nodding to the brown bag poking out of my backpack.

“Ah. May I?” he asks. Confused, I nod. He takes out the bag and peers inside before pulling out an apple.

“I’m okay, honestly,” I say when he offers it to me.

“Reagan,” Mr. West says, firmly but kindly. “Go on and have it. It’s brain food, it’ll spark your creativity.”

It’s bullshit reasoning, but I can’t remember the last time I ate something that wasn’t just Saltines and juice. Reluctantly, I take a bite of the apple, feeling the sweetness explode on my tongue with a satisfying crunch.

Mr. West says nothing as I finish the entire apple down to the core, and for that I’m grateful, although it’s no surprise. He’s just that type of guy.

“So,” Mr. West begins, and I brace myself. “How’ve you been, President?” Once he found out I was named after Ronald Reagan, the nickname stuck. The tone of his voice tells me he knows exactly how I’ve been.

“Fine,” I say. “How was your summer?”

“Can’t complain,” he answers with a shrug. He stops beating around the bush and says, “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say stiffly, staring down at my blank paper. I write my name for lack of anything better to do.

“Reagan —”

“Don’t.” My voice comes out strained, like I’m going to cry. “Every teacher I’ve had so far has given me the pity talk and I don’t want it, okay?”

“I don’t pity you,” Mr. West says calmly. “I care about you.”

“I’m fine.” This is a lie. Everyone knows that I am the complete opposite of fine.

Before he can respond, I hear the rest of the class returning from lunch and I breathe a sigh of relief. This might be the first time I’m happy to have other people around.

Everybody begins to file back in the room. A few say hi to me once they see me sitting there, but most of them just give me weird looks or avoid looking in my direction altogether.

The last person comes in, and Mr. West calls, “You can leave the door open, Adam. We don’t need all these paint fumes floating around and killing our brain cells.”

“Adam?” I repeat, and sure enough, Adam Tanner is in my art class. He’s staring at me with a disgusted expression I’m sure matches my own.

“You guys know each other?” Mr. West asks.

“We’ve met,” I say shortly. “I was supposed to show him around the school but he decided he didn’t need my help.”

Mr. West nods. “That makes a lot of sense, considering…” He doesn’t finish his sentence and I’m glad.

“What are you doing here?” Adam says, looking at me with a look of deep loathing.

“What does it look like?” I snap.

“You’re not supposed to have any classes with me.”

“Who says?” I’m getting a weird satisfaction out of seeing him so pissed.

“This is supposed to be my favorite class,” Adam says, and his voice has gone all tight and angry. “And now you’re fucking ruining that too. Is there anybody who wants to take anything else away from me?”

I scoff. “Relax, drama queen. I’ve been in this class longer than you anyway. It was never ‘yours’ to begin with.”

“Fuck you.”

“Get over yourself, jackass.”

“Guys!” Mr. West interferes. “That’s enough out of both of you! I don’t want to send you to the office but if that’s what it takes to get you to stop, I will. ”

Adam and I glare at each other. “Both of you sit down,” Mr. West orders. “I don’t want you talking to each other or even looking at each other. Adam, sit at that table over there. Reagan, stay here. And both of you watch your mouths.”

“Am I four?” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Normally I’d say no, but your behavior is making me reconsider,” Mr. West says sharply. “Now sit down and do your work.” Adam and I reluctantly obey. The rest of the class, who had been watching silently up until now, eventually begins working again. There’s no laughing or eye-rolls, though, because oh, their best friends killed themselves. We have to be nice to them.

Mr. West rolls his neck and sighs. “Ugh. Being all teacher-y makes me stiff. I hate it. Don’t make me do it again, please.”

“Sorry,” I mumble. Across the room, I can feel Adam shooting lasers at me. Too bad I know from experience that they won’t work, no matter how hard he tries.

I finally glance up at him and find he’s still staring at me. Once we meet eyes, he angrily jams his headphones into his ears before turning to his work. I roll my eyes. What a baby.

“So,” Mr. West’s voice brings me back to attention, “what are you planning on doing?”

“For what?” I say, confused.

He raises his eyebrows at me. “For your art project? Since this is art class?”

“Oh, right. What’s the assignment?”

He points to a vase of flowers sitting on the table in the center of the room. “Draw those.”

“Just draw them? That’s it?”

“Yup.” He appraises me. “Whaddaya think?”

I shrug. “Okay.”

Together we draw in silence for a few minutes before he asks, “What other classes are you taking this year?”

I have to think about that for a second. School’s been in session for about a week, but I still haven’t really paid attention to where I have to go. It feels like I’m just sort of stumbling around in the dark. “Uh. Calculus, literature, French, sociology, this, study hall, U.S. government.”

“All AP?”

“Yeah. Except for study hall.”

Mr. West lets out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s quite a lot of work you’ll have this year.” I shrug. He asks, “Are you doing any sports this year? Soccer? Lacrosse?”

I shake my head. “What about clubs?”

“No.”

“Astronomy? French?” When I don’t answer, he presses, “Why not?”

“I just don’t feel like it anymore.” These days, all I do after school is go home and lie in my bed and stare at the ceiling and try to remember how to breathe again. That is, until Chris comes home and I have to pretend to be somewhat regular, not that he notices.

“What about Art Club?”

I finally meet his eyes. “Uh, I don’t know.” I joined Art Club my freshman year and went faithfully every single week. It gave me a chance to work on any projects I’d started in class, learn about art history, and even help out with the magazine that we published with the Creative Writing Club. It was fun.

“You loved Art Club,” Mr. West points out. “Don’t you want to be able to say you did it for all four years?” When I don’t answer, he adds, “It’ll give you something to do after school.”

Not only that, but it’ll give me somewhere to go as well as get Chris off my back. “Okay,” I agree finally. Mr. West grins at me, and the empty feeling inside of me that I’ve been carrying around since that day is replaced with something a little lighter, if only for a moment.

* * *

When school ends, I walk out and head to where the bus is waiting. I have my headphones in, so I almost don’t hear someone shouting my name. “Reagan! Reagan!”

I look over and see Chris standing a few yards away, looking unimpressed. “Jesus Christ,” I mumble under my breath.

“You know him?” a girl behind me says while her friends all giggle.

“That’s my father,” I say flatly, preparing myself for what’s about to come out of her mouth next.

“Whoa,” she says. “He’s hot.”

“Thanks,” I answer, making my way to where Chris is waiting for me. Everyone is staring at us. “What are you doing here?” I ask when I approach him. “Do you even still have a job?”

He doesn’t smile. “I came to pick you up, but if you’d like I can just get back in my car and go back to work.”

I seriously consider his offer, but look over my shoulder and see that the bus is pulling away. “No thanks, my bus is gone anyway.” He scowls. I get in the front seat and put my headphones back in, ignoring him as he gets in next to me.

We drive in silence for a while. I can vaguely make out his voice speaking to me, but I just pretend not to hear him. These days, I’m too exhausted to make conversation, much less even listen to whatever someone is saying.

Ignoring him works until he reaches over and tugs on the string of my headphones, yanking them both out of my ears. “What the fuck is your problem?” I say angrily.

“I was talking to you,” Chris says, irritated. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

“No.”

“It’s September fifteenth today.”

“So?”

“So, your mother is going to call today.”

The realization dawns on me and I groan. My mother lives across the country, somewhere in sunny California, far away from me and my problems. She calls once a month, always on the fifteenth. When I was younger, I would always ask her when I could come visit, desperate to get away from Chris. Her response was the same every time: “Now’s just not a good time, dear.” It took me a while to realize that as long as she had a say in it, there would never be a good time for me.

The last time we spoke was two days before my entire life changed. “Does she know?” I ask. I don’t need to elaborate. Andrea’s got a habit of adopting an overly-perky tone whenever we talk, and if she uses it on me today I won’t hesitate to hang up.

Chris nods. “Yeah. I told her.”

Now that surprises me. I’ve always considered it a miracle that Chris and Andrea liked each other long enough for him to get her pregnant, because they split up almost immediately after she had me. Chris thinks she’s immature and selfish, but I’m pretty sure he just resents her for dumping me on him and then taking off. I don’t blame him, either. I resent her for it too. They barely ever speak directly to each other, preferring to go through me, so I’m finding it hard to believe that Chris actually told her about Kristina.

“You did? Seriously?”

He side-eyes me. “Uh, yeah.”

“How come?”

“Cause I know how she is,” Chris says bluntly. “And I know how you are. Would you rather me have not told her?”

“No,” I say quickly. “No, that’s fine.”

We get home and I’ve barely just sat down at the table before the phone rings. “Can you answer it?” I ask.

“She’s not my mother,” Chris says.

“I’m untying my shoes,” I say. It’s lame, but it works, because Chris rolls his eyes and sighs before picking up.

“Hello? It’s Chris, who do you think it is? Yeah, she’s right her, hold on.” He looks annoyed already as he hands the phone over to me. “It’s for you,” he says nastily.

“Hello,” I say flatly.

“Reagan, dear,” Andrea says. Her voice is hushed and dramatic, like it’s my funeral she’s at. “How are you?”

I try to think of an appropriate answer. I know I can’t say “fine,” but I also can’t say how I’m really feeling. So I settle for, “I don’t know.”

“Hmm,” Andrea says sympathetically. “Your father told me about your friend. I’m so sorry, dear. We’re thinking about you and praying for you.”

I clench the phone a little tighter. What is prayer going to do? What is the point of praying to a God who has clearly decided He doesn’t care about me? How is kneeling down and saying a of couple choice words going to bring her back? It won’t, and I know that. “Okay,” I say finally, because I really don’t feel like saying all of this. She wouldn’t understand.

But then the sentence in its entirety hits me. “Wait a second. Who’s ‘we’re’?” I ask.

“What?”

“You said ‘we’re thinking about you.’ Who else is thinking about me?”

“Oh, that’s right. I guess I forgot to tell you. I’m seeing someone.”

“Oh,” I say. It doesn’t really come as that much of a surprise. “Okay.”

“His name is Todd and he’s a software engineer. He’s very nice, I think you’d like him a lot. In fact, I would love for you two to meet. Why don’t you come out here sometime soon?”

Now I’m surprised. The last time I saw my mother in person was at Christmas two years ago, and that didn’t end well. We only ever talk on the phone or occasionally Skype. She’s never asked me to come out and see her before, much less meet one of her boyfriends.

“We could fly you out for Christmas,” Andrea goes on. “Or maybe spring break. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? A change of scenery for you, not to mention a chance to get away from your father.”

I know she’s only doing this because of Kristina, but I can’t help but think about it. Getting away from here would be good for me, even if it was just for a week. Andrea lives in Venice Beach, and I picture myself walking along the shore, the waves lapping at my heels as I soak in the sun. And maybe it would be nice to get to know her better. She is my mother, after all. “Yeah, maybe,” I say hesitantly.

“Well, just think about it, okay? If you decide you want to, you let me know and we’ll get you out here as soon as possible. And don’t let your father try to talk you out of it. I know how he is; he tries to suck the joy out of everything he can.”

“Right,” I say. “Okay. Thanks, Andrea.”

“Of course, dear. How is school going? You’re a senior, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Still at that prep school? The one I don’t know how your father affords?”

“Yeah,” I repeat. “I’m there mostly on scholarship.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot how smart you are.” Before I can answer, I hear a noise in the background, like muffled talking. “Hmm? Oh, okay. Be right there.” To me, she says, “Sorry, Reagan, but I have to go.”

“But we just started talking,” I say, and my voice is both annoyed and a little desperate.

“I know, dear, I’m sorry. Let me know about visiting, okay? Try to cheer up.” And just like that, she’s distracted again, and I’m just a task, a small slot in her schedule that she can now mark as “done”. “We’ll talk again soon.” She makes a kissy noise down the phone and then she hangs up and I’m left with the dial tone. Just when I thought we were getting somewhere.

I put the phone back and go into the TV room, where Chris is sitting on the couch drinking a beer. “Day drinking already?” I say.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing.”

“You and Andrea finished talking already?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh. Usually she manages to stop thinking about herself for at least ten minutes. This is a new low, even for her.”

I rub my temple, where I can already feel a headache starting to pulse. “She wants me to come out and visit her soon.”

He snorts. “Ha.”

“I think I might go.”

Chris raises his eyebrows at me. “Yeah? You and what money?”

“Andrea said she’d pay for it.”

He laughs. “Your mother says a lot of things, Reagan. Doesn’t mean they’re true. There’s no way she can afford to fly you out there and back. If she did, she’d be paying child support.”

“I think she has money now,” I say, annoyed at his condescending tone. “She has a new boyfriend. Named Todd.”

He sits up a little straighter. “Wait. Seriously?”

“Yeah. He’s a software engineer. He probably gets paid well.”

Chris chortles. “Wow. This really is a new low for her. I can’t believe it.”

“At least she’s dating someone,” I say rudely. “Unlike you.”

“Yeah, well, she doesn’t have a kid to ruin her life and fuck up her chances of meeting someone,” Chris snaps. “Unlike me.”

“Thanks a lot. I’m going to my room. Don’t call me down for dinner.”

“Wasn’t planning on it!” Chris calls as I storm away.

I fall face-first onto my bed, burying myself into my pillow. I know I can’t smother myself with it, but right now there’s nothing more that I want to do. I lay there and take deep, painful breaths, trying to control all of the rage that’s been boiling inside of me for months now.

Rolling over, I pick up my phone and open my messages. Normally, I would text Kristina a long paragraph about what just happened, and together we’d complain about my parents and her parents and how shitty adults are and promise each other we’d never grow up to be like them. But now I’m stuck with all of it, and I’m just so angry at her for leaving me to face everything and everyone on my own. She was always the stronger one, or so I thought. Without her I have nothing, I am nothing. I’m completely and totally alone for good.