Stand by Me

When school first started, I had no idea what to expect. I wasn’t sure if I wanted people to talk to me or not. On one hand, I don’t want anyone pretending like everything was fine, like Kristina was never here, because she was. But on the other, I also don’t want people coming up to me and offering their fake condolences and sympathy like they knew her, like they cared about her, because they didn’t.

But everyone leaves me alone. Mr. West says it’s because no one wants to upset me, but I know the truth: they’re glad it’s not them. They’re not the ones going through it, so why should they care?

And I’m glad they’re being honest, I really am. It’s not like I want friends anyway. I spend my time in school doing my work and avoiding everyone until the bell rings and I can go home. I’ve learned to block out people’s voices and create a protective bubble around myself, and I like it that way.

When it’s time for lunch, I quickly go to the cafeteria, find an empty table, and sit down, pulling out a book and putting my headphones in. I’ve just barely started to read when a tap on my shoulder makes me jump. I look up. It’s my guidance counselor, Ms. Petrillo.

“Hello, Reagan,” she says pleasantly. “How are you?”

“Fine,” I say stiffly.

“I’m glad. Do you think you could come see me in my office sometime, say, when you finish your lunch?”

Privately, I think it’s dumb to say “sometime” and then follow it up with a specific time, but I nod. “Okay.”

I spend the rest of my lunch period wondering what she could possibly want with me. College talks don’t start until the end of October. I haven’t gotten into any trouble. My GPA is the same as it’s always been.

When the bell rings, I throw out my lunch, which I barely touched to begin with, and make my way to guidance. As soon as I knock on Ms. Petrillo’s door, she opens it and smiles warmly. “Hello, Reagan,” she says again. “Please, sit.”

I sit down across from her, holding my backpack to my chest like it’ll protect me. “What class are you missing right now?” she asks.

“Art.”

“Ah. I’ll try not to keep you too long. So, let’s just get right into it. For the past few weeks, your teachers have been observing you, and ‒”

“Wait,” I interrupt. “My teachers have been observing me?”

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

The thought of that makes me feel like a test subject or a lab rat or something, and it pisses me off. “Why?”

“I’m getting to that. Your teachers have been observing you for the past few weeks, and they, along with the principal, are concerned about you.”

“What did I do?” I demand.

“That’s the thing. You don’t do anything,” Ms. Petrillo says. “Your social skills could use a lot of work, Reagan.”

I truly cannot believe she is saying this to me. “What do you mean, my ‘social skills’? I’m social.”

“Your behavior says otherwise. You don’t talk to anyone, you sit alone at lunch and listen to music, you aren’t in any clubs or sports . . . you’ve done a complete 180, and we’ve noticed.”

It’s true that in the past years, I was involved in other clubs and extracurriculars. But this year I lost all interest, and who can blame me? Ms. Petrillo softens her voice. “We know things have been very hard with Kristina’s passing. She was your best friend, and that’s not something you can get over right away. But you’re not even trying.”

I clench my hands into fists as she continues. “You want to go to college, don’t you?”

“I still can,” I snap. “I get very good grades.”

“You’re missing the point,” Ms. Petrillo says patiently. “You can’t go to college on grades alone. They look for activities, sports, clubs, anything to show that you’re well-rounded.”

“I’m perfectly well-rounded,” I insist, even though that’s a dead lie.

“You were,” Ms. Petrillo corrects.

“Can I go now?”

Ms. Petrillo sighs. “Not yet. We want to make sure you’re getting the help you need, so we called your father, and ‒”

“You called my father?” I practically scream.

“There’s no need to yell,” Ms. Petrillo says calmly. Before I can say anything else, the door opens and Chris comes storming in, still in his work clothes. He looks pissed. “You must be Mr. Beckett,” Ms. Petrillo says, rising from her seat and holding out her hand to shake.

Chris shakes it, but barely. “Yes, I am. What’s going on? Why did you call me here?”

“It’s about your daughter, Mr. Beckett.”

“What? What about her? What’d she do?” Chris turns his glare on me. I glare at him right back, silently letting him know that I did not ask for this meeting.

“Nothing. And, well, that’s the point. Reagan doesn’t do anything.”

“So?”

Ms. Petrillo seems appalled by Chris’s lack of concern. I want to tell her that it’s nothing new, I’m used to it.

“I’m not exaggerating, Mr. Beckett. We’ve been observing Reagan since school started and we’ve noticed she has a startling amount of apathy regarding any form of socialization, and we’re worried about her.”

Chris barely glances at me. “She’s fine.”

“Again, Reagan doesn’t do anything. She barely participates in class, she doesn’t talk to any of her classmates, she isn’t involved in any clubs, sports, or other extracurriculars, and frankly, we’re concerned it will affect her chances of getting into college.”

“What do you mean?”

“I understand you want Reagan to go to Yale, Mr. Beckett?”

“She’s still going to Yale,” Chris says immediately.

“Without the grades or the extracurriculars, I’m afraid there really is no way for Reagan to get accepted to an Ivy League, especially one like Yale.”

Chris rounds on me, ready to yell, but before he can I interrupt, “My GPA hasn’t slipped at all. Go ahead and check and you’ll see I’m right.”

“We talked about this,” Chris says through gritted teeth. “You know I’m paying a lot of money for you to come here so you can go to a good school and make something out of yourself.”

“I’m trying my best,” I snap back. “I know everyone else has conveniently been able to move on from my best friend killing herself, but I’m sorry that I haven’t.”

“Reagan,” Ms. Petrillo says, trying to mediate, “if you need help, you’re always welcome to come to me. We also have a licensed therapist who —”

“No,” Chris and I say at the same time. I don’t even need to glance at him to know we’re both giving her the same dagger-eyed glare. She closes her mouth and shrinks back into her chair.

Chris turns back to me. “If I get called out of work for another bullshit meeting like this ever again, we’re going to have a problem,” he says. His voice is quiet, and I can tell he’s trying his best not to explode in front of Ms. Petrillo.

“Trust me,” I say with equal venom, “you’re the last person I want here.”

He doesn’t even answer, instead turning and walking out, not bothering to say good-bye to Ms. Petrillo. She looks shell-shocked. I don’t blame her. “Well,” she says finally, “I apologize, Reagan. I wasn’t aware that your relationship with your father is . . .” She doesn’t continue.

“Yeah,” I say coolly, “do me a favor, and next time just mind your business.” I get up, shoulder my bag, and leave, ignoring her calling after me. I don’t even bother to ask the secretary for a hall pass. I have to admit, I’m a little proud of myself for that one, and I know Kristina would be, too. She was what adults would call “sharp-tongued” and what Chris called a “wiseass,” meaning she was good at coming up with comments that would simultaneously end a conversation and make you feel like shit.

I brush right by the teacher on hall monitor duty. He doesn’t even look up from his book. As I walk to the art room, I replay the ridiculous meeting with Ms. Petrillo and my father over and over. How dare they not think I’m doing enough? How dare they expect me to bounce back so easily from something so life-shattering like this? They don’t get it and they never have.

I almost walk right past the art room. When I walk in, everyone turns and stares at me. I ignore them and go to my seat, dropping my backpack down on the stool next to me. I can feel Mr. West watching me but I don’t say anything, taking out a pencil and my drawing and going right to work.

“Hi,” Mr. West says after a moment of silence.

“Hello.”

“Got a pass for me?”

“No,” I say without looking up.

“Make sure you get one next time, okay?”

“Yeah, maybe,” I answer. I hear a sharp intake of breath from nearly everyone around us. No one ever talks back to Mr. West; he’s too laid-back and understanding to really do anything that would warrant it. Or so I thought.

“Is there something wrong?” Mr. West asks calmly.

“I’m fine,” I say shortly.

“Are you sure?”

“Aside from the fact that you won’t leave me alone, yes.” As soon as I say it I know I’ve gone too far.

“Reagan,” Mr. West says, and sure enough, his voice is quiet but sharp. “You came into this class about fifteen minutes late with no pass and no explanation as to where you were. You’re giving me an attitude when I am only trying to help you. If I were you, I would tone it down a notch.”

“Help me?” I repeat, because the idea of that is laughable, “since when is observing me like I’m some sort of lab rat and telling my guidance counselor that my ‘social skills’ need work and that I probably won’t get into Yale and getting my father involved considered help?”

Mr. West looks at me, pursing his lips. “Stay back when class ends,” he says finally. “We’ll talk about it then.”

I can tell that’s all he’s going to say right now, and I figure I’ve caused enough scenes for one day. “Fine,” I snap. I spend the rest of the class staring at my blank sheet of paper and gripping my pencil so hard it feels like it’s going to snap in two.

Once everyone has left, Mr. West says, “At Mrs. Graff’s request, all of your teachers have been monitoring your behavior. Myself included. And while I did note that you are withdrawn from your usual activities and unwilling to participate in any extracurriculars, I did not say that you won’t get into Yale. And I certainly did not suggest that we get your father involved. Ms. Petrillo insisted.”

He’s looking at me expectantly. Now that the blood is no longer roaring in my ears, I feel a little ashamed. “Oh,” is all I can think to say.

“I’m not the bad guy here, Reagan,” he says, a little gentler. “I promise.”

I open my mouth to apologize, but my throat is tight and I can feel tears burning my eyes. All of my adrenaline is gone and now I’m just tired again. Thankfully, he seems to understand, because he pats my hand.

“What class do you have next?”

“Study hall,” I mumble.

“Wanna hang out here instead? You didn’t get much work done during class.” I nod gratefully. “Okay. Let me call your teacher.”

I watch as he dials the number of my study hall teacher. As he speaks to her, I close my eyes and listen to his voice. And suddenly a thought pops into my mind out of nowhere: I wish Mr. West was my dad. It’s a weird thought, but it explains the horrible feeling of longing that’s twisting my gut.

I don’t know if Mr. West is married or if he even has a girlfriend, but I know he definitely doesn’t have kids. Despite this I can’t help but feel that if he were my father or even just my guardian, my life would be totally different. He’d be a good father, I think. He would understand.

“Reagan?” he says. I open my eyes. “You’re all set.”

“Okay,” I say. The bell rings, but no one is here. “Don’t you have a class?”

“This is my prep period,” he says. “I have freshmen and sophomores next period.” He makes a face, and I do too.

“Are any of them good?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Not really. Most of them are shitheads. Some of them have potential, though.” He smiles at me. “They remind me of you.”

“Me?” I say, surprised. “Why?”

“Young. Eager to please. Talented but don’t know it yet.”

“Oh,” I say, unsure of how to respond. I’m not used to getting compliments like that, or ever, really. Luckily, he merely goes back to putting away paint and oil pastels and markers that the previous class was using, so I just leave it.

We work in companionable silence for a while before I start to feel guilty for snapping at him earlier, for taking a fraction of my pent-up anger out on him. I can feel the explanation simmering in my stomach, making me almost sick. I want to tell him everything that’s going on, but I don’t even know where to begin.

“She’s only been gone a month,” I blurt out. He looks up at me, and for a second I’m afraid he won’t get it. We haven’t spoken for a few minutes now and it probably seems totally out of the blue.

But then he nods and gives me a tiny smile. It’s not a happy one, per se, but it tells me I don’t need to say anything else. It’s not unlike the ones Kristina used to give me, when I’d complain and complain about school and Chris until I ran out of words.

“Yeah, dude,” she’d say. “I get it.”

“I know,” is all Mr. West says. And for the moment, it’s enough.

* * *

I stay after for Art Club when school ends, partially to keep Chris and the school off my back, but also because the art room is the only place where I truly feel comfortable anymore.

Everyone is working on pieces to submit to the magazine we publish with the Creative Writing Club each year. Normally I’d do the same, but I don’t want any of my things published anymore. I don’t want to get noticed.

I spend my time drawing the sun. I draw it so it almost kind of looks like a flower: the rays are layered over each other and kind of wavy. I add a few lines and dots to really push the flower idea before I decide to paint it. Instead of using yellows and oranges and reds, I use gray, and black, and brown. You could say I’m doing it to make a statement or something, but really, it’s just how I feel.

While I paint, I think back to last year, when I would stay after for this and Kristina would stay after for Debate. We’d meet up afterwards to take the bus home and she’d tell me about whatever topic they debated on that day. She always crushed it, no matter what, and she wasn’t lying, either. I went to a few of her competitions and she would win nearly every time. Kristina could argue a topic to death; it was one of her many talents and occasionally flaws.

I used to make fun of her for it, saying someone could say the sky was blue and she’d disagree. And sure enough, she did disagree. “Well, the sky’s not always blue,” she pointed out. “Sometimes it’s black. Sometimes it’s gray. Sometimes it’s pink, like when the sun sets? And I mean, even if it’s blue, it’s not in other parts of the world, because of the time difference and stuff. So, you know, technically that’s wrong.”

Once she realized she just proved my point, she gave me the finger and that was that.

By the time Art Club is over, I’m nearly finished with my sun. Even I have to admit, it looks pretty depressing. Mr. West looks at it and then at me. “No color?” he asks, keeping his voice light.

“No color,” I say, acting like it’s normal.

He nods slowly. “Okay. See you tomorrow.” I can tell he wants to say more but is holding back, and I’m relieved.

I take the bus home by myself. I lean my head against the window, hoping the cool glass will soothe the constant pounding in my head. It doesn’t. But I didn’t get my hopes up anyway.

I go up to my room and do my usual routine of lying in bed and staring at the ceiling until Chris gets home and I have to pretend to be a regular human being again. I’m halfway down the stairs to ask what he’s making for dinner when I remember our meeting today with Ms. Petrillo. I pause.

“Reagan,” Chris says. He doesn’t raise his voice, meaning he knows I’m right there.

Slowly, I go down the stairs and into the kitchen. He’s standing at the sink, his back to me. “What was today about?” he asks. For once, his voice is calm, but it still freaks me out.

“I have no idea,” I say quickly. “I swear. They just called me in and sprung that on me and I told them calling you was a bad idea but they didn’t listen, and they just kept saying that bullshit about me not socializing when I do, I swear I do, I stayed after for Art Club today. I don’t know why they did that, they hate me, they always have.” I’m rambling, something I haven’t done in a long time.

“If you’re having a hard time in school, we can pull you out for a few days,” he says. His voice is still calm, and it unnerves me.

“No,” I answer. “I’m fine. They’re all just stupid.”

He studies me for what seems like ages. “Okay,” he says finally. “I’m thinking of ordering pizza for dinner.” And that’s that.

After dinner, Chris goes into the TV room, a beer in his hand. I consider going back upstairs, but for some reason I hesitate. Why didn’t I get in trouble today? Is Chris actually on my side for once? Is it he and I against the school, us vs. them?

I go into the TV room. He looks at me, puzzled. “What are you watching?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Discovery Channel. Something on the Serengeti.”

“Can I watch too?”

He looks surprised, but quickly hides it. “If you want.” So I sit down next to him and we watch together. At first it’s actually kind of interesting; I’ve always liked animals and the Serengeti is home to some of my favorites, like elephants and giraffes and lions. I watch a lioness doze in the sun while her cubs wrestle and play with each other, and I actually feel a little better.

But then it cuts to a cheetah stalking a gazelle while it grazes. I feel my stomach clench as the cheetah begins to chase it. The gazelle is fast, but the cheetah is faster, and soon enough it takes it down and pounces. The poor thing doesn’t stand a chance.

I’ve never had an opinion on cheetahs, but watching it eat the gazelle makes me hate them with such fury it makes my chest burn. I’m suddenly sick to my stomach as the camera zooms in on the gazelle’s blank, unseeing eyes. I wonder if that gazelle had a family, like a mate or babies or even just a herd. There has to be someone out there who is wondering where that random gazelle went, someone who is missing it. I can’t be the only one.

Chris abruptly changes the channel. I breathe out, trying to drag myself out of that slippery black hole I was teetering on the edge of. We sit there silently as the fake laugh track of a sitcom plays in the background. Finally, I say, “Fuck the Serengeti.”

He doesn’t answer at first and for a second I think I’ve annoyed him again. But then he nods. “Yeah. Fuck the Serengeti.”