One
BOSTON, MA
Someone once told me optimism was genetic. My dad forged a path to the bright side and I followed close behind, nearly sunburned from the glare. I lived in everlasting warmth, naïvely believing it belonged to me.
After nine months in the dark, it felt like maybe I’d never seen the sun at all.
I felt furthest from my dad’s optimism walking through the doors of Farnum High School. The scent—an amalgam of cheap perfume, body spray, and cleaning product—stung the back of my throat. My footsteps echoed, synchronizing with disembodied squeaking sneakers from the nearby gymnasium. I’d memorized the way by my third visit.
The office had to be a solid ten degrees warmer than the rest of the school, even with open windows.
“Violet,” the woman behind the front desk, Gloria, crowed. She gestured to the visitors’ log, as if I hadn’t done this a dozen times. “How are you doing, sweetheart?”
I bent to scribble my and Phoebe’s names. My smile didn’t fit right. “Oh, you know.”
“Boy, do I.” Hers was more convincing. “Have a seat. Principal Chambers will be with you in a jiff.”
Phoebe sat alone in a row of stiff chairs, isolating and far enough from the windows to be both embarrassing and unbearable, scowling at her lap instead of meeting my eyes. I veered for her. Her choppy pink hair spilled from a short ponytail, messily framing her face; multicolored fingernails picked at a rip in her jeans; her face was scrubbed clean of the usual raccoon makeup, eyes red. Dry blood stained the front of her—my—Fleetwood Mac tee.
I sat beside her. “Seriously?”
“He started it,” she fired at once, though her tone lacked the usual flames.
“You have two weeks left of school.”
“He started it.”
I pressed my fingers into my eyes, exhaling sharply. “I had to leave work again, Phoebe. This can’t keep happening.”
The bell rang overhead, sharp and deafening, but Phoebe didn’t flinch. I resisted the urge to ask for details. I’d been stuck on the outside of her life for nine months, desperate for a way in; you can’t force a fourteen-year-old to practice healthy communication if they’re hell-bent on staying inside their own head.
Three things:We have each other, you have a job to provide for her, a roof over your heads.
Three positives to combat the rest. It had become a mantra, something keeping me afloat when the rest of my world took on water. Lately, I struggled with three. Not great, seeing as I’d cut it down from five.
I decided to risk a question: “Are you okay?”
Phoebe’s scowl deepened, so I pointed to her bloody shirt. She spared it a quick glance. “It’s not mine,” she said.
“The blood or the shirt?”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “Sorry.”
“That’s what you’re sorry about?”
“Well, I know how much you like this shirt.”
I blew out a sharp breath, relenting to the urge. “What happened?”
“Don’t worry about it,” she replied. I sank farther into the stiff seat, defeat inching up my neck in a warm flush. Still, I knew I’d keep trying. Even if it wore me to dust, I’d make the effort. I cared as loudly as possible and she pushed me away in equal measure. On bad days, I’d think it would be nice if she reciprocated in a way I understood, but then the unfairness would sneak up on me and I’d shove the thought to the furthest corner of my mind. Grief has no room for selfishness, especially when teenagers are involved.
I wanted to keep poking. The relentless bright side in me insisted I could get through somehow, but the logical side of my brain reached for the advice from my best friend, Arden, or my therapist, or Phoebe’s therapist—give her space to grieve and trust the process. If her process was anywhere near as nightmarish as mine, I wouldn’t hold my breath.
We sat in silence. Phoebe inspected her chipped nail polish and cast an apathetic glance toward the clock on the wall. I bit my tongue so hard, I tasted blood.
The door directly across from us swung open and out swept Principal Chambers, all long legs, blond curls, and the Reformation dress I’d had bookmarked on the website for over a year. Meanwhile, my hair was windblown because the AC in my car didn’t work, and my outfit cost a whopping thirty bucks from TJ Maxx. I did my best not to shrink in her presence, but as an elementary school teacher and former honor roll student, principals were my kryptonite.
“Violet,” she said, offering a breezy smile. “Nice to see you again. And so soon.”
