Good Page 3

  I stared at the opposite wall feeling that silky partial-consciousness that sneaks throughout your limbs right before a deep sleep. It was soothing and delicious, and it lied to me.

  “Your life isn’t so bad, Cadence,” it said, winding its way down and around my heart, through my arms and legs, spreading to each finger and toe. It lulled me into indifference. I didn’t have to believe it as long as it made my body feel this good. Nothing was that bad so long as I had a bed to lie down on, a place to escape, the dreams in my head that were always waiting, far better than my reality.

  I dipped down, head sinking further into my pillow until I was transported to sweet darkness. Escape. Relief.

  “Cadence, I volunteered you this Sunday to pass out the programs at church,” Dad said over dinner.

  I nodded and forced another piece of chicken in my mouth. It was next to impossible to eat. I’d lost my appetite after being arrested.

  “So how was the first day back?” Mom asked. I could tell she was anxious to hear some good news, but I was reluctant to give it to her. My original plan was to lie about everything, make my parents believe that things were back to normal, but lying is a sin. And it felt so much sweeter to tell the truth.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Well, I received the nicest gift from a group of girls this morning. An orange jumpsuit, actually. Much like the one I wore in juvie.”

  Oliver choked on his chicken.

  Dad narrowed his eyes.

  “I wore it. I figured they went to all that trouble to find a suit my size. But I got in trouble for it with my first period teacher, ‘Midnight in a Perfect World.’”

  Mom, Dad, and Oliver stared at me confused.

  “I mean Mr. Connelly,” I explained, shaking my head. “Then I was bombarded throughout the day with insults. Would you like to hear some?”

  “No,” Dad said flatly.

  I ignored him and listed them off on my fingers. “Slut, bitch, dyke, whore, and my all-time favorite, Nazi fascist. Does anyone know what that means?”

  Oliver stared at me, mouth hanging open in disbelief.

  “I still can’t quite figure out the ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ references. I took a vow of chastity in eighth grade,” I said. “You remember that, right Mom? You led that youth group lesson about purity and waiting until you’re married to have sex. I took the vow. I don’t know what these kids are talking about. I’ve never gotten naked with anyone.” The anger was bubbling over, and I knew to put a lid on it

  Mom’s face turned the color of beets. Dad looked outraged, holding his fork in one hand and knife in the other like weapons. Like he was about to do battle with me. I couldn’t stop myself.

  “Then I missed the bus and had to walk the seven miles home,” I continued. “Any chance I may be able to get my driving privileges reinstated?”

  “No,” Dad said. He eyed me with a mixture of anger and exasperation. “Now, would you like to tell us how your day really went?”

  I bristled. He couldn’t seriously not believe me. Who would make up something like that?

  I dropped my fork on my plate. “I told you the truth. That was my day.”

  “Cadence, I hardly think your classmates would be that mean to you,” Mom said.

  “Exactly,” Dad agreed. “We know you want to be homeschooled and all, but lying about the way you’re treated at school is not going to change our minds. We both work, Cadence. We couldn’t allow you to stay home anyway.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My parents were in complete denial. Did they have no idea how teenagers acted? Teenagers are vicious. I was being bullied, and my parents refused to believe it. I knew I should have kept that freaking jumpsuit!

  “Now, I’ll ask you again,” Dad said. “How was your first day?”

  I refused to speak.

  “I asked you a question, Cadence,” Dad said. “How was your day?”

  I knew he’d keep asking me until I lied to him. And since they thought I was a liar anyway, I decided to play along.

  I bit my lower lip then took a deep breath. “It was good,” I mumbled.

  “Perfect,” Mom replied, and took a sip of her Diet Coke.

  I looked across the table at my brother. He was still staring at me, but he no longer sported an I-can’t-believe-you-cussed-in-front-of-our-parents expression. It had changed. He looked concerned. And angry. I didn’t know what to make of it, and I was too tired to try and figure it out. I asked to be excused, but was told to have some manners and sit at the table until everyone was finished. So I sat for the remainder of dinner watching my parents eat and listening to their inane conversation about work and the upcoming food drive at our church.

  I carried the basket of clean laundry upstairs to my bedroom. I laid out Mr. Connelly’s handkerchief on my bed and put away the rest of my clothes. Then I sat down and decided how best to fold the handkerchief. While I considered a square or triangle, I thought back to the day I met Mr. Connelly on the side of Highway 28. Particularly his expression when he first looked up at me. I ignored it then because I was too busy wondering if I was staring at an angel, but now that I knew he wasn’t (unless God sends angels to earth to teach calculus), I was free to contemplate that look.

  That look.

  Like he knew me from somewhere but I was brand new to him at the same time. Or that it all made sense in that moment. Or that he finally found the one thing he didn’t know he was searching for. No one had ever looked at me like that, and I knew I wasn’t imagining it. I saw it. I saw it when his face lit up. And then he averted his eyes and mumbled something about getting out of my way so I could work. I didn’t know what to make of it now, or if the time since our roadside meeting had exaggerated that look in my mind, but I didn’t think so. I think he liked what he saw, and I was flattered. And confused.

  I looked once more at the handkerchief. Triangle it is, and heard the creak of my bedroom door. Oliver poked his head inside.

  “You okay?”

  “Go away,” I said, fingering the handkerchief.

  Oliver shuffled in and sat beside me.

  “I believe you,” he said. “About your day. I heard Braxton call you a whore and told him if he didn’t stop talking shit about my sister, I’d beat the shit out of him.”

  I smiled.

  “I just can’t believe you said those things in front of Mom and Dad,” he went on, chuckling softly.

  “They asked,” I replied.

  “I think they’re just scared, Cay,” Oliver said. “They don’t wanna believe you’re being bullied.”

  “I don’t care,” I said. “They should believe me. I’m their daughter and they should believe me.”

  Oliver shrugged. “Well, you did lie about that party, and then got high and robbed a convenience store. And then had to go to court. And then got carted off to juvie.”

  “One time!” I yelled, and Oliver laughed.

  “It’s not like sneaking out and drinking, Cadence,” he said. “Kind of a big ass mistake, you know?”

  “Whatever.”

  Oliver cleared his throat. “Look, all this crap will die down.”

  I didn’t believe a word of it.

  “It’ll just take some time. Someone or something new will come along, and those assholes will forget all about you,” he said.

  Comforting words, but I wasn’t convinced.

  “Want me to sit with you on the bus tomorrow?” he asked.

  I grinned. “And ruin your reputation? No. I would never do that to you.”

  Oliver shrugged. “I’ll sit with you, Cadence.”

  I shook my head. “It’s okay. And why are you all of a sudden being nice? I thought we hated each other?”

  “I do hate you,” Oliver said. “But I’m the only one allowed to hate you. No one else is.”

  I chuckled. “You’re such a jerk.”

  “Wanna say our prayers together?” Oliver asked, smirking.

  “Are you serious?”

  “No,” he
replied, and stood up. He opened my bedroom door to leave.

  “Wait!” I called.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you still say your prayers at night?”

  “Yeah.”

  I was dumbstruck. “Why?”

  He looked at me confused. “Because that’s what you do. What? You don’t say yours?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, maybe that’s why you landed in juvie.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was kidding until I saw the grin.

  “Butthead,” I mumbled as he closed the door.

  ***

  I looked at Mr. Connelly as little as possible the following day in calculus. I was embarrassed about yesterday. I was going to give him his handkerchief after class, but he had a line of students at his desk—mostly girls—needing help or attention. The ones who needed help had their math books open, ready. The ones who wanted attention were reapplying lip gloss as they waited.

  Today I was a “racist.” That’s what was written on the note inside my locker waiting for me after calculus. Actually it was “racist bitch.” That one I could easily figure out. The store owner I attempted to rob was an Indian man in his late forties. It wasn’t a targeted hit, though. He could have been any color of the rainbow, and it wouldn’t have made a difference. His store was out in the middle of nowhere, and we were all high: perfect combination for a robbery. I crumbled the paper and tossed it in a nearby trashcan, catching sight of Gracie across the hall. I nearly ran to her.

  “Hey.” I wasn’t sure what I expected her to say. We hadn’t talked since my release. Her parents were adamant that I stay away from her. School was the only chance to speak with her, and she avoided me all yesterday.

  Her green eyes darted all around, looking for an escape.

  “Do you think maybe we could sit together at lunch?” I asked. I shifted my books to my other arm.

  “I can’t, Cadence,” Gracie said. “You know I’m not allowed to—”

  “What? Your mom and dad check up on you at school? How would they even know?”

  Gracie bristled and huffed. “I’m not allowed.”

  I knew I had very limited time. The bell was about to ring, so I decided to go with the most important thing I wanted to tell her.

  “I’m sorry, Gracie,” I said. “I should have listened to you and not gone to that party. I wasn’t trying to ditch you. I was just curious. I made a big mistake. But it was one mistake. Why can’t your parents let us hang out?”

  Gracie’s eyes went wide with disbelief. “You got high! You robbed a store! Why on earth would my parents ever let us hang out again?” she shouted.

  I flinched, embarrassed by her reaction and the looks it garnered from nearby students.

  “You completely ruined our friendship!” she cried, and then the bell rang loud and harsh. “And now you’ve made me late for class!”

  She slammed her locker door and hurried down the hallway. I stood stunned, watching her round a corner and disappear. I considered my options: Go to class or skip school altogether. I was trying to be good, so I knew I should go to class. But I was tired and afraid and sad about Gracie—better reasons to skip instead.

  I grabbed my book bag out of my locker and headed for the side exit. I could slip out unseen and walk somewhere. Anywhere, as long as it wasn’t home. My hands were on the door handle when Mr. Connelly called to me from behind.

  “Where are you going, Cadence?” he asked.

  I didn’t turn around. “Class.”

  “The only class I know of that’s held outside is PE,” he said. “And you’re going the wrong way.”

  I froze.

  “And there’s a camera, by the way,” he said.

  I looked up and to my right. No camera. I looked to my left. A camera. When did they install that?

  “What’s going on?” Mr. Connelly asked.

  I jumped. I hadn’t heard him move, and now he stood close behind me.

  “I just don’t feel like being here today.” I continued to face the door. My exit. My freedom. Could I outrun my math teacher if he went after me?

  “Cadence, you’re smart enough to know that you don’t have a choice. And you’re also smart enough to know that you’d get in major trouble with your parents,” Mr. Connelly said.

  “I don’t care,” I mumbled.

  “Yes you do.”

  I nodded. He was right. I worked for an entire month since my release from juvie to get back into my parents’ good graces. I wanted them to look at me the way they used to. Mom was a little more forgiving, but she didn’t trust me. Dad wasn’t forgiving at all, and the harder I worked to show him I’d changed, the more unforgiving he became.

  The irony was that I didn’t need to show either of them I’d changed because I hadn’t. I had always been a good girl, even when I made that mistake. Yes, it was a really terrible mistake—getting high and robbing a convenience store—but it didn’t alter who I was. I didn’t suddenly overnight become a drug addict or career criminal. I made one bad choice that branded me for life, at least in my parents’ eyes.

  It wasn’t until my release from juvie that I understood my parents’ expectations. I was expected to always be perfect. I was never allowed to make a mistake, and when I finally did, I paid the ultimate price. Not only did they not forgive me and probably never would, but I don’t think they even liked me anymore.

  “Come with me and I’ll write you a late pass,” Mr. Connelly said.

  I reluctantly followed him to his classroom and hovered inside the doorway while he wrote a note. He handed it to me, and I pulled his handkerchief from my pocket.

  “An exchange,” I said, offering him the cloth.

  “I don’t need it,” he replied. “You can keep it since you seemed to like it so much.” He winked. And I liked it.

  I smiled. “Have you ever given it to someone who used it and then gave it right back?”

  “No. I’ve never let anyone use it until you,” he said.

  I felt the heat prickle my skin. I wanted to ask him why he let me use it, but I thought better.

  “Is it a special handkerchief?” I asked instead.

  “My great grandfather’s,” Mr. Connelly replied.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered, looking at the handkerchief. “I put it in the wash with the whites. On the regular cycle!”

  Mr. Connelly chuckled. “It’s all right. Still in one piece.”

  “Mr. Connelly, I cannot keep this. Please take it back. Something terrible will happen to it, I just know it. That’s my luck, you see? Please take it.” I shoved the handkerchief in his face.

  “Go to class, Cadence,” Mr. Connelly said. He wouldn’t take it.

  “Please,” I begged, waving it back and forth.

  “Go to class,” he said gently. “I’ll let you know when I want it back.”

  I walked to English holding his handkerchief, confused and frustrated over why he wouldn’t take it back. What did he want me to do with it?

  ***

  All those teen movies that portray lunch time in high school as the worst period of the day are completely accurate. It is the worst time if you have no friends. I’m not a self-conscious person by nature, but I felt incredibly uncomfortable today sitting alone at the reject table. I planned on sitting next to Gracie, but she made it clear that our friendship was over. What hurt me the most is that I think she was using her parents as an excuse. Sure, I knew they didn’t want me near her, but she wasn’t trying to fight for me because she didn’t want to. She wrote me off, and that realization was a stinging slap to the face.

  I watched Mr. Connelly walk into the cafeteria. I guess his first duty of the school year was overseeing the lunch crowd. I knew teachers rotated duties, and monitoring lunch time had to be, by far, the worst ever. He had a sack lunch. I thought that was cute and dorky. I don’t know why. The food in his bag was probably far superior to the crap on my tray.

  I glimpsed him walking my way.

  Wh
at are you doing? Do not come over here. Did you hear what I said?! Do. Not. Come. Over. Here.

  Mr. Connelly set his bag on the table and slid into a chair a few down from mine. I went hot all over. It was instant anger. Or frustration. Or embarrassment. I don’t know. Maybe all three.

  “Hey, Riley,” he said to a boy across from him.

  “Hi, Mr. Connelly,” Riley replied. He went back to reading his comic book.

  “What’s up, Nicole?” Mr. Connelly said, turning to a girl to the left of him. How did he already know these kids’ names?

  Nicole giggled and pushed her glasses up her nose. “Hi, Mr. Connelly.”

  “How’s your day going?” he asked her.

  She giggled again. “Um, okay, I guess.”

  “Decided if you’re going out for basketball?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. I think so,” she replied.

  I kept my head down, eyes glued to my food tray, letting my hair shield my face. Did Mr. Connelly have a magic brain or something? It was only the second day of school. How could he remember these random kids’ names and previous conversations with them? He must teach over 200 students. And why was he even sitting at this table anyway? The whole thing was weird.

  “Hi, Cadence,” Mr. Connelly said.

  I jumped in my seat. “Hey.”

  “You doing all right?”

  My life completely blows, and you saw me blubbering like a baby yesterday. What do you think?

  “Just fine,” I replied, twirling my fork in my soupy mashed potatoes.

  “Not hungry?”

  I huffed and tipped the bowl of potatoes to give him a better look.

  “Does this look appetizing to you?” I asked.

  He grinned. “Not so much. You wanna split my sandwich?”

  No, I don’t want to split your sandwich. Stop being so nice and cute!

  I shook my head.

  “You probably need to eat something. Helps the brain work better. Plus you’re really tiny.”

  Oh my God. Don’t comment about my size.