12
Maybe I wasn’t there
To catch you when you fell.
But I’m here now
To listen when you yell.
— Kids from Alcatraz
I TOLD MY PARENTS I WAS TOO SICK to go to school the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. I didn’t know how I could ever show my face there again. Not after my Great Humiliation, a truly momentous event in history. Like the American Revolution. Or Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest. The only thing I could muster the energy to do was stick my ear buds in and attempt to drown out my horrible thoughts with punk rock.
Mom knocked on my door that third day, then walked in. “How are you feeling, honey?”
I moaned. “Terrible.” I wondered how long they would believe I was sick.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so busy working and haven’t been able to spend more time with you while you’ve been feeling bad,” she said.
“It’s okay,” I mumbled. I was glad my parents weren’t around. I didn’t want anyone around.
“Zion’s here.”
I sat up. “Why?”
“He brought you some of your work from school.”
“Well, he should leave so I won’t get him sick.”
“He says he’s not worried about getting sick. And you don’t seem to have a fever or anything. I don’t think you’re contagious.”
“You don’t know that, Mom.”
Zion peeked his head out from behind her. “Hi Aven,” he said softly.
Mom left, and I swung my legs around onto the floor. Zion dropped a small stack of papers on my desk. He tapped gently on Fathead’s terrarium, but Fathead ignored him. Then he sat down next to me on the bed.
I couldn’t look at him. He didn’t say anything. Finally he turned and hugged me.
Pity hug.
I was so ashamed. So humiliated. And there was nothing he could say or do that wouldn’t make it worse. “I’m sorry,” I said.
He let go of me. “Why are you sorry?”
I stared down at my feet. “I wouldn’t listen to you. I should have trusted you.”
“You just always want to believe the best about people.”
“I should have hated him because of how he treated you. Like, how desperate could I be for someone to like me?”
“You’re not desperate. And I can’t imagine you hating anyone. Even though . . . ”
“Even though what?”
“Yeah, you totally should have trusted me. That’s what friends are for, right?”
I scowled at the floor. “You didn’t tell anyone, did you?”
Zion shook his head. “No, I told my mom you were sick. She was worried about you. Lando was, too.”
I cringed. Lando and Joshua were on the football team together. I wondered if the football team would find out—find out that some kids found me so disgusting, they would make a dare out of kissing me like it was the equivalent of eating a Madagascar hissing cockroach. My eyes filled with more tears.
“Aven,” Zion said. “That guy is a special kind of terrible. Like I tried to tell you. And so are his friends. Forget about it. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“Forget about it,” I repeated, the tears rolling down my cheeks. “Like you’ve forgotten about being called Lardon.” I shook my head. “No wonder you were so down on yourself last year.”
Zion shrugged. “You’ll get past it like I’m getting past it. It’s been tough, though. I didn’t think as much about my weight in elementary school. I mean, I’ve always been bullied, but when I got to middle school it was like a whole new level with Joshua and his friends. I didn’t want to see him do the same things to you. That’s why I tried to warn you.”
I flinched.
You should have trusted me.
I tried to tell you.
I tried to warn you.
I could see Zion was hurt. And I was hurt. I just hoped our friendship wasn’t hurt.
“You’re not . . . mad at me, are you?” I said.
Zion got back up and walked to Fathead’s terrarium. “No.” But he’d hesitated. And he hadn’t looked at me. “Of course not.”
“I know I should have trusted you,” I said. “I’ll never not trust you again. And I’m trusting you, and only you, to never ever tell anyone about what happened.”
Zion turned around. “Of course I won’t. Why would I?”
“Then why’d you say that?”
I shrugged. “I just want you to know I trust you.”
Zion tapped on Fathead’s terrarium one more time, but she didn’t budge. “Anyway, I can’t stay,” he said. “Ma’s waiting out in the car.”
I was torn between wanting him to stay and make sure we were okay and wanting him to leave so I wouldn’t have to deal with this anymore. I motioned toward the stack of papers with my head. “Thanks for bringing me my work.”
Zion smiled. “That’s what friends are for, right?”
I did my best to match his smile. “That and a lot of other things.”
I walked Zion out then helped Mom set the table for dinner.
“You feeling any better, Sheebs?” Dad asked once we were all sitting down together.
I sat down across from him. “Not really.”
“What’s still wrong? Stomachache?”
“Yeah, stomachache, headache, throat ache . . . foot ache.”
Dad tilted his head at me. “That’s a lot of aches. I’m sorry you feel so bad.” He fiddled with his fork a moment. “Are you sure this isn’t about something else?”
“Are you afraid to go to school for some reason?”
“No,” I lied. “I mean, it’s true I don’t want to go anymore, but I’m not afraid. I just think maybe I would like to never to go to school again and possibly become a hermit. That’s all.”
Dad smiled. “I don’t think you’d make a very good hermit. You’d get lonely.”
“No, I could do it. I found an entire how-to article complete with steps, tips, and pictures. It didn’t seem hard at all.”
Mom tossed a potholder onto the table. “Really?”
“What were the pictures of?” Dad asked.
“You know,” I said. “Just people . . . hermiting.”
Mom placed a pot of Swedish meatballs on top of the potholder. “What were the tips?”
I shrugged. “I don’t remember all of them, but one was to connect with other hermits.”
“That seems . . . contradictory,” Dad said.
I nodded. “Yeah, it wasn’t a very good article.”
Mom sat down at the table. “Why are you Googling how to become a hermit, Aven?”
“Just curious.”
“Wouldn’t you miss us?” Dad said.
“Oh, I’d still have to see you every now and then.”
“Then you wouldn’t be a real hermit,” Mom said.
“Then I guess I’d like to become a part-time hermit. So if you never make me go back to high school again, I can accomplish my goal of becoming a part-time hermit.”
“What has happened that makes you want so badly to never go back to school again?” Mom asked.
“Nothing,” I insisted. “Like I’ve already told you a hundred times.” I didn’t realize how mean my tone had been until I looked up from my plate and saw the hurt in Mom’s face.
I stared back down at the table. “Sorry,” I muttered. I took the spoon from the pot with my foot and placed a sad lonely meatball on my plate. I stabbed it with my fork and chewed. I wasn’t hungry.
I knew they were sitting there, not eating, staring at me. Waiting for me to say something else. But I didn’t.
“We wish you would tell us what’s going on with you,” Dad finally said.
But I could never tell them about my Great Humiliation. I could never tell anyone. And I hoped Zion wouldn’t either.