“I hear you had quite the weekend.” Richard Fisher peers at me over the rim of his reading glasses.
I prop my feet on the scratched surface of the coffee table, its legs wobbly like cardboard, like the kind of furniture we had in our old house, before Steven. “Not you, too.”
Ever since Libby and I got hauled back into LakeShore yesterday afternoon, Will and Red haven’t been able to shut up about it. Once Visitation ended, nobody knew where we were. It turned into a big to-do, with our names called over the intercom a bunch of times and our rooms checked. By the time some genius thought to check the security cameras, every idiot in LakeShore knew that Libby and I were missing. Together. So when they spotted us sleeping and brought us in bleary eyed with grass on our backs, the rumor mill had already taken on a life of its own.
Richard Fisher takes off his glasses. “You do realize we have a very strict policy about romantic relationships here, right? It should have been reviewed with you and your mom when you first came in.”
“Nothing happened,” I say, for probably the 800th time in two days. No matter how many times I say it, Will still punches me in the arm and says “Duuude . . .” every time Libby passes.
“I believe you,” Fish says, “but I still have to put the two of you on probation. Elizabeth will be leaving soon anyway, but you . . .”
I try to imagine Libby as Elizabeth, with straight black hair, no ink, and no scars. A nameless, faceless girl that I could’ve passed a million times in the hall at school and never noticed. And then I wonder if Libby’s right—if our imperfections shape us, if our scars make us who we are.
“Hello?” Richard Fisher waves an impatient hand in my face. “Are you even listening to me?”
I blink. “Probation, I heard you. Can I go now?”
Richard Fisher gives me a look that’s supposed to be stern, I think, but the worry lines around his eyes give him away. “You have two more weeks, Eli. One more mess up, and my hands are tied. You’ll have to go home early.”
The reality of what he’s saying sinks in hard and all at once, like one of those cartoon anvils. If I flunk out of rehab, I’m screwed. At the very least, drug charges mean probation and community service. Forget lacrosse—they’d never let a convict attend LionsHeart. I’d probably never see Savannah again. I let out a heavy exhale like a deflating balloon and slump back onto the couch.
“This is serious stuff, Eli,” Richard Fisher says. “Aside from your stay at LakeShore, I’m concerned about what I see happening here.”
There’s a worn spot on the couch cushion beside me, where the fabric’s stretched so thin, I can make out the spongy material underneath. I fiddle with a loose thread at the frayed edge and peer up at Richard Fisher.
“C’mon, man,” Richard Fisher leans back in his chair, stretches his arms out wide. “Your girlfriend broke up with you, what, a week ago? And you’re already on to the next girl?”
My spine goes stiff. “It’s not like that.”
“Then tell me what it’s like, Eli.”
“I don’t know. I just . . . when I’m with her, I don’t feel so alone.”
“Okay,” Fish nods. “Tell me what it feels like to be alone.”
I pluck at a patch of peeling, dry skin on my knuckle. Ever since Mom left, all I can think about is what she told me about my dad. Because it turns out I was wrong. Dad was an addict—he’d left us long before Mom kicked him out. And what does that say about me?
“Empty,” I tell Fish. “Like there’s this hole inside me, and all I want to do is fill it up.”
“And being with Libby . . . that fills you up?”
I shrug. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Can you think of any other time you’ve gone looking for something to fill yourself up?”
I roll my eyes. I’m not an idiot. I see the connection Fish is trying to make. “This is different,” I say. “Libby’s different. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been trying to live up to other people’s expectations, you know? Mom and Steven’s. Savannah’s. It’s fucking exhausting. But with Libby, I don’t have to prove anything. I can just be myself.”
“Ah,” Richard Fisher scratches his goatee. “I get it, man, I do. But I want you to consider, even for a second, if it’s possible that this is another avoidance behavior. I mean, you’ve barely said anything about your mom’s visit the other day.”
I’m shaking my head, but Richard Fisher keeps talking.
“You just found out that your dad was an addict, and that your mom’s been lying to you your entire life. And instead of dealing with it, instead of facing it head on, you’re hiding out with Libby. As far as I’m concerned, this is the exact same behavior that brought you here in the first place. Just a different drug.”
My mouth tastes sour and hot; the hairs prickle on my arms. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You get caught up with girls, you snort smack, you do it all so you don’t have to deal with the one real thing going on. You don’t have to deal with your pain.”
I’m grinding my teeth so hard my jaw hurts. Who the fuck does this dude think he is? He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know Libby. I listen to his bullshit because I have to, because no matter how I feel about Richard Fisher, I’m stuck here. Finishing my time at LakeShore is the only way back to my life.
“You’ve been given an incredible opportunity here, Eli, and you’re wasting it. I mean, what’s the plan? Pretend this thing with your mom never happened? That’s grade-A thinking right there, man. That way you can skate through the next two weeks without ever learning anything about yourself . . .”
“Fuck you!” I explode, jumping up so fast that the coffee table shakes. “What do you know anyway? You’re just some dried up old hack. I’m the one doing all the work here!” I jam my thumb into my sternum. “Me! I’ve done everything you told me to do—the writing, the fucking sharing! I even let you convince me to bring my mom in, and we both know what a shit show that turned out to be! I’ve done nothing but hurt since I got here. And now you’re trying to tell me it’s not good enough? Well, you know what I think? I think you spend all your time trying to fix everybody else so you don’t have to think about how much you’ve fucked up your own life.”
Richard Fisher taps his thick index finger on the desk one time, twice. A warning.
I hover over his desk, seething, hot spit collecting in the corners of my mouth. “You spend all your sad sap life muddling in other people’s business, but what about yours, huh, Dick?” I snatch up the blue framed picture, the baby in the red bandana, and wave it in Richard Fisher’s face like an angry talisman. “When was the last time you spoke to your wife?”
A tight ball forms at the base of Richard Fisher’s jaw. He’s breathing heavy, fogging up the glasses on the end of his nose. He’s about to lose it, and I want him to. I want him to yell; I want him to hit me. Any excuse to let out this fury inside me that threatens to swallow me whole.
I want to peel my skin off. I want to turn myself inside out.
Fish takes off his glasses, wipes them on the hem of his faded green Life is Good t-shirt. “Are you done?” he asks.
Behind me, the dried-up water feature gurgles pathetically like a half-hearted mediator.
Someone else might back down, but not me, not now. I hold Richard Fisher’s gaze, the picture of his son still clenched in my fist.
He props his weary elbows on his desk, his shoulders hunched toward his ear lobes. “You’re right about one thing, Eli. I’ve been through hell and back on that side of the desk. But believe it or not, I’ve learned a few things along the way. The way I see it, you have two choices: You can talk about your dad and about your mom lying to you. We can start addressing some of these feelings you’re having, and you can go home armed with strategies for staying clean. You can reclaim your life. Or option two,” Richard Fisher holds up two fingers, “you can go home empty-handed, with nothing but a crush on some girl you’re never going to see again.”
Heat rushes up the back of my neck, flooding my cheeks. I toss the picture frame onto Richard Fisher’s desk. The glass rattles in the frame. “Can I go now?”
Richard Fisher gives me a long stare. “Yeah, you can go.” And then, to my back on the way out of his office: “But stay away from Libby.”
A hard, fast run would wring out my anger like dirty water from a sponge. But I’m still restricted to walking only, and it takes me over an hour on the treadmill to calm down. After the gym, I swing by my room for a quick shower before dinner. Mo’s got all his stuff out on his bed, his shirts folded, the surface of his dresser cleared. He’s carefully stacking clothes in a half-packed suitcase where his pillows should be. He’s giving his final testimony tonight, and even though I’ve been excited about the idea of having the room to myself, seeing his packed suitcase sucks the wind out of me.
I lean in the doorway, sweaty and out of breath. “You finally figured out I’m a terrible roommate, huh?”
Mo looks over his shoulder, shoots me a wicked grin. “Don’t kid yourself, bro. I’ve known that since day one.”
I pull off my soaked t-shirt and toss it into the growing pile of dirty laundry at the bottom of my closet. Mo shoots the pile a wary look. “My point exactly.”
I pop my towel at his back playfully. “Hey, I’ve only missed laundry day once, okay?”
“Tell that to the smell in here.”
I duck my head, take a huge whiff of my sweaty pits. “Get a whiff of that LakeShore breeze!”
Mo laughs, and I head into the bathroom. By the time I’m done showering, his suitcase is packed, and he’s sitting on the edge of his bed with his eyes closed.
I tread softly across the floor, pull a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt out of my dresser. I yank on my jeans, and when I turn back around, Mo’s opening his eyes.
“Everything, okay?” I ask.
He gives me a shaky smile. “Just nervous, I guess.”
“About giving your testimony?” I pull a clean red t-shirt over my head. Part of going home is sharing your testimony with everybody in the building. It’s a really big deal, and even though I’ve only seen a couple of people do it so far, the thought of getting up in front of everybody makes me want to barf.
Mo shakes his head. “Nah, that’s the easy part. It’s what comes after that’s hard.”
I hang my towel on the back of my door. “Are you kidding, dude? I’d kill to be in your shoes. You get to go back to your family—you get to see your friends. You get your life back.”
“Yep.” Mo nods slightly. “And it scares the shit out of me.”
I drop down on the end of my bed across from Mo, put my hand on his shoulder. “You can do this, bro. You know this shit inside and out. You’re like a walking advertisement for AA.”
Mo slips me a sideways grin. “AA doesn’t advertise. It’s the eleventh tradition.”
“See?” I shove his shoulder. “I don’t even know what the shit you’re talking about.” Mo laughs, a big belly laugh that cuts through his nervous tension. “I want to do it right this time, you know? My little sister, she got herself . . .” Mo draws an invisible line out from his own full belly with a caramel-colored hand that shakes a little. “She’s gonna need me,” he says. “And that keiki, I don’t want her to come into the world without a man in her life, you know? I want to be there for them both.”
I think about Dad, the peel of his tires out of the driveway, the missed birthdays, the baseball game. How he gave up on me. And Mo, who’s tried sobriety and failed five times, but still refuses to give up. His niece will be lucky to have him.
“You’re the strongest person here,” I tell Mo. “If anybody can do this, it’s you.”
Mo reaches out his hand, his eyes wide and earnest. When I take it, he grasps tightly. “You can do this, too, you know? I believe in you. You just gotta get your head in the game.”
I don’t know where to look anymore because Mo made it awkward. I try to pull back my hand.
Mo squeezes tighter. “But if you hurt my Libby, I’m going to have to kick your ass.”
I give a ha-ha-very-funny kind of laugh, but Mo’s crunching my fingers in his palm. “Got it?”
“Geez, I’ve got it. Promise!”
Mo releases my hand. “Good.”
The rec room is packed. I swear Mo’s entire family came out to hear his final testimony—the whole two front rows of metal folding chairs are overflowing with highly emotional Hawaiians. His little sister, hoisting her belly in front of her, sits dead center, next to a graying woman who’s probably Mo’s mom. Mo keeps trying, and they keep coming, everybody hoping that this time will be the last. For Mo’s sake, and for his sister’s, I hope it will be, too.
I find a seat between Red and Will. Will’s leg has been jiggling up and down for the past fifteen minutes, so hard it’s creaking his chair and annoying the crap out of me. Red finally digs in his pocket and passes Will a grape Jolly Rancher. Will’s leg only stops moving long enough for him to unwrap the candy and pop it in his mouth, and then it’s creak-city all over again.
I spot Libby a few rows up from us. Her hair is pulled up, showing the smooth skin at the back of her neck, the baby hairs that hang over the collar of her shirt. I must be staring because Red punches me in the thigh, and I double over, sucking in air that whistles through my clenched teeth.
“Focus,” Red hisses, his eyes twinkling.
Mo stands behind the podium, looking out at all the people gathered to hear his testimony. “I sure wasn’t expecting this kind of turn out,” he jokes. “Is there a party somewhere I should know about?”
Chuckles ripple through the audience.
“Don’t worry,” Mo says, grinning at Howard, who sits in the front row shaking his head. “I’m just messing around.” Mo takes a sip of water from the clear plastic cup on the podium and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “In all seriousness, though, this isn’t my first trip to the rodeo.” He holds up his hand, waggling all five fingers and earning another laugh from the crowd. “You might be wondering what’s going to make this time any different.” Mo looks right at his sister, then his mom. “Sometimes I wonder that, too.” Nobody’s laughing anymore. Mo’s mom dabs at her eyes with a crumpled Kleenex, lays her head on his sister’s shoulder.
“I guess the honest answer is that I don’t know,” Mo says. “I wish I could see into the future just as much as anybody else, but the fact is, I can’t. I have to live life on life’s terms. And that means one day, one minute, one fraction of a second at a time. If I’ve learned anything here at LakeShore, it’s that sobriety doesn’t come in big sweeping gestures. It doesn’t come with promises or negotiations. In fact, those usually come in the pockets of addicts.”
He smiles at his own joke, drawing another laugh from the crowd. “What I know for sure is that I want to be there for my family.” Mo glances at his sister, whose hands rest on her round belly. “I want to be the man they need me to be. I can’t promise that I’ll do it perfectly, but I promise that I’ll try. Sobriety is a journey, a choice I will make every single day. Today, I’m 28 days sober. And I thank God for that. Thanks for letting me share.”
The room fills with applause, and a couple of guys in the second row pump their fists in the air and bark (“Whoop! Whoop!”) like Mo just scored a touchdown. Everyone claps as Howard walks across the stage and shakes Mo’s hand, cheers when Mo pulls Howard into a bear hug. It’s better than graduation, and in that moment of celebration and success, I’m filled with pride and belief. Maybe it doesn’t have to be perfect. Maybe not giving up is enough. If that’s true, then I know that Mo can do it. And that makes me wonder if I can do it, too.
Mo joins his family in the front row, tucks his heavy arm around his sister, a mother bird pulling her hatchlings close. Howard makes a few closing comments, then leads us all in the Serenity Prayer to close out the meeting. And then the rows of people start to shift, funneling into the center aisle that points toward the refreshment table at the back of the rec room.
Will makes a beeline for the donuts, and Red starts after him. “You want anything?” he calls back to me.
I wave away the offer, spotting Libby in the crowd. “Later.”
Red follows Will to the swarming refreshment table. I steal a glance over my shoulder, keeping a sharp eye out for Richard Fisher. But he’s in deep conversation with Mo’s mom. I weave through the crowd deliberately, moving pieces like Candy Crush, until Libby and I happen to be standing side by side in the haphazard lines that stretch out from the refreshment table like twin rows of marching ants.
I lean in, close enough to whisper, “The wait’s a nightmare in this joint. You want to find a better place to eat?”
Her profile stretches into a sly grin, but she doesn’t turn around to face me. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
I look straight ahead into the wavy brown hair of the girl in front of me and talk out of the side of my mouth. “You’re not talking to me. You just happen to be standing next to me in line. You happen to be talking, and I happen to be listening.”
Libby’s fingers find mine. She gives them a quick squeeze, her eyes flitting over my face with a look that sends a rush of nerves through my body. Then she lets go, looks away. And all I am is need.
Libby casts a quick glance in Mo’s direction. He’s surrounded by hugging, weeping family members, not to mention residents and staff. Libby sniffs. “I hate goodbyes,” she mutters, tears thick at the back of her throat.
I steal another furtive glance at Richard Fisher. He’s one of many enthusiastic staff members who have gathered around Mo, waiting their turns to say goodbye. “So, let’s skip it,” I offer.
Libby peers up at me, her eyes questioning.
“Who needs all that mushy goodbye stuff anyway?”
Libby chews on her lower lip, considering. She looks at Mo again. He’s hugging another resident, his cheeks streaked with tears. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Really?” I must look surprised because Libby laughs out loud.
“Yeah,” she says. “And you better have something good planned, because so far this date’s a dud.”
A date. My brain’s fuzzy all of a sudden, and I have to force myself to think straight. It’s just like me to come up with some elaborate escape plan and then crash and burn on the execution. I wrack my brain for a place to take Libby. Not outside; the exterior doors get locked automatically after the evening meeting. Nothing like a facility-wide alarm to alert Richard Fisher. And not my room—I don’t have to worry about a roommate anymore, but I’m not stupid. A co-ed sleepover would be a guaranteed ticket out of LakeShore. I glance at the refreshment table, still surrounded by residents.
I tip my head toward the kitchen door. “I know a great ice cream place.”
“You treating?” Libby teases.
“As long as it’s free.” I take her hand. “This way.”
Libby pulls back, tips her head toward Richard Fisher. “What if someone sees?”
She’s right, and as much as I don’t want to think about Richard right now, I definitely don’t want him barging into the middle of my ice cream date either. Libby and I decide I’ll go first, and she’ll follow a few minutes later.
I weave through the crowd, keeping my eyes low. Finally, I make it to the door and turn to make sure Libby’s following me. At the outer edge of the crowd, she pauses, scanning the room. When she spots Mo, she blows a kiss, quickly, but deliberately, like she’s wishing on dandelion seeds. She watches that kiss travel over the expanse of people between her and Mo, and I almost change my mind. She should stay; she should give him a real goodbye.
And that’s when I see Red. Head and shoulders above most of the people around him, Red’s eyes settle easily on me. His brows raise in a question mark, and then he turns slightly, his searching eyes traveling the invisible thread that connects me to Libby. She turns away from Mo and begins to weave through the crowd, moving in my direction.
Understanding floods Red’s face.
Please. I put my finger to my lips, silently begging him not to say anything to anyone.
Red points toward Mo. The look on his face says everything I already know. He’s my roommate. He’s the first of us leaving. I should stick around; I should tell him goodbye.
I shrug, I can’t help it, because now Libby’s speed-walking toward me, eyes bright with tears or mischief or both, and I don’t care if I’m a selfish jerk as long as I’m with her.
Red shakes his head.
“This way.” I take Libby’s hand and pull her out of the room.
The freezer is full of ice cream, leftover from Sunday Sundaes, LakeShore’s catchy weekend dessert. Half-empty cartons offering a variety of flavors line the upper shelf. “Let’s see . . .” With my upper body tucked inside the industrial upright freezer, my voice bounces off the walls like I’m exploring a mine shaft or climbing through a heating duct. “We’ve got mint chocolate chip, cookie dough, peanut butter cup—”
“Any frozen yogurt left?” Libby asks.
“Gross.” I rummage through the cardboard cartons until I find some (cherry) and then grab the good stuff (peanut butter cup and mint chocolate chip) for myself. I hip check the freezer door and unload my bounty on the stainless-steel cabinet. “Welcome to Sundae Monday.”
Libby casts a nervous glance at the kitchen door.
“Are you going to find us some spoons,” I ask, “or do I have to do everything myself?”
She flashes me a shaky smile and grabs a couple spoons out of the drying rack. “I have a bad feeling about this,” she says, passing one to me. “What if somebody comes in here?”
“Relax.” I pop the lid off the yogurt. “All the food’s out there, remember? And everybody’s going to be way too busy with Mo to come in here for at least another half hour.”
She gives me a wary look, forehead puckered, conflicted. I wonder if she’s wishing she’d stayed in the rec room. I wonder if she’s thinking about Mo. I scoop up a heaping spoonful of cherry fro-yo and offer her the spoon. “Wanna bite of fake ice cream?”
Libby stares at me for a second. Then she hoists herself up onto the counter and takes the spoon, licks it cautiously, like a baby bird. I, on the other hand, spoon a huge chunk of peanut butter cup into my mouth and cringe from the instant brain freeze. Libby laughs.
“It’s weird, isn’t it,” she says, between delicate nibbles from her spoon, “how normal this feels? You and me, I mean.”
I nod. If I don’t look around me at the industrial range top and doublewide fridge, if I pretend not to notice the Drug Free posters that plaster the white cement block walls, then I could almost imagine that Libby and I are at one of our houses—hanging out in the kitchen after school.
“Especially because you and I would never be friends if we’d met somewhere else.”
Libby’s words slash at my thoughts. “Of course we would,” I say, but she cuts me off with a searing scowl.
“C’mon, Eli. Don’t try to tell me that you would even give me the time of day if we went to the same school. I saw your girlfriend. I have guys like you at my school, too, you know.” Her eyes flash something dark and painful. “I wouldn’t matter to you at all.”
I put down my spoon and edge around the counter to face her. I rest my arms on her legs, interlock my fingers behind her hips, and pull her to me until the knobby edges of her knees poke sharp into my chest. “Can I tell you something true?”
Libby nods, small and child-like.
“You are the most interesting person I have ever met,” I say.
She blinks, wet lashes smudging black beneath her eyes. I lift a hand to smooth back her hair, softly touch her cheek.
“You scare the shit out of me,” I tell her, and she gives a choking laugh.
“When I’m around you, I feel alive, like I’m all the way myself, and I didn’t even know until now that I’ve only been part way myself. But you make me better. You matter to me. I would never let you go unnoticed.”
Libby dips her head, wipes her nose on the back of her shirt sleeve. “That was five.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Five true things,” she whispers.
“Yeah, well, here’s another.” I grab her empty spoon and dip it into the cherry fro-yo. I take a big bite and talk out of the side of my mouth. “You have terrible taste in ice cream.”
And that’s when Libby kisses me.
There’s no buildup, no anticipation. No moment of quiet wondering. There is only her mouth on mine and cherry frozen yogurt and a single breathless moment that I never want to end.
And then it does. Libby pulls away, slides down off the counter so that her body presses full against mine, and I can’t stand how close she is, I can’t stand this wanting. I slip my hand behind her neck, lean down to kiss her again, but she ducks slightly, reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a folded-up piece of paper that she presses against my chest. “I meant to give you this earlier,” she says, gently swiping frozen yogurt from the corner of my mouth with one soft finger.
I take the paper and start to unfold it, but she covers my hand with her own. “It’s no big deal. Look at it later, okay?”
She watches me slip the folded square into my back pocket, and then she slides out from between me and the counter and heads for the door.
“See you later, Eli,” she says.
As soon as the door closes behind her, I take the folded paper out of my pocket. It’s a picture of me. Not a disfigured abstract sketch—it’s a clear depiction of the day we fell asleep together on the lawn. I’m lying on my side in the grass, tall trees in the background. For a second, I wonder if Libby sketched me while I slept, except that my eyes are open. My hair is swept back enough to reveal my scar. But the eyes are the most prominent. Staring out at me from the page, they are a stranger’s eyes, brimming over with feeling. They carry pain and sadness, sure, but it’s something else that makes my breath catch and my chest tighten. Another feeling, deeper and powerful enough to penetrate the surface pain. The eyes in the picture are hopeful. They are courageous. They are all the things I want to be but can’t.
I trail my finger over the drawing, down to Libby’s scrawled message in the bottom corner. I see you, and under that a hasty heart above her signature.
I tuck the folded picture back into my pocket and look around the kitchen at the sad remnants of my “date” with Libby: melting ice cream, the lingering whisper of a cherry flavored kiss, and the nagging feeling that Libby just told me goodbye.