There’s a new person in Libby’s spot in the art room. Instead of Libby’s disfigured self-portrait, I’m met with sunshine and flowers.
I stare at the painting, disgust burning at the back of my throat. A girl approaches, a couple of brushes in one hand, a loaded palette in the other. Her thick brown hair, all one perfect color, is tied up with pink ribbon in a cheerleader’s ponytail that bobs up and down as she arranges her supplies. “I call it Love,” she gushes, even though I didn’t ask. “It’s my higher power painting. Do you like it?”
“No,” I say flatly, then push past her to my own easel where my new canvas has stayed blank for days.
The art teacher greets me with a warm smile. “We missed you yesterday. Are you feeling better?”
“A little.”
“I brought something for you.” She hands me a thick stack of well-read magazines, several of them with missing covers and most with bent edges.
I rustle through the magazines on the top of the pile. Everything from Real Simple to National Geographic. “What am I supposed to do with these?”
“I thought you could use them for inspiration.” The art teacher casts a meaningful glance toward my blank canvas. “Sometimes it helps to tear out pictures that represent something to you, even if you don’t know what that something is. Anything that moves you, that stirs your emotions, tear it out and tape it to your canvas, okay?”
I was kind of planning on spending class staring out the window and feeling sorry for myself. But it’s nice she went out of her way to help me, especially since I’ve pretty much half-assed this class since day one. “If you say so.”
She drops a pair of scissors and a roll of tape on the pile in my arms. “It’s good to have you back, Eli.” She rests a patchouli-scented hand on my shoulder. “Really.”
A hard lump rises in my throat. “Thanks,” I manage.
I drop the pile of magazines on the floor in front of my easel and settle down cross-legged beside it. Cheerleader Chick shoots me a dirty look from the front of the room, and I’d bet anything that her beaming sunshine has dark, angry edges now, her perfect fucking flowers are wilting, and she’s jonesing for her crack pipe or vodka tonic or whatever. What was it Libby said? This is rehab, not summer camp. Life’s hard and it hurts. Cheerleader Chick might as well get used to it.
I flip lazily through the magazines, wondering what kind of pictures my art teacher expects me to find here. The perfume-scented pages are filled with quick-fixes to life’s biggest problems: Ten secrets to true happiness! Just one pill will make all your pain go away! There are no pictures of fathers shooting up, no articles about girls slitting their wrists so they can feel the pain.
By the time I get to the last magazine, there’s only a few minutes left in art class. It’s an issue of National Geographic. I thumb hastily through the pages, but one image makes me pause. It’s a scenic shot, a breathtaking mountain range that reaches into a watery blue sky. A serene lake stretches out from the closest mountain, its clear depths reflecting the impossible snow-capped heights.
A kayaker, his paddle resting on his lap, floats in front of the mountain. He’s tiny in comparison, completely insignificant. His back is to the photographer, but I can imagine the wonder on his face as he peers up at that insurmountable wall of sheer rock.
The art teacher gently taps her delicate gong, marking the end of class. “Time to pack up your materials for the day,” she sing-songs.
I start to toss the magazine back into the pile with the others, but something stops me. I tear out that picture of the mountain, the lake and the kayaker, and tape it smack in the middle of my canvas.
At dinner, I push baked ziti around on my plate and pretend like I’m listening to whatever Red and Will are talking about. At one point, I swear I hear her—a raspy laugh lilts across the room, and I whip around, searching for a glimpse of her hair, her face.
Will’s voice tugs me back to the table. “I’m sorry, bro—are we boring you?”
I look wide-eyed at Will and Red, like I’m seeing them for the first time. “What?”
“Did you even hear what I said?” Red asks. “I’ve been talking to you for like five minutes.”
I blink. “What? Yeah, sure, I’m listening. I just zoned out for a minute. What were we talking about again?”
Will snorts. “Seriously, dude? Don’t rifle through your spank-bank while people are eating. Save it for the shower.”
I toss my dinner roll at him. “Shut up.”
“I was asking if you want to play Ping-Pong after dinner.” Irritation saws at the edges of Red’s voice. “But you’re probably too busy grieving the loss of your two-day relationship, right?”
I stab a forkful of ziti that I have no intention of eating.
“I mean, c’mon, dude! Savannah dumps you, you’re wrecked for a couple of days. Until you find Libby. Then it’s all sunshine and butterflies until she leaves. And suddenly you’re ruined again. How long’s it going to last this time? Who’s the next chick in line?”
He jerks his head to the table next to us, where Cheerleader Chick nibbles at a plate of plain lettuce, her ponytail bobbing as she chews, an anorexic rabbit on speed. “How ‘bout her? Fresh out of detox, ripe for the picking. Just your type.”
“I’d hit that,” Will says.
My teeth press together, and my fist clenches hard around my fork. “You know, Red, one of these days you’re going to have to pick. Friend or shrink? Which one is it? Because I’ve got enough shrinks in my life right now. And you’re starting to sound a hell of a lot like Fish.”
Red blinks. I know he’s trying to decide whether to let this go, whether he can be my friend when I’m like this, when I’m hurting this way. “Friend,” he says softly.
“Good. Because I can take care of myself. And I can definitely kick your ass in Ping-Pong.”
Red smirks. “Game on.”
The crowded rec room is a new opportunity for distraction, and even as Red and I nudge the Ping-Pong ball back and forth, I scan faces for a glimpse of Libby. I don’t know why I’m looking. I know that she’s gone. But I’m empty. And I need something, anything, to fill me up again.
Red scores on me for probably the fourth time in a row (I haven’t been keeping track). “Dude,” he says. “You’re not even trying.”
“Are we playing or not?” I position my paddle, ready to spike Red’s serve.
He lobs it over the net. “You can’t do this, you know?”
“What?” I return the ball easily.
“You can’t make this about her.”
“I thought you were done trying to shrink me.”
“I’m not shrinking you. I’m telling you this as your friend.”
Back and forth we toss our words; they land lightly at first, and then harder until we’re slamming the ball across the net, and I’m not sure if I’m aiming for the point or Red’s chest.
“As my friend, I’d wish you’d play the fucking game.”
“As your friend, I’m trying to tell you that I’ve watched you do this since you got here. You made it about Savannah. Now it’s about Libby. When’s it going to be about you? You leave in what, a little over a week?”
“As my friend, I’d like you to get the fuck out of my business.”
“And as your friend, I’d tell you that that’s not what friends do.”
I spike the ball; it hits the corner of Red’s side and spirals up into the air, ricochets off the concrete block wall beside us, and rolls right into a group of kids. One of them is the cheerleader from art. She picks the ball up, shoots me a withering glare.
I toss down my paddle; it slides across the table, skittering under the net. “I’m not like you, okay? I don’t need your help. I’m not some homeless dropout junkie. I have a life.”
Red lowers his paddle, stunned. The hurt on his face makes my eyes burn, but my words sense his weakness, move in for the kill.
“I don’t need this place, Red. And I sure as hell don’t need you.” I storm out of the rec room, leaving Red at the table alone.
The darkened lobby is empty, the Front Desk Fascist gone for the day. I take a quick peek down the hall, on the lookout for orderlies. Seeing no one, I lean over the desk, inch the phone closer and pick up the receiver.
When Chase finally answers, I can barely hear his voice, low and sleepy sounding, over the noise in the background: laughter, rumbling voices, and the metallic thunder of animated gunfire.
“Hello?”
“Chase! Dude, I need a favor.”
The background noise quiets; I picture Chase pausing the video game, hear him shushing the other people in the room. “Who is this?”
“It’s me, Eli!”
“Eli!” Chase laughs, thick and wet, his words slurring. “Where the hell are you?”
I tell him I’m in LakeShore, the rural mountaintop town two hours away from Grandhaven. I tell him I need him to come get me.
Chase is quiet for a second. “Shit, I don’t know, bro. Wouldn’t that be, like, aiding and abetting a fugitive or something?”
“I’m not in prison!” I hiss, instinctively checking over my shoulder again. Then, lowering my voice, “I can leave whenever I want.”
“Yeah, except, that’s like a pretty decent drive, and I’m kinda tight on funds right now . . .”
“I’ll give you money for gas,” I promise hurriedly, my hot breath collecting steam on the receiver. “Whatever you want, just get me out of here.”
I tell him to come on Sunday and make a mental note to add him to my list of approved visitors. With the constant coming and going of Visitation Day, no one would even notice I was missing.
There’s muffled laughter in the background; I think I hear Alex’s voice. I grit my teeth, my fingers tightening around the receiver. Someone un-pauses the game, and Chase breathes heavy into the phone.
“Chase? You still there?”
“Yeah, look, Eli, I’m kinda in the middle of something.” His voice is muffled, the phone probably hooked between his cheek and shoulder as his fingers nimbly maneuver the controller. “I’ll see what I can do, okay?”
“Sunday,” I tell him. “Anytime after ten, but Visitation ends at five. Chase?”
The phone’s silent on the other end. Chase has already hung up.