The next morning I notice something on my desk. Something I look at every day for some reason. That picture that I discovered in my locker, the one of me smiling and looking carefree, the one that I never remember being taken. I almost threw it away because it was so faded. It looked more like a snapshot of the clouds than of me. But on this morning, the first day of November, I see the picture and then pick it up.
I examine it closely.
Good thing reality is continuing to be as foggy as ever.
I see the outline of my head and shoulders in the picture. It’s still blurry and faded, but it actually seems to have come back into focus. Just a bit.
I’m imagining that.
But I know I’m not.
This picture means something. I know it.
Everything that’s a bit off and abnormal means something.
Maybe it has to do with the bigger picture of what I know. Maybe the more I know, the more in focus the picture will become.
That’s a nice thought. But who knows?
All I know is that I’m still aching from the deep cut I got from Lily.
I wish I could say that last night was a dream. But what I realized instead was that Chris & Lily—that was the dream and the fantasy.
Too good to be true.
As always.
RU OK?
I don’t want to answer the text, but I do anyway. YEAH, I’M FINE.
Lily wants to know if I’m okay. That’s so sweet of her. I don’t want to tell her the dreams I had last night, the ones that involved me finding her with other men. I don’t want to tell her that I don’t think I’ll ever be “fine,” nor will I ever fully trust another female in my life.
SO EVERYTHING’S COOL?
I think back to Jocelyn. How she eventually told me what was going to happen, and how I didn’t believe it until it was too late.
I don’t want to be too late. Even if what Lily did was wrong. Not just wrong, but wretched. For no explainable reason.
YEAH, EVERYTHING’S COOL.
Lily looks like a New York runway model when I see her. And why shouldn’t she? She’s twenty-four stinking years old. She’s probably exactly the age for a runway model. And she looks it in her long boots and skirt and top. But everything about her has changed. Everything.
When she sees me she tries to give me a hug, but I move out of it. Nobody sees it. It’s just I don’t want her hugging me or even touching me.
“Chris—”
“It’s fine.”
“Come on—let’s laugh about things, okay?”
I let out a mock laugh that’s a bit too loud and a bit too mocking. She stares at me with an intense look.
“I told you I’d do this,” I say in a whisper. “But the more I think about things, the worse they are.”
“I’m not going to spend the rest of this year begging you for forgiveness.”
I chuckle. “You don’t have to. Because it ain’t gonna come.”
She stares at me, and then we hear the warning bell for first period.
“Can you just act like we finally made up, and put on a good show for everybody?” Lily asks.
“I’ll try. But I’m not as good an actor as you are.”
But I’m proven wrong.
As we walk down the hallway, with Lily unexpectedly grabbing my hand and holding it, we pass by Kelsey.
And once again, Chris Buckley has managed to crush her bright spirit and possibly break that blossoming heart.
I’m in trigonometry, and I find myself wishing Mr. Taggart was here. Make him take this test. Make him sit and try to understand this. He wouldn’t have the first clue. So if he doesn’t, why should we be expected to know all of this?
For some reason, I find myself thinking of, well, everything. But especially what my father recently told me about Mom. I wonder how she is, and despite all my anger and my attitude toward her recently, I miss her. I feel guilty, thinking I didn’t do enough, thinking I should have tried harder to be a good son. But no, I was busy chasing some girl—no, some woman—hired to lure me into her trap.
I feel so weak.
Your passion and your strength.
I hear Iris’s voice saying that. Saying that about me.
So it’s easy to believe in the darkness, but not in the light.
It’s strange how I remember this, but I do.
It’s strange how she’s right, how I can so easily believe in the darkness but I can’t believe in that hopeful light.
Take heart and be strong.
I stare at the test, knowing I’m not going to do well on it. I stare at the pencil and the students around me and the clock on the wall and the dark chalkboard. I focus on that chalkboard that’s usually so full of numbers and equations and explanations but now is just empty.
A clean slate.
I like the sound of that.
A year later, is it possible to be like that chalkboard, ready for things to eventually be written down on it?
Is it really possible to accept that light as easily as I can accept the darkness?
Can I actually, finally be ready to know what my place is in Solitary? What I’m supposed to do and why so many are so interested?
I want to pick up the chalk and start writing.
Start writing and not stop.
Guess I’m not the only one wanting a clean slate.
The lady who gets out of the car surely wants one. I see her from my window, and I can feel my heart beating, and feel this wonderful misery inside of me. I don’t want to see her and don’t want to greet her, yet I’ve missed her more than words can say. Maybe one day I’ll learn to write out all these thousand thoughts in my head because God knows I can’t actually speak them aloud.
She looks pretty.
So many pretty women in my life.
I hurry down the stairs and open the front door. Then I head down the wooden steps.
Mom stands there with her suitcase, looking younger in one way and older in another. She has tears in her eyes, and she smiles at me.
Then she hugs me, or I hug her—I don’t know because we both go to hug each other at the same time.
There’s a lot I want to say and ask her, but for the moment, it’s enough that Mom is back.
That’s a good thing. Especially around a place where people don’t always come back.