MARCH IS ALWAYS A BATTLEGROUND. Trying to fight off spring, get a stronghold overnight as the puddles turn back from water to ice. Winter is sneaky that way.
As I’m waiting at the bus stop, with the sun peeking over the tops of the buildings, new light filtering through the bare branches of the trees in the park, I hear this pop. This crack like an earthquake—something snapping, breaking. I jump and duck my head, covering it with my arms. Then silence. I look around, but there’s no sign of any disturbances. But it happens again, louder this time, echoing, sounding close yet faraway, like it’s everywhere and nowhere.
Another crack, another snap, another break. I smell it in the air—something like rain and dirt. The river ice is breaking. It happens every year, but I guess I’m never outside when it does. Behind closed doors it never sounded so violent.
I have at least five minutes before the bus. If I hurry, I can make it over to the park. I’m crossing the street, rounding the corner, before I’ve even made up my mind.
I keep slipping on the black ice that lines the pathway down to the riverbank, but manage to keep myself from falling. It’s louder and louder the closer I get, drawing me into its urgency.
When I reach the edge, the ice is giving way, huge pieces of mosaic churning and tumbling over themselves to get downstream. The water level along the bank rises right before my eyes, so quickly that I have to take a step back. I’m consumed by a vision of the river overflowing, swallowing me up, carrying me off, drowning me along the way. I step back again. And again, and again. Until I’m not taking steps anymore; I’m running. I exit the park and cross back over to my side of the street, looking behind me the whole way, just to be sure.
I look up in time to watch as the bus pulls away from the curb.
Shit. I’m going to be late. Again.
“Ms. Winters . . .” My head snaps up from the sign-in log. It’s Mrs. Murray, my guidance counselor. I’ve been dodging her for weeks. She wanted to sit down with me after I dropped those extra classes at the beginning of the semester. She told me to make an appointment with her whenever it was convenient for me. But there never seemed to be a good time.
“Hi, Mrs. Murray.”
“Do you have a moment?” she asks.
“Well, I’m—I’m late, so . . .”
“Yes, I see that. Please,” she says, leading the way to her office. She lets me in first, then follows me inside and shuts the door. “Have a seat,” she tells me, sitting down across from me, in her vomit-colored three-piece suit, her hair unraveling from the bun knotted at the back of her head, somehow already looking sick of me. She thumbs a file folder full of papers and sighs, shaking her head.
“Is that mine—my file, I mean?” I ask.
She nods. “I’ve been trying to reach your guardian. Aaron Winters—is this an uncle?”
“No, he’s my brother.”
“I see. Well, he hasn’t returned any of my phone calls,” she says.
“Oh, really?” I say, pretending to be confused about the situation. “Well, he’s been pretty busy.”
“I’m your guidance counselor and I’m pretty busy too. And part of my job is to make sure you’re doing okay.” She pauses, expecting a response. “You’ve been missing a lot of school recently. Have you been ill, or is it something else?” she asks.
I recognize these questions. They pulled this on me at my old school. Fishing. Trying to see if something’s “going on” at home. When I don’t answer, she raises her eyebrows and says, “Or maybe you’ve just been truant?”
I despise her with every fiber of my being, for ambushing me, for her headshaking and phony concern, but especially for using the word “truant.”
“Either way,” she continues, “this number of absences is unacceptable.”
“I’m not quite sure what that means. I’ve had the flu a couple of times. But I’ve been keeping up with schoolwork and everything. I can’t really help it if I’ve been sick, can I?”
“Look,” she begins, sitting up straighter, “you have to meet me halfway here—a quarter, an eighth of the way, even. Give me something, anything, to work with,” she says, clasping her hands together. “Your teachers are concerned about you. You started off very strong, and now . . . well, your work has tapered off.” She stares at me while I consider this for a moment.
“Like I said, I’ve been sick. But I’m better now, and I just need a little time to catch up.”
“Did you know if you have more than ten unexcused absences, you could be in danger of not having enough credits to pass the year?” she asks.
I shake my head no.
“This is serious. I need to speak with your brother. We need to get some documentation for your absences—that is, if they’re legitimate.”
“I thought you only needed a note after three days in a row.”
She grins. “I see you’ve brushed up on the rules.”
“Not really,” I lie. “I just like to be informed.”
“Good. This is me informing you that you’ve already accumulated thirteen unexcused absences since December. And that doesn’t include the days you’ve been late or gone home early, which are adding up as well.”
“What?” My voice is raised, I know, but I can’t help it. “How? It couldn’t have been that many already.”
She nods emphatically. “No, I assure you, it is. I’m looking at it right here.” She flips the printout over and slides it in front of me.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing; it’s true. I scramble to find some kind of response. “Well, once I explain to my brother, he can write a note and sign them and—”
“Yes, do that. I’ll still need to speak with him, of course.” She reaches across the desk and draws an arrow in red pen. Once. Then twice. “But see these—these two weeks you missed three days in a row. For those you need doctor’s notes. The rule is three or more, not more than three, by the way.”
Those are the week of the trial and then the week of my breakup with Dani. When I look up, Mrs. Murray is eyeing me like she’s some kind of bird of prey. She knows I’m trapped. In another life I would’ve commended her for being such a stickler about the rules. But this isn’t another life.
“No problem,” I tell her, careful not to let on how screwed I really am. “Can I get to class now?”
“Of course.” She stands with a smile, and so do I. “Remember, I need to see your brother. In person. Have him call me, please. Will you?”
I find Tyler at his locker before chem. “Dude,” he says as I approach. “You look like crap.”
“I feel like crap, thanks for noticing.” I drop my bag on the floor and kneel down next to it, rifling through the mishmash of papers crumpled at the bottom. “I need help,” I tell him.
“Yeah, I’m not even going to touch that one.”
“With midterms. Mrs. Murray ambushed me today. I’ve gotta find a way to step it up.” Finally my hand finds my stash of aspirin. I twist off the childproof cap and shake three white pills out into the palm of my hand. “Because apparently it’s common knowledge among the entire staff that I’m fucking up in all areas right now.”
“What do you mean?” He closes his locker and stands there, looking down at me, waiting for me to answer.
“I don’t know.” I throw the pills into the back of my throat and down them with a swig from my water bottle. “Does it ever just feel too hard some days?”
“What, school? Shit. Yeah.”
“Not school. Just life, in general.”
He crouches down next to me, and looking at me more seriously than he ever has before, he says, “Honestly, now. Should I be worried about you?”
“What, I’m just venting.”
“Yeah, I know. But should I be worried?”
“I’m not trying to off myself, or something—not with three stupid pills.” I laugh, but he doesn’t. “Relax. I have a headache, that’s all.”
“Well, you’re not in school half the time anymore. You look like you haven’t slept in a year, you’re currently sitting on the dirty-ass floor popping pills in your mouth, and you’re asking me for help studying. There are so many things wrong with this picture.”
“It’s aspirin. And I’m kneeling, not sitting,” I tell him as I pull myself up to my feet.
He stands as well and examines me for a moment, narrowing his eyes.
“Think of it as us studying together, not you helping me. Does that make it easier?”
“It makes it less weird,” he counters as we begin to walk down the hall toward chem.
“Weird because of Dani?”
“No, weird because you’re acting weird right now,” he says matter-of-factly as we enter the classroom. Our teacher is already talking, even though the bell rings directly after we walk through the door.
“So, do you want to or not?” I whisper as we take our seats, not sure if he realizes he still hasn’t given me an answer.
“Oh. Yeah,” he finally says. “I mean, of course I will. This weekend good?”
I nod, and mouth the words, “Thank you.”