All the Little Lights
Page 73

“I’m going to get suspended. I can feel it.”
“Let me ask her about you doing your work in her office, too, okay?”
He shook his head, trying to hide his anxiety with a smile. “Nah. I want to see you more, but I won’t hide.”
“It’s not fair that I’m protected in there, and you’re a sitting duck. And you wouldn’t be hiding. You’d be avoiding a fight.”
“It’s not in my blood to avoid a fight.”
We walked hand in hand into the high school. He kept me a bit behind him—just enough for him to take the brunt of a hard shoulder from his teammates and other students in the hall. The smiles and high fives were gone, replaced by accusing stares and fear.
Elliott kept his eyes forward, his jaw ticking after every shove. He could have put his fist into the faces of every one of them, knocking out teeth or breaking noses, but he quietly repeated his mantra, counting down to Christmas break.
He stayed with me while I opened my locker. After I had Spanish, physics, and world history textbooks stacked in my hands, Elliott walked me to the office and kissed my cheek before trying to make it to his locker and then class before the bell. I wondered if he would get stopped on the way.
“Good morning, Catherine,” Mrs. Mason said. She was already typing away when I stepped inside her office. She noticed my silence and looked up. “Uh-oh. Is everything okay?”
I chewed on the inside of my lip, wanting so badly to tell her about Elliott, but he would hate feeling he was hiding in her office all day.
“It was a hectic morning. Breakfast burned. We had to start over.”
“Were you distracted?”
“It wasn’t me. It was Mama. She’s . . . sad again.” Spending almost four weeks in a small office with Mrs. Mason made it impossible to avoid conversation. After the first week, she was beginning to get suspicious, so I’d tell her just enough to keep her happy.
“Did something happen, or . . . ?”
“You know. She just gets this way sometimes. It’s getting worse the closer I get to graduation.”
“Have you applied to any colleges yet? You still have time.”
I shook my head, instantly dismissing the idea.
“You could easily get a scholarship, Catherine. I could help you.”
“We’ve talked about this. You know I can’t leave her.”
“Why? Lots of kids go to college when their parents are business owners. You could come back with your knowledge and do something amazing with the Juniper. What about hotel management?”
I chuckled.
Mrs. Mason smiled. “Is that funny?”
“It’s just not possible.”
“Catherine, are you telling me you can’t go to college because your mom can’t take care of herself while you’re gone? Does that mean you’re taking care of her?”
“Some days more than others.”
“Catherine,” Mrs. Mason said, clasping her hands behind her nameplate. She leaned over, her eyes sad and desperate. “Please. Please let me help you. What is going on over there?”
I frowned, then turned my back to her, opening my Spanish workbook.
She sighed, and then a steady stream of clicking on her keyboard filled the silence of the small space.
My number two pencil scratched against the notebook paper, adding a new rhythm to Mrs. Mason’s tapping. Sitting in silence with her had become comfortable—safe, even. There was nothing to do here but schoolwork. I could just be.
Just before lunch, the blinds in Mrs. Mason’s office rattled. After some yelling and commotion, Mrs. Mason peeked out and then yanked on the cord.
Coach Peckham stood just inside the office door, holding Elliott’s arm with one hand and the arm of another student I didn’t recognize because both of his eyes were nearly swollen shut.
Mrs. Mason ran out, and I followed her.
“This one,” Coach Peckham said, pushing the boy forward, “started it. This one,” he said, shoving Elliott forward, “finished it.”
“Who is that?” Mrs. Rosalsky asked, scurrying in with an ice pack. She helped the boy to sit, holding two cold squares against his eyes.
“Not one of mine . . . for once,” Coach Peckham said. “Owen Roe.”
I covered my mouth.
Mrs. Rosalsky looked up. “I’m calling the nurse. I’m pretty sure his nose is broken.”
Mrs. Mason lowered her chin. “Dr. Augustine and Vice Principal Sharp are in an administration meeting. Elliott, follow me to Dr. Augustine’s office, please. Catherine, back to your desk.”
I nodded, catching the shame on Elliott’s face as he walked by with not a scratch on him. His left hand was swollen, and I wondered how many times those knuckles had made contact with Owen’s face before someone stopped him, how much pent-up rage was behind the same punches that put holes in doors.
I walked over to Owen, sitting next to him and helping him hold the ice pack to his left eye.
“Hey,” I said.
“Catherine?”
“It’s me,” I said, pulling my hand away when he jerked back.
“I’m just trying to help,” I said.
“Even though your boyfriend blinded me?”
“You’re not blind. The swelling will go down.” I hesitated, unsure if I wanted to know. “What happened?”
He leaned away. “Like you care.”
“I do. I do care. I know we’ve . . . I know I’ve been distant.”
“Distant? More like nonexistent. What did we do to you, Catherine?”
“Nothing. You didn’t do anything.”
He turned his chin toward me, unable to see my expression. “You don’t just leave two people in the dust—people you’ve been friends with for most of your life—for nothing.”
I sighed. “My dad died.”
“We know. We tried to be there for you.”
“That’s not what I needed.”
“Then why not tell us? Why make Minka feel like she was worthless and make me feel like I was garbage you could just throw away? I get you were hurting. So tell us you need space.”
I nodded, looking down. “You’re right. That’s what I should have done.”
“You slammed the door in our faces. More than once.”
“I was awful to you, and you were just trying to be my friend. But I wasn’t myself. I’m still not . . . the girl you knew. And things are far worse now than they were then.”
“What do you mean?” he asked. The hurt and anger in his voice melted away.
I stood. “You still need to stay away from me. It’s still not safe.”
He sat back, the sullen expression returning. “But Madison and Sam are invincible against that, I guess?”
“Maddy and Sam don’t want to come in,” I whispered.
“What do you mean? Something’s happening in your house?”
Two paramedics walked in, one short and soft around the middle, the other tall and lanky. They introduced themselves to Owen, and I stepped back.
“Catherine?” Mrs. Rosalsky said, looking toward the counselor’s open door.
I knew what she wanted, so I returned to Mrs. Mason’s office to study alone. The bell to release first hour rang, and then again to initiate second. Elliott was still in the principal’s office, and the rest of the administration were carrying on like normal.
Half an hour later, Elliott emerged from Dr. Augustine’s office. He kept his gaze locked on the floor, an apology barely audible when he passed.