At the End of Everything, page 2
“New Emerson,” he says.
“What?” I snap.
“What what?”
“What do you want?” I demand.
He laughs, but it sends shivers down my spine. “To warn you that your shirt is untucked. The rule is you have to look presentable, and you’ve got to follow the rules, right? I don’t want you to get in trouble when you get to class.”
He knows full well I learned that the hard way already. But, “Thanks.”
I reach for my shirt, but a large hand clamps around my shoulder. “Hey! Wh—”
A fist connects with my stomach, and the air rushes out of me. “A reminder of these rules too.”
I double over, and immediately his right fist cuts across my jaw. Pain blossoms across the left side of my face. I stumble and reach out to find my balance. The metallic taste of blood floods my mouth.
A hand grasps my hair, forcing me to look up. The boy has the long, slender fingers of a pianist. His mocking smile and blue eyes swim in and out of focus. “Hunter’s in charge here. He gave you time to settle in.”
I glance around to find help, but no one is close. The few teens on the far side of the yard steadfastly look the other way. The guard at the doorway is preoccupied with one of the other teens. That’s probably on purpose.
I spit on the floor and try to shake free. “Tell him thanks.”
Another punch to the stomach sets me straight. Or rather, folded over and dizzy. The world spins and twists around me, like I’m losing my connection to it. Maybe it’s better that way. Maybe I can just get lost.
My assailant tightens his grip on me. “You’re smart. That gets you nowhere. He wants to talk to you tonight, after lights-out. He’ll be in the recreation room.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
I lick my lips and immediately wince. My bottom lip is swelling, and it’s split open. “Why does he want to talk to me?”
The boy grins. I try to remember his name. Seth? Red? Reid? That’s it. “Consider it the welcoming committee.”
“Won’t the recreation room be closed?” And more to the point, won’t I get in trouble for walking the halls after bedtime?
Reid shakes my head none too gently. “Figure it out. So you’ll be there?”
“Yeah.” My bravado doesn’t extend to challenging the only guy in the Hope Center with his own followers. Everyone warned me to expect a visit from one of them, one of these days. Like Reid said, those are the rules too. Unwritten, perhaps, but no less real.
“Good!” Reid lets go of my hair, and the sudden release causes me to stumble. I expect him to walk away, but before I can brace myself, another fist connects with my side, and then his leg sweeps my feet from under me. I crash to the ground, and the impact hurts. It reverberates through my arms and knees, and my skull feels like a tympan, the pain ringing in my ears.
I know I should get up. I shouldn’t make a target of myself. But I lie with my face against the concrete until Reid’s footsteps retreat. I have to find the courage to put myself back together again too.
If I could stay here, in this position, and not get up again, I would.
I don’t belong here.
“Guess it’s time for your initiation.” Another voice rolls over me. A hand appears in my line of sight. When I turn my head, trying not to wince too hard, I can make out a face. Dark-brown hair, light-brown skin, laughing brown eyes. I see no threat in his gaze or in his posture.
“Khalil,” he introduces himself.
I try to introduce myself too, but my throat is dry, and my head is spinning. Instead, I reach out to grasp his hand, and he gently guides me to a sitting position.
He crouches down beside me. “Wow, you’re a mess.”
“Thanks?” I touch the bruise on my cheek and wince. It feels warm underneath my hand, but I don’t think Reid broke skin.
“Don’t worry, no permanent damage.”
Small mercies, I guess. I cough. “So what did you mean by initiation. Like…hazing?” The word feels out of place here, like an uncomfortable reminder of my old-old life, but it’s the only thing I can think of.
“Nothing like that, unless you want to be part of Hunter’s crew. Which, by the way, I would advise against. He’s an asshole.”
“I’m not—” I swallow the objection. “So what is it?”
“You know, asking you a few questions. Explaining the house rules. Making sure you have everything for a pleasant stay in this establishment.”
I raise an eyebrow. “This place loves its rules, huh?”
Khalil smiles. “See, now you’re getting it. Once you understand it, life in Hope really isn’t that complicated.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” I say, before I can stop myself.
He doesn’t even blink. “You’re right. But look at it from the bright side: we have a roof over our head, steady food on the table, and people who are paid to tell us they believe in us. We should be grateful, or so I hear.”
“So grateful, I’d be willing to commit a felony for it.” I wince.
“That’s the spirit.” He hesitates for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “Did you?”
“What?”
Khalil raises an inquiring eyebrow. “Commit a felony?”
Same question. Different words. Everyone I talk to wants to know why I’m here.
I shrug. “Nah, I didn’t do anything. I woke up here one morning.”
Perhaps, one day, I’ll wake up at home again.
He gets to his feet and brushes his hands on his navy-blue shirt. “Fine then, keep your secrets. I’ll figure it out one way or another.” He doesn’t seem angry, just amused. He seems to be amused by everything here.
By the time I’ve scrambled to my feet and steadied myself against the wall, he’s already walking away from me, back to the other side of the yard.
I lean back against the wall and breathe in the air. It’s getting colder. Maybe the leaves are changing colors outside, though I can’t see it from here. But if I close my eyes, I can pretend.
* * *
By the time we’re counted back inside, I’m stiff and hurting all over. I place my hand on my side once and cringe. It feels like I’ve been tenderized.
The guard at the doorway frowns but doesn’t say anything, which is a small mercy. Or negligence. Either/or. I could tell her what happened, of course. Part of me still wants to believe that authority figures have my best intentions at heart or that the guards only misgender me by accident. That if I tell her, she’ll prevent it from happening again and make sure that Reid gets what he deserves.
But Hunter and his crew could never get away with what they do unless the guards purposefully looked the other way. Perhaps they think it builds character. Perhaps they simply don’t care about us that much.
Like Father John, the old parish priest at our church, who thrived on telling people they were incorrigible sinners. No matter what we said or did. No matter how many Hail Marys we said. Incorrigible. I loved the church. I hated him. I thought things would be better when Father Michael took over.
What a fool I was.
Either way, saying something about Reid could be dangerous. So I keep my head down and my mouth shut and follow the bare, gray hallways straight to my therapist’s office. My shoes squeak on the linoleum, and it makes me all too aware of myself. I have a right to be in the hall, but barely. Therapy and bathroom passes are the only acceptable reasons to be on our own during the day.
I pass another guard stationed outside the classroom area, where I would be if I didn’t have therapy. He’s staring at his phone. It must be exciting, because he barely looks up. Raised voices drift out from the inside.
One of the twins from my wing slips past him with a pencil and a bunch of empty paper. She winks and gives me a thumbs-up as she heads toward the bathroom.
I smile in return.
But when I knock on Jemma’s door a few minutes later, the smile has faded, and tension has settled in my neck and shoulders. We didn’t see each other last week—Jemma was home for Thanksgiving—and I’m still getting used to the idea of trusting her with my feelings. At least Confession has the theoretical option of anonymity.
Jemma doesn’t look up from the report she’s reading, and her long, auburn hair falls in strands across her face. She absently gestures for me to come inside. “Emerson, good to see you.”
“Hi.” I perch on the chair in front of her desk, legs folded underneath me. Jemma’s office is as basic as can be. No endless bookcases or a couch to lie on, which is kind of what I’d expected when I heard we all had to go to therapy. But there are no visible cameras. The chairs are comfortable, even though they smell of fake leather. And one of the walls has a pretty cool mural of an ocean at sunrise. It makes the room feel cozy. Almost.
“We’re here to talk about—” Jemma sets the report aside, and I brace myself. She sucks the air in through her teeth. “What happened?”
I shrug and lie. “I fell.”
She narrows her brown eyes. “Sure. What happened?” She pushes her glasses higher up her nose and leans closer to me. “You can tell me, Emerson. Fights are not tolerated here, especially not hazing or gang activity.” She says those last words like she stepped on a bug and felt it squish beneath her feet. “Everything you say in this room is confidential.”
She looks at me expectantly.
Briefly, the opportunity is there.
Jemma is one of the reasons Hope is classified as a residential treatment center. We aren’t just stuck here—we’re provided with counseling and therapy. We have a communal garden where we can grow our own food, because it may teach us something about life, and there’s the opportunity for other forms of work experience. Mrs. Vance, our teacher, worked in special education for nearly three decades before she came here.
Warden Davis calls it interdisciplinary treatment for emotionally troubled youth.
Fancy words that don’t change the fact that the doors around us lock. Or that Jemma looks like she graduated college last year. Or that school is a small room with a secured desk for the teacher, sixteen of us, all at different levels, and fewer books than people.
When I arrived, once I was told what to expect, Jemma was the first person to sit down with me. She looked like she’d stepped right out of my former neighborhood, with her plaid pencil skirt and blue button-up, bow and all. She said it would be an intake conversation, but it took several hours and involved various multiple-choice questions, much like the psychological evaluation in detention. One of those “figure out what’s wrong with you” assessments. Next, she and the guards observed me for three days to get insights into any problems I might have with adapting to my environment or with socializing.
Then Jemma created a personalized treatment plan. She wanted to work with me on what she calls my authority issues, my gender identity issues, and my commitment issues.
“To put it bluntly,” she said one of those first days, “the board is aware that you are a status offender, and your assignment here is suboptimal. So we’re willing to do what we can to help you with your needs.”
I didn’t think I had issues. Or needs beyond what we all have. Home. Purpose. Someone who listens. But if it means more time away from the others, I can’t say I mind.
But I’m still locked up here. And I don’t know Jemma well enough yet to know that she won’t betray me too.
I push myself back in the chair. “I fell.”
Right at the same moment, Jemma’s computer dings. She glances at the screen and freezes. She clenches her hands to fists. Her glasses slide down her nose again. For the longest moment, she doesn’t say anything at all. Then she sighs and leans back in her chair. “Okay, well, in that case, let’s talk about your last couple of days.”
And she doesn’t push, and she doesn’t try again.
I admittedly don’t know her that well, and maybe I’m not used to this—to any of this—yet, but that seems odd.
Jemma folds her arms, listens, and doesn’t take notes. Instead, she keeps glancing back at her computer. I don’t know if she’s angry at me for not trusting her or if she wants me to say anything else. But I can’t. She must understand that.
When our allotted time is up, she passes me a chocolate from a small stash she keeps behind her desk. I wince when I put it in my mouth, and while my bruised cheek throbs, it tastes better than anything I’ve had here in the last couple of weeks. Perhaps it’s a peace offering.
But she doesn’t meet my eye when I get up and leave.
Three
Grace
Every time I think I’m better than this, I prove to myself that I’m not. I haven’t learned a thing. I still let my anger take hold of me. The same thoughts keep running through my head over and over again.
Failure.
No one cares about you.
You’ll be left here.
It’s been hours since the guards dragged me out of the cafeteria. They took me to see Warden Davis, but he wasn’t in his office, so they tossed me in solitary to wait. By now, I’m convinced that I’ve been forgotten entirely. The clock in the hallway is ticking so slowly that I barely believe time is passing.
We’ve been left here.
You’ll be left here to die.
I wonder sometimes what it would look like if the people who run Hope gave up on us completely. They wouldn’t actually kill us, I don’t think. It would be an inconvenience to deal with all that paperwork. But some days, the worst days, when it feels like I’m only a hollow shell of anger, it’s almost a comfort to think that they might be accidentally negligent. That they might forget about us.
On those days, it would be a relief.
Not today. Pacing around the solitary room, I remember all too well what it’s like to spend a night in here. What it feels like to have my hands tied to the bed frame, unable to scratch and stretch and sleep. I don’t want to be given another night like that for “acting up,” but I don’t know what I can do now to escape it. It’ll be my ninth time in solitary this year, including two forty-eight-hour cooldown periods. Every time I come out, I feel a bit less like me, a bit less like a girl with dreams bigger than this place.
“Grace.” A voice from near the door.
Fuck.
I freeze and glance around me. I’ve only been pacing here. I didn’t leave a mark or destroy anything. They can only punish me for running my mouth.
“Grace.” The voice grows more insistent. “Are you in here?”
The guards wouldn’t ask me that, and though my heart still hammers out of control, I hesitate.
“Who’s there?” I keep my voice as low as possible.
“It’s me.”
I roll my eyes at that, like I can see straight through the heavy door. But the answer tells me everything I need to know regardless, because there’s only one person here who would pull a stunt like this.
I sit next to the door and pull my knees up to my chest. I imagine what he looks like on the other side of it. “What the fuck are you doing here, Casey? Are you trying to get us both in trouble?” I mentally go through the day’s schedule. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”
“Mrs. Vance left early. And I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
I open my eyes wide, distracted despite myself. “Mrs. Punctuality-Is-the-Key-to-Happiness left early?”
“I think she got abducted by aliens,” he says, somberly. “It’s the only logical conclusion.”
I snort. “Aliens?”
“Chest-bursters or face-huggers. Maybe we’re all about to be eaten by giant squirrels.” There’s a smile in his voice, and I feel the corners of my mouth quirk up in response.
I imagine what he looks like, sitting there, his lanky body folded into a crouch. His dusty, dark hair framing a scarred, brown face, and his eyes sparkling. In the year and a half since I got here, he’s become my best friend. The only one who makes this place remotely habitable, his wild ideas an escape I never knew I needed.
I shake my head. “You’re—without question—the weirdest person I know,” I say. “But I’m okay. Thanks for checking.”
“I’ll be waiting for you when you get out,” he promises. “I saved you some food from lunch.”
I breathe a little easier at that, at the idea of an after. “Get out before anyone catches you, please.”
“See you, Star Kid.”
* * *
It’s late afternoon when Rock and Scissors come to free me from solitary and bring me to Warden Davis. Neither one of them acknowledges the time or the fact that my stomach is rumbling and my head is pounding. They’re both pale and distracted. Usually they’re two of the good ones. The guards we can count on to joke around, who don’t treat us as criminals but as humans—not like the two who took me out of the cafeteria this morning.
But Rock lets me out of the room without a jab or a smart comment. Scissors flanks me quietly as we walk. The cell used for solitary confinement isn’t part of the four residential wings of Hope or close to the communal areas. Instead, it’s near the various offices. While these hallways look cleaner than ours, they’re all but abandoned today. They’re quieter than I’ve ever seen them before.
I can’t stand the unnecessary silence for a moment longer.
I clear my throat. “What has you both so distracted?” I nearly laugh. “Did the aliens land?”
Scissors opens his mouth to respond, but Rock—who has fallen in on my other side—grunts. “Shut up, Grace. You don’t want to get into any more trouble than you’re already in. Not now.”
“I don’t want to get into trouble. I wanted to eat breakfast and lunch. I want to eat dinner, I guess, by now.” I fight to keep the accusation—and the hunger—from my voice.
