Invincible by Amy Reed
“Fine,” I say. “Take me home.”
“Hey. Are you okay? Why do you seem so mad?”
“Sorry. I just don’t want to deal with my parents right now.”
It’s after ten when Marcus drops me off in front of my house. We managed to patch things up so that I’m pretty sure he’s not mad at me, but I can tell he’s worried now, like everyone else. He was supposed to be the one person I could count on, the one person I could be free with. But now he’s turning out to have some of the same fears and expectations as everyone else. I don’t know what to think about this. I don’t know what to feel. All I know is I need to sleep for a very long time, and as soon as possible.
Mom storms out of the kitchen as soon as I walk through the door. “What the hell were you thinking?” she says.
“I’m tired, Mom. Can I sleep for a few hours and then we can talk about this when I wake up?”
“Not until you tell me where you’ve been.”
“I spent the night at a friend’s house. You don’t know her.” I can’t look her in the eye. “I was upset.”
“So you climbed out your bedroom window? You didn’t answer your phone all night? You didn’t even leave a note? Do you have any idea how worried we were?”
“I’m sorry.”
“And you missed your appointment with Dr. Jacobs this morning.”
“I forgot.”
“Damn it, this isn’t a game. You can’t just play with your life like this.”
“Where’s Dad?”
“He’s at work. After not sleeping all night.”
I look at the floor. I have nothing to say. He hit me. It’s hard to feel bad about making him worry.
Mom sighs, taking a few steps toward me. “He made a mistake. He’s sorry. He was so angry. He was so scared.”
“Scared? Of what?”
“We almost lost you once,” she says softly. “We don’t want to lose you again.”
I feel unsteady, like someone could blow on me and I would crumble to the ground. I think about what Marcus and I talked about last night, about letting my parents in, letting them know who I am now. Maybe they could love her. But maybe they can’t. I’ve made such a mess, I don’t even know where to start cleaning up. I don’t even know if it’s possible.
“Go to bed,” Mom says. I fight the urge to fall into her, to wrap myself in her arms and tell her everything.
“We’ll talk when your dad gets home,” she says. “There are going to be consequences this time, Evie.”
“Okay,” I say. I walk into my room, shut the door, and crash into my bed and a leaden, lonely sleep.
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thirty-two.
THE CLOCK SAYS 5:12. AFTERNOON LIGHT LEAKS UNDER THE curtains and draws a beam across my hand. I pull it away, back into the safety of shadow.
I can’t lie here forever. I’m going to have to face my dad eventually. I might as well get it over with.
I pull some clean clothes out of the pile of laundry on my floor. As I splash water on my face and brush my teeth, I repeat the mantra inside my head: Don’t feel don’t feel don’t feel. Just endure the speeches. Just nod and say yes. Don’t fight back. Just get this over as quickly as possible.
I almost feel brave as I walk into the kitchen where I can hear my parents talking.
As soon as I enter, Dad says, “Are you ready to talk?”
“Can I get some water first?” He nods.
I sit across from them and wait.
“We got a call from the school while you were sleeping off whatever you did last night,” Dad snarls, ready to fight.
“James,” Mom says. “Let’s try to keep things civil.”
He turns to her. “How am I supposed to keep things civil when she has absolutely no respect for us or herself?”
Mom sighs. She must be so exhausted from trying to keep this family from falling apart. “Principal Landry is worried about you, Evie. After what happened at prom. And your grades.”
“And apparently you’ve been skipping class,” Dad adds.
“We have an appointment with her tomorrow morning at eight thirty,” Mom says. “All of us.”
“I have to take off work for this, Evie.”
I say nothing. I take a sip of water.
“Do you have anything to say?” Dad asks.
“No.” I don’t look up. I don’t want to see the way he’s looking at me.
“Who are you?” Dad says. “It’s like you’re not even our daughter anymore. We didn’t raise you like this.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“My Evie wouldn’t stay out all night doing god knows what and come home reeking of booze.”
Maybe I’m not your Evie anymore. Maybe I’m nobody’s Evie anymore. Maybe that Evie is dead and gone and buried like she should have been all along.
“Say something, damn it!” Dad pounds his fist on the table and the water sloshes inside my glass. I look up and see Mom shrunken inside herself. I don’t meet Dad’s eyes, but I can feel them burning holes into me.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, but it means nothing.
“We think you need to see someone,” Mom says. “We think it would be good for you to talk to someone about what you’re going through.”
“Since you obviously won’t talk to us,” Dad says.
“What, like a shrink?”
“Yes, a therapist,” Mom says. “I talked to Dr. Jacobs and he recommended someone who specializes in PTSD and—”
“And addiction,” Dad barks when Mom can’t say it. “Because of what you pulled with the pills. And who knows what else you’re doing when you’re out all night.”
“PTSD?” I say. “Why PTSD?”
“Because of what you went through with the cancer,” Mom says. “It was traumatic.”
“I guess.”
“You guess?” Dad hisses.
“James, you don’t need to have that tone,” Mom says.
“Oh, don’t I? And you think your approach is really working? This gentle, understanding bullshit that lets Evie walk all over us?”
“Evie, I think you should go to your room now,” Mom says. So I can let them fight in peace.
“And you won’t be joining us for dinner,” Dad adds. “You have to earn that right back through your behavior.”
“She has to eat,” Mom pleads.
“Then make her a plate, for Christ’s sake,” he snaps. “She can eat alone in her room.”
“Okay,” I say. I nod my head, as if the movement will keep me from crying. “Okay,” I say again, because what else is there to say when your father hates you and there’s no chance of him ever loving you again?
I get up and walk to my room. I turn on my favorite of Stella’s songs, the one that makes me feel tough and invincible. I turn it up as loud as possible, but it’s not working. I still feel like the world’s biggest piece of shit.
My door flies open and Dad storms into my room. He tears the CD out of my stereo and breaks it in half. “I am sick of this noise!” he yells. He grabs Stella’s hat from my desk and slams the door behind him. Silence follows. Emptiness. A great gaping hole that can never be filled.
I text Marcus: Meet me at the graveyard in an hour.
I grab my bag and climb out the window again.
I can’t get high enough. No amount of weed will make the memory of the way my Dad looked at me go away.
And no amount of weed will make the voice mail Caleb just left go away either. I keep hearing it over and over again: “Hi, Evie, it’s me, Caleb. I don’t know why you haven’t texted me back yet, but don’t worry, I’m not mad at you. You’re probably the nicest person I ever met, so I know you must have a good reason. Anyway, I really want to talk to you. So could you call me back soon? Thanks. Oh, this is Caleb. Okay, bye.”
I smoke and smoke and smoke but the soun
“Take it easy, killer,” Marcus says.
I exhale a huge cloud of smoke.
“Want to talk about it?” he says.
“My parents are assholes.”
“What’d they do?”
“All they do is try to control me. They’re mad because I’m doing bad in school and they don’t know where I am and who I’m with at every moment.”
“That seems pretty normal, don’t you think?”
“Whose side are you on?”
Marcus smiles and puts his arm around me. “Yours.” He kisses me. “Always. You know that.”
We’re sitting in the grass in front of the tomb where we did mushrooms and made love for the first time. I wish I felt like I did that night, full of magic. I wish the rest of the world would disappear. But the weed is just making me feel heavy and slow. I keep thinking someone’s behind us, hiding, watching. All the creepy cemetery statues seem to be facing us, staring.
“When are we going to run away?” I say.
“Right now,” Marcus says. “Let’s join the circus.”
“I’m serious.”
“What’s your hurry?”
“I need to get away from my parents.”
“I’d like to meet them sometime, you know. See what all the fuss is about.”
I don’t say anything. We are not having the same conversation. He does not understand the severity of the situation.
I feel antsy. I need to move. I stand up and look around at the acres of green grass, the old gravestones and oak trees. The inside of my head makes the whomp, whomp, whomp sound that tells me I am higher than I realized.
I wonder how many of these graves are for people who died of cancer, how many were children. Marble cherubs stand as sentries, naked and pure, wings unfolded, ready to fly. But to where? They are made of stone. They are fused to pillars stuck in the earth. They are babies who are doomed to spend eternity watching over death.
“Evie, what’s wrong?” Marcus says. “Why are you crying?”
My face is wet. I am breathless with deep, violent sobs. I don’t know how I let myself start crying again.
I shake my head. I can’t speak.
Marcus wraps me in his arms and I feel safe for a moment, like maybe he is strong enough to guard me from this world of pain. But then I open my eyes and it all comes flooding back. Even Marcus, even love, isn’t that strong.
The cherubs mock me. They laugh. They flap their wings. They say, You should be in the ground too.
I need something to drive them away. I need to feel something besides this, something bigger, stronger, anything. I feel Marcus’s arms, but they are not enough. I need all of him. I need to feel all of him.
I grab his face with my hands and kiss him with everything I have. My tongue finds his tongue. My teeth smash against his teeth. I push him back down behind the stone wall of the tomb, where no one can see us.
“Wait,” he says. I grab for his belt buckle. “Stop.” He grabs my hand. He pulls away.
“What’s wrong?” I say.
“You’re crying. It doesn’t feel right.”
“It feels right to me.” I reach for his belt again, but he takes my hand in his and doesn’t let go.
“What’s going on with you? Tell me.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Hey,” he says, guiding my cheek with his hand so I can’t help but look at him. “We don’t always have to get high, you know. We don’t always have to have sex. We can do something normal like have dinner or go to a movie. We could do things normal couples do.”
I can’t help but laugh. How did Marcus suddenly turn into Will? “Why would I want to be a normal couple?” I say. “What’s the fun in that?”
Marcus looks stung. I’ve hurt him. I’ve hurt everyone now. The others didn’t matter, but he does. I’ve gone and broken the only relationship I have left that matters.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I really am. I’m a mess right now.”
“Maybe you need some sleep,” he says, not unkindly. But not kindly, either.
“Yeah, that’d probably help.”
We sit in silence. The sun is going to set soon. The cemetery will be closed. The cherub statues will do whatever it is they do when no one’s looking.
“It’s a school night,” Marcus says. “I can’t miss class two days in a row.” Was it just this morning we woke up on the beach? “Maybe I should take you home now.”
I want to say no. I want to say, Take me with you. His house is huge, full of unused rooms and a father who’s not paying attention; surely he could hide me for a while. But the look on his face tells me that’s not a good idea. His jaw is set and his eyes are hard and I can tell he’s getting sick of me.
“I meant it about wanting to meet your parents sometime,” he says when we pull up in front of my house after a silent car ride. “I may even be able to swing a dinner with you and me and the judge if I book him a couple of weeks in advance.”
“First I have to get them to stop hating me.”
“I really doubt that they hate you.”
“I probably would if I were them.”
He kisses me good-bye and says “I love you, Evie,” and that gives me the strength to return home.
Dad, Mom, and Jenica are on the couch watching TV. Mom turns around when I walk through the front door, a look of sadness and fear on her face, but Dad and Jenica don’t move.
“In your room, now,” Dad says, still facing the TV. “I don’t even want to look at you.”
I walk straight to my room and close the door behind me. A cold plate of food is sitting on my desk where Stella’s hat used to be. My window is covered with boards, nailed on the outside, so now it’s impossible for me to escape.
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thirty-three.
I WAKE UP TO MOM SHAKING ME AND DAD YELLING FROM the hallway, “Just pour some water on her head.” It’s already eight fifteen, only fifteen minutes before we’re supposed to be at school to meet with Principal Landry.
“I’ve been trying to wake you up for an hour,” Mom says, her face surreal, hovering above mine. “You keep saying you’re getting up, but then I come in here and you’re asleep again.” I don’t remember any of that. I don’t remember falling asleep. I don’t remember sleeping. The last thing I remember is thinking about the stone cherubs at the cemetery, wondering how they got their wings, wondering how they got stuck with their crappy job of watching dead people sleep.
I’m in a daze as I search for something clean to wear. I haven’t taken a shower in four days. My vision is hazy; everything is a step behind where it should be. I feel naked without Stella’s hat. I am too exposed. I have nothing to hide behind.
When I step into the living room, Mom and Dad grab their things and we walk out to the car without speaking. Dad turns on the radio to fill up the silence, and it’s all bad news as usual.
Luckily classes are already in session when we get to school so I don’t have to run into anyone. I can’t face them after what happened at prom, after I’m sure Kasey spread the word that my performance was due to my being drunk, not something innocent like being sick or tired or cancer-y as everyone probably wanted to believe.
Principal Landry has her best serious face on as she sits us down in her office and explains that with only two weeks left until the end of the school year, I’m not passing any of my classes, not even art anymore, and it’s practically impossible to fail art. My attendance record is dismal. I haven’t been paying attention in class. I haven’t taken advantage of any of my teachers’ generous offers of extra help. I haven’t coordinated with tutors.
“We expected her to work harder,” she says.
“So did we,” say my parents.
“Frankly, we expected her to be a little more grateful,” she says.
“So did we,” say my parents.
But I didn’t ask for anyone’s help. I didn’t ask for any of this. Why should I be grateful for something I never even wanted?
Principal Landry folds her hands together and leans forward like she’s about to make us a great deal on a used car, such a great deal she has to whisper so her boss won’t hear. She’s going to pull some strings, she says. The teachers and administration remain sympathetic, she says. (Cancer! Cancer! she doesn’t say.) “We don’t want Evie to be held back while all her friends move on. We want Evie to succeed.”
I have to laugh at that one. If only it were that easy. Everyone looks at me like I’m crazy. “What’s so funny?” Dad says, and I say, “Nothing,” and they continue their conversation without me.
I look out the window while they work out a plan where my teachers will put together coursework for me to do over the summer, and if I complete it all, have perfect attendance for the remaining days of school, and pinkie-swear-promise to shape up, I can start senior year with all my “friends.” Yippee!
“Oh, isn’t that generous,” Mom says, and beams, still foolish enough to hold on to hope after all this time.
“It’ll only work if Evie’s on board,” Principal Landry says.
Dad looks at me like he already knows I’m going to let them down and all their generosity is going to be wasted.
“One more thing,” Landry says. “We want Evie to attend regular counseling sessions. Either with the school counselor or a therapist of your choice.”
“We already thought of that,” Mom says almost proudly, like she’s kissing up to the teacher, like she wants a gold star. “Evie’s doctor recommended someone. I was planning on contacting her today.”
“Excellent,” Principal Landry says. She and Mom are so proud of themselves for figuring out such a great plan for me. But Dad just sits there, scowling, checking his emails from work. Unlike them, he gave up on me a long time ago.