Maybe I Will Page 8

  I was so crashed that my mom had to shake me awake the next morning. It startled me so that I woke up screaming, which totally freaked my mom out and then she was yelling, and Dad came running up the stairs to see what was wrong, and there I was, still in my clothes from the night before and drenched in sweat.

  “It was just a nightmare,” I told them.

  “Probably brought on by fever,” Mom said, feeling my damp forehead and wet clothes. “It seems to have broken now, though.”

  She sent my dad for the thermometer and sat on the edge of my bed stroking my cheek. It made me want to cry so bad that I had to turn over on my side away from her. She gently rubbed my back until Dad returned.

  “Let me take your temperature,” she said. She sniffled a little bit and her eyes glistened with tears. As we waited for the thermometer to beep, she said softly, “I just wish I knew what was going on with you, Sandy.”

  When she took the thermometer from my mouth, she read it silently and then handed it to Dad. “No fever,” he said. “That’s good, right?”

  I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes with my sleeve. “Good. Today’s the last day of camp, and I wouldn’t want to miss it.”

  “Do you think we should call Dr. Parks?” Dad asked.

  Mom hesitated; so I answered, “I don’t. It was just a bad dream. It’s over.” Mom still didn’t look convinced. “I don’t even remember what it was now,” I added.

  “Sandy, when was the last time you took Nyquil?” Dad asked.

  “I haven’t taken any since we went to see Dr. Parks. Honest.”

  “Are you taking anything else?” Mom asked.

  Ooh, trickier question. I’ve been taking alcohol from the grocery store, but that was last weekend. “Mo-om,” I tried to sound incredulous. “I’ve been in taekwondo camp all week. The last thing I drank was a bottle of water,” I said picking up the empty bottle and handing it to her.

  She lifted it to her nose and then handed it to Dad. “What?” he asked.

  “It’s water,” she said.

  Dad looked completely baffled. “Of course it’s water.”

  I held my breath. The thought of Mom sniffing all of my water bottles sent adrenaline surging through every muscle in my body. “Speaking of taekwondo, I’d better go. I’m testing for orange belt this morning.” I got up and started getting my clothes around.

  “Wait, Sandy,” Mom said. She and Dad were making funny faces back and forth in some secret communication effort. I remember when I was really little and they used to spell back and forth when they didn’t want me to know what they were talking about. When I could follow them no matter how fast they spelled, they started using Latin phrases. Once I started picking up on those, they’ve invented some weird secret facial expressions or something. But I wasn’t sure they really ever knew what the other one was trying to convey any better than I did.

  Mom was patting on the bed like she wanted me to sit back down. “Wait for what?” I asked slowly, reluctant to sit back down on the bed now that I was up. “I need to use the bathroom and jump in the shower.”

  “I want you to talk to a counselor,” she said. “I feel like you’re worried about something and for whatever reason you don’t want to talk to us about it. But you need to talk to someone.”

  I tried to shrug it off like it was no big deal. “Fine. I’ll talk to a counselor. Whatever. Can I go now?” I didn’t actually wait for her to answer.

  I swallowed a couple of Tylenol from the bottle we kept in the medicine cabinet, then took a long shower, wasting more time and more water than usual, and thinking about what it would be like to see a counselor. It might not be bad, especially with the whole shoplifting thing out there. When the police come knocking on our door, maybe the counselor can explain to my parents how everything can get so crazy so fast. But, then again, I wouldn’t want the counselor running back to my parents with everything I might say.

  By the time I came downstairs to have Dad drive me to taekwondo, I was feeling pretty good. My parents had made an appointment for me the following week with a Dr. McMann. Mom had already left for the office. Dad told me as we got into the car.

  “Man or woman?” I asked.

  “Does it matter?” he wanted to know.

  “I guess not,” I said. Suddenly I had this picture of a dark room with a couch—me lying on the couch . . . Aaron watching me. I pushed that image out of my head and tried to picture Dr. McMann. In popped this idea of me visiting some Ronald McDonald in a fast food Play Place. I smiled and shook my head.

  “What’s so funny?” Dad asked.

  “It’s just that McMann kind of sounds like a guy in a Ronald McDonald suit to me.”

  Dad laughed. “Then you’ll be happy to know that Dr. McMann is a woman.”

  “No clown suit?” I asked.

  “No clown suit,” answered Dad. He had his eyes on the road, so I had a chance to really look at him. When I was a kid he seemed like the biggest, smartest, strongest person in the world. I really thought he knew everything. But now, he was still a good guy and all, he just seemed so clueless. It made me want to cry. I turned away and tried picturing a woman in the Ronald McDonald suit. But the humor was gone.

  “So how’d you come up with her?” I asked.

  “She’s the best in town.” The way he looked at me, it suddenly felt like he was saying I’m so messed up she’s probably the only one who could help me. But then his face softened. “Your mom knows her. Says kids seem to like her . . . “ His voice trailed off. “We just want whatever’s best for you, Sandy.”

  “I know, Dad.” I wanted to say I’m okay or at least I’ll be okay, but it felt like a lie. So I just said, “It’ll be okay.” And we drove the rest of the way in silence.

  16

  Oh, what may man within him hide,

  Though angel on the outward side!

  How may likeness made in crimes,

  Making practice on the times,

  To draw with idle spider’s strings

  Most ponderous and substantial things!

  —Measure for Measure, Act III, Scene ii, Lines 285-290

  AS I GOT out of the car, I realized a whole week had passed since I’d seen or talked to Troy. More than that for Cassie. They hadn’t even sent me as much as a short, “hey how r u” text message. It’s like I was dead to them. Of course, I hadn’t texted them either, but why would I since I was already dead to them? They were never really my friends. What did we ever even have in common? Cassie’s mom as a babysitter when we were in preschool. No wonder I don’t miss them. Except I did.

  I bowed as I walked into the do-jahng. These people are my friends now. Shanika. Hector. Shanika and I had the musical and now taekwondo in common. Hector and I were in the same grade, and we had taekwondo. And Aaron. No, not Aaron. Maybe too much in common. Maybe actually being friends with Hector wasn’t such a great idea. But at least I had Shanika. As long as she doesn’t mind being friends with a drunk and a thief. Suddenly, I could hardly breathe.

  I dropped my taekwondo bag inside the studio, then turned and ran back outside. Dad was already driving off, but I walked around the corner of the building and out of sight just in case. I leaned forward with my hands on my knees, gasping for breath like I’d just run a four-minute mile. I straightened myself and tried to walk it off, holding my side and taking slow, deep breaths. My eyes were wet with tears. I walked around to the back of the building where there was a picnic table and water fountain.

  I took a drink of water and remembered that I hadn’t brought any vodka with me today. Before I knew it, I was crying and trembling and trying to figure out how I was ever going to walk back into the studio, let alone test for orange belt. I sat down on top of the picnic table with my feet on the seat. I folded my arms across my knees, put my head down and let myself have a really good cry.

  When it felt like all of the tears were out, I got another drink of water from the fountain and splashed the cold water all over my face and in my eyes.
Then I stood up straight, focused and took a deep breath. See-jup. Your form, your count. And I started doing white belt form with every ounce of energy and precision I could muster. It felt good—really good—just to move my whole body with such purpose.

  When I was finished and turned back toward the building, I saw Shanika standing there. “You okay?”

  I nodded. “Just getting ready for testing.”

  “Your form looks good, but you’re late.” She motioned for me to follow her into the back door of the building. “There’s no testing outside.”

  “At least my bag was on time.”

  Shanika laughed. “Yeah, and how many of the eighteen white belt moves do you think your bag has done while you were out here?”

  “I don’t know,” I said smiling. “How many moves did you teach it?”

  “You’re crazy, Sandy, you know that?”

  I nodded. “My parents think so, too.” I dropped my voice as we walked through the back storage room toward the main studio. “They made an appointment for me to see a counselor next week.”

  Shanika stopped. “No kidding?”

  “No kidding.”

  “Do they know?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so.” We were standing in between two kicking dummies and I couldn’t resist throwing a couple of punches to this rubber green guy’s head. “I’m pretty sure they would have told me, though, if they’d gotten a call from the store or from the police.”

  “Not that!” Shanika smacked the back of the dummy’s head at the same time I threw another punch, and it sent the shock of my blow right back up my arm. “I mean did you tell them about Aaron.”

  I shook my head. “I haven’t told them anything. They just know something’s up.”

  “So they’re sending you to some psycho therapist?”

  I nodded. “Come on. I’m late, remember?”

  She smacked herself in the forehead. “Duh! Let’s go. We can talk about this later. Right now you need to focus on testing.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Everyone was already lined up on the mat and clapping in unison as Shanika and I bowed and entered the testing area. I took my place at the back of the class with the other white belts and Shanika stood beside her father at the front of the class.

  Mr. Washington bowed us all in and then explained how we would proceed, from white belts all the way up to red belts. There wouldn’t be anyone testing for black belt, because you had to do that at a formal testing with several high-ranking black belts as judges. Once you got up to camo belt, the testing included sparring, and once you got up to brown belt, you had to do board breaking, too.

  Even though all of the forms and everything got more difficult as you advanced, Mr. Washington said that white belt testing was the hardest because it was the first time you had everyone watching you with the pressure of performing each move accurately. “Once you have earned your orange belt, you have the confidence of knowing for certain that you can do this, one step at a time. Your instructor would not allow you to test if you weren’t ready.”

  I was glad white belt testing came first. I was done in no time and able to watch all of the higher ranks without having to worry about forgetting my own form. And I’ll admit, the person I watched most closely was Hector. He had his orange belt and was testing for his yellow belt.

  Hector seemed to get lost at one point in the middle of his form. He just stood there for a moment, and I thought maybe he would give up or have to start over, but he didn’t. Even when everyone else had finished, and the whole place was waiting on him, he didn’t let it rattle him. I could tell he was mentally going through all of the moves in his mind and then when he caught up again with where he had stopped, he continued. And when he finished, the whole place applauded. Not just for him, but for all of the orange belts that were on the floor. But Hector was smiling like it was all just for him.

  He did all of his one-step sparring segments with confidence. I looked around the room and wondered if anyone else knew he’d been assaulted. Probably not. You wouldn’t know if Shanika hadn’t told you, and Shanika wouldn’t even know if she hadn’t overheard it. No one except Shanika knew that I’d been assaulted. Aaron knows what he did. Yeah, well, not like he’s going to tell anyone. No one except Shanika knew that I was a thief and a drunk. Except maybe the people at the store. And maybe the police. Would they turn the videos over to the police?

  By the time testing was finished and we were reciting the honor, integrity and self-control pledge at the end, I was kind of glad that I was going to see a therapist. I thought about the way Shanika had said it. Psycho therapist. Maybe if the woman is totally psycho, she’ll at least understand how I feel.

  17

  To be, or not to be—that is the question.

  Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer

  The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune

  Or to take arms against a sea of troubles

  And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep—

  —Hamlet, Act III, Scene i, Lines 58-60

  SHANIKA DROVE ME home after the testing, and we had a chance to talk. I really wanted to ask her what she was doing this weekend and see if maybe we could just hang out sometime, but I was kind of afraid to ask, and she didn’t offer.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I said as I got out of the car.

  “See you Monday,” she called back to me, and drove away.

  So long, Shanika. So long, spring break. I stood there waving quite a bit longer than I should have. Definitely longer than I would have if Mom or Dad had been home. But they wouldn’t be home from work for several hours yet. Which left me with nothing to do, except work on my AP World History assignment: What is character?

  I pondered this question as I pulled out the three vodka bottles I had hidden in my closet, one full, one mostly full and one empty. Just looking at them made my mouth water and my stomach tighten. To drink or not to drink—THAT is the real question. On the one hand, I really wanted a drink to help me relax and get the creative juices flowing. On the other hand, I didn’t know how long this vodka needed to last. My days of just walking out of a store with a bottle were over.

  And what about character? Does character allow me to take a drink or no? What about the character I’m playing? Does the character I’m playing take a drink? What is character really?

  I pulled out my phone and searched the internet for “character.” Turns out the dictionary had more than a dozen definitions. I read through all of them. The only thing that spoke to me was the phrase “out of character.” That’s me. Out of character. My character is gone. Drinking and stealing and feeling totally defeated . . . none of that is me. Where did it come from? Who am I becoming?

  I wasn’t getting any closer to writing anything down for my assignment. Back to my real question of the moment: To drink or not to drink? Is it nobler to suffer all of the slings and arrows of my outrageous fortune or should I pick up the bottle and calm my sea of troubles?

  I’m not a drunk. I don’t have to drink. Except for last night, I haven’t had hardly anything to drink all this whole week. But I’m feeling really thirsty now. Just don’t think about it. Think about something else.

  I started thinking about talking to Dr. McMann. What would I tell her? Where would I start? Who was she, anyway? I looked her up on the internet. The address popped up first. Her office was downtown, close to where my mom worked. I clicked on the link to her web page. This is what I saw: DR. ERIN MCMANN, PSYD, HSPP, ABPP across the top of the page. Underneath that was a headshot of Dr. McMann and underneath that were the words: PSYCHOLOGIST — THERAPIST.

  First I focused on her name. Erin. Then the word THERAPIST jumped out at me. Oh, my God, I don’t believe it. I really don’t believe it.

  I opened the mostly full bottle of vodka and took three swallows straight down. I stopped at three because I wasn’t actually sure that last one was going down. My eyes watered and my nose burned. I coughed and gagg
ed and looked at the web page again. Unbelievable. I turned the phone off and threw it on my bed.

  I picked up my spiral notebook and turned to a clean page. I wrote “Erin” and “Therapist” across the top. I poured some vodka in a glass and took a drink. I don’t know how long I sat there staring at the words. Finally, beneath them I wrote: “Erin” and “The rapist.” Of all the counselors in the world, my parents are sending me to Erin TheRapist.

  I had to get out of there before my parents came home. I carefully filled a water bottle with vodka to take with me and hid the rest. After much thought, I turned to a clean page in my notebook and wrote, “Meeting Hector at the library to work on history assignment.” I signed my name, tore the page out of my notebook, put the notebook and bottle of vodka in my backpack, and left the note on the kitchen counter on my way out.

  Maybe I will go to the library. My parents wouldn’t worry if they thought I was at the library studying with someone. They knew my only assignment over spring break was a history assignment. They knew Shanika, Troy and Cassie weren’t in my AP World History class, but all they knew about Hector is that we were in the same grade and that we both did the taekwondo rank advancement camp this week. They didn’t know he wasn’t actually in my AP World History class, but they also didn’t know his parents well enough to just call them if they had a question like they might with Cassie’s mom or Troy’s dad. Plus, there are a dozen libraries in town. I could go to any one of them.

  All I really wanted to do was walk. Just keep walking someplace where no one would notice me. Away from the university where my dad was. Away from downtown where my mom was. And where Erin TheRapist has her office. Without really meaning to I found myself walking back to the taekwondo place.

  The studio was closed, so I just went around back to the picnic table. I set my backpack on the table, pulled out my water bottle and took another drink. Only I didn’t really feel any relief. In fact, I think I actually felt worse. I screwed the top back on and set the bottle on the table next to my backpack. Then I started doing my white belt form. When I was done, I started all over. I did it again and again until I realized it was getting dark and also starting to cool down. I dug a sweatshirt out of my backpack and pulled it on.