Backlash (6 page)

“I don’t get it. How does that matter now?” Liam asks. I abandon my table-leg staring to look at him, because he’s taking this so seriously. “Are you saying just because Lara was kind of a head case in middle school it’s okay for all those kids to write that stuff on her wall?”

“No, but —”

“Because that’s just wrong.” Liam interrupts Mom before she can even finish her sentence. “Like, ‘to the end of the universe and back’ wrong.”

“Liam, I’m not saying it’s right for anyone to write things on Lara’s wall,” Mom says. “But let’s face it — a more stable child probably wouldn’t have ended up in the hospital.”

Liam crosses his arms over his chest. He’s not buying what Mom’s selling.

“They’re our friends. Dad and Mr. Kelley built the tree fort together. How can you be so …” He trails off, searching for the words to describe the ways he finds Mom and me lacking. Unable to find it, he punches the doorjamb and shouts, “Forget it,” before stomping upstairs and slamming his door.

And then it’s just me and Mom.

She glares at me, eyes narrowed almost to slits, and hisses,
“What were you thinking?”

C
HRISTIAN SAID
I was a loser.

He said the world would be a better place without me in it.

And now I’m a loser at trying to make that happen.

Everyone expects me to be happy that I failed.

But I’m not.

Which is why I can’t have shoelaces. Or a belt.

And they make me open my mouth after they’ve given me my pills to make sure I’ve swallowed them.

And they do bed checks every few hours to make sure I haven’t hanged myself with the sheets, so I can’t even get a good night’s sleep.

And I want to sleep all the time, because when I’m asleep, I’m not here. Not here in this place, where every movement is watched. Where everything I say is being turned over and analyzed, making me want to curl up into myself and say nothing.

But it’s bad if I say nothing. It means they’ll just keep me here longer.

So I have to say something.

I’m searching for the magic words to get out of here …
Abracadabra
?
Alohomora
?

There are get-well-soon cards on the dresser from my family and friends.

Mom said my friends Julisa and Luis want to visit.

I told her that I’m not up to visitors yet. Not even them.

The truth is, I don’t want Julisa and Luis to see me in this place. This prison, filled with crazy people.

Crazy people like me.

Luis thought I was crazy enough when I tried out for cheerleading. He must think I’m completely
loco
now.

The cheerleading team sent flowers. They’re beautiful — roses and carnations and daisies in cheerful yellows, pinks, and whites. But they’re arranged in an ugly plastic male urinal.

“I’m sorry, Lara, glass vases aren’t allowed,” the nurse told me.

I pretend to be excited about the flowers and the cards.

I pretend that I can’t wait to get out of here to see my friends.

I have to find the words to convince them that I’m fine. That everything is perfect.

Maybe I should ask Mom.

She’s the expert on that.

“I
N CONCLUSION,
science, technology, engineering, and math are more important than the arts,” my friend Oliver says. “The future of our country depends on graduating students who are proficient in STEM subjects, so if we have limited resources to spend on education, we shouldn’t waste them on unnecessary subjects like music and art.”

Today’s debate club topic is “All Public Schools Should Provide Students with Music and Arts Education.”

I argued the premise.

Last night, Mom heard me practicing and said, “No one better raise
my
taxes to pay for kids to waste time finger painting.”

I closed my bedroom door and practiced in a quieter voice, almost a whisper. I knew there was no point telling Mom about the research I’d found to back up my argument, about how arts education helps kids develop creative-thinking, problem-solving, and communications skills. Mom’s more convinced by dollars and cents than common sense.

“Liam, your rebuttal,” Mr. Phillips says.

I go up to the podium. Oliver smirks from the front row. He’s convinced he has this debate in the bag.

“Those who say that music and arts education is unnecessary don’t recognize that the arts are a language spoken by everyone, reaching across cultural, social, economic, and racial barriers,” I say, thinking of my mother. “They help us learn empathy, to understand how someone else feels and to experience his or her emotions as our own. And in an increasingly global and interconnected world, this is essential to achieve both economic and political success.”

People clap when I’m done.
Yes!

Not only that, as I sit down, I notice I’ve wiped the smirk off Oliver’s face. We may be friends, but we both like to win.

I guess I got that from Mom. You know how some parents let their kids win when they’re little so they feel good about themselves? Not my mom. Dad would, but Mom was like, “If you want to win, you have to earn it. All this ‘give everyone a trophy’ garbage is ruining this country.”

When I finally beat her at Monopoly, I took a picture of the board, and then I never played with her again.

Mr. Phillips calls for the votes. We’re judged on how we argue the point, how we rebut the opponent’s points, how well our arguments are structured, and our presentation skills.

As he’s tallying up the scores, I remember when Dad came to my first debate. I was arguing for the death penalty. My team won.

In the car on the way home, he said, “I never knew you were in favor of the death penalty, son.” He glanced over at me. “Have to say, I’m surprised.”

I stared at him. “What makes you think I’m in favor of the death penalty?”

“Liam, you just won a debate arguing in support of it,” Dad said. “Not only that, you did such a good job you almost made me think
I’m
in favor of it.”

“Dad, that’s just the side I took for the debate,” I explained. “Mr. Phillips told us we had to start off arguing a position we don’t agree with because it’s harder to do.”

My father shook his head slowly. “Wow … Smart man, Mr. Phillips,” Dad said. “Teaching you to play devil’s advocate.”

“I’m not sure Mom agrees,” I muttered.

Dad laughed. “Maybe not. But remember, you inherited your way with words from your mom, not me.”

I’m hoping my way with words pays off as Mr. Phillips finishes tallying the points on the voting sheets.

“We have a winner,” he says. “Congratulations, Mr. Connors.”

I turn and hold out my hand to Oliver. Mr. Phillips is big on us being gracious when we win — and not being sore losers when we don’t.

“Good debate, Mr. Steiner,” I say.

Oliver shakes my hand and says, “Nice work, Mr. Connors.”

Then we both laugh because it still seems so weird to call each other mister, but we’re supposed to at debate club because Mr. Phillips says it’s a way of showing each other respect. But as soon as the announcement crackles over the loudspeaker that the late buses are here, Oliver fake punches my shoulder and says, “Crush you next time, sucker.”

“Yeah … in your dreams,” I tell him.

Guess we can only keep up the respect thing for so long. But that’s okay. We’re just messing with each other. It’s way different from the stuff people have been saying to Lara Kelley.

We talk about our fantasy football picks on the way down to the front circle.

“See you tomorrow,” he says as we part ways for our late buses.

“Not if I see you first,” I retort over my shoulder.

The late bus is half-empty, as usual. The lucky ones have parents or older siblings who pick them up.

Even if Bree had her license and use of one of the family cars, I can’t see her going out of her way to do me a favor.

But today I don’t mind so much, because Syd is sitting on the late bus, staring out the window. I slide into the seat in front of her.

“What’s going on?”

“You don’t want to know,” she says. “Nothing too special.”

But you’re pretty special
…

Stop,
I tell myself. Syd needs a friend, not a creeper.

“I just wonder if I’ll ever stop feeling like I want to punch everyone in the face.” She sighs.

It’s so unlike Syd to say something like that that I can’t help putting my hands up to block my face, laughing as I do so.

Syd swats my arms down playfully.

“Not
you
, silly,” she says. “Just … the rest of the world.”

“Whew!” I breathe an exaggerated sigh of relief. “You had me so scared for a moment there.”

“Yeah, right,” Syd says. “Because I’m so tough that huge football players have been known to wet themselves when they see me walking down the hall.”

Being able to make her laugh is even better than beating Oliver. Mom would slap me upside the head for even
thinking
that, but luckily for me, she can’t read my thoughts.

“Seriously … is everything okay?” I ask. “I mean … I know that’s a stupid question but …”

“Heh … yeah.” She looks out the window, avoiding my gaze, and her lower lip trembles. “No … everything isn’t okay. Pretty much nothing is okay, if you want to know the truth.” Her voice wobbles, like she’s about to cry.

Crying girls freak me out, because I don’t know what to do to make them stop. Thankfully, Syd turns mad instead.

“But of course I have to pretend like everything’s fine, because Mom’s running for reelection to city council. I’m just so
mad
all the time. Like, every time I stay after school for rehearsal and work on crew instead of being in the cast … I was
good
.”

“I know,” I agree. “I ran lines with you.”

“It’s not fair,” she says. Syd’s speaking quietly, so only I can hear over the noise of the bus engine, the driver’s radio, and the chatter of the other kids, but there’s so much anger in her voice I feel like it could drill a hole in the seat back between us. “I didn’t even get a chance to try out. Because Lara’s drama always messes up my life.”

And then, as if she’s just realized what she’s said, she covers her mouth with her hand and looks at me, wide-eyed with horror.

“You probably think I’m awful, right?”

The fingers over her mouth muffle her words. Her other hand grips the seat back.

I pat that hand hesitantly, gently, with my own.

“I don’t think you’re awful, Syd. I think you’re … you know … human.”

Her eyes get all watery, and I’m scared she’s going to start crying, but then she takes a deep breath and smiles.

“Whew,” she says. “Human, huh? Well, that’s a relief. And all this time I’ve been worrying I was some kind of alien.”

Who could blame me for crushing on her?

B
EING BUZZED
into the psych ward is like being let into prison — not that I’ve been to prison, but I’ve seen movies. I can’t believe Lara’s been in this place for two weeks.

She’s in her room, sitting on her bed, wearing sweats — the kind with an elastic waist, because she’s not allowed the ones that tie with a string. Her skin is pale, almost gray in color, and her hair hangs limply around her face, like she hasn’t brushed it today. Like she doesn’t care about her appearance — or anything for that matter.