Empty (16 page)

I swallow. Maybe I should tell
her
what happened. Unload every heavy detail onto her warm, kind shoulders. Maybe she’d listen to me. . . . Maybe she’d believe me.

“Nothing,” I say. “I tripped on the sidewalk. Stubbed my toe. I’m good.”

Confusion registers on her face. “I don’t know about that. Want me to take a look? It might be broken.”

“Nah, really, I’m all right. It feels better already. I’ll ice it when I get home.”

Total lie.

I’m doing everything in my power not to cry in front of the woman. I blink a bunch of times and bite the inside of my lip.

“Oh, honey, you’re as white as a ghost. Come here.” She wraps me in a hug. I am hushed by the perfection of the embrace. The way her arms put just the right amount of pressure on my body makes me know that I exist. She smells like dryer sheets. She draws back but holds on to my shoulders. “Let me have one of my girls drive you and Meggie home.”

I nod. I don’t want her to let me go. Her touch is gentle and kind, and I haven’t been touched like that in a long time. She probably thinks I’m a clingy weirdo, so I let my eyes wander past Mrs. McNash, into her living room. I spot Meggie. She’s sleeping on her mat, butt up. Her blanket is tucked underneath her cheek. She’s an angel.

“Let me get Meggie for you.” Mrs. McNash skillfully steps over three kids, picks her up, and has Meggie in my arms without her making a peep.

“Dehwy!” she whispers in her groggy little voice. I gently smother her neck with kisses so Mrs. McNash can’t see my tears. Her smell fills my nose, and I try to visualize Meggie’s smell surrounding my body like a fog of perfection and innocence. Wrapping me in love.

I put Meggie down and change my mind about the ride.
“I can walk, really. Thanks though.” I shift my weight and gasp. Not healed. I want the love to heal my broken bone. Still broken.

Mrs. McNash insists, so we get a ride home from Miss Kelly, the skinny twentysomething with superwhite teeth and neon orange hair who got the part-time job instead of me. The drive home is less than five minutes, but Miss Kelly manages to tell me that she went to my high school, got accepted to West Chester University for early childhood ed, hated studying, flunked out, and got the job with Mrs. McNash because she agreed to take classes at the community college, which she’s not studying for either.

Fascinating.

I pant through my thank-you and hobble to the front landing with Meggie, her stroller, and my backpack in tow. Miss Kelly makes no move to help me. She’s too busy texting up a storm. She honks as she drives away. There is no way in hell I will make it up the stairs while carrying everything, so I leave Meggie’s folded stroller behind the main door.

The walk up the stairs is torture. I have to peel my fingers from the banister when Meggie and I reach the top. My teeth are probably nubs from all of my clenching and gritting. The f-word slips out as I unlock our door.

Meggie bounces into our apartment. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

I shout to her as I close the door behind me, “Megs, that’s not a nice word. You can’t say that word. Okay?”

She scrunches her face into the cutest scowl. I get her set up with a snack and a video while I gobble ibuprofen. When I wrestle my foot out of my sneaker I almost puke. It’s black and blue and swollen to twice its normal size. After a quick Internet search I learn that I have to stabilize my mangled toe. We don’t have the right kind of tape, so I use regular, clear wrapping-paper tape. After much panting and sweating, I have squished my broken big toe and the one next to it together into one painful mess.

I lie down on the sofa and put a pillow underneath my foot to elevate it. Meggie is engrossed watching colorful little creatures dance and sing about friendship. I close my eyes, take deep breaths, and try not to pass out from the rolling waves of agony. The underlying hum of the traffic passing by calms me down.

My cell beeps, startling me, and I listen to a rambling voice mail from Cara. “I hope you’re not going to weasel out of the talent show and stay home sulking, Dell. It was just sex—even if it was with the most popular girl’s boyfriend. It was just sex. Besides, you can’t hide out forever. Meet me at six, backstage by the lion head. Wear makeup, like, a lot. It’s
called stage makeup, and you need to make it dark or it won’t show out in the audience.”

I sit up because I can’t believe what I just heard. Just sex? She still believes Brandon’s story. I’m in the middle of texting Cara something along the lines of “Wow, you’re lucky you told the guidance counselor you were worried about me, because if you hadn’t, I’d be really mad at you right now” when my toe explodes with pain. I let out a long moan. I abandon the text and limp to the medicine cabinet to inspect prescription bottles. I know what I’m looking for. Vicodin. That oughta take the edge off. “Yessss,” I hiss. I pop two and head back to elevate my toe and finish my text.

There is a lot of me to get situated, so it takes a while, and by the time I’m comfortable, I lose the desire to text Cara. She obviously doesn’t get it.

After twenty minutes of robotically staring at the television, I feel the Vicodin kick in. When I blink, it’s like my inner windshield wipers are turned on slow, because my eyes take a while to open. My heartbeat isn’t racing anymore either. Everything has slowed down. But my toe still hurts like a mother.

My cell buzzes with a new text from Cara. She demands I get over the whole Taryn incident by blowing everyone’s mind onstage tonight. She says it will show everyone that I’ve
moved on. Then she reminds me about my makeup again.

I put my phone down. I blink, and my eyelids are in no hurry to open. If I took another Vicodin, I probably wouldn’t care about being up onstage. Hell, with that much Vicodin in me, I probably wouldn’t care if I were naked onstage. Doing jumping jacks.

I IMAGINE THE HOT STAGE LIGHTS WARMING MY
skin, my voice filling the auditorium. The audience loving me, clapping and chanting my name. Mountains of love and adoration directed at me. That sounds so good right now.

I want that.

A landslide of objections form. I have nothing to wear. I have a broken toe. How am I supposed to get to school? I can’t walk. What if the baseball dicks show up and start mooing in the audience? What if Taryn is there? That would get ugly.

It seems like the universe or God or whatever is trying to give me signs. Don’t do it, Adele. Just stay home and eat
a sandwich. Stay away from that stage. Stay away from those people. Stay away from that moment.

That moment.

But I love that moment.

The rehearsals have been dipped in perfection. The applause and cheering. My stomach flipping with joy. The skin around my mouth tingling as my face burst into a smile. I want to feel that again. It made me feel seen—really seen. And alive. Even Mrs. Salvatore cheered.

I need to feel joy, especially after all the crap I went through at school today. It might fill some of the empty space inside of me.

I text Cara and ask her if she can pick me up because I hurt my toe on my walk home (lie) and don’t feel like walking (truth). She texts back that I’m a klutz and she’ll honk at quarter of six.

I guess I’m actually going to sing.

I look at my watch. I’ve got an hour and a half until my mother gets home. I didn’t tell my parents about the show because they wouldn’t care. My father is too busy gallivanting around with Donna anyway. But if I’m going to sing, then I need to shower so I’m ready to go as soon as Cara honks.

Meggie is mesmerized by her show. I hop to the bathroom. I’ve never been more thankful that we live in a tiny
apartment. As the hot water pours down my body, the wrapping slides off my toes. I stare down at the wet mound of tape. “Mother-effer.”

After my shower I hop back to the kitchen to rewrap my toes. More swearing and more pain.

Four hops to my bedroom with freshly wrapped toes, and I’m searching for my black T-shirt with the white tree on it. It’s my nicest one, and doesn’t everyone say black makes you look skinnier? It takes me almost five minutes to get my jeans on because of my stupid toe. Even sliding the worn cotton over my toe makes me gag into my bent elbow. Those two Vicodin aren’t touching the pain. I take a third. I figure that should take the edge off the throbbing and give me a nice buzz.

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, caking on my mother’s eye shadow. I have no clue how to put this on. Painting my droopy eyelids with a shaky hand isn’t easy. I am awful at applying makeup. That third Vicodin must be kicking in, because I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open. I rub my cheeks to blend in my blush, and my skin feels like warm pudding. I need to sit down. My chin drops to my chest, and my body slowly tips to the right. I reach out and fumble for the towel bar. I steady myself.

“Whoa.” I’m feeling pretty wasted right now.

A laugh builds in my chest, then bursts from my mouth.
I spray spit all over my reflection in the mirror and yell out, “Ugly!” I need more makeup. Cara said so.

This time I don’t bother looking at the colors as I apply. My hand just swipes and smears over and over and over again. It has to be dark enough now. I squint and concentrate. My makeup can’t get any darker. I bet when I’m onstage, I’ll be visible from the baseball field across campus. This makeup can power through walls. Lockers. Solid brick. It’s that heavy.

“Girls,” my mother shouts. “I’m home!”

I have no story prepared for why I look like a demented circus clown.

“Adele,” my mother says from the doorway of the bathroom. From the corner of my eye I can see that she’s holding Meggie and smiling at her. I don’t think she’s looking at me. I keep staring in the mirror. She asks, “What are your plans for tonight?”

“Thetalentshow,” I mumble.

“The what?”

My lips feel squishy. My toe throbs like the bass of a dance song.
Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam.
I wish I’d put a sock on it. Maybe my makeup will distract my mother from seeing my taped-up toes. But I still can’t look at her. “The talent show. I’m going. With Cara. She’s coming to pick me up.”

“You’re doing what with Cara?” my mother clarifies.
Apparently what I’m thinking and what I’m saying aren’t aligning at the moment.

I bite my lip and then say slowly, “The talent show.” I continue staring at my face in the mirror. I raise my eyebrows up and silently mouth a long “Wow.”

My mother snaps, “Did you tell me you were going to this?”

I shake my head, and she exhales loudly. “What if I’d had to work late, Dell? Who would’ve watched Meggie?” I am given no time to respond because she turns and walks away.
Nice talking with you, Mother.

I grab the edge of the counter and exhale agony into the sink. I’m doped-up and
still
in pain. Great, just great. Now that mom’s home, hopping is out of the question. I’m going to have to limp around and stick with the stubbed-toe story. I take one small step away from the sink, and stars pop into my vision. I feel woozy.

Deep breaths.

I open the medicine cabinet, grab the bottle of Vicodin, and shove it into my front pocket. As I exit the bathroom I resume the least traumatic way of getting around—only putting pressure on my heel. It’s a tricky way for a drugged-up fat girl to get around, but it beats the heck out of putting my full weight on the toe.

Whispering curses, I manage to wrestle on a sock. As I
sit heaving and sweating on the edge of my bed, I spy my Adidas slides in the corner. I get the best idea. I heel-hop over and pick them up. They’ll totally work. I clutch them to my chest in a hug. The thought of squeezing my broken toe into a sneaker was making me want to chop it off with a butcher knife.

Slides on, I hear Cara’s horn.

I check my reflection. I look like I’m ready to give a blow job in the alley or eat some brains. I hear the car horn again.

I’m hobbling down the hallway, when my mother is suddenly in front of me. “Oh my God, Dell!”

My eyebrows lift. “Relax, it’s just makeup.” I put my foot flat, and clawing pain makes me dig my fingernails into my palm.

Another honk blares from the parking lot, this one longer and more insistent. “I’m going.” As nonchalantly as I can, I heel-walk to the door.

“Why are you limping?” my mother asks from behind me.

I turn only my head, unable to endure the pain of maneuvering my entire body around to face her. “Stubbed my toe on the sidewalk.”

“Dell, you look ridiculous. Between the face paint and the slides with socks . . . come on.”

“Thank you, Mother.” I close my apartment door and slowly take the steps down one at a time.

“HOLY EFFING SHIT!” CARA SHRIEKS.

I close the car door. “You said heavy makeup. So sue me for being a good listener.”

“What did you say?” She eyes me up and down. Apparently I am only still making sense to myself right now.

I shrug and do my best to fasten my seat belt. Getting part A into part B is hard when your eyes won’t stay open.

“What are you wearing?”