The Secret Side of Empty (27 page)

She’s red.

“M, so I wanted to talk to you.”

“Okay.”

“Why did you pretend in there that you didn’t already know about Josh and me?”

“Ummm . . . because I didn’t.” I say this slowly, like explaining something to a child who’s not getting it.

“Right. I know about you two.”

“You know
what
about us two?”

“I know you’ve been talking all year.”

“We’ve been Facebook friends since Chelsea and I went up and met him that weekend. I think Chelsea’s friends with him, too.”

“Oh, don’t try to play it off like that. You think you’re so much better than me. Just because you’re all jock and bike everywhere to get nice legs. Just because I put on the freshman ten and you probably think that’s funny. You’re so above everyone.”

This is awkward. Where did this come from?

“Siobhan, honestly, I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t know why you’re getting in my face like this.”

“So you’re going to deny he’s coming down to New Jersey this summer to be with you?”

“Are you kidding?”

“I read his Facebook messages. I know that you guys have been talking. I know he told you he’s coming down.”

“You hacked his Facebook account? Not cute.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

“I don’t have to give you any answers. I’m not even sure what the question is.”

“Is he coming down because of you?”

“No. If you think I’m trying to get your boyfriend, you’re crazy.”

“Why, because he’s not good enough for you? Maybe he doesn’t seem like much to you, but I really love him. Loved him. And anyway, what kind of a pretentious name is M.T. anyway? You’re just too cool for everyone. And you’ve been a total jerk to Chelsea.”

Then she starts bawling. It’s pretty horrifying to see. I stare at her shoes. Gold moccasins. They shock me a little. They seem out of character. She wipes her face with the outside edges of her hands, the left one for the right side, the right one for the left. I focus on those moccasins. I almost feel like saying something nice.

“Don’t cry,” is the best I can think of.

“Yeah, real easy for you to say.”

C
helsea comes home in June. She’s on crutches, and her leg is still in a cast. They put pins in her. From now on, every time she goes to an airport, she’s going to have to carry a letter from her doctor explaining why she sets off the metal detectors. I think that’s kind of awesome.

We are sitting in Chelsea’s room. She props her cast up on a pillow that looks like a mini sack of grain.

She says, “M, can we talk about the thing about you said? About . . . not having a future? And what I did? I really didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Maybe Chelsea found the strength that comes from being home. Or maybe it’s just time.

I take a deep breath. “Okay. But, first, can I tell you something?

“Yes.”

“You know I can’t go to college.”

“You can explain the problem with the grades at the end. I mean, you’ve got three and a half years of great grades.”

“No, it’s not that. I’m going to tell you something.”

“Okay.”

“So . . . my parents came over when I was little, and they didn’t have permission to stay. So we’re illegals.”

“Like . . . you don’t have papers to be here?”

“Yeah.” Chelsea’s quiet for a long while.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“I was so embarrassed. And my parents always said not to tell anyone, because they can use it against you.”

“You know I would never do that. That’s so weird that I never knew that about you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t understand why you never told me. It’s no big deal.”

“It’s kind of a big deal to me. That’s why I was so mad when you told the cops what I said and all that crazy stuff happened.”

“What happened anyway?”

“I kind of don’t want to talk about it. But the cops came, and I thought I was going to get deported.”

“They wouldn’t do that. Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know; that’s what my dad always says. And I’ve read stories online of women calling the cops for domestic violence, then getting deported because the cops found out they were undocumented. Stuff like that.”

“I’m sure that can’t be true.”

“I don’t even know what’s true anymore. I’ve just been so afraid to talk about it with anyone.”

“I’m so sorry. I was just so scared for you. Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“That day . . . were you talking about killing yourself?”

“Yes and no. It’s complicated. But when the cops came they took me to a hospital for an evaluation.”

“That’s so scary. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah. But it helped in a weird way. It really helped me get clear about what I want. What I want is just to feel better.”

“It never in a million years occurred to me that it would go so far, like hospitals and stuff. I figured they’d just have someone at school talk to you or something.”

“I know.”

“Now we’ve got to fix this illegal thing.” She winks. “Marry me!” she holds out her arms, the two good limbs she’s got. I slap her hand five.

“While we’re confessing,” says Chelsea.

“Yeah?”

“My parents are getting divorced.”

“
What
? Why?”

“That day you came over and my mother talked to you. The day she was digging up the lawn. You remember that?”

“Yeah.”

“She thought that you knew something. But you didn’t know.”

“No.”

“I never said anything. I didn’t know how to tell you. My mother filed the papers, like, a month ago. And what sucks is that my mother inherited our house so it’s my dad who’s got to move out.”

“That’s . . . I don’t know what to say. What happened with them?”

“My mother was in love with someone else.
Is
, I guess. That morning, the day she was wrecking the lawn, my parents had just this horrible fight. My father crying and telling her he still loved her. And her saying that she was very sorry, but she was in love with someone else.”

“I had no idea.”

“Well, I guess we’re even,” says Chelsea, smiling a smile which, for the first time, I realize doesn’t tell the whole story.

I
walk into Mr. A’s class with my backpack empty except for the paper I’ve written, on time, as I promised I would.  Mr. A starts class. “Very well, ladies, today is the day your world view papers are due. As discussed, we will be presenting them orally, then discussing them as a class. We will take the week for that. Any volunteers? Who would like to go first?”

I raise my hand. I feel good, one moment in which I know just what I want to do. Mr. A seems unsurprised and kind of pleased that I’ve volunteered.

“M.T., won’t you start us off?”

I walk up to the podium slowly, my paper in my hand. I shift my uniform skirt off to the left a little and flatten the front of my shirt. I look over the group, mostly girls I’ve known since we were little—Quinn with her dead brother’s license, Dakota with her unexpected drinking habits—and I realize that just the same way they don’t know me, I don’t know them, either.

“My paper is entitled ‘Seventeen Ways to Say Illegal.’”

I hear a little rustle through the group and Mr. A shifts in his seat.

“There is this song. It’s called ‘Seventeen Ways to Say I’m Leaving.’ It’s about a girl who is thinking about suicide. Which, I guess, I’ve kind of done.”

Dakota casts a sidelong glance at Quinn.

“I realize now, I didn’t really relate to it because I wanted to die. Just because I wanted it to stop. You know? My life, I mean. The way it was. Like I had no future. Not a future like you guys, anyway. Because I am an illegal immigrant.”

More chatter. I am surprised just how good it feels to say it to this group of girls who have known me—but not known me—for so long.

“So, my end-of-year essay is just a list, really. I am seventeen. And I thought it would be good to have one phrase for every year I’ve lived as an illegal immigrant. So, anyway, my Seventeen Ways to Say Illegal are:

Broken

Alone

Not allowed

Wrong

Trapped

Shunned

Unwanted

Not good enough

Apart

A secret

On the wrong side

Misplaced

A threat

A mistake

Voiceless

Unheard

And last,

Still here anyway.”

Quinn’s eyes get wide and Dakota does a little clap until she realizes no one else is clapping.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The silence feels right somehow.

M
y dress for graduation is cream colored and looks like something a secretary would wear. This one my mother made slowly, for months, but only gave to me a week ago. Like everything she makes, it fits perfectly. She also gets me a pair of cream-colored high heels. She believes that shoes make the outfit. I wish I’d given her enough notice so she could have scored me a pair for prom.

We line up in the area behind the stage in the small gym that doubles as an auditorium. There are only fifty-four of us graduating. Still, we’re cramped. Ms. Cronell fusses with her NHS girls, straightening sashes and pins over gowns. I don’t wear either. I am still surprised it feels bad to look at them. I shift my cap. My bobby pins dig into my scalp. I am sweaty under my polyester graduation gown.

Music starts and we file onto the stage the way we’ve practiced. We sit in chairs. Camera flashes start to go off like a rock star just stepped onstage. I look around and see my mother standing in a corner in the back, holding Jose’s hand. She waves. I smile blankly but pretend I’m smiling at nothing.

There’s a lot of blabber, most of which I don’t listen to. Dakota gives the valedictorian’s speech. I wonder what mine would have been like if I hadn’t let my grades go. Hers is something about a responsibility to the future. She seems pretty lively. I wonder if she has her magic flask with her.

Finally, The Moment We’ve All Been Waiting For. Sister Mary Augustus calls us up, one by one, hands us a diploma, and shakes our hand. We’re supposed to stop, frozen, photo op moment, her left hand on our right shoulder, as our eager parents stand at the foot of the stage and snap pictures. When she calls Chelsea’s name, everyone stands and claps. Chelsea’s mother walks up from the first row and accepts her diploma on Chelsea’s behalf, with everyone standing up and cheering. When my turn comes, I walk up to Sister Mary Augustus. We freeze, me with an uncomfortable glare, Sister Mary Augustus with her identi-smile. We pause there, awkwardly suspended. No one takes a picture. My mother is in the back, and waves again. She doesn’t know the rules. Also, she doesn’t own a camera.

And I’m a high school graduate.

We stand around and talk, girls holding big armfuls of flowers. Caps off now. Everyone is going to restaurants with parents, grandparents, cousins, siblings. A few people are having get-togethers at home.

Quinn walks up to me. “Hey, Mouse, can I talk to you?”

Every once in a while, when she wants to piss me off, she calls me by the kindergarten name. Strangely, it doesn’t make me mad today. It makes me almost wistful, like throwing away a tattered old toy I haven’t played with in years.

“Okay.”

She walks off to the side of the auditorium where it’s quiet. I follow her.

“So that was quite the bombshell in class the other day,” Quinn says.

“I guess.”

“It kind of puts me in a confessional mood, too.”

“Yeah?”

“I mean, not so much a confession, I guess. Just . . . I want you to know that I didn’t call the cops to hurt you or anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“When Chelsea told me what you said to her . . . I didn’t call the cops to be a jerk.”

“Wait, Chelsea told you? And
you
called the cops?”

“Yeah. You didn’t know?”

“No.”

“She was scared and . . . I guess I’m the resident expert on the subject, you know? She called me to ask what she should do. She’s so mad at me now. I told her to just tell you it was me. You hate me anyway. I didn’t want you to be mad at her. You
shouldn’t
be mad at her. I did it.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Ever since that red marker.”

“It was a silver crayon.”

“Whatever, Mousy Rat,” she says and smiles. Then she looks off and the thousand-mile stare looks so funny on her little face. “You know, my brother gave all his comic books to his best friend and his bike to his girlfriend. The day before he . . . anyway, he told them all goodbye. Not me, though. Not my brothers. Just his friends. But none of them ever said anything to anyone.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, anyway, so that’s why.”

“I guess I should say thank you. But that would be weird.”

“Yeah. But then you’re kind of a weirdo,” she says, smiles again, and walks away.

For a minute I stand alone, playing it over in my mind. Then I go find my mother. She hugs me. “Congratulations, Monse. I’m so proud of you. You did it.” Then in English she says, “A high school graduate.” Her accent is so strong, but she gets all the sounds right.

“Thanks.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get flowers. I didn’t know that was something you were supposed to do.”

“No, whatever. It’s fine.”

“These American customs. You know.”

“I know.”

“So are you going to go home now?”

“I guess.”

“Okay, I’m going back to work then.”

“Okay.”

Jose pulls on my graduation gown. “You look really pretty,” he says.

I pick him up, hold him like I used to when he was a toddler. He’s still just about as light.

“So what do you do after high school?” he asks. Like he’s asked a thousand times before.

“I have no idea.” Like I’ve thought a thousand times before.

Biking home in a dress is a real pain.