The Monday After

January 10, 2011

I dig my nails into my palms and check our front window again. Still no van.

By refusing to go to seminary and my parents refusing to let me make the five minute walk to school, I’ve doomed myself to waiting for Dad to finish the seminary carpool before coming back to drive me to school. I am going to be so late.

I should’ve just walked. Or taken you up on your offer for a ride. But both those options would’ve made me argue more with my parents and I’ve already argued more with them in the past twenty-four hours than I think I have my entire life. It isn’t natural to us, which makes it all the more stressful for both parties.

It’s 8:05 when I see the white mini-van pulling into our circle. I gather my things and meet him on the driveway.

“Hey sweetie.”

“Hi.”

It’s silent except for the classical station he has turned on, as we pull out of the neighborhood, turn right at the stop sign, and get stuck behind a long line of cars. Ugh.

He must’ve missed my puffy eyes because he asks, “How was your morning?”

I clench my phone a little tighter, noticing I have a text from you.

“Fine.”

                Do you want me to come?

We inch forward, crossing the intersection to wait in another line of cars.

“Jam missed you this morning.”

I bite my lip hard. I still get all teary. I type a response to you.

                Yes.

When I don’t respond, Dad looks over. “Oh.” He’s seen the tears. “Jess, I—”

“Here is fine.” I cut him off, throwing the door open. We’re close enough to the back gate and I couldn’t have stayed in the car a moment longer.

In an uncharacteristically public moment, Dad rolls down the window and calls after me, “Be nice to everyone…”

He’s waiting for me to finish it. I always do. My hesitation is brief before I spin around.

“Learn something new.”

He smiles a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and mouths, “Love you.”

I’m not sure what sort of twisted, watery expression he gets from me before I’m forced to let him see the tears streaming down my face or turn around and keep walking.

Of course Mrs. Lloyd has picked today of all days to be late. As fallen apart as I am right now, I don’t need to add “late to English” to the list. I just want to drop my stuff and go.

I hesitate around the corner. I also don’t need to add “seen sobbing by the entire sophomore class” to the list. I’m trying to get a steady breath when Tina turns the corner. I throw my hands over my face but she doesn’t say anything. She just wraps her arms around me.

“Not a good morning?”

Through my tears comes some strangled form of laughter and she releases me.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. She gives me a few moments more to see if I’ll be able to compose myself enough to talk to her. I’m not. The late bell rings.

“I have to go to class.. but I’ll see you at lunch.”

I nod and she leaves. I glance up to see Mrs. Lloyd scurrying down the hallway, case of black licorice in hand. I wait for most of the students to get in and then keep my head down as I cross the hallway, enter the classroom, reach over a line of desks to throw my swim bag onto my chair, and then turn around and make a beeline for the gym, praying that no one else sees me.

Except you.

You’re already in our spot when I get there. You stand up and I run the rest of the way and throw myself into your arms and just sob. I’m not sure I’ve ever cried like this in front of anyone, except maybe my sisters. I’m heaving and gasping and soaking the front of your shirt with my tears.

You hold me, one hand firm on the small of my back, the other smoothing my hair because you know that relaxes me. It takes a while for the tears to stop, but eventually they do.

You guide me to our planter box, sitting beside me and keeping an arm wrapped around me. I lean into you.

“I’m sorry your morning sucked.”

“It’s getting better now.” And I mean it. You have this ridiculous ability to calm me down, which is a feat in itself. I can get pretty wound up.

We sit for few more minutes, a few stolen kisses, and then I sigh and tell you I have to go to English at some point. You walk me to the edge of the hallway and give me one last hug, all warmth and cologne and comfort. I don’t want to let go, but I do. Putting on my brave face, I pull open the classroom door.