Nobody made it to forty. Most didn’t make it to thirty.
No wonder his mom despised his music.
I guess it’s possible that Stephen’s death isn’t entirely my fault. Maybe there were other factors at play, factors I don’t understand.
Doesn’t make the loss any easier.
31
MALLORY
“What do you think?”
My mother enters my room in a far-too-sexy-for-her-age, black body-con bandage dress, the tags still dangling from the gold zipper in the back.
“It’s tight,” I respond before pretending to concentrate on my Government homework. I can’t concentrate on my work, though. Not now.
“Tight as in good tight or tight as in retaining water tight?” she prompts, turning back and forth in front of my mirror, assessing herself.
“Just tight. I mean, could you even eat in that thing?”
“No, but I’m not wearing it to dinner. Hey, how do the girls look? Do I need a better push-up bra?” She cups herself and begins to rearrange, hoisting higher and then lower. “Should I go more rounded or padded or maybe conical, kind of like a throwback to those bras in the ’60s that made everyone’s boobs look like missiles? Do I just do a bustier instead?”
Yes. Talking about my mom’s breasts. That’s the recipe for a great day.
I close my book. Any pretense of studying is now over. I need to manage this interaction. I’m particularly anxious about engaging with my mom when she gets into “girlfriend mode.” I’m her daughter, not her pal. I’m not her confidante, especially because the second I’m no longer expedient, she’ll launch back into attack mode. Like a viper that strikes out of nowhere. I learned long ago to not entrust anything to her, because she’ll just throw it back up to me the second I displease her. She’s like a mean friend, except one who lives in my house.
I deliberate before responding. “I don’t know, Mom. Tell me where you’re going so I have a better idea of what’s appropriate.”
“A funeral for one of my Pilates friends’ kids. I forget his name. Something Cho. Somebody Cho.”
“Stephen,” I hiss. I feel my anger radiate to the tips of my fingers. My fists begin to clench. I ache to hit something, pounding it over and over until my skin cracks and knuckles bleed. “His name was Stephen Cho.”
What I don’t say is that I’ve cried myself to sleep every night this week thinking about him.
She snaps her fingers. “That’s the one.”
My entire body prepares itself for fight mode as the adrenaline courses through me, but I control myself. I don’t have it in me to battle it out right now. I won’t win, no matter how right I might be. The game is always rigged in her favor. I need to pick flight.
She holds up two different pairs of earrings, one that’s a shoulder-grazing tangle of rose gold links, the other a pair of pearls dangling from bejeweled crossed Chanel Cs. “Chandelier or drop?”
Fight it is.
My voice dripping with saccharine, I say, “Is there a reason you’re dressed like a Russian call girl to bury your friend’s son?”
She whips around to look at me, unsure if I’m being bitchy or funny. Suspect she’d be scowling if her face could move. “Show a little respect, missy.” She thinks bitchy, then. She fluffs her hair. “Besides, rumor has it a team from Nightline might be there and I love me some Dan Harris. I need to look good. Hey, you think he’s single?”
I snort. “Are you suddenly single?”
I know she flirts when she’s out but it never occurred to me that she might take it further than that. God. No wonder Dad’s never home.
I can’t with this.
I can’t.
I have to get out of this house and out of my head.
I kick off my Uggs and slip on my running shoes and then I grab the closest jacket to me. Only after I pull it on and smell clean cotton and wintergreen do I realize it’s Braden’s hoodie. Too late now.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“Does it matter?” I reply.
She simply shrugs, too taken by her own reflection to truly give a damn. She pulls her hair back into a French twist and then shakes it out, making duck lips at herself the entire time.
I don’t care that it’s cold and dark; I have never needed to run the stairs more than I do right now.
*
After a brutal session in the bleachers, I notice that there’s light on in the counseling office. My body is spent. My legs are throbbing and my lungs burn from the effort, but I’m still way too amped up mentally. Guess I’d hoped I could outrun my thoughts. No dice. I can still practically taste the outrage. And I ache to wail on something.
Only someone as narcissistic as my mother could turn a crisis into an opportunity.
I’m too fired up to go home, so I start peeking in windows to see who’s around. I could use a friend. People are always here after hours, whether it’s a club meeting or a tutoring session or a late practice. In the Guidance wing, I spot Mr. Gorton.
He’ll do.
I bang on his glass and he practically jumps out of his skin. I motion for him to open the side door.
As soon as I’m inside, he asks, “Mallory, are you okay?”
“Yes. Actually, no. No, I’m not okay because this needs to stop.”
Mr. Gorton ushers me into his office and he takes a seat behind his desk. “Okay, Mallory, I’m listening.”
“This can’t happen anymore. Do you understand me? This has to stop. This is out of hand.”
My lungs are in a vise being squeezed tighter and tighter. I feel the cords in my neck pull so taut that they might snap as I unleash.
I continue, steam practically pouring from my ears. “This is an epidemic. This is ridiculous. How is everyone in this community not completely up in arms? Why is there no action? How long does the list of names have to be? Just this year, we lost Paul, Macey, Braden, and now Stephen.” I tick their names off on my fingers. “What’s everyone waiting for? This many?” I splay my left palm to indicate five. “Or this many?” I splay my opposite hand. “What’s gonna stop this? What if we’re all, ‘Maybe we actually try to prevent kids from throwing themselves in front of trains?’ How about that?”
Mr. Gorton doesn’t respond. I assume he’s waiting for me to finish. He wields silence like a pro. Any counselor, peer or otherwise, knows that quiet compels the client to fill the silence. But I don’t need his prompt, I have plenty to say.
“We have goddamned satellite trucks out there, okay? Nightline is sniffing around. There are reporters crawling all over this town, talking to everyone who’s been affected. Well, guess what? I’m affected. But my reaction isn’t to cry to a journalist. My reaction is that we find a way to fix ourselves, to help ourselves.”