Please Don't, page 14
And I’m alone as I pull up to the Mosely Convention Center, ten blocks and several galaxies away from the immigration center. A sea of gleaming SUV’s and high-end imports line the parking lot as I wedge my exhausted Honda between two shiny Cadillac Escalades. I turn the key and stare out the windshield.
Ten percent battery as I check the schedule on my phone, then the blog. The convention is filled with seminars, workshops, speaking engagements, and the all mighty endorsements. Seems Kristen is still “over the moon” about the product placement symposium. It’s her favorite phrase, over the moon. She really needs an editor.
I squeeze a fist and realize my hand is no longer tender. The knuckles are normal size again. I take a sip of too sweet/too cold coffee, grab my backpack, and step out of the car. No need in locking it, considering the back window. With a shrug, I toss the keys on the floorboard. It’s more likely to get towed than stolen.
I take my time approaching. The place is huge. Old but modern, brick but updated, with well-groomed courtyards, dog tail grass and ornamental trees. Traffic and tourists mill about, but it’s a parade of baby strollers that tells me I’m in the right place. Bags and bottles, kids strapped to chests. Yep, this is it. But I’m losing my nerve.
It was easy giving Molly a pep talk, but what am I really doing? The only thing pushing me is that I told her I’d go. And she went. She marched right on into her building, even as what she’s doing is a lot more dangerous. I have no worries about getting stopped and asked if I’m supposed to be here. Worst case scenario they turn me away and that’s it.
There’s no one checking the door, and besides, there’s too many people. The lobby is super sleek and huge. The swirly carpet makes me dizzy just looking at it. It’s chaos. Bright white smiles, gym toned arms, fake tans, lapels and placards with dangling ID tags. People at tables peddling self-help books, working mom products and how-to’s and all the latest trends.
I try to hang back and blend in but my height makes it impossible. A smiley woman calls out to me. “Young man?”
So much for that. A lady with a gray ponytail waves me over to a table. I swallow and make my way. “Hi, are you listed?”
I don’t know what she means. “Oh, I’m looking for my dad.”
“I see,” she says, every wrinkle deepening as she regards me like a lost puppy dog. “Well, what’s his name, I’ll check the log.”
I look around. “Um, Dan Reams, I think he’s here with Kristen Reams.”
A quick look back to the double doors, as though saying his name will summon him. The first layer of sweat hits my back just thinking about my dad strolling out to the lobby with his super blogger wife and some little kid. But it’s too late.
“Okay,” the smiley woman says, plugging away at the keyboard. Around me is a whirl of conversation, polite hellos, explosions of laughter. Lots of arm touching and hugging going on, compliments abound. Women, a few men too—with babies bouncing on hips, rocked back and forth in strollers, some crying, squealing and fussing—chat with each other. Freebies are dished out. Dannon, Dove, Aveto, all have kiosks and tables. Here, take one, no take two!
I’m trying to hold it together for this lady at the counter, still half expecting Kristen and Dan to appear from behind a curtain. The lady nods, her bangs bouncing with the trip. “Okay, yes. Here it is. Kristen and family.” She points to another counter. “You can just head over to check-in and they’ll take care of you.”
I give her a weary smile. “Thanks.”
“Okay sweetie, good luck.”
I get moving. I force myself not to think about how much harder that might have been for someone like Molly. But I’m almost obsessed with it now. Someone like Molly. Someone undocumented. Someone not…white? Privileged? Confident? My whole life I’ve flashed a smile and assumed it was the same for everyone else.
Now, peeling back the layers of wealth, class, and race, I have all sorts of questions. And as I find my way around babies and bodies, the first question is, what had I envisioned by coming here? I start down a hall and take a left, avoiding the check-in station. I pull on one of the double doors and it clanks open. People turn to look. I’ve entered a workshop full of women holding babies to their breasts. They all turn to me, adjusting and scowling.
“Um, I, uh…” I quickly shuffle back and get moving. Really, it’s only a matter of time before security hauls me out of here.
Back in the lobby I manage to find a schedule. Kristen is speaking in the McGhee Room at eleven. It’s nine right now, and I’m already hyperventilating.
25
Although part of me wants to skip the school board hearing altogether, grab my GED and head to community college for night classes, I can’t convince myself to let Meyers get away with it.
Last year, some rumors spread about him getting touchy-feely with the girls. Nothing concrete, more like a running joke in the hallways or at parties. Meyers is maybe thirty or so, he likes to think of himself as super hip and witty. I’ve stalked his Facebook, clicked through his skiing pics, his posts, one of him playing guitar. A real laid-back guy, tan and barefoot dude, he likes to brew his own beer and go to shows. From what I’d heard, he’d hung out with Emma Casey and Katie Riggins at a festival. He’d told them to call him Scott. Emma said he’d gotten wasted and invited them back to his camp. They didn’t go, but it always stuck in my head. Dude is a slime ball.
Where does that leave me? Do I show up and face the board, break my promise and explain myself, describe in detail what I saw and let the board decide my fate? Maybe I could talk myself into it. But again, what about Molly?
Before it happened, Molly was a face in the crowd, a girl who never said much, kept her head down and took notes in class and never spoke to anyone. But now, knowing what she’s holding—her secrets, her family, her many talents—it’s something I want to protect. And the promise. I can’t ask her to testify on my behalf.
Would they really deport her? On the news all I see is the gang members and drug dealers. But Molly? I can’t see deporting a Cum Laude hopeful, shipping her off because she wasn’t born here. What about Ana and Ashley? They’re American citizens.
It’s confusing. And as I find a seat at a window, hiding in plain sight within the chaos, I go the other route. One where I don’t explain myself to the board. I take what’s coming and get my GED, go to community college, then maybe walk-on a basketball team. The path gets trickier, windier, carrying all that baggage. But I know Garner High too well. I’m stuck with the baggage either way.
In the distance sits the Washington Monument. A bitter laugh escapes as I shake my head, thinking how Molly finally made her field trip. She’s across the bridge, fighting for her life. And as I gaze out to the point pressed against the morning horizon, I’m inspired. Because it makes me want to fight too.
Maybe not the school board, but I need to confront my dad, because he shouldn’t be able to go through the rest of his life without facing what he’s left behind.
With all this renewed energy, I march towards the main conference room, swing for the doors and scan the room for a place to sit and get myself together. Again, there’s like twenty round tables, people spread out, two to three at a table, and every one of the heads turns to look at the guy at the double doors, making all the noise.
At least the lady up front doesn’t call me out. I find a place at a back table where only one other person is sitting, checking emails on a laptop. I have no intention of actually listening to any of this stuff, probably pushing some sponsorship dribble anyway. Just need a minute to pull my thoughts together, figure out what I’ll say to old Dan. Looking around, I don’t see him in the room. I take a seat as the speaker discusses mental balance and parenting.
Two percent battery. I glance up from my phone, to the presenter. Typical power point behind her as she delves into the impact of a parent’s mental health on a child. The presenter’s voice is deep yet soft, confident, as she discusses how mental health issues pose biological risks as well as psychosocial. Another glance around. No Dan. No Kristen.
I walked in to zone out, try to get myself together. But the more I hear, the more I can’t help leaning forward, hanging on her every word.
“While mental health is not contagious, studies have shown a genetic link. Not only that, there can be traumatic effects from the exposure to behavior associated with mental illness.”
She’s fit, in a business jacket, skirt, eyeglasses. Her short, light brown hair falls to her shoulders. Her voice is in command of the room as she starts in on risk factors. I rub my arms, my face, chilled from the air conditioning but also because it’s a little weird, her choice of words. It’s almost like she’s talking to me directly about Mom.
This lady is certainly hitting every box on the checklist: poverty, marital difficulties, single parenting, unemployment, substance abuse, poor communication, and so on.
I check my phone again, praying it won’t die. Dr. Margaret Wills, PhD. Her blog is full of info (useful info, links and studies and statistics), and I can’t help but notice it doesn’t have one sponsor listed or contest or giveaway or place your banner here alert. This will take further research. I save it to my favorites.
Up front, the screen flips to a graph. Dr. Wills delves into the child: self-esteem issues, coping skills, problems at school. My neck prickles. I glance around, looking to see if everyone else finds this as fascinating as I do. I find a water on the table. A muffin too. I’m taking mental notes, hanging on to keywords. Things I can try with Mom. Ideas on how to engage her, try to talk to her.
A woman at our table sneaks a peek at me, maybe because I’m fidgeting, or because I keep making a fist, grimacing, moving my lips with my thoughts. It’s become a habit, the squeezing, the familiar throb of pain, almost something I’m unaware of. I make myself stop, give her a smile. She turns away.
Dr. Wills paces the small stage, and for the first time in a while, I feel like maybe I’m not the only one with a mom who sleeps twenty hours a day, who has all but given up on everything. Even with the recent strides she’s made—with Ana and Ash being at the house—I live each day waiting for her to fall back into her hole.
Dr. Wills finishes up to light applause. I pocket my phone, now drained to a brick, as she takes questions from the front I can’t quite hear. Snagging another muffin, I make a clumsy escape to the lobby, ducking out and shoving through the big double doors and making all sorts of noise again.
Outside the conference room, I squeeze my eyes shut, catch my runaway breath, and attempt to calm down. Strangely, it’s not anxiety hitting, but something different, something hopeful, and that’s a whole lot scarier. I dig my charger out from my bag, find an outlet and plug in. Then, still feeling bold, I take a seat on the ledge and call DeShaun.
I don’t even know why DeShaun. But I tap his name and the phone is ringing.
Moms swoosh past me, speed-walking in both directions, laughing, gushing about beets and baby laxatives. DeShaun picks up, sounding groggy. “Natty, what’s up?”
I haven’t heard his voice in a while. “D, hey man, how are you?”
“Good, good,” he says with a yawn. “What, you don’t sleep anymore?”
It’s only ten, but it feels like a day has passed since Molly and I jumped in the car and pounced on dawn. “Hey, I need to talk to you, got a minute?”
Another yawn. “Okay, yeah.”
Between the road trip and Molly’s thing, this thing I’m doing—whatever it is—it’s easy to forget that these are urgent matters to us and only us, not to people trying to sleep in on a Saturday. I clear my throat. “So, my hearing is Tuesday, you know, with the school board?”
Silence in my ear. I look around, all the smiling faces. I think about everything Dr. Margaret Wills said, but it was different in there, it made sense, like I was under some sort of spell. Now though, the spell fades, replaced by a familiar dread. It’s heavy, creeping up my feet, to my legs, my chest. “I uh, I was hoping you guys would show up, the team. I mean, I guess Coach can’t come, but I was…”
More silence. I hear some rustling on DeShaun’s end. It’s funny how my mind builds these things up, like a sitcom or movie, where the team bands together as one and demands a change. I shut my eyes, grab the back of my neck and shake my head. “Forget it, I shouldn’t…”
“Nat.”
“Yeah?”
“You never told me what happened. Never told any of us, you know? I mean, everyone at school knows Meyers is a creep, but I mean, you attacked a teacher, dude. Why?”
Why? Hmm. And that’s the problem. People need a reason to jump on board. I take a deep breath. DeShaun takes a deep breath. In games, when we weren’t playing the way we should be playing, it was always DeShaun, more than coach, really, who took us in. Always even, never rattled. Always smooth. We looked to him and he would nod and clap and tell us to play our game. Now he’s asking me why. “What were we supposed to think, Nat?”
My back finds the brick wall. I bury my head down, elbows on my knees. My eyes burn and it feels like I’m falling into a cave. “Hang on.” I set the phone out from my ear, set my eyes in my palms, because it’s nearly impossible to dig out of this hole. “Okay,” is all I can say. When it is not okay at all.
I’d put so much into my research paper. Stayed up for nights working on it because I wanted to fix my grades. Not just for basketball, I wanted to prove to Meyers that I was more than a dumb jock. I remember the quiet in the halls, the distant squeaks from the gym, the few random clicks or coughs, but otherwise just my feet sliding on the smooth floors, the rows and rows of lockers. Then, opening the door to Meyers’ lab, the quiet struggle in the back.
Eventually, I set the phone to my ear. I tell Deshaun. Tell him the whole thing, leaving out Molly’s name because I don’t want her involved, even though she is involved—she’s the victim in this whole thing, not me. Wow. It might be the first time I’ve truly realized as much.
DeShaun listens as I go through the details. He cuts in occasionally to ask a question or have me repeat a few parts. When I’m done, after I’ve told him about the blood and the blackout and the research paper and the meeting with Mrs. Vicks, I take a deep breath and wait. And Dr. Wills was right about one thing, maybe communication is a good way to feel better about something. I feel like I’ve unloaded a houseful of weight.
After what seems like forever, DeShaun exhales. “Damn, Nat.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you serious? You’ve been sitting on this?”
I can tell he’s on his feet now. No more yawning. I picture him rubbing his face, that splotchy goatee he’s been trying to grow in. “Yeah.”
“Who was it? Who’s the girl?”
“I can’t say.”
“Why? Why haven’t you said anything? To Vicks or guidance. To Coach, man?”
Another breath. I run a hand through my hair. “I don’t know. For her, I guess, that’s part of it, but after a while, it just became, I don’t know, what happened. It was just what happened, you know?”
“Uh uh, nope. I mean, this is your life, Nat. You had like, three colleges interested in you last year.” Had. He catches himself. “I mean, you know. Might still. You still set on Woodberry?”
“Yep.”
More silence. I jump as the doors open from the conference room. I sit up as the hall fills. I keep an eye out for Dr. Wills.
In my ear, DeShaun takes a breath, probably pacing his small room. He has two sisters and a brother and things are cramped for a guy pushing six five. “Well, this girl, she needs to come forward, I mean, #Metoo and all that, right? What if all this is true and Meyers has been doing this for a while? It needs to come out.”
It’s weird. Everything he’s saying is exactly how I felt until I met Molly. I swallow it down. “Oh, I’m pretty sure it’s not the first time for Meyers. But the girl, she can’t do this, D. Really, she can’t come forward.”
DeShaun scoffs. “Why not?”
“I don’t want to say. I just need you guys, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Look dude, I’m glad you called me. I wish you’d done it sooner. Let me talk to everyone. I can’t say for them, but I’ll be there, okay, Nat? Text me the details.”
“Thanks, DeShaun.”
“Where are you anyway? It sounds busy.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
He laughs. “Okay, man. Just…be good, all right, Nat?”
I end the call as another conference lets out, and suddenly it’s madness all over again. I unplug my phone and grab my bag as the doors shut. Then, because apparently I’m going to spend this entire day surprising myself, I enter the empty room, banging through the doors for the third time.
Two Latina ladies work furiously to clean the tables. I think of Mrs. Martinez and every individual story in this city. Some glances come my way, but then back to cleaning.
A few women have hung back, talking with Dr. Wills. She must be something, I listened to her speak for fifteen minutes and went outside and called DeShaun. Like she’d cast a spell on me. I still don’t know what I’m doing, but I know I can’t leave until I speak with her.
I find a table up front that’s already been cleaned. A vacuum cranks up near the back. I think I’m being sneaky, trying to appear busy on my phone when she looks at me, nodding her head at the woman talking her head off, but catching my eye. She’s around Mom’s age. She has a warm, pleasant sort of face. She’s all put together, yet approachable.
When the ladies make their way, she does it again, locks me in. I get to my feet and well, I have nothing.
“Hi there,” she says. And as much as my feet want to leave, I feel like a stray cat being coaxed out of a corner. She walks over to my table and asks if she can sit down.
26
The doctor caps her bottle of water and opens her mouth to say something when a sheepish fangirl makes her move. The girl moves in, slowly, clutching a book. She’s tiny, maybe late twenties. Her hair is died a bluish gray.
