​​​Chapter Thirty-Eight
Wren

When I bring Leslie with me, it’s like bringing a lion to a gazelle party. I’ve never seen wider eyes. But Rhonda remains level-headed in the fact that she doesn’t jump out the window when we walk in.

I try my best to pretend that some of the stares aren’t aimed at me.

“Welcome,” Rhonda says and drifts in front of the desk where a dozing Mr. Sokolov sits as the club’s sponsor. “Before we begin, let’s start talking about what we’re thankful for.” I almost choke on the spit in my throat. Thankful. That’s a good one. Well, I don’t know Rhonda. Let’s see, there’s my mother’s impending abortion. That one should be a real riot. My boyfriend left me for someone ten times prettier, and I’m sitting right next to the girl I knocked out the other day and who could very well jump me when nobody’s looking. So...yeah, feeling fan-freaking-tastic!

Fortunately, I don’t go first. That honor goes to Melissa Tate who’s more than happy to dive into her life’s crowning achievements. Tate is the type that should be part of Leslie’s crew except for her extreme love affair with Jesus. But she dresses the part anyways with her baggy jeans and tight Areopostale top. She’s wearing some sort of funky boot that says “Ugg” on the back. As much as Leslie pretends to have money, Melissa Tate is the real deal. Maybe it pays to friend Jesus.

I instantly feel the stab of guilt. I remember Mimi. I remember how she feels about Jesus.

How I felt about him once too.

“I’m just...I’m just so emotional right now you guys,” Melinda says, cupping her invisible emotions with her hands. “We found this dog this weekend just walking down our street. It had a collar, so we kept calling the number on it but no one would pick up. Like, why wouldn’t you be worried about your dog? We left a message with our name and address though. And yesterday, the owners finally came to pick it up. They had been on a weekend vacay!” The last line is the clincher, and she’s waiting for all of us to express our mutual relief and gratitude. I look over at Leslie who starts to slow clap. I have to bite the inside of my cheeks so I don’t lose it.

“That’s...great. That’s great,” Rhonda says, cherry picking her words. I’m starting to give her a lot more credit for running this looney bin. Her eyes roam the room, and I pray I instantly disappear or she forgets I exist. But she finds me, looks at me hard. A challenge.

“Wren. I know you’re new here, but I also know you have something to be grateful for. We all do,” she says, making it irrefutable. Fine. I can play that game.

“Oh gosh, well I don’t know if I can top that dog story. Thank you for that, Melissa, by the way,” I say in my sweetest “I could be a Christian too, I just don’t wanna” voice. Leslie snickers at my right, and Melissa side-eyes me as if I’m a dropping left by the mutt she found.

“If I had to choose just one wonderful thing to be grateful for, I think it would be that we all get to die. Now hear me out,” I say, jazzing my hands even though nobody’s attempting to argue against my point. “It’s just a relief to know that one day, this will all be over. We won’t have to pretend to like anyone or that we’re just the sweetest little bit of candy on the planet,” I say, hooking Melissa’s eye like a fish. “One day, we’ll get to fly right out of here into the great unknown, and nobody’s going to pretend to love us.” I choke a little on the last part but recover. “So that, dear Rhonda, is what I’m currently grateful for.” Mr. Sokolov snorts a little in his sleep, but other than that, a pin could drop. Until we all hear the painfully slow clap of Leslie’s hands. 

#

WHEN WE LEAVE, RHONDA thanks us for coming. She’s lined out our next group activity at Morningside on Saturday and has invited all of us to participate, much to Melissa Tate’s very palpable chagrin. As we leave, I almost feel the need to apologize. I can tell she’s not mad, not angry. She’s disappointed, like a worn out parent who’s tired of always having to be the responsible one. It didn’t help that Aleski Bjorkland, the foreign exchange student, said he was thankful for raw meat.

Out in the empty hall, Leslie and I walk to the double doors. I try not to make it a big deal in my head that the last time we were outside on school grounds we were intent on beating the living snot out of each other.

“What you said in there. I know you were joking but...were you serious?” She turns to me. She looks stale, her morning fresh lip gloss and blow-dried hair have both gone flat. I try to determine what she’s really asking.

“No, Leslie,” I say. “I don’t want to kill myself.”

“Okay,” she says, and we continue walking. We pass Zinberg’s office, and I get a little sadder knowing there’s a really corny photo of Rhonda trapped in there.

“Because if you really did feel that way...”

“Drop it,” I say. I come to my senses. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I can drop you off,” she says, nodding at her white Cabriolet waiting for her in the student parking lot. It’s tempting. I imagine myself becoming best friends with her and borrowing her clothes (which she of course has tailored for me) and replacing both horse face and that other one because one of me is worth two of them. But I know Rhonda’s still inside. I need to make things right.

“Thanks, but there’s actually something I forgot to do. But Leslie, I’m sorry about–” I make a lazy circle around my face, and she nods.

“Don’t sweat it. I deserved it.” She’s still staring at her car, but I can tell she can no longer see it. “You ever just over everything?” I look at her again and see something the same, yet different. Her tired face and hair and the too big bag weighing her down. It makes me wonder how she’d really dress herself, given the chance.

“Yeah. I really really am,” I say without an ounce of lie in it.

“Oh good. I’m not the only one then.” She smiles, the deeply pink side of her face shining in the sun. My fist instinctively aches.

“Leslie?”

“Yeah?”

“Uh, maybe tomorrow? Lunch? You think we’d give the entire student body a myocardial infarction if we sat together?”

“Oh, we definitely would. So yeah, let’s do that.” She smiles and walks away.

I wait a beat in the cold, in the sun before going back inside, getting used to the words I normally don’t say, let alone hear: I’m sorry.