“Shit.” I don’t mean to say it aloud and Miss Scott looks at me perplexedly.
“Are you alright?” she asks, scrapping the eggs around in the pan with a spatula.
I snatch one of Micha’s jackets off the hanger near the back door and step outside, not answering her. There is no way in hell he could be excited about that.
Outside, the air is below freezing and sends me into a shivering frenzy. My boots crunch against the snow as I hike to the garage where the Chevelle is parked. The once smashed in side is now as smooth as silk, repainted a smokin’ black, with a cherry red racing strip down the hood. It’s in racing condition but only because of Micha’s father.
“Can you believe he fucking did this?” Micha’s sharp voice surprises me and I whirl around, nearly falling on my ass as my shoes slip on a patch of ice.
Micha’s hand snaps out to catch me, but he slants sideways, losing balance. I grab the hem of his jacket and get my footing for the both of us.
Clutching onto my shoulder with one hand, Micha grasps the beer in his hand like it’s the most important thing in the world. “My father thinks he can pay me off.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, letting go of his arm and turning back to the car.
He strolls around me and jumps up from the ground, knocking some icicles off the trimming of the garage roof. “He sent my mom some money after I helped him out with his little thing to fix up my car as a thank-you.”
I’m unsure how to approach the situation. “Well, I guess it was kind of nice of him. I mean, at least he did something good.”
His aqua eyes are as cold as the ice beneath our feet. “I’d rather him have call me, at least then he’d be acknowledging my existence. But instead he sends my mom a fucking card.” Wrestling a piece of paper out of his pocket, he throws it in my direction, but it makes it only half way between us and falls to the snow.
I swipe it up, dust the snow off it, and open the card. Please use this money to fix Micha’s car up like we talked about on the phone and tell him thank you for helping me. It was a very nice thing he did, and my family and I are grateful for it.
“His family and he are grateful.” He kicks the tire with the tip of his boot and chucks the beer bottle at the wall, and it shatters all over the cement. “He’s a fucking asshole. Like I’m not his family.”
I set the card down on the hood and open my arms to give him a hug, but he backs away. “I just need a moment, okay? Can you go inside or something?”
He’s more wasted than I thought. Up close, the red lines in his glossy eyes are visible and his cheeks are flushed. His hair is sticking up, like he’s dragged his hands through it multiple times. There’s anger in his eyes that only an excessive amount of alcohol can bring out.
“Okay, I’ll be inside if you need me.” I trek for the door, but pause at the steps, noticing that Ethan’s truck is gone. I turn back to Micha to ask where he went, but he’s shutting the garage door as he pulls out another beer from the pack on the shelf, locking away the world as he buries his pain in alcohol.
I think about confronting him—about his drinking problem and pushing me away—but when I make it to the bedroom, exhaustion overtakes my body and I fall onto the mattress, wondering why I came here in the first place.
Depression and anxiety are the devil. Anything can trigger them and flip my mood in a heartbeat. Luckily, Anna taught me to notice when I’m sinking into the hole of despair that can turn into a bottomless pit. She taught me how to realize when it’s taking over and how to fight the darkness. If I work at it, I can get ahold of the light again. But it’s all about pushing through my dark thoughts and not giving up.
About thirty minutes later, I push my way back into the light and storm out of the house, marching straight for the garage. Ethan’s truck is in the driveway and there are footprints leading to the garage.
I shove open the door and step inside. Ethan and Micha are sitting on the hood, with their boots propped up on the front bumper and beers in their hands. Lila is talking on her phone in the corner with her finger pressed to her ear as she attempts to block out their chatter.
Micha’s eyes connect with mine and the rawness in his face almost shies me away. “Hey, where’d you go?” He stumbles off the hood and, with his long legs, strides toward me.
He’s wearing a gray thermal shirt with a tiny hole in the hem and his black jeans are secured around his hips with a studded belt. His hair’s a mess, his eyes lost, and the smile on his face means trouble is about to start.
His hand seeks my waist, but I edge back. “We need to talk.”
Ethan glances at me with his black hair in his eyes and his face carries a warning. “Ella, just let it be.”
“You don’t know what I’m going to say,” I tell him. “So stay out of it.”
“Yeah, but you’ve got that tone like you’re about to bring up something personal and he can’t deal with personal right now.” He shoves the sleeves of his green shirt up and lies back on the hood with his hands behind his head.
Micha blinks confusedly at me. “Wait, what’s up?”
Ethan’s made me nervous so I back down and head for the cooler. “It’s nothing. I can’t even remember what I was going to say.”
He grabs my elbow and reels me into his chest. “Let’s go do something really, really fun.”
I try to squirm away. “I don’t want to.”
His forehead furrows as he scratches the back of his neck. “Why are you acting funny?”
“I’m not.” I bend my arm out of his grip. “I just don’t like that you’re drunk.”
“Why? I’ve been drunk plenty of times.”
“I know and that’s the problem.” I bite down on my tongue. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
His eyes burn with rage. “You get drunk just as much as I do.”
I shake my head. “That’s not true.”
“It’s completely true,” he snaps and the loudness of his voice causes me to jump. “You drink as much as I do, whether it’s for fun or because you’re trying to bury something. It’s what we’ve all been doing since we were fourteen.”
“Hey, don’t bring me into this,” Ethan argues, climbing off the hood. “I cleaned up my shit.”
“No, you didn’t.” Micha trips over the laces of his boots and slams into one of the shelves, knocking tools and car parts to the ground. Lila’s eyes bulge as she hangs up her phone. “You still drink when you feel like shutting down—all of us do.”
A silent moment builds around us as our breath fogs out and we take in the realization that he’s right. We all started drinking around the age of fourteen. It began as curiosity, but the older we got, the more we used it as an escape from the reality of our lives.
“Well, I’m done,” I finally say, surrendering up my hands as I back toward the door.
“I’m done with you too!” he yells, red faced. “I’m sick of your fucking mind games and problems. I’m sick of it and I want out.”
My hands fall lifelessly to my side. “I meant I was done with drinking, but it’s nice to know where you stand.”
“Ella, he didn’t mean that. He’s just drunk, so stop acting crazy and get over it,” Ethan interrupts, shaking his head at Micha. “You better get your shit together right now, man.”
Micha glares at Ethan. “Stay out of this.” He turns back to me, but I’m already out the door.
He doesn’t follow me as I run down the street. The wind blows in my hair and stings at my cheeks as I try to flee from the hurt and pain, but anxiety nips at my heels.
Micha has never gotten that mad at me. Ever. It’s like a knife to the heart and I don’t know how to pull it out. It hurts everywhere.
When I reach the corner, I slow down and try to regain control of my thoughts. I take my phone out of my pocket and dial Anna’s number.
She answers after four rings and a piano plays in the background. “Hello.”
“Hi, Anna, this is Ella.” I feel bad for calling her when it’s obvious she’s with her family.
After a few seconds I hear a door close and the noise quiets. “What’s wrong?”
I stare up at the graffiti on the street sign. “I did something you told me not to do… I confronted Micha about his drinking problem.”
“And what happened?”
“He said some… stuff.”
She pauses. “What kind of stuff? Hurtful stuff?”
“Lots of stuff. And yes, it hurts.” I press my hand to my aching heart as I hunch over. “Really bad.”
“And what does the pain make you want to do?” she asks as a car drives by and splashes slush up from the street. “Ella, where are you?”
“I’m standing on the corner of the street and all I want to do is run,” I admit. “I want to cry… I want to scream.”
“So scream,” she encourages. “Go ahead. Let it all out.”
“But I’m on the street.” I glance up the road at an older couple walking down the sidewalk. “And there are people around.”
“So what?” she says. “Don’t worry about them. Just let it all out—let the worry and pain go. Don’t hold it in, Ella. We’ve talk about that.”
Feeling like an idiot, I open my mouth and let out a quiet scream.
“You can do better than that,” she insists. “Really scream, Ella.”
Sucking in a deep breath, I give it all I got, letting it all out, and it echoes for miles.
After I clear the congestion out of my chest, I walk down the road toward Cherry Hill where the cemetery is located, thinking about the people I’ve lost. My mom and Grady, both were taken out of my life way too early.
A crisp layer of snow coats the tombstones and trees, the grass is buried, and icicles hang from the fence. Walking up to the leafless tree in front of my mother’s grave, my shoes fill with snow and my nose turns pink. I bend down and brush a bunch of snow from the top of her grave.
