38. Georgia

THIRTY-EIGHT

Georgia

When Eloise comes home, I throw myself into her arms, hysterical, tears streaming from my eyes.

“What happened, George?!”

“He didn’t pass the test,” I sob into her lap.

“Oh, George… you didn’t…that’s really messed up,” she whispers, and I don’t know what she’s talking about.

I don’t need him , I tell myself over the weekend, still expecting my intercom to ring. Eyes swollen and face puffy, I spend most of the day either looking out at the street, hoping to find him, or looking at my phone, willing for it to ring.

Not worth it , I tell myself all week, after he doesn’t show. He didn’t pass the test.

I tell myself this when I walk into work and walk past his office.

I tell myself this when I see him standing outside my classroom for a moment before hurrying away.

I tell myself this when Max gets into a fight with Kyrie at recess, and I no longer know what to do about it, or how to help him .

I tell myself this when I see Lina in the hallway, looking at me with pity in her eyes.

I tell myself this when I look at myself in the mirror and realize I have the same look aimed at myself.

I tell myself this every day until Friday, when my messaging changes from I don’t need him to oh, you wanna see self-sabotaging?! , and I get so wasted at happy hour that I find myself there late with Elias, our PE teacher who I always thought was hot in a bro-ey kind of way. I’m laughing at whatever he said, wishing his green eyes were honey and that his teeth weren’t so straight, when I hear the bell above the door to the bar jingle.

I move from oh; you wanna see self-sabotaging?! to you’re a real piece of work, Georgia , though, after glancing over and seeing someone with Oliver’s same color hair, same height, and wearing his exact winter coat walk back out the door.

I feel nauseous. “Sorry, Elias… I gotta get home.”

Eloise knocks on my door the next morning.

I open an eye that’s crusted shut. Groaning, I swing my legs off my bed, relying on their momentum to get the rest of my body off. I crawl to the door, reaching up to turn the knob, and swing it open.

“Yikes,” she says, after seeing me on the floor like a wet dog in a swamp. She shoves three Advil into my mouth and makes me chug a glass of water, then plops into my bed and gets under the covers.

I join her.

“I’m ready to listen,” Eloise tells me after a moment. “And to help you PAP.”

“Why Weezy, I thought it made you profoundly uncomfortable to help your best friend and life partner PAP,” I rasp .

She waves her hand in the air. “I think you need it.”

I burrow my face into her shoulder. “I think I fucked up,” I whisper. “I’m a horrible person. I’m self-destructive. I?—”

“Pause,” she says. “This is more like a SAP. Sad Affirmation Playlist. I’m not here for it.”

“I’m fucked up, Weezy,” I whisper, my eyes stinging.

“Probably,” she says, with the honesty that only a best friend and sister can have. “But I don’t think this Oliver situation is entirely your fault,” she insists.

“Why not?”

“It sounds like you were bound to snap at him, eventually. It was a pretty shitty situation.” She wraps her arm around me, adjusting my head on her shoulder.

“But it’s good, too.”

She nods, petting my hair.

“I should’ve fucking done my therapy homework,” I whisper.

She slaps me, and it stings on my sensitive hangover skin. “You pay for that shit out of pocket. Do the fucking homework.”

We sit in silence for a moment.

“You seem happy when you’re together, Georgia. You seem…” she thinks for a moment. “Settled. Balanced. Calm. All of your PAPing comes to life when he’s around. In fact, I don’t think you have to PAP when you’re together. You just… embody it.”

“I know. He’s my rock,” I say miserably. “I love him.”

“Your parents would have loved to see you two together.”

I feel a hundred sharpened pencils stabbing my heart. “They would’ve loved him. And his family.”

“Is it too late, do you think? Are you broken up? Or just… taking a break?” she asks me.

I shrug, covering my head with the comforter and burrowing deep into my bed cave. “I haven’t spoken to him all week. But I feel like maybe it’s not worth it.”

She kicks me under the covers. “Maybe not right now, like this.” Her voice is muffled by all the surrounding padding. “But I think it is. As long as you’re working on yourself. Getting yourself better.”

“But then what if it’s too late after that?” I whisper.

“Then at least you’ll be your own rock.”

I’m eating lunch in my classroom, a Cup Noodles that’s still pretty hard and crunchy because I couldn’t find hot enough water, when Gloria strides through my door carrying an enormous bag.

I blink twice to make sure I’m not hallucinating, looking down at my Cup Noodles to make sure I’m not currently getting botulism.

She sits down at a student desk across from me for only a second, then stands up and starts cleaning and organizing my classroom. I forget she was a teacher for thirty-five years.

“Hello, Georgia,” she says, straightening my desks, pushing in chairs.

“H-hi, Gloria. What are you doing here?”

“I was just in Oliver’s office. He doesn’t know I’m up here.” She pulls snacks out of student desks. My threats of death or dismemberment have clearly lost their power. “I know that you and Oliver are in a rough spot.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “It’s my fault.”

She shakes her head, fury crossing her face for half a second. “No. It’s both your faults. But he loves you.”

I start to tear up at her use of the present tense. “Is he okay?—”

“He’s not okay. But he will be. You will, too. ”

I start to cry, then.

Gloria’s eyes soften when she sees me, and she comes around to sit next to me, holding my hands. “Oliver told us about your parents. Right before you two came for Noche Buena.”

I think back to that night, how his entire family gave me space to grieve while still being quietly supportive. How it was just what I needed.

“I’m really sorry, Georgia. They seem like wonderful people, to raise someone as bold and spirited as you. I’m sure that you are still healing from their passing, and that is contributing to your pain.”

She stands up and heaves the giant plastic bag she carried in over to where I’m sitting. “I made you baon for a few days.” She grips my face, using her thumbs to wipe the tears running down my cheeks. “But I’m going to see you soon.”

Gloria leaves my classroom, but I only have five seconds to break down before Emmanuel, Mia, and Tamika barge into my classroom.

“We saw Mrs. Flores come in here—oh boy,” Mia says.

“Noooo,” wails Emmanuel. “I didn’t wear the good Korean eyeliner today. I’m not ready to cry,” he says, wrapping his arms around me.

“Georgia,” Tamika says, taking my hand.

They hold me for a few minutes.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I get out between heaves.

“You don’t have to, honey,” croons Emmanuel, who is petting my hair.

“We can talk about something else?” Mia says.

I take deep breaths, then push them away. “I need help with Max. I don’t know what to do about him.”

“Deflecting is such a healthy coping mechanism,” mutters Emmanuel.

Tamika smacks him. “Have you talked to Jermaine? Our social worker?” she asks.

I shake my head, “no.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea,” Mia chimes in. “Jermaine would have strategies you could use in class with Max. Maybe he could even see Max for at-risk counseling.”

I nod, wiping my nose on my sleeve. “I’ll look for him later today. Thanks, guys.”

“Anytime, Garbage Juice.” Emmanuel sniffs the air. “Is that Filipino food I smell?”

“Go for it,” I tell my team, and they sprint towards the bag.

“Do you know any of Max’s social history this year?” Jermaine asks me later that day.

“A little. I know he was living with dad at the beginning of the year. Then dad caused that incident during the Fall Festival and went to jail, maybe?” I answer him.

“Oh shit. Yeah, I remember that. I think he did, but he got out after a bit because the charges didn’t stick, because he didn’t actually touch anyone. At least that’s what Oliver said when he told me about the order of protection,” he says.

I wince at Oliver’s name. “Yeah. But then during that time Max went to live with mom. I think he’s been with her ever since.”

He nods. “Who has custody?”

“I think they’re battling it out now. But I think mom’s going to get it.”

“So what behaviors has he been exhibiting in class?” Jermaine asks then.

“It’s been kind of a roller coaster with him,” I start. “In the beginning of the year, when he was with dad, he was a mess. Unkind… mean, really. But then when he went to live with mom, he started getting better. He was happier. Nicer to everyone. Making friends. He and I built up a pretty good rapport. But lately he’s been… not mean, and unkind, not like before. But like… attention seeking. Naughty, maybe. He’s been driving me crazy. Mom said he’s been doing the same thing to her at home.”

Jermaine nods.

“Oh, but Max got into a fight with Kyrie at recess. And you know Kyrie,” I tell him, giving him a look.

“Is that the Dungeons and Dragons kid? The kindest friend in the universe? Who would never hurt a fly? Or even pull his nose out of whatever sci-fi he’s reading?”

“That’s him.”

“Yikes.” He looks at the ceiling, thinking. “Well, I do have some room in my schedule for at-risk counseling. I could pull him from class and talk to him for like thirty minutes a week, see what’s going on. Try to teach him some healthy coping strategies, social skills to use with his peers, build up his self-confidence, self-esteem, that sort of thing.”

“Coping strategies?” I ask.

“Yeah. I mean, I’m not qualified to diagnose him or anything, but it sounds to me like he’s pushing at you and mom.”

Blood drains from my face. “What do you mean?”

“His insecurity, maybe from the trauma of staying with dad, has him pushing boundaries. Testing you. Making sure that you’re for real.”

I blink.

“If that’s the case, though, I would recommend to Max’s mom that he get some serious professional counseling outside of school.”

I finger the corner of my laptop.

“I didn’t do your homework. I think it really bit me in the ass,” I mumble.

My therapist looks at me through the screen. “Well, Georgia, I’d like to avoid the use of the word ‘homework’,” she tells me. “Homework implies that it’s a onetime thing. However, it’s something you should continuously work on.”

“So like a project.”

“Hmm… Project implies that there’s an ending, so I don’t love that either. Self-reflection, communication with your partners, those tasks I gave you… you should always practice those things. Those are healthy behaviors.”

“Well, I didn’t do it.”

“What happened?”

“I snapped at Oliver. I did the testing thing.”

“Why did you snap at him?”

“Because he was pushing me,” I tell her. “He made a bunch of choices for me, and you know how I can’t stand that.”

“So you stood up for yourself? Were you right?”

I think for a moment. “Partially. Yes.”

“Then I think you should be proud of yourself, Georgia.”

“But I feel like I forced him into failing the test. Because I didn’t do your homework, or project, or whatever. I didn’t communicate all the issues I was having. I bottled it all up until I let it all explode. And now I feel like I’m holding it against him, mourning, because he didn’t prove himself to me,” I say miserably.

She nods. “He didn’t pass the test.”

I’m annoyed when she says this.

She thinks for a second, flipping through her notes. “Maybe your ‘testing’ behavior doesn’t have to be so black and white. Maybe it shouldn’t be pass or fail. Let’s reframe this positively. In this particular test, this particular incident, maybe you should just analyze the data you got. What did this test measure? What do you need to work on?”

Myself , is the answer. I need to work on myself.