The Words We Keep

Four more days of silence in the 100-acre-wood. Four days of me watching Alice, trying to decide if she’s careening toward disaster or just being Alice. Four days of people adding their secrets to the wall I created even though I’m too much of a coward to claim my own words or my feelings about Micah.

Alice says I’m brave, but I can’t even bring the real Lily into the light.

It’s also been four days of cold shoulders from Sam, who thinks I’m hiding some spicy janitor’s-closet affair, when nothing could be further from the truth right now. At track practice, she’s stretching before our scrimmage against the high school from Riverside. She straight-up ignores me when I lunge beside her.

“Sam,” I say. “Come on. I’m sorry, okay? I promise there’s nothing going on with Micah. It’s just this contest. You know how important it is to me.”

Sam doesn’t look at me. “Yeah, well, I thought I was important, too.”

“You are. Of course you—”

She turns to me now, her eyes a mix of anger and hurt. “You missed my concert.”

“No, no, that’s not possible. It’s not until next week.” I grab my phone from my bag to check my calendar. Right there, last night: 7 p.m.—SAM SLAYS HER SOLO!

“Did you text me?” I ask.

“I shouldn’t have to remind you about the most important night of my life.”

“I know, I know.” I’m out of excuses. I can’t even tell her where my brain has been, because I haven’t told her about Micah or the guerrilla poets or Alice acting strange again. “Things have been so crazy—”

I’ve been so crazy.

“Save it,” she says, putting her palm up to me. “Don’t give me the I’ve-got-a-lot-going-on speech. We’ve all got a lot going on. Do you even know that I’ve been up, like, every night, worried that if I miss a note or a beat or a millisecond of perfection, then I’ll let everyone down? No, you wouldn’t know that because you don’t ask, because this friendship has become so one-sided, it’s embarrassing. I told you the other day: either we’re friends or we’re not. Your choice is pretty clear.”

“You’re right, you’re right. I’ll fix it. When’s your next concert?”

Sam yanks my phone away and tosses it forcefully onto my track bag. “I’m not an item on your to-do list, Lily. You shouldn’t have to pencil me in.”

And then she turns and joins a pack of senior girls running the warm-up lap. Maybe I should run after her, tell her everything that’s going on in my head, and she’ll take pity on me. Give me another chance. But she shoots me a don’t even try to make things right glare from across the track, so I warm up alone, my brain racing.

You should have been there.

You should have told her

about Micah

about Alice

about you.

You should have been a better friend.

You should

should

should

have been better.

When my heat is called, I ignore the fluttery feelings behind my rib cage and line up on my spot. In autopilot, I dig my toes into the rubbery track and push my heel up against the starting block.

I close my eyes and try to center, envision myself bolting down the lane.

The race starts and time slows.

My body pushes off the block instinctively.

My thighs propel me forward with pure muscle memory. But my brain won’t behave.

Sam hates you.

Micah hates you.

Your grades are down.

Your race times are up

and Dad’s counting on a scholarship you’re too chickenshit to win.

You’re on quite the sucktastic roll, aren’t you?

My mind focuses on the monsters a millisecond too long, and in that one millisecond, the girl on my right passes me. I dig in, trying to catch her. But she’s a full body length ahead now, and my chest is tightening and the pulse in my neck is flip-flopping, and someone has dropped a sledgehammer onto my lungs.

I slip out of my body just in time to see her cross the finish line.

I see me finish fourth.

I see Coach’s mouth moving at me. He wants to know what’s going on in my head.

Well, Coach, what’s going on is, my mom died when I was six and we lost our safety net, and then my big sister almost offed herself a few months ago. But now she’s back, and she has pills she’s not taking, and Dad has little blue pills that I’m taking, and maybe I should have my own pills, but I don’t. Because I can’t. Because pills mean you’re sick. Broken. And I’m Lily. I win races. And scholarships, because apparently I have to win scholarships. But my brain is leaking, or maybe it’s clogged with memories of Alice on the floor and the voices of monsters that never quit.

I see Coach telling me I’m this close to losing my spot in the qualifier.

I see me, nodding.

Me, walking away.

Me, alone.

I find myself inside the school, staring at a group of freshmen taking their pictures with Micah’s eagle. The wings spread out on either side of them, transforming them into birds. All around them—around me—are words and art and pieces of truth. The pieces of themselves everyone has left here.

Because of my words.

Because of Micah.

Micah, who didn’t care if I won or lost.

Who brought me into the 100-acre-wood, and knew my flaws—and stayed.

But I pushed him away.

I pick up a pen someone has left on the floor by the word wall, and find a small open corner, and write four words: I’m tired of hiding.

Then I turn and walk quickly, flanked by my words on the walls as I head straight to the boy who helped me find them.