Between Here and Forever - Elizabeth Scott [51]
“Can we eat outside?” I ask Eli, who nods stiffly, hands still white-knuckled around his plate, and I understand the look on his face.
He looks trapped, helpless and furious, and that’s a feeling I know too well. Know how much it hurts. Know how it holds you down, how every day there are a thousand little ways to see there is nothing you can do to change who or what you are.
I walk toward the door, because it’s all I can think of to do, and when we’re outside, I see an empty table and head for it.
I get there at the same time a slight guy with deep ebony skin does.
“Hey,” he says to Eli, and then nods at me.
“Hey,” Eli says, and for a moment I think he’s not even going to sit down. But he does, and what follows is weird and tense and makes me wonder if maybe all those giddy feelings I’d let myself have before were premature and stupid.
Nobody talks. Eli doesn’t talk to me or the guy sitting with us. He just eats his food, one bite after another, with no pleasure on his face. No expression at all really, except a sort of grim determination.
The other guy doesn’t talk either, just pulls out a book and starts reading.
I manage to choke down about half the sandwich I’d grabbed, and am wondering if I should bolt for the parking lot when I hear a cheerful voice exclaim, “And this is the Fennelson Building, where our students dine.”
I look up and see a bow-tie-wearing middle-aged man who is clearly the Saint Andrew’s equivalent of a guidance counselor, because even better clothes can’t disguise the “I help students! Really, I do!” attitude that’s practically quivering off him.
“Ah, and we have a guest today,” he says, smiling at me even as his eyes register dismay at my clearly not-from-Milford clothes. “We do offer our students the chance to bring off-campus guests to lunch, provided they’ve earned the right to do so via Saint points. It’s one of the many things that makes Saint Andrew’s so special.”
He moves closer to the table. “And, of course, in addition to our dedication to preserving the traditions of a rigorous education, we’re also committed to diversity.”
The other guy at the table looks up then, smiles fake and furiously at everyone on tour, all white people, I realize, all of whom are nodding like “Oh, yes, of course that’s important,” as their gazes stray to the other buildings, the other students, or even their watches.
“Never mind that I’m a National Merit Scholar,” the guy mutters. “Notice me because I’m black!”
The tour guide/school cheerleader hears enough of that to clear his throat and say, “All right, let’s move on to the next building—we’ve got an excellent science lab here.”
“I hate that bullshit,” the guy says as the tour group walks away.
“Me too,” Eli says, the first thing he’s said the whole time we’ve been here, and I think Finally! with an amount of relief that’s embarrassing. But I’m still glad he’s said something.
The guy doesn’t respond, though, just shrugs and swallows the rest of his soda before getting up and walking away.
Eli closes his eyes, like he’s endlessly weary. When he doesn’t open them after a second, I dare to reach over and touch the edge of one of his hands.
“It’s my—it’s the OCD,” Eli says, his voice quiet. “That’s why everyone is—well, you saw it.”
Maybe I should pretend I haven’t seen what I have, but if Eli feels like I do about his life—and seeing his closed eyes now, I believe he does—the last thing he wants is people bleating platitudes like “Oh, I know things will work out!”
“It’s all they notice, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, and opens his eyes, truly looks at me for the first time since we stepped into the cafeteria. “So you can see why when you talk about how great things are for me, I—you can see why I don’t get it.”
“Sorry” seems too small a word to use now, and it’s a word I’m sick of anyway, a word I’ve heard too many times and I bet he has too. I take a deep breath and look down at