Page 12 of Room to Breathe

It had been a longtime since I had to sit anywhere in silence. Either I was listening to a teacher drone on, scrolling social media, listening to music, or talking to people. I wasn’t sure how long Beau and I had been sitting here in the bathroom, not speaking a word, but it felt like hours. He’d positioned himself on the counter, his back wedged into the corner. I was still on the floor leaning up against the wall.

I was trying to recall the notes I’d written on my phone. My childhood memories, mostly. Those said a lot about a person. I wasn’t even sure if those were what I was supposed to write in a character letter. Maybe it was something completely different. Google would be helpful right about now. I tried to channel my mom, think about what she would want me to write. But my mom and I had been out of sync for weeks now.

I sighed, dragged my backpack to my side, and slowly started going through it. I found a couple of protein bars, probably put in there by my mother months ago, books, a binder with paper andassignments, pens, gum, a hoodie, a stack of flash cards. I almost Frisbeed one at Beau, but then I remembered I still hated him.

He had nothing to distract him. He was leaning his head back against the wall with his eyes closed. I didn’t believe for a second that he was asleep. His feet were in the sink. His shoes looked new, not a pair I’d seen before. Black high-top Converse. He was also wearing a black-and-gray flannel I didn’t recognize. And it had been a while since he’d had a haircut. He had more curls than he normally did. Or his curls were puffier or something. As if he sensed me staring, his eyes popped open, and I averted my gaze.

I had taken my other shoe off and was now barefoot. I was sure Beau wanted to say something about how my toes were freezing or maybe the germs on the bathroom floor, but he’d managed to keep quiet. Or maybe he didn’t want to say that at all. He didn’t care if my toes were freezing anymore, which they were, and I didn’t want him to care.

I flipped through the flash cards I was still holding. They were for a test I had taken last month in world history. I got a C on it, which sucked because I actually studied. But the time ran out before I finished, and all those questions I hadn’t answered dragged me down. Just the thought of that grade now created a pit in my stomach.

I pushed myself off the ground and walked to the trash can, where I started to drop the cards inside. But then I paused and went to the door. I slid a card in the crack by the handle, but it was stopped short by the latch. I tried again with more cards stacked together this time. Again it didn’t budge. Ugh. I needed to get out of here.

“It’s the wrong side,” he said. “You’re on the flat side of the latch, not the curved side.”

He was a door engineer now? He really wasn’t an expert ineverything, even if he acted like he was.

I sighed and dropped the cards into the trash. The half-full trash. I picked up the trash bag and felt along the outside of the bin. Not that I thought a teacher would throw away a key, but maybe there would be something sharp that I could cut open the cellphone bag with. I didn’t care about the consequences. Maybe they’d be less severe now that I was with the golden student, Beau.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Trying to find something to break into that with.” My phone still sat on the counter, and I gestured toward it.

He bent forward and picked up the lock bag. Then he did what I’d already attempted—tried to rip it open with his bare hands. It just stretched but held firm with his efforts. I put the trash can liner back in place and then walked to the sink.

I reached for the faucet handles without asking him to move, and he yanked his feet out of the sink just as the water poured out, barely missing him.

He let out an angry grunt, but I ignored him and washed my hands. In the mirror, I could see a small red mark beneath my chin from where I’d banged it on the windowsill. That would bruise.

I dried off my hands with some paper towels, then picked up the ones I’d used on the floor earlier, throwing them all in the trash.Looks like Idoknow how to clean up my messes, Beau, I wanted to say. But that would make it sound like I cared about his opinion, had been thinking about his insult. Analyzing it. I didn’t care. Icouldn’tcare.

“Is it on?” he asked, turning the bag over and over in his hands. “Have you tried calling through it?”

“I never set up Siri.”

“No, I mean like tapping in a phone number.”

“That won’t work.”

“You’ve tried?”

“One, we can’t see the numbers to touch. Two, phone screens use capacitive sensing. The lock bag is not made of conductive material.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. Maybe he didn’t know everything about everything.

“Pretty sure that’s the whole point of them,” I said. “I think I turned it off anyway.” I remembered powering it off while Mrs. Thiessen watched me like a hawk.

“I’m still going to try,” he said.

“Of course you are. You don’t believe anything until you disprove it yourself.”

“You expect me to trust you?” he snapped back, poking at the bag. I let him, because what else was there to try? Plus he looked stupid doing it.

“I expectnothing, Beau.”

He ignored that comment and attempted to access the phone for entirely too long. Probably praying to some science god that he could prove me wrong. He couldn’t, and finally he tossed the lock bag back on the counter.

“Needs conductive material.” I probably shouldn’t have said anything, but I couldn’t help myself. Okay, fine. I could’ve helped myself. I didn’t want to.