I was at the residence of a classmate. Both of her parents looked sick and skinny, with black circles under their eyes and arms that appeared like they were full of veins. I finally got why they seemed so scary as we sat down to eat. I got a big plate of plain, cold beans and a piece of white bread that was so soggy that it looked like it had been sitting in water.
Her name was Maela. We had only talked a few times at school, but she was kind in a quiet way. I didn’t have many close friends, but she invited me over with such enthusiasm that I thought she was being friendly. I can see now that she probably just wanted someone to pay attention to what was going on in her life.
It seemed strange how immaculate her house was. Not in a refined, polished way, but more like no one really used anything. Everything was there, but it was all dead. Her little brother, who was perhaps six, sat quietly on the floor of the living room and moved a toy truck with a broken wheel about. No sound, no cartoons. Just that wheel scraping.
Across the table, her mom gave me a stiff smile. He didn’t even look up. He kept scooping beans into his dish like it was a job, using this mechanical motion. I took a bite and tried not to show it, but the beans were cold right out of the can. I mean cold from the fridge. The bread was so soggy that it broke apart in my hand.
My stomach turned. It wasn’t because I was grossed out; there was a deeper reason. Maybe it’s because they feel ashamed. Or disgrace. I didn’t say anything. Maela was eating like it was nothing.
We sat in her room after we ate. She didn’t say much; she just showed me some drawings in an old sketchbook. Her figures have real shading, emotion, and even movement. I told her that. She didn’t care. “I wanted to go to art school at one point.” I don’t have anything else to say.
I asked if I may use the bathroom. The light flickered when I turned it on. I saw rows of pill bottles on the shelf when I was washing my hands. At least ten. Some were for anxiety, some were antidepressants, and one was methadone, which I remembered from my grandma’s cabinet.
I called my mum from the bathroom and spoke softly so Maela wouldn’t hear. “Can you come get me?” Right now. Please.”
It took my mum fifteen minutes to get there. I told her I wasn’t feeling well, and we thanked Maela and her parents before we went. My mum didn’t say anything in the car at first. “Are you okay?” she said softly.
“I think her parents are on drugs.”
She nodded slowly, as if she already knew what was going on. “And I think Maela is the one who keeps that house in order.”
I had no idea what to do with it.
The next week, Maela didn’t talk to me at school. Or maybe I didn’t go near her. I felt bad for leaving so soon. But also a little scared. They weren’t scared of her; they were scared of the unknown.
A couple of weeks passed by. Then one day, a teacher asked me to come to her office for lunch. I was sure I was going to get in trouble. Instead, she closed the door and asked, “Do you know Maela?”
“Maybe?”
“She wrote your name down as a reference for a scholarship to help kids.” She didn’t have anyone else.
That broke something inside me. I didn’t aware that there were grants for it. It looks like the funds were meant for kids who were living in “unusual home situations,” and they needed a friend to testify for their honesty. I said yes without thinking about it. Wrote the most honest thing I’ve ever written.
Maela got it.
She started going to an after-school art program that picked her up and took her home. Her clothes looked a little bit newer. She even started to grin more. She didn’t grin all the time, but when she did, it was easy to see.
One afternoon, she came up to me with a piece of paper that was folded. She asked, “Can you keep a secret?”
“Yes,” I said, even though my stomach hurt.
Inside was a picture. A photograph of a man who looked a lot like her dad but was in better form. A full face with a grin. He had a baby on his lap and his arm around a woman who wasn’t the baby’s mother.
She said, “That’s old news.” “His family is different.” In the state of Ohio.
I didn’t know what to say. She reported that he went on “business trips” every few weeks. Once, he forgot to log out of an email account on their shared computer. She found messages, pictures, and bills from the airline. It had been going on for at least four years.
Her mum knew. But she didn’t want to go. Maela said, “She says she can’t do it alone.” “But she’s already doing it on her own.”
A few months later, her mother died from taking too much of something. Not lethal; she lived. Maela was the one who found her, phoned 911, and rode in the ambulance with her. For more than a week, she didn’t attend to school. I sent her an SMS every day, but she never replied.
One day, she came up wearing a faded hoodie, her hair in a messy braid, and dark circles under her eyes. But she was right next to me. “I’m going to leave,” she whispered softly after that. I don’t know when, though.
I didn’t make her do anything.
She saved every penny she made for her art. I stored her sketchbooks in my locker so her parents couldn’t sell them for quick cash. My mom started preparing me an extra lunch every day, and I behaved like it was no big deal.
By spring, things were different. Her father stopped coming back. No justification was given. Out of here. Child services sprang Amb please pay for her mom’s stay in a long-term care facility in an apology
A family took Maela in and hosted her. It wasn’t a foster home; it was just a place to stay until the state figured things out. The family was nice, but they were quite strict. She had a curfew, her own room, and most importantly, peace.
She entered a statewide youth art contest that summer and came in second. The prize was a little amount of money and the chance to work with a muralist in the city. She cried when they presented her the trophy.
She applied for early college programs in the autumn. She was accepted into one. It’s not a major school, and it’s not in the Ivy League. But it is a safe and well-built art school that has dorms and three meals a day. Her dorm room was warm. Food was still in the fridge.
I helped her get used to things.
