These Things I’ve Done
Rebecca Phillips
one
Senior Year
I AM A STATUE.
“Dara.” My mother touches my arm. Gently, of course, the same way she’s been doing pretty much everything since I got back last week. “Mr. Lind asked you a question.”
I shift my gaze to Mr. Lind, Hadfield High’s principal and yet another addition to the long line of concerned adults in my life. “Sorry,” I say, not wanting to add that I was too busy focusing on being a statue to hear what he said. Striving to be motionless isn’t something healthy, coping girls are supposed to do.
Mr. Lind smiles with his lips closed and tries again. “I see from the transcripts Somerset Prep sent us that you did especially well in World History last year. Is that something you’d like to pursue in college?”
“Not really.” The only reason I liked history so much was because I got to submerge myself in the distant past, where people faced things like war and death and famine and somehow, miraculously, moved on.
“Actually, Dara wants to be a police officer,” my mother pipes up.
The principal nods at me, impressed, and leans back in his leather desk chair. “Is that so?”
“Mom,” I say.
She fidgets. “Well, you do. Did.”
Did. Exactly. And now I don’t want to be anything, except maybe a statue. I’ve developed quite the talent for keeping still.
The office grows quiet. Outside the closed door, I can make out voices, laughter. Teachers and staff gathering to prepare for tomorrow, the first day of the new school year. Mr. Lind, well aware of my unique circumstance—along with everyone else in this town—called last week to suggest this meeting, a preemptive strike for what’s to come. Now, if I have a mental breakdown in the middle of math class, he can say he did his part. He’d given me this special attention and tried to ease my way back into the general population of Hadfield High, where everyone knows me and knows what happened and what part I played in it all.
My hand twitches, and I press it firm against my thigh. Steady.
“Mrs. Shepard.”
Mr. Lind is speaking again and I focus on his mustache. Who has a mustache anymore? He looks like he’s straight out of an old detective show, wide and bald and sweating in his ill-fitting suit.
“I know Dara’s reentry won’t be easy, but I think with the support of the staff and her counselor, it’ll be a positive step for her. For everyone.”
Dara’s reentry. Like I’ve been in prison for the past thirteen months instead of eight hundred miles west at my aunt and uncle’s house. Like I have to be integrated back into society. Like I’m a dangerous criminal at risk for reoffending.
Maybe that’s how everyone will think of me now. I’m guessing my presence offends a lot of people around here. Including, I think, Mr. Lind. We’ve been sitting in his office for twenty minutes, and he still hasn’t looked me in the eye.
My mother opens her mouth to say something and is interrupted by a light knock on the door. Lind, grateful for the interruption, bellows, “Come in!” without bothering to stand up from his desk. A woman I’ve never seen before pops her head in and says something about a meeting that’s about to start.
“Ah.” Lind huffs to his feet. “Duty calls. Mrs. Shepard, Dara, thank you for coming in today. If there are any problems, anything at all, don’t hesitate to contact me. Okay?”
Mom and I stand too, and Lind smiles at Mom before throwing me a cursory glance. He fulfilled his duty and now he wants us gone.
“Thank you so much,” my mother says as she shakes his hand. “I appreciate you calling us in here today. Dara’s been . . . well, it’s not easy.”
“Of course not.” He walks us to the door and shows us out. The office is bustling with people and noise, and the air smells like burned coffee. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning, Dara. You have your schedule?”
I nod. It’s in my back pocket but I haven’t even looked at it. I picked my courses during late registration two days after I arrived home, and I know even if the classes I chose were already full, they would make an exception for me. That’s what happens sometimes when people know you’ve been through something horrible—they bend rules to accommodate your fragile mental state.
“It’s okay, baby,” my mother says as we step out into the early September sunshine. “If it doesn’t work out, you can always go back to Somerset. Jared and Lydia said the offer is always open.”
I glance at her and notice, for the first time, that her pale blond hair—the same shade as mine—is shot through with silver. Even though I was gone all year, the strain of dealing with me has taken a physical toll.
“I know,” I say, though I’m positive I’ll never go back. Aunt Lydia and Uncle Jared’s offer to take me in last year was a generous one, but I’m determined to do my senior year in Hyde Creek. It’s my home. It’s the setting for all my memories, both the good ones and the really, really bad. And after more than a year away, I’m back to face all of them.
The drive home is short, and I feel my mother’s eyes on me at every stop sign. I’m not surprised when she detours down a side street, avoiding Fulham Road altogether. I wonder if she always avoids driving there, or if she only does it when I’m in the car.
“I’m going to pick up your brother,” Mom says as she pulls into our driveway and kills the engine. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
She searches my face as she says this, as if trying to determine if she can leave me unsupervised for longer than thirty seconds. I haven’t been alone in days. Mom took the entire week off work and has been sticking to my side like a burr. She doesn’t even take a shower unless Dad is home.
I go inside while Mom heads down the street to collect my brother from his friend Brock’s house. Taking advantage of the quiet, I wander around the main floor, letting the memories flow through me uninterrupted. Each room holds a small reminder of Aubrey—the kitchen, where we baked countless cookies and cupcakes. The main floor bathroom, where we spilled nail polish on the counter and left a red stain that has never fully faded. The living room, where we sprawled on the couch to watch movies. My room, where we did homework and sang along with Taylor Swift.
My aunt and uncle’s condo didn’t trigger any memories. There, I didn’t have traces of my dead best friend everywhere I looked.
But now I’m back, and so is she.
“Dara?”
My mother’s voice is overly casual, but I hear the worry underneath. “In here,” I say from the kitchen, where I’m leaning against the counter and examining my schedule.
Mom enters the room, the furrow between her eyes relaxing at the sight of me. My brother, Tobias, is behind her, his freckled face smudged with dirt. He smiles when he sees me, but it’s a shy smile, unsure, and it disappears quickly.