You are so screwed.
Your biochem midterm is tomorrow and you have a study group tonight. You'd had the whole thing planned out, Max would go to the Center even though it wasn't your normal night, and you'd pick him up on your way home from the cafe where you and your group had agreed to meet.
But ten minutes ago you'd gotten a call from the nurse at Max's school. He was sick, throwing up, and needed to be picked up.
And there goes your cram session. Which just sucks, because you'd missed a few lectures during the past few weeks—the cost of being a single mom during flu season—and were hoping your classmates could help you through some of the sections you were having trouble with. But now, now you're going to spend your night with a sick little boy clinging to you, and if you're lucky, you'll be able to catch a few hours sleep.
Riding the bus home from Max's school is terrible. It's obvious that he's sick, and everyone glares at you and him, and moves seats to make sure they're not sitting in range of the sick kid and his mother. It's all the same to you.
The bus ride is no longer than usual, but it feels like twice a long this afternoon. Max moves from his seat into your lap, and curls his hot body into yours. His long legs stick out, almost into the aisle of the bus, and you smile to yourself, imagining how strong and tall he'll soon grow to be. You imagine him as a teenager, and as a young man.
You run your fingers through his wild hair—he needs a haircut soon, he's needed one for a while, but you've just been really busy this semester. Maybe over the weekend, if he's feeling better.
"Hey, Max-man," you say into the soft curl of his ear, "our stop's up next, do you want to pull the cord?"
You know he must be feeling terrible when he shakes his head at you, whispering into your shirt "No, mom, you do it."
Thankfully, he doesn't throw up on the bus, or on the short walk from the bus back to your apartment. But about five minutes after the two of you walk through the door, he starts to make that noise you know all too well. He doesn't make it—your kid hates to throw up, and when it starts to happen he just freezes—and after you clean him up and get him settled on the couch, you drag out a bucket and start to scrub the carpet in the hallway.
You're sweating, but almost done, when you hear a knock at your door.
When you see who it is, your heart flutters, and you're not sure if it's in relief or anxiety.
Gail's never been in your apartment before, though she's dropped you and Max off often enough after nights at the Center. But you've never invited her in, never invited her over.
You know why, and you're a little ashamed of the reason. But the thing is, even though Gail knows about your history, about the struggles you went through in the middle of your adolescence, you haven't been ready for her to see it yet. For her to see your tiny, cramped apartment, the living room and pull-out sofa that doubles as your bedroom. In reality, it's quite the multipurpose room. Your bedroom, the living room you and Max watch TV in, your study after he's gone to sleep.
This afternoon it's the sickroom, and you before you open the door you look over your shoulder to see if Max is sleeping.
You hear her knock again, soft but precise, and you quickly open the door and step out into the hallway.
"Hey," you say "how you get in?"
She wrinkles her nose, and you realize you probably smell like vomit.
"No time, Hol," she says, and gently pushes you back into the apartment, her voice just above a whisper as she shuts and bolts the door behind quietly carefully behind her.
"What do you—" you start to ask, mentally trying to remember if there's anything you don't want her to see spread around the apartment. But you can't think of anything. Not anything she doesn't already know about. The calendar with the social worker's visits highlighted in blue, the monthly social assistance envelopes that help supplement your income.
But Gail already knows about these things, and you feel ashamed for feeling ashamed. Gail's your friend, this girl with her brash and bratty nature, and her big, soft heart. She already knows these things and she's never judged you for them before.
You can't even think of why you thought she'd start now.
"—Seriously, Holly, no time. You have fifteen minutes to shower and change and be out the door if you want to make it to your study group on time. Go," she says, gently pushing you towards the bathroom.
You shower quickly, still not entirely sure what's happening, but Gail's voice has taken on that "don't mess with me" tone that you've heard her using with the fifth-graders when they get too rowdy during physical activity time.
A few minutes in, you hear the door open and feel the cool draft of air from the hallway. "I brought you a change of clothes," she says, and then closes the door again. When you get out, there's a pair of your jeans sitting on the bathroom counter, along with a bra and pair of panties she must have taken out of the basket of unfolded laundry on the kitchen table. And there's a shirt you recognize as one of hers, something fancier and more expensive than the resale shop tshirts that make up most of your wardrobe. It's a sweater, soft against the palm you gently lay a top it, and you wonder why she's brought such a beautiful piece of clothing in for you.
"Just put it on already, Holly," she whispers fiercely from the other side of the bathroom door, and you laugh nervously. "It's just a sweater, it's a little too big for me but I thought it would look good on you."
You pull on the clothes in a hurry, pausing only for a moment to look at your reflection in the mirror. She was right, it does look good on you. The crimson and cream stripes stand out against the natural tan of your skin. It hugs you in all the right places, the curves that carrying Max brought to your formerly stick-thin body. Or maybe you were always going to end up with these hips and these breats—but you have no way of knowing now.
She gives you an approving nod when you open the door, and then hands you the pair of heavy, durable combat boots you'd bought last winter at Goodwill. Best fifteen dollars you'd ever spent there, you think as you pull the laces tight.
"Okay," Gail says, holding out the keys to her car, "just be careful, because if anything happens the parental units will freak out big time and probably send me to juvie."
You shake your head, still staring at her, so confused about everything that's taken place over the last twenty minutes or so.
"Gail, what's going on, why are you here," you ask.
The girl has many smiles, and you're slowly learning them. There's her sly smile, the one that means someone is about to experience something uncomfortable. There's her super syurpy smile, and you know that means that she means absolutely nothing that she says, and it's usually reserved for people she overhears making derogatory statements about you and Max, or the kids from the Center. There's her fake smile, the one that means she's putting up a front, pretending to be happy so no one will ask her why she's sad, and the genuine smile, the one she gets when she's fully engaged in coloring with Max, or playing hide and seek with the older kids at the park on a Center fieldtrip.
But this one, you don't know what this one is. It's gentle, and real, and so beautiful it cracks open something inside of you.
"I was at the Center when you called and said Max was sick and wouldn't be in. And I remembered you talking about your exam, and how important it was, and the study group that you needed to attend, and I just didn't want you to miss it. So I asked Rico and Marcus if it was okay for me to leave, told them I'd make it up on the weekend or something. Figured I could watch Max for you while you went and studied."
For a moment, you're speechless. You remember your first impression of her, the sullen kid sititng on the bench. You thought she was spoiled and selfish and a brat, and a million other unpleasant and unkind things. You'd never stopped to consider what demons might haunt her, not that day. But she'd surprised you. Impressed you, even, and you don't impress even. And by the end of the night you knew that she was going to be a great addition to the lives of the kids at the Center, for however long she'd be a part of it.
And as you've become friends, as you've teased and joked and shared, you've realized that her burdens might be different from yours, might not be a five-year-old son and a welfare check once a month, but they cut into her just as deep as yours do into you. The expectations of her family, the fear of failure, the uncertainty about her place in the world, you've learned just how many things weigh her down.
Now you know her as kind-hearted Gail, as sweet-Gail, the woman who sneaks your kid Tootsie Rolls when you're not looking. You know just what an amazing person she is, what an amazing woman she will become.
"Holly," she says, jangling the keys, "you should really go."
You take them from her, but not before looking over to the couch where your son sleeps, his dark curly hair and light brown skin, the flush of fever on his cheeks.
"Don't worry about Max, he'll be fine. I'll make sure he drinks plenty of fluids and I'll call your cell if his fever rises or if he seems to be getting worse, okay?" She thrusts your jacket at you and puts a stern look on her face.
"Okay, okay. I'm going. Gail, I don't know how to—"
"—Nope," she says, cutting in, "You don't have time for this. You can thank me later. Now go. And be careful with my car, seriously."
Overwhelmed, you just nod and quickly pull your jacket on before heading toward the door. But before you put your hand on the lock, you turn back and pull her into a tight hug, squeezing her tight against you.
"Thank you," you whisper in her ear, "seriously, thank you."
"Yeah, yeah," she answers back with a grin, "now go."
And you do.
