Over the Edge

Ch. 6-Find a Way

~Emmalyn~

He stood me up. I couldn't freaking believe it. That brooding asshole stood me up.

It was Friday, and Fridays were supposed to be good. They were supposed to be awesome. And yet, as I stormed into the school, I was pretty sure there was a storm cloud above my head. People were physically avoiding me at the menacing scowl fixed across my features. Three hours I had waited for him to show up. The patience of a saint was what I had. I should have tracked him down and throttled him. My mother tried to convince me when I got home that it must have been a misunderstanding, a sudden problem that came up, but she didn't know Rhys. He was probably laughing it up with some slut somewhere, or taking bets with his buddies on how long I would wait for him. Asshole.

"Whoa. Who wronged you?"

I glared at Rose as I more or less tore my locker off its hinges yanking it open. Luke was beside her, having taken a big step back to give me space. Rose didn't seem to notice the storm cloud hovering above me, ready to let loose a torrential downpour any second. "Rhys," I snarled. "I am so done with that idiot."

Rose offered a sympathetic look. "I wish I could help, Emma, I really do. Do you wanna go talk to Mr. Matthews about it?"

"He won't do anything," I grumbled, thinking back to the time I tried convincing him. He really was dead-set on the fact that Rhys and I would just turn out to be two peas in a pod. "We're going to get an F on this project all because of him and his stupid attitude problem."

"I think you should just go see him," Luke suggested, creeping tentatively closer. I rolled my eyes. It wasn't like I was a nuclear bomb or anything. "Mr. Matthews might know what to do with him."

That was the thing. I don't think anybody knew what to do with Rhys. He was a completely unique case all on his own, unpredictable and crass, and I just didn't know what to do with him. "I'll try it. At least then he can hear me rant and pay the price for sticking me with that moron."

Rose winked. "That's the spirit!"

I sighed, shouldering my backpack higher and heading off toward Mr. Matthews' room. I hadn't known anybody like Rhys back in Philadelphia. Then again, even the people I thought I knew turned out to be hateful jerks so that just goes to show how little I really did know about people in general.

I walked through his open door, seeing him sitting at his desk and grading papers. He glanced up and smiled, cheeks crinkling. "Hello, Miss Hall."

"Hi," I murmured, angry resolve crumbling at his kind face. Dammit, why did he have to be so quirky and awesome? "Do you have a moment?"

He set his glasses down. "I have quite a few, actually . . . But if this is about a partner change . . ."

"It's not," I interjected quickly. "I just want to-I want to talk about it."

"Oh." He shuffled his papers and set them to the side, gesturing to the ever-present chair by his desk. "Then by all means, pull up a seat and let's talk about it."

I did so, dropping my backpack by my feet. It was hard not to feel at ease with Mr. Matthews; he just had that effect on you.

"What's the problem?"

I groaned, slumping down in my chair. "Rhys, Mr. Matthews. Rhys is the problem. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, and I mean no offense toward you, but I just don't see how we can work."

A smile flickered at his lips. "Yeah?"

I frowned. "How is this amusing? You know he stood me up yesterday? I waited for him for three hours! I'm actually trying, but he's not doing anything."

Mr. Matthews steepled his fingers, resting the tips against the bridge of his nose. "Rhys is a unique case, Emma," he explained. "Many have tried and failed to clean him up."

"And you thought I could? I haven't even been hear a month, Mr. Matthews. And the kid hates my guts. What am I supposed to do?"

"Be yourself," he stated, as if it were completely obvious. "That's all it will take. You just have to trust me on this, Emma."

I pulled my hand through my hair. "I'm finding it difficult to, I'm sorry."

He nodded, staring at something behind his desk for a moment. "Can I show you something, Emma?"

 "Sure, I guess."

He reached back and propped the picture frame before me. There was a couple in the picture, who looked about my age. They were in their graduation robes and holding tightly to each other, waving their diplomas. "Should I know these people?"

He smiled. "Well, considering they are your parents, I should say so."

"What?" I exclaimed, grabbing the frame with both hands and holding it up to my face. My parents? Why did Mr. Matthews have a picture of them on my desk? And after all this time? I traced the picture with my eyes, taking in every detail. My mother's smile was coy as she stared at my father, who gazed down at her. But you couldn't mistake the look in their eyes for anything but what it was; love. The same look they shared even now.

"Two of my favorite students," Mr. Matthews informed me. "Special, just like you and Rhys."

I felt my cheeks redden. "I'm not special . . ."

"Oh, yes you are," he returned. "Even if you don't know it. Your past makes you who you are."

I ignored the sinking feeling I got whenever someone mentioned my past. "I try not to think about it, Mr. Matthews, if you don't mind," I whispered, tucking hair behind my ear and setting the picture back down on his desk.

"Of course," he responded in an apologetic tone. "My apologies. But this is what I mean. Have your parents ever told you how they met?"

I shook my head. "Just that they fell in love in high school-this high school-and the rest was history."

He pursed his lips. "Has she told you about her past?"

I winced. "If by past you mean that her parents-my grandparents-committed suicide, and that she battled depression, then yes, I know."

"Battled depression? Is that all? Have you seen the scars?"

I frowned. "Huh? What are you talking about? Scars?"

He grimaced. "Oh, goodness. I've gone and overstepped my boundaries." He scooted forward. "It's not something I feel comfortable sharing, Emma. Your mother should explain it all to you. You would be surprised how they both met and fell in love. They were both convinced it wouldn't work either."

I sighed. "Yeah, but neither one of them was like Rhys."

He shook his head. "No, they certainly weren't."

"Point made."

"But that makes it all the more exciting, hm? You like challenges, don't you Emma? Just think of Rhys as a challenge. I think you might find he's not all that bad, once you get to know him."

Fat chance of that happening. "Sorry, Mr. Matthews, I'm too busy being stood up."

He laughed, which I thought was unwarranted. My situation was anything but funny. "Approach him, then, Emma. Don't wait for him to never make the first move. I am expecting a finished product at the end of the semester regardless."

The bell rang and I stood, collecting my bag. "Thanks, Mr. M."

He smiled. "My door is always open, Emma. I can answer any questions."

"I have one more, then."

He nodded. "Sure."

"Do you think everybody deserves forgiveness?"

He was shocked for a moment, before recovering and seriously thinking it over. "Well . . ." he murmured thoughtfully. "I would say it depends on the crime or the situation, but . . . Yeah, I do think everybody deserves forgiveness. It's not healthy to hold a grudge. Whatever you need to do, you just have to find a way."

I nodded, deciding not to say anything else, and walked away.

*~*

"Mom?"

She glanced up from her phone call, smiling when she saw it was me. She held up one finger and I nodded, dropping my bag and grabbing a cookie off the bowl in the center of the table. "I have to go, you're daughter just arrived back from school," she mused, flashing me an impish look. "Yes, yes, I know . . . I love you too. Stay safe. Bye." She hung up her cell phone and set it face-down on the table, giving me her full attention. It was something I loved about my mom. She did everything one hundred percent, no multitasking whatsoever. If you needed an ear to listen, she was there. That was why she was such a good counselor. Well, was. Before my incident pretty much consumed our lives. "How was school?" she asked.

"It's getting better, I think," I shrugged, finishing off the cookie and starting on another. It was an obsession I apparently inherited from my father as well.

"Good. How about your project?"

"Fine." I cast her a sneaky look. "Hey, Mom?"

"Mmhm?"

"Can I-can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"Mr. Matthews told me something weird . . . Something strange. That you two met through him or something?"

The smile that broke out on her face told me I was about on the right lines of the truth. She sat back, crossing her legs. "He told you that, huh?"

I nodded. "Is it true?"

"Every word."

My mouth dropped open. "How come you never told me?"

She cocked her head to the side. "You never asked."

Wow. "Well I'm asking now!" I shouted. "Do tell!"

She chuckled. "So demanding." She scooted her chair forward anyway, folding her hands atop the table. "We were seventeen, and I had just arrived. It was the first day of junior year."

"This sounds like the perfect beginning for a chickflick," I butted in before I could stop myself. My mother cut me a sharp look.

"Wait until I'm finished," she snapped. "Anyways, Mr. Matthews had been our teacher as well. He paired us up together on an English project, identical to what you have to do. I thought it would be the worst half a year of my life." She trailed off, eyes distant as she dug up old memories. I always loved hearing about my parents' past. It was so unlike others, so different and unconventional and perfect. The kind of past that made you believe anything could happen.

"Then what?" I asked, though I had a pretty good idea.

"He saved me," she whispered, surprising me with her word choice. "He saved me from myself, Emma, and I will never be able to thank him enough for that."

Oh, my God. My parents' story was a freaking chickflick. Only in real life. And I was thinking that just made it better. "Do you mean from your depression? Did he talk it out with you?"

A dark expression passed over her features. "Something like that," she mumbled. "But that's a whole different story for another time, when there's plenty of it for me to explain everything. Bottom line is, I don't know what planet Mr. Matthews came from but he works magic, Emma. Give him a chance; that's all he asks. Give him that and I swear your life will never be the same."

I shivered. There were other ways to change a person's life, and you didn't always expect the sudden twists. "I didn't come here to get mixed in with profound English teachers or suffer through a semester with a moron, Mom. I came here to escape and fade, to get through it all and then leave. Why is that so difficult to do?"

"It doesn't have to be difficult," she said. "You just make it so. You've always made things harder than they had to be."

"Hey."

She held up her hands. "Just speaking the truth, sweetie. Give it a chance, okay? Find a way to make it work. You never know unless you try."

That was just it.

I didn't want to try.

She rose to start on dinner and I departed to my room, thoughts weighing heavy on me. Your thoughts were the worst thing ever, something deadlier than poison. In a way, they were a kind of poison. If they were there to stay, they infected your mind and fooled you, manipulated you, made you do things you might not originally think of doing. Made you react in ways you wouldn't normally react. Closed you off from the world when all you needed was someone to open up to. It was a funny thing, really.

I closed my door, flicking on the light and flopping down on the bed. I felt drained, exhausted, burned out. Sick from the poison of my thoughts.

It was the worst kind of sick feeling to have.

There was no antidote.