Leaving Us

By Julie Lowman

Outwardly confident, but inwardly a mess, sixteen-year-old Sydney attempts to numb her grief from the loss of her mother with the ecstasy of first love. Desperate for love and a sense of belonging, she relishes being Tyler's girlfriend. However, with Tyler's love comes his temper, a minefield she navigates d

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Elevate
• Release date: Jul 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685123949

Julie Lowman

Julie Lowman is a graduate of Johns Hopkins University and a high school math teacher in Anne Arundel County, Maryland. She lives with her husband and four children. This is her first novel.

Book preview

Chapter One: Homecoming

Keep smiling, and everyone will believe you’re having fun. Tyler squeezes my hands as I recite this mantra for the fiftieth time since we got to the dance. I couldn’t do this without him. Ever since the pandemic, crowds have been a trigger.

Finally, Tyler leans in and yells into my ear, Let’s take a break.

I’m so happy I would make out with him right there, breaking all my PDA rules. He pulls my hand, and I follow in his wake as always. Maybe it’s because he’s six-two, or it’s his popularity, but when I say the crowd parts for him, I’m not exaggerating.

It’s not until the cool air of the lobby hits me that I realize how truly hot it is in here. I’m covered in sweat. Tyler’s barely sweating, despite spending the last hour on the dance floor. I don’t know how he does it, except to think that he exerts the same control over his sweat glands that he does in every aspect of his life. They know better than to sweat and mess up his perfect, wavy, blonde hair.

Sydney, are you doing okay? Tyler turns to me, and his bright blue eyes bore into me.

I shrug. Tyler knows that reaction. He pulls me in for a tight hug. He presses his forehead against mine and whispers, You got this beautiful. I nod. His words make me stronger.

Meet you back here? he kisses me on the cheek and motions to the spot we are standing in the lobby before heading off to the bathroom. I take one look at the line to the ladies’ room and head to the water coolers instead.

After I’ve gulped down three of the minuscule amounts of water that fit into the tiny paper cups, I look around to see if Tyler is out of the bathroom yet. Don’t see him. Damn. My phone’s in Tyler’s pocket. Now I have to awkwardly stand here while I wait.

I still can’t believe I’m at Homecoming, and not only in the I can’t believe we actually get a Homecoming after two years of a pandemic way, but more of the Am I really the type of girl that goes to Homecoming? way. I’ve always hated crowds, even before. I came tonight because it was important to Tyler. He was nominated for Homecoming King, though he didn’t win, something he is completely fine with (according to him). He’s enjoying himself again, and that’s what’s important. Still, maybe I can convince him it’s time to leave.

Shit. Someone just made eye contact with me from across the room. I feel like I should know him. Clearly, I should as he’s walking straight towards me.

Play along, Sydney, you got this.

Sydney? The stranger, who’s definitely not a stranger, says.

Hi. I force a smile for him. How’s it going?

It’s good…I um, I uh, wanted to say…. He can’t find the words, but his face says it all.

Don’t cry, Sydney. You can have this conversation without crying. You’ve been practicing this.

I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about your mom. He gets out, and boom there’s the tingle at the end of my nose. Tears will follow. She was such an awesome person.

Biting my lower lip, I nod. Completely un-confident in my ability to speak. I swallow and force a smile. I’m about to say thank you, I really am, when the tears spill over. Damn it. Why does this still happen over a year later? Maybe if we had been able to have a funeral, I could have gotten all these emotional conversations over at once. Another thing that Covid took from me.

He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into his big chest. The hug probably only lasts thirty seconds, but it’s thirty seconds too long. I know Tyler’s there before he says anything.

We need to talk, Tyler whispers into my ear. He grabs my hand and pulls. The carefree persona from the dance floor is gone. When he’s in this mood, we need a private place.

See you later, Sydney? The mystery guy looks confused. I force a smile and wave with my free hand.

We head down the hall, behind the gym, past the trophy cases. I catch our reflection. He hasn’t let go of my hand. To other people, we probably look like a cozy couple, but they can’t tell how hard he’s gripping. Tyler looks at our reflection too and slicks his hair down with his free hand. Even when he’s mad, he has to look perfect.

Tyler slams the door open, and a blast of cold air hits us. The door clicks shut behind us, and he steps away from me. He’s looking me up and down and making all kinds of accusations with his eyes but saying nothing. The silence is killing me.

What the hell were you thinking? he finally says, Hugging Derek like that?

Derek! That’s his name!

I stop myself from saying that out loud. Instead, I go with, What are you talking about? He was just saying he was sorry about my mom.

I’m both surprised at how well I can keep my voice calm and reassuring and hoping the mention of my mom will snap him out of this.

Did you have to hug him? Did he have to hold you that tight? What were you thinking about? How you’re going to ditch me and go home with him tonight?

When he gets paranoid, his blue eyes darken. That’s when things get scary. I want to touch his cheek, reassure him, calm him down, but I know that won’t work. His eyes are darting all over my face, looking for some micromovement that will prove his point. He makes himself crazy sometimes. I focus on keeping my face as innocent as possible.

You didn’t do anything wrong. I tell myself. Don’t meet anger with anger. You didn’t do anything wrong. Finally, his eyes land on mine, and I think he’s back with me.

It wasn’t like that, I say as tenderly as I can, We were just hugging. You know Derek. He’s a nice guy. He said he was sorry about my mom, and when I started to cry, he hugged me. I always think facts will work on him.

That’s all it takes for you. A guy just needs to be nice to you for a minute. He takes a step towards me. Instinctively, I back away. Tyler leans in and puts his forehead on mine, except this time, it isn’t tender. The hair on my arms is sticking straight up, and I can only manage a shallow breath.

Tyler, back up. He looks me right in the eye and leans forward. My back is against the brick wall now. The sharpness of the brick is scratching my exposed back. I need to do something. Not knowing what else to do, I take a step to the side. Tyler falls forward and catches himself with his hands before slamming into the wall. When he pulls them back, they’re scraped. Tyler stares at his hands, then he stares at me.

Bitch. He practically spits the word at me, then storms off through the parking lot.

Wait, Tyler! He doesn’t turn around. I call his name a few more times, but he never looks back. I’m shaking now. My eyes are hot, and I tilt my head back, trying to keep the water in, but it’s too late. I can feel tears racing down my face, far faster than they were before. This is why I haven’t worn mascara since my mom died. It’s never truly waterproof, no matter how it’s advertised. Okay, the nearest bathroom is less than halfway down the hall from these doors. I shouldn’t run into too many people on the way. Step one get back inside. I try to open the door we came out of, but it’s locked. Shit. I yank on it again, as if that’s going to change the outcome.

They lock as soon as they close.

Who said that? I didn’t realize anyone else was out here. I was probably too upset to hear him walk up. He steps into the light. He isn’t familiar, but he’s about my age, with dark skin and longish, jet-black hair that nearly covers his eyes. His voice is gravely and strangely friendly.

What are you doing here?

He holds up a vape pen and blows out vapor. He’s thin and about my height, wearing khakis and a button-down, the bare minimum for the dance dress code.

Oh…how long have you been here?

You mean, did I see you and your boyfriend fight?

We get a little intense sometimes.

It seems like he gets intense.

No, it’s both of us. The guy snorts in disagreement. I don’t like him blaming Tyler. It takes two people to fight. Besides, how can I describe this kind of passion to someone who hasn’t felt it? What Tyler and I share, we can’t get anywhere else.

He was blocking you and wouldn’t move when you asked. The least he deserved was that scrape. He slides the vape pen back into his pocket and double-taps it, like he’s making sure it’s still there. Did he leave you here without a ride?

I can get a ride from my friends. I just have to get back in. I assume someone will give me a ride. My friends are really Tyler’s friends. It was his group before I started dating him. But it’s not like he would text them and tell them to leave me here. I kick the locked door. I guess I’ll walk to the front.

They won’t let you back in. He runs his hand through his hair, shaking his head at me. He’s right. The school is strict about the once-you-leave-the-dance-you-can’t-return rule.

Do you have any other suggestions?

Follow me. He stays near the wall, covering a lot of ground with each step. My ankle strap is slicing into my right heel. I hate these shoes. What’s wrong?

Nothing.

We stop at one of the building’s back doors. He jiggles it, and it opens.

I thought all the doors were locked when they closed.

This one is broken.

How did you know that?

He smirks and winks at me, holding the door so I can walk in first. When I pass beneath his arm, a tingle surges through my body. He looks gallant, like a man from the black-and-white films my dad used to watch.

I hold the door so he can come in, too. He shakes his head.

You’re not coming?

No. I’m done for the night.

I don’t even know his name, but I’m disappointed to watch him disappear.

Chapter Two: Detention

Ihave soccer practice every Saturday morning, which is the worst. I’m usually so tired from the week, and with Homecoming being last night, today is no exception. Plus, I didn’t sleep at all. I kept thinking Tyler was going to text me, and our fight would be over. What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t not hug Derek back, and nothing happened . Tyler can be a lot sometimes, but if he would apologize, this would all go away. I don’t even need him to apologize. I just need him to text me. Then I can know everything is okay with us, and this knot in my stomach that makes me want to vomit will unravel.

Adam walks into the kitchen behind me, which is weird because he usually sleeps until noon on Saturdays. He’s wearing sweatpants, an old t-shirt, and a scowl. Before I can ask why he’s awake, I remember the ugly truth. I can’t go to soccer this morning; I have detention. For plagiarizing. Coach was pissed. I am too. I would much rather be running wind sprints than serving detention, and that’s saying something.

The car ride is silent. I try to turn the radio on, and Adam swats my hand away. I hate when he’s like this. He should have outgrown his moodiness by twenty-eight. I mean, I’m twelve years younger than him, and I have my moods more under control. Is it really that hard to get up and drive your sister, who you are responsible for, to detention? At least he can go home and go back to sleep. I consider saying that, but then I remembered he threatened to ground me for this detention. No need to poke the bear. He doesn’t speak until he drops me off.

This better be the only time I have to do this. He looks so stupid when he sneers.

I close the car door without responding. Sometimes, it’s better to let him brood. Of course, I agree with him. Who wants to repeat Saturday detention?

One other student is in the main office. He’s slouched in his chair, and has a plain, navy hoodie covering most of his face. His hands are folded, as if he’s praying, and his eyes are shut. I’m tired, but I wouldn’t have the audacity to walk into detention and immediately fall asleep. It takes me a minute, but I recognize him. It’s the guy who helped me last night. I’ve never seen him before, and now I’m with him twice in less than twenty-four hours.

Ms. Casey, one of our assistant principals, walks out of her office. She looks like Mrs. Claus—older, heavy-set, with short white hair. Except today, her ever-present smile is missing. People speculate about her retiring, but she seems to love her job. She’s in the lobby every morning, greeting all of us. I’ve always been impressed that she knows everyone’s name.

Ms. Parker, Mr. Ozan, follow me. She motions and holds the door for me, and I look over my shoulder at Mr. Ozan. No first name yet, but maybe that will change in the next three hours. He slowly stands from the chair and takes his time stretching. His shirt rides up, revealing what can only be described as chiseled abs. The tingle is back, and I immediately feel guilty. Tyler’s my boyfriend; I shouldn’t be looking at other guys, especially after our fight last night.

Anytime. Ms. Casey taps her foot. He gives her this half smile and shrugs his shoulders but doesn’t move any faster, acting like the whole world operates on his time. Ms. Casey sighs. If I were her, I would have yelled.

I thought I’d be sitting in a classroom, so I’m surprised when Ms. Casey has us follow her to a storage room instead. At least my clothes are appropriate: shorts and a Millersville High School soccer t-shirt. Ms. Casey points at a mound of dusty boxes.

Put the books on the shelves into boxes. Make sure you write the title and number of books on each box. I will be sitting outside the door working. Don’t even think about trying anything. She points at him.

He rolls his eyes at her. It looks like she was about to say something back to him but decides not to. The door shuts behind her. My first thought is it feels like prison, trapped in a room with a stranger being forced to do manual labor. Too dramatic? Yeah, probably.

This is not what I thought Saturday detention would be. Of course, my only reference is The Breakfast Club. We’re not in a library, and he is certainly not Emilo Estevev. Oh well, better get started. I pick up a box and drop two books into it. A cloud of dust puffs out, and I instantly cough. Shit. I forgot my inhaler. This dust sucks for my asthma. Maybe if I place them in slowly, I can keep most of the dust out of the air. I stretch my t-shirt over my face as a makeshift mask. If this were last year, I would have a mask in my pocket. Well, I guess if this were last year, we’d all still be on lockdown, and I wouldn’t be here at all.

After I put five books in the box, I glance at ‘Mr. Ozan.’ He’s leaning against the wall with his eyes shut again. At least this gives me a chance to study him without him noticing. His hair is messier than last night and falling onto his face. He’s slim and not as tall as he seemed yesterday, only a few inches taller than me. But if his abs are an indication of the rest of his body, he’s probably toned under those baggy clothes. There are patches of dark stubble on his chin, but not enough hair for him to grow a beard. I rack my brain again. I really have never seen him before last night.

Hey, are you going to start doing something? I’m not doing this all by myself. I call out to him. He doesn’t answer or even open his eyes. When I look closely, I can tell he has earbuds in. I throw a book near him. It gets his attention.

What the hell? His voice is gruff, like he hasn’t used it yet today.

Are you going to help? I’m not doing this all by myself.

You didn’t need to throw a book at me, he grumbles but picks up the book I threw and puts it in a box. Then he continues to take books off the shelf.

"I didn’t throw it at you. I threw it near you. If it were at you, you would have felt it." I’m being glib but also accurate. Sports is the one thing that has always come easy to me: ever since Kindergarten, I could beat anyone in a race, including the boys.

Mr. Ozan starts taking the books down three at a time to a rhythm. It must coincide with the music he’s listening to. Every couple of books, he stops, closes his eyes, and rocks to the music. Then he reaches down to tidy the stack and picks up more books.

Will we have to do this the whole time, you think? I try to make conversation.

He takes his phone out and turns up the music. Okay, he doesn’t want to talk. Fine with me. Except this is boring, probably the most bored I’ve been in my whole life.

Ten minutes later, Ms. Casey comes back in to check on us. She yells at him for using his earbuds and takes his phone. Once she’s gone, I try to pull up my Snapchat, but it won’t load; the building has terrible reception, plus we are in a windowless room in the middle of it. I wish I knew if Tyler had snapped me yet. I want our fight to be over, then I can stop replaying in my head everything that happened last night. I really need a distraction.

What’s your name?

Hasan.

He won’t look at me, but I’m intrigued, I hardly ever hear different types of names. Where are you from?

Here.

That wasn’t what I meant by my question. I want to know his race, but I don’t know how to ask that.

What grade are you in?

Eleventh.

What are you in detention for?

He stops answering. I don’t know if I asked too many questions, or if he just didn’t want to answer that one. He didn’t ask me anything about myself, but I felt weird knowing his name, without him knowing mine.

I’m Sydney.

Are you from Australia? He deadpans, looking me right in the eye. His eyes are really deep brown.

No. I’m confused. Then I realize he’s making a joke because I asked where he was from. I wanted to say something about having a blonde moment, but then I heard Mom’s voice in my head.

Don’t do that, Sydney. It’s a hair color; it doesn’t make you stupid.

I’m here because I plagiarized an English paper. This gets his attention. He raises one eyebrow. I didn’t realize people could actually do that. It was just a ten-point homework assignment, not a major paper. I ran out of time and googled the answers to the questions. Not my finest moment, but Ms. Murphy overreacted. I mean a three-hour Saturday detention for saving thirty minutes on my homework. I throw down the book I’m holding. That slam was too loud. Oops. My brother said I’d learn my lesson and never do it again, but this is ridiculous.

Your brother? Hasan closes a full box. He is listening.

Yeah, he’s my guardian, I answer automatically. This is where people usually ask what happened to my parents. Hasan doesn’t, and I don’t volunteer. I’ve run through the series of questions before, and I’m grateful to be spared this time. When I say they died, it’s followed by the obligatory I’m sorry, and I never know what to say after that. I’ve gone with It’s okay, but that feels hollow. It’s not okay that my parents died. It sucks. You can also say Thank you, which is what Adam always says, but I don’t like that option either. The worst is when they follow it up with how. Saying pancreatic cancer (dad) and Covid (mom) always leads to a much longer conversation that I hate.

Was he mad? This guy didn’t ask my name but wants to know about my brother.

I consider the question.

More disappointed than mad. He goes off the deep end pretty quickly about this stuff because he’s convinced any little screw-up could lead to him losing custody.

How old is he?

Twenty-eight.

Just you and him?

No, I have another brother, Matt. He’s a senior.

Hasan grabs an empty box and walks to the other end of the book room. The room is not big, but it makes an L shape, so I can’t see him. I guess he doesn’t want to talk anymore. I continue packing boxes. It feels like I’ve been here all day.

When we’ve packed up almost half of it, Ms. Casey comes in and surveys the room. Ok, you guys have about a half hour left. Come with me.

We follow her back to the main office. Now that I’m back in range, my phone buzzes. I don’t pull it out for fear that she’ll take it.

I like to end detentions with a written reflection on why you are here and why you won’t do it again.

She hands us each a piece of paper and motions at the study caddies. I sit down and stare at my paper. Hasan is sitting at the other caddy, and to my surprise, his pen is moving. What is he writing? He never even told me what he did. I go with some BS about how I learned my lesson, how academic integrity is important, and I’ll never do something like this again. I finish and look around. Ms. Casey is on her phone in the corner. There are ten