by Wendy Mass
I flash back to Adam asking me about the bracelet and touching my arm. Was that just last night? It feels like a year ago. And that girl on the bench couldn’t possibly have been me.
Jenna assumes my silence is a confirmation. “I knew it! Don’t even bother to come,” she says coldly and hangs up the phone.
I stand there, numbly staring at the dead receiver in my hand.
“Why didn’t you tell her what happened?” my mother asks, guiding my hand to replace the phone in its cradle.
“She didn’t give me a chance.” I shrug. “It doesn’t really matter anyway. Nobody could make me feel any worse than I already do.”
“Why don’t you call her back and explain?”
I shake my head. “I couldn’t possibly go to the party anyway.”
My mother strokes my hair, something I can’t remember her doing since I was a little girl. “I think you should try to eat something now.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Please try, that’s all I ask.”
I decide it’s not worth arguing, and I let her take me down into the kitchen. I stare out the window at the bleak gray sky while she busily prepares me something to eat. The newspaper is on the table, and I glance at the large headline type. All the letters are black. I can sense a kind of depth to them, but their colors are gone. I almost laugh remembering how I used to wish all the letters would just be black. So now I’m no longer the girl who sees colors, and I’m no longer the girl whose grandfather’s soul is in her cat. All I am is the girl who is no longer special in any way. I’m the girl who is empty. Like a deflated helium balloon. I can’t believe this is how everyone else feels all the time.
Mom places a plate of wheat crackers covered with cheddar cheese on the table in front of me. I take a bite and nearly spit it out.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asks.
“It tastes like wet cardboard.”
“Just try to get it down.”
I was trying to get it down, but swallowing is proving difficult. My throat is too tight. I spit the cheese and cracker out in the sink. As I stand there holding onto the counter, it dawns on me that I didn’t have to step over Mango’s bowls to get there. I look down. Sure enough, they’re gone. I can feel the now familiar hysteria rising up in me, and I point at the ground.
“You got rid of his bowls already?” I accuse my mother with a shaky voice. “How could you do that?”
Jumping to her feet, my mother says, “Your father thought it would be best if —”
“And where’s Mango?” I’m screaming now. “Did Dad throw Mango away too?”
“Mango’s out in the woodshed, Mia. Just calm down.”
I honestly feel like my heart is shattering into a million pieces at the thought of Mango lying alone in the cold shed. In an instant I’m out the back door and running to the tiny shack. Mom calls out that I’m not wearing shoes, but I ignore her and swing open the flimsy wooden door. There he is in the corner, still wrapped in his Pooh blanket. I take a step toward him and then can’t make myself get closer. I kneel on the cold, hard floor and cover my face with my hands.
“I’m so sorry, Mango,” I whisper over and over as the tears warm my cheeks and hands. “I loved you so much. You were the best cat. It’s all my fault.”
My mother appears at my side and puts her hand firmly on my shoulder. “Mango loved you very much, Mia. You gave him a wonderful life.”
“I killed him,” I state matter-of-factly, not looking up.
“Is that what you think? That’s crazy.”
“We all know I’m crazy, right? Well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore, because my colors are gone.”
Mom hooks her hand under my elbow and lifts me upright. She puts her hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eye. I try to turn away, but she holds on.
“Look, Mia. The only thing that’s crazy is the idea that you had anything to do with Mango’s death. And remember, Jerry said that your colors could disappear in times of trauma. This certainly qualifies as traumatic. I’m sure they’ll come back.”
I wrestle free from her hold. “I don’t want them to come back. I don’t deserve to have them anymore. You don’t understand; I did kill him!” I run back inside and straight to my room, which is starting to feel like a prison cell. Sometime later that night my father delivers a bowl of warm creamed-corn soup and says he’s not leaving until I finish it. I shake my head repeatedly, but he stands firm and gives me the spoon. I finally choke down the soup without even tasting it and hand him back an empty bowl.
“I thought we’d have a memorial service for Mango tomorrow,” Dad says, still standing by my bed. “It might help you feel better.”
“I won’t go.”
“Maybe you’ll change your mind in the morning,” he says, switching off my light. I know I won’t change my mind. There’s no way I’m going to watch Mango being lowered into the ground. I try to sleep, and somewhere in the back of my mind I think, Wait, I have to give Mango his pill before I fall asleep. Sure, now I remember. When it’s too late.
The next morning I awake to Zack shaking me. “We’re going to start the service soon,” he says. “You have to get up.”
The pain comes back instantly. I cover my head with the comforter. “I told Dad I’m not going.”
“What? I can’t hear you.”
“I’m not going,” I repeat louder.
“Do you think that’s what Mango would have wanted?” he asks as he storms out.
“Mango would have wanted to live,” I whisper. After a few minutes I make myself get out of bed and brush my teeth. The bathroom window looks out onto the backyard, where Dad is hacking away at the nearly frozen ground with a shovel. I move closer to the window and see a small wooden crate lying a few feet away from him. My stomach knots up as I realize Mango’s inside it. The rest of the family stands nearby, bundled up against the cold. It must be windy too, because Beth’s hair keeps whipping around her face. Suddenly she turns her head and looks right at me. She gestures for me to come down. I shake my head and back a few steps away from the window. I stand there for a minute, my arms crossed in front of me. Then I hurry back to my room, search under the covers for Tweety, and run outside in my slippers. Everyone is standing around the hole now, with the wooden crate in the center. They’re holding hands and offering Mango to heaven, but I just can’t do that yet. I won’t.
Crying, I thrust Tweety at my father, and he lets go of Beth’s hand to take it. “You’ll put it in there with him?”
He nods and bends down to open the crate. I turn away before I see anything and run back into the house. I can’t stay in my room anymore. I need to be far away from here. I wish I were old enough to drive. I put on my sneakers and a heavy sweater and run right past everybody into the wet fields. My mother calls out after me, but I don’t turn around. I run past the ravine, which now has water coursing through it. I’m amazed that I don’t fall on my face since the grass and the fallen leaves are so slippery. I keep running until I feel a sharp pain in my side. I guess the hunger is finally catching up with me. I’m only a few yards away from the cemetery, so I keep going until I reach Grandpa’s headstone. I lean against it to catch my breath. It occurs to me that I never really mourned him, because I thought he was still with me. Now that I know he’s really gone, it feels different being up here — sadder and definitely more final. Usually when I came here Mango was with me. I remember when I brought Grandpa his painting and Mango walked all over it. He had so much energy then, and that was only a few months ago. I hang my head and close my eyes and just try to breathe.
“Your mother thought we might find you here.”
I whirl around to see Jenna, Molly, and Kimberly standing a few headstones away. They still have makeup on from the night before, and I can tell that Molly and Kimberly feel uncomfortable standing around the graves. They keep checking the ground as though they’re worried that a hand will suddenly shoot up.
“What are you doing
here?” I ask.
Jenna walks over and gives me a big hug before answering. I see her hair is still in a French braid from the party. “Molly and Kimberly slept over last night. Your mother called my house this morning and told us what happened.”
“Yeah, Mia. I’m really sorry about Marshmallow,” Kimberly says gently.
“Marshmallow?” I look at her quizzically.
“She means Mango,” Jenna says, glaring at Kimberly.
Kimberly looks puzzled. “Are you sure? I thought his name was Marshmallow.”
“His name was Mango,” Molly says firmly. “I’m really sorry too, Mia. I know how much you loved him.”
All I can do is nod, afraid that if I answer I’ll start crying again and won’t be able to stop. I’m surprised my tear ducts still function at all.
“I’m the sorriest of all,” Jenna says, her eyes filling with tears. “I was horrible on the phone last night, and I understand if you hate me.”
“I don’t hate you,” I tell her. “You didn’t know what happened.”
“I didn’t even give you a chance to tell me,” she says, kicking the ground hard. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Maybe I was just nervous about the party.”
“How did it go?” I ask. “I see you agreed to let Rebecca do your hair.”
“Rebecca didn’t do it; Molly did. Good old Rebecca has moved on.”
I allow myself my first smile in two days. “You mean she dumped your dad?”
Jenna shakes her head. “Nope. He dumped her. At least that’s what he said.”
“The party wasn’t the same without you,” Molly assures me. “All the guys asked for you.”
“All the guys?” I ask doubtfully.
“Well, okay, one guy. What was his name, Kimberly?”
“Roger from your history class,” Kimberly answers, nervously jumping out of the way of some leaves that the wind rustled up. “I think he likes you.”
“Why would you say that?” I ask, feeling my cheeks grow hot.
“Just the way he says your name. It’s like Mee-ia,” Kimberly imitates in a singsong voice.
The others laugh, and I say firmly, “He doesn’t say my name that way.”
Kimberly shivers. “Can we all go back to Jenna’s house? No offense, but this place is a little creepy.”
They have distracted me for too long. “I have to go,” I tell them, practically tripping over my feet as I turn away. I start walking quickly back in the direction of the woods.
“Wait, Mia.” Jenna catches up with me. “Look, I know how you feel. It’s okay to be really sad.”
I walk even faster. “You don’t know how I feel.”
She grabs onto my sweater. “How can you say that to me?”
I look her right in the eye. “You didn’t kill your mother, Jenna.” I leave her staring after me as I run into the woods. After a few minutes my luck runs out, and my legs suddenly shoot out in front of me. I fall flat on my butt, hard. But I barely feel the wet grass underneath me. I’m too empty.
Chapter Fifteen
That night my mother announces we’re having a family meeting. “This is not optional,” she says, marching us all into the kitchen. Just the smell of food makes me nauseated.
“It has come to our attention,” my mother begins, “that some serious misconceptions are floating around this house.”
“Somebody better catch them because I might be allergic,” Zack declares. Beth kicks him under the table.
Dad picks up where Mom left off. “I know many of us are blaming ourselves for what happened, and we need to talk this out because it’s very hurtful. We’re all grieving in our own way, and nobody has the right to tell anyone else what to feel. But some facts can’t be ignored.” Turning to me, he says, “Nobody killed Mango, Mia. You knew he was sick since the day you found him. It’s a blessing that we had him around as long as we did.”
“It didn’t feel very long,” Beth says softly. For the first time I notice that her face is swollen too.
“Dad,” I say, my voice shaking, “you’re wrong. I didn’t find Mango, Mango found me. And he expected me to take care of him, and I blew it. I left him outside in the cold Friday night. It was all my fault.”
Zack stands up from the table. “No. I went outside while you guys were at the meeting. It was a full moon, and you’re supposed to make a wish on the full moon. Mango must have gotten out while I had my eyes closed. I knew he wasn’t his usual self and —”
“At least you noticed something was wrong, Zack,” I interrupt. “I wasn’t paying enough attention. I might have missed more than one pill. I don’t even know for sure.”
“A missed pill or two or ten wouldn’t have made a difference,” Dad says. “I promise you. I noticed a few days ago that Mango wasn’t finishing his food. I know that when an animal stops showing interest in food it can mean he’s preparing to go, but I honestly didn’t connect the two. I wish Mango didn’t have to die, but one thing I know for sure is that he didn’t die to teach any of us a lesson. We all do the best we can, trying to keep all the balls in the air at once. Let’s be thankful that we were able to give Mango such a wonderful life and that he gave us so much love in return.” This was a long speech for my father, who is generally a man of few words.
Nobody says anything for a few minutes, and finally Mom announces we’re free to go. I drift back upstairs thinking about what my father said about keeping all the balls in the air. Deep down I know I’ll always believe that I was so wrapped up in myself that I dropped the Mango ball. When I wasn’t looking, the Mango ball bounced across the floor, rolled right out the back door, and settled two feet under the ground.
When I try to get out of bed Monday morning, I’m so dizzy that I have to lie back down again. My face is still swollen, and I insist that I can’t possibly go to school. Mom agrees to let me stay home if I promise to eat three solid meals and take a hot shower. I agree since it’s been three days since I’ve showered and I’m beginning to smell. At least food tastes vaguely like food now, rather than cardboard. My taste buds might be coming back, but my colors aren’t. Everything is so gray and pale and lifeless now. So this is what normal feels like. That old phrase “Be careful what you wish for” seems appropriate.
The only thing that makes me feel better is watching afternoon talk shows. My life may be a mess right now, but some of these people have it worse. Maybe that’s the whole appeal of talk shows in the first place. Even though watching television helps take my mind off Mango, I’m aware that usually he would be sitting on my lap watching with me. One of the shows is on computer dating, and it reminds me of Adam. I check my e-mail and find one from Sunday night. He must have written it as soon as he got back to Boston.
DEAR MIA,
JERRY TOLD US ALL ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR CAT. I’M SORRY FOR YOU, BUT I THINK YOU STILL SHOULD HAVE COME TO THE MEETING. I GUESS YOU REALLY LIKE CATS. I’M ALLERGIC, SO I CAN’T SAY I LIKE THEM TOO MUCH. IT WAS NICE KISSING YOU. I HOPE WE CAN DO IT AGAIN SOMETIME. WRITE SOON, OKAY?
YOURS TRULY,
ADAM
I’m tempted to print out his letter just so I can crumple it into a tiny ball. What kind of sympathy note is that? Synesthete or not, he’s pretty much a jerk. I can’t believe I wasted my first kiss on him. If he hadn’t kissed me and if I hadn’t sat on the porch Friday night going over it in my head, Mango might not be dead right now. The thought makes my stomach cramp up.
At dinner Beth asks me, “Are you ever going to wear real clothes again? At least you’re clean, finally.” Then she reaches for a spring roll and asks, “There’s no meat in this, right?”
Mom nods. I know she brought home Chinese food because it’s my favorite.
“Hey, Mia,” Zack says, carefully picking the mushrooms out of his chicken dish. “Some blond girl at school today asked me about you. Quite a babe, actually. Not as hot as your math tutor, but she still has a few years to catch up in hotness.”
“Zack!” Mom scolds
.
“Since when did you start liking girls anyway?” Beth asks. I was thinking the same thing. “You’re only in sixth grade.”
He shrugs. “Blame it on cable.”
I put down my fork. “So what did this girl ask you?”
“She wanted to know if you really saw those colors in words and stuff. So I told her yeah, you do.”
“That’s it?”
“Yup. That’s all she wrote.”
“All who wrote?” I ask, confused.
“It’s an expression,” Zack explains impatiently. “Like ‘It’s not over till the fat lady sings.’”
“What fat lady?” asks Beth.
Zack sighs. “Never mind. You two don’t read the right kinds of books at all. Should I not have told her anything?”
“It doesn’t matter now.” I don’t really even care who the girl was. Now that my colors are gone, I’m sure everyone will stop paying attention to me. That’s one good thing about it.
My parents refuse to hear my explanation of why I need another day at home, and come Tuesday morning, I’m forced to put on jeans and a sweater. I guess I’d make a bit of a scene if I showed up in my old flannel pajamas with the ducks on them. Jenna is already at the bus stop when Zack and I arrive. She’s bouncing on her toes to keep warm. When she sees me she stops bouncing and pulls me aside.
“Hold out your arm,” she demands.
I do as she asks. She pushes up the sleeve of my sweater, whips out a pair of scissors from her jacket pocket, and cuts right through my friendship bracelet. It falls to the ground, and my jaw drops open.
“Why did you do that?” I bend down to pick up the ruined bracelet. “Are you mad at me again?”
“I’m not mad at you,” she says as she pulls a little white box out of her other pocket. It’s the same size as the one that held my piece of the moon, and I feel a pang of regret over throwing it out the window. She opens the box to reveal a thin gold chain with a clasp. She hooks it onto my wrist and holds out her own arm to show me she’s wearing the identical bracelet.
“These were my fourteenth-birthday present. From my mom,” she says in a tight voice. “Her letter said she figured by now we’d be needing new ones.”