Belzhar

by Meg Wolitzer

  I pause. He doesn’t say a thing. I’m sure he has no idea what I’m talking about. “André, do you have a pad and pencil handy?” I ask. “Because you have to get the pronunciation right. She needs to really hear every word clearly. Just go stand over her hospital bed when you’re alone with her—do it soon, okay? Like, right away if you can. Like, really soon?—and say these words: ‘Sierra, it’s me, André. I’m here. Come out of Belzhar.’”

  His terrible silence continues. “You got that, André? Do you want to repeat it back to me so we can make sure you have it right?”

  There’s silence again, and it goes on for so long that I finally have to say, “Hello? Are you still there? André?”

  But there’s no reply. He’s gone, and I don’t know when he hung up, or if he heard what I said.

  CHAPTER

  22

  IT HAPPENS FAST. THE VERY NEXT MORNING, ON the day we’re all supposed to leave for winter break, someone bangs on my door at 6:00 a.m. When I open it Jane Ann stands before me in her pink shortie robe, crying.

  All I can think is, What now? What can possibly have happened now?

  “I wanted you to be the first to hear,” she says. “Sierra woke up very late last night.” Jane Ann is definitely crying, but she’s also laughing.

  André did it. He did it.

  I’m allowed to make the announcement about Sierra at breakfast. There’s shrieking and applause all around. I’m desperate to talk to her, of course, but I don’t want to push. I imagine she’ll be in touch with me soon, though I don’t know how soon. I picture the Stokes family huddled together in their home in DC, not wanting to be apart at all, ever.

  Later today I’ll be with my own family. I try to eat breakfast after I make the announcement, but I’m so overcome by the news about Sierra, not to mention the accumulation of everything else that’s happened to me and to all of us in our class, that I can barely eat. I’ve made Jane Ann swear she will make sure that Mrs. Quenell learns about Sierra waking up before she drives away from her house for good.

  I sit in the dining hall feeling very much the way I did the first day I arrived at The Wooden Barn. All around me now come the clinks and clanks of dish, glass, and spoon, and the sproing sound I’ve heard at dozens of breakfasts, as the industrial toaster pops out another six slices of bread. The room smells seriously of egg and butter and coffee. It’s too much for me right now, too much stimulation and brightness, requiring too much thought, and I sit with Griffin’s hoodie on, clutching a mug of strong tea.

  I realize that I’m anxious about my parents coming. They’ll be here to pick me up soon, I know, and Griffin is planning to swing by my room to meet my mom and dad and Leo. “I just think they ought to know who I am,” he’s explained, and I agree with him, though I have a legitimate reason to be nervous.

  What if they think I’ve exaggerated his interest in me? What if they don’t believe that we’re even involved?

  No, I’m different now. All they have to do is spend five minutes with Griffin and me, and they’ll see the oversize hoodie that I like to wear, and the way Griffin and I give each other looks that have nothing to do with anyone else in the room. They will see.

  On the phone the night before, my mom had told me that if I wanted to come back to Crampton for spring semester, maybe it would be worth a try. But no, I told her, I really want to stay on at The Wooden Barn, at least until the school year is through. My friends are here; my life is here. I’ve already gotten my skedge for next semester, and a couple of my classes look pretty good, including a music theory class with a new, young teacher. And, of course, Griffin will be here.

  Maybe I’ll come home for senior year, though; that’s possible. The Wooden Barn can feel pretty airless. Since I’ve been living here, I haven’t thought much about what’s going on in the world.

  I miss roaming around on the Internet late at night too, and I miss the texts that used to fly back and forth between me and my friends. I even miss those friends. I never did find out why Hannah and Ryan broke up. I hope she’s doing okay, and I feel sorry that I wasn’t there for her when that was happening in her life. I don’t know that she’ll ever really get over the way I distorted everything so badly. I don’t blame her if she never gets over what I did. But maybe, somehow, we can work our way back to being friendly again, if not actually friends.

  It wouldn’t be easy going back to Crampton for senior year. Dana Sapol will still be there, and Danny Geller, and all those kids except for Reeve, of course, who’s back in England. No one will ever forget how I fell to pieces so publicly over a boy I hardly knew. And I will never be able to explain it to them.

  But maybe, if I do go back eventually, and if anyone comes up and asks me about what happened, I might cut the conversation short by calmly saying, “People change.”

  Yes, I’m definitely finishing out the rest of the school year at The Wooden Barn, but as for next year, I’ll just have to see.

  DJ will be flying home to Florida later in the afternoon. Now, in the middle of the day, she and I are sprawled on our beds, nervously trying to kill time. My suitcase is all packed and zipped, and I’m waiting for my parents’ car to pull up outside the dorm. I’m listening like a dog for the crunch of tires over snow.

  “So what are you going to do over break?” DJ asks.

  “Sleep late, for one thing,” I say.

  “Oh, me too,” she says.

  “And buy clothes that aren’t made of flannel,” I add. “Hang out with my little brother.” Leo, fellow other-world traveler. “Talk to Griffin and Sierra. Eat pizza. That kind of thing.”

  “Sounds nice,” says DJ. “Speaking of pizza, I’m starving.”

  “Is that code for ‘I’m about to have a binge emergency’?”

  “No, it’s code for ‘I’m starving.’ I barely ate breakfast,” she says.

  “Me either.”

  “I’m kind of jangled,” DJ tells me. “Rebecca and I had an emotional farewell. I just know her parents are going to try to brainwash her when she’s back home. They’re going to tell her being queer is only a phase. I just hope she stays strong. Strong and queer.”

  “She will.”

  “Anyway, my stomach was all clenched during breakfast, which is why I hardly ate.”

  “Don’t you have some crackers hidden somewhere, DJ?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “So go get them.”

  She extracts a box of crackers from deep under her desk, and I go to my dresser drawer and root around, and then I pull out the jar of Tiptree Little Scarlet Strawberry jam that I decided I was never going to open as long as I lived.

  I study the label now, and feel the jar’s cool, smooth glass surface.

  “This stuff is supposed to be pretty good,” I say, and then, trying to look casual, I grasp the lid of the jar and give it a turn. It makes a surprisingly sharp pop, as if it were releasing not just air, but something else that’s been dying to get out for a long time.

  Then I sit cross-legged on my bed, leaning against the study buddy, facing DJ, and with a slightly bent knife stolen from the dining hall, I spread some of the dark red jam on a couple of crackers—one for her, and one for me. When I put mine in my mouth, the sweet taste startles me. I let it linger.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I AM FORTUNATE TO HAVE BEEN SURROUNDED BY wise and generous people while writing this book. I consider myself particularly lucky to have been the recipient of the advice and expertise of Courtney Sheinmel, a wonderful writer, reader, and friend. It was Courtney who also introduced me to her friend, the writer Julia DeVillers, who not only made helpful suggestions, but also introduced me to her exceptional daughter Quinn DeVillers, who had a lot to say, all of it incredibly smart and useful.

  Emma Kress, an extraordinary teacher and writer, offered her own wisdom; and Adele Griffin, a writer I truly admire, was an early
and very thoughtful reader. Thanks are due to Delia Ephron for her perceptiveness, support, and friendship; and to Kaye Dyja, for giving me an honest and thorough teenager’s perspective. And to Jennifer Gilmore, for her sensitive eye, kindness, and all else. And to Martha Parker, for being present every step of the way. And to my mother, Hilma Wolitzer, for teaching me everything she knows about writing novels. And, of course, to my husband, Richard Panek, for his support and love. Thanks, too, to Laura Bonner at WME, for all her terrific work and unflagging enthusiasm.

  I am also grateful to Michelle Kutzler, DVM, PhD, DACT, who gave of her time to talk me through the finer points of goat delivery. My agent, Suzanne Gluck, while not (to my knowledge) versed in that particular field, knows everything about how to help a writer bring a book into the world. Through Suzanne, I made a very happy home at Dutton and Penguin Young Readers, where I have been the recipient of the great kindness and care of the terrific Don Weisberg.

  Finally, I owe a large debt of gratitude to my editor, Julie Strauss-Gabel, whom I cannot thank enough for her thoughtful suggestions, patience, and overall brilliance. Without Julie’s counsel, neither Belzhar nor Belzhar would exist.