Where You'll Find Me

by Natasha Friend

  “I am too stunned by those horrible suggestions to think.”

  “Hey now,” Sarabeth says. “No fighting, no biting.”

  “Funny you should mention biting,” Chloe says. “During the height of the witch trials, the witch’s mark—or devil’s mark, as some called it—actually looked like a bite mark.”

  “Cool,” Sarabeth says.

  Reese points to the jersey she’s wearing. “Why not the Longhorns?”

  “Um,” Nicole says, “because they’re not football players from Texas?”

  Reese shrugs. “They’re not witches either.”

  Shawna snickers.

  “We’re whatever we decide to be,” Sarabeth says. “We just need a name.”

  * * *

  In gym class, Chloe and I have a field day.

  “I think you should be the Sweaty Socks,” she says. “You can dress up like eighth-grade boys.”

  “Or Athlete’s Foot,” I say. “We can sing into cans of Lotrimin.”

  “No, I’ve got it,” Chloe says. “The Jock Straps.”

  * * *

  “Here’s a name,” Reese says to me as we’re walking out of social studies. “Bacon’s Rebellion.”

  “The Puritans,” I say.

  “The Fundamental Orders of Connecticut.”

  “The Patroons.”

  “Crap,” Reese says. “I forget what patroons are … Is that going to be on the test?”

  “Owners of large estates.”

  “Oh, right.”

  * * *

  “It’s obvious who we have to be,” Shawna says in study hall.

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “This should be good.”

  She waggles her silvery black fingernails in the air. “Gobsmacked.”

  I look at her blankly.

  “Best color ever.”

  “I know, but what does it mean?”

  “Completely shocked, astounded, flabbergasted, speechless with amazement.” Shawna reaches out, gives my cheek a little slap. “To be struck dumb as if by a smack in the face.”

  I give her a little slap back.

  She laughs. “Exactly. That’s how people are going to feel when they hear us sing.”

  * * *

  Later, Shawna and I are walking to the buses together.

  “Gobsmacked,” I say. “It has a nice ring to it.”

  “Onomatopoeia. It sounds the way it feels.”

  “Are you speaking from experience?”

  “Sure,” Shawna says. “I’ve been gobsmacked. Everyone has. It’s part of the human condition.”

  This is when I hear it. “Anna! Anna Banana!” A disembodied voice, coming from the parking lot. “Yoo-hoo!”

  It is unmistakable.

  “Oh, God,” I murmur.

  Shawna looks at me curiously.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I don’t even try to explain. I just hightail it over to Regina’s car. She’s got the window rolled down and one big plaid flannel arm waving.

  “Surprise!” Regina’s voice is so loud the whole bus line can hear.

  “Hey,” I say quietly. “What are you—”

  “Anna.”

  I look at the passenger seat and there is my mother.

  My hand flies to my mouth.

  “Hi,” a voice says behind me.

  I turn around and there is Shawna.

  “Shawna Wendall,” she says, reaching out a hand for Regina to shake. “I’m a friend of Anna’s.”

  “Regina Rose,” Regina booms. “I’m a friend of the family.”

  “Shawna Wendall,” Shawna repeats, reaching her arm through the window for my mother to shake.

  “Frances Collette,” my mother says softly. “Anna’s mom.”

  I give Shawna a look, but she either doesn’t see it or deliberately ignores it. Her eyes flit from my mom to me and back to my mom. “Wow. You two look so much alike.”

  There is no way Shawna means this. Seeing my mom after three weeks is kind of horrifying. Her hair is limp around her face. Her skin is pasty. There are bags under her eyes and wrinkles around her mouth I’ve never seen before. She looks old. When I walk around the car to hug her, I smell cigarettes.

  “I wanted to surprise you.” Her voice is low and gravelly. “I missed you.”

  My mother is here. She’s not dead. I should be happy, but all I can think is, Who is this person?

  “I missed you, too,” I murmur.

  Shawna makes herself at home, leaning against the car. “Were you on a trip, Mrs. Collette?”

  My mother shakes her head. “I’ve been in the hospital. I had a very bad bout of depression.”

  Shawna stares at her and then nods. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Thank you for being here for Anna.”

  “T’s okay.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I want to jackhammer a hole in the parking lot and dive in.

  I don’t know how it happens, but Shawna ends up in Regina’s car, getting a ride home. It’s quiet in the car and I can feel her glancing at me. I can’t look at her, but out of the corner of my eye I see her take out a piece of paper and write something down. Before she gets out of the car, she hands it to me.

  555-6602.

  * * *

  After we drop Shawna off, my mother climbs into the backseat with me.

  “Hi,” she says, and starts putting on her seat belt. Which is a good sign, I guess. She doesn’t want to die in a car crash.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “It’s nice to see you.”

  “It’s nice to see you, too.” Nice is such a beige word. A nothing word.

  She doesn’t say anything else, just sits there. A different kind of mother might scoot over, wrap her arms around me. But she has never been like that. Keesha Soboleski’s mom was the kissy-huggy type and I always thought it was weird how as soon as Keesha got off the bus they would run into each other’s arms like lovers after a long war. If my mom ever did that, I would die from shock. But still. She could at least look at me.

  Regina drives us around, playing music on the radio, stopping at the drive-thru for sodas, like she is the chauffeur and my mother and I are on a date. I know Regina is dying for us to talk, to fill in the hole of the last three weeks. But the hole is too big. There is too much that needs to be said to fill it, and so we say nothing.

  At some point, Regina stops for gas, getting out of the car to pay and leaving us alone.

  “How’s Dani?” my mother asks.

  I stare at her. There is no way she has forgotten this. She was there that day when I got home from Brickley’s Ice Cream. She gave me a whole speech about female socialization. She busted out the book Queen Bees and Wannabes and read me a passage out loud.

  “We’re not friends anymore, remember?”

  “Oh, right.”

  She remembers nothing. That much is clear.

  So I tell her again. I tell her about Dani, and when I’m done with that I keep going. I tell her about Sarabeth the Irish stepper and Shawna the eyebrow plucker. I tell her about Reese from Texas and the Wiccan twins and the talent show. I tell her about Mr. Pfaff’s goatee and Ms. Baer-Leighton’s sawed-off haircut. The words spill out of me, and it’s weird because my mother doesn’t interrupt once. In the past she would be putting in her two cents, telling me what she thinks. Offering advice. But this time she doesn’t.

  Maybe she is too tired to interrupt. Maybe she isn’t even listening, but I keep talking. At some point, she does something totally out of character. She reaches across the seat and takes my hand. Her fingers are so cold. I hate how cold they are. It makes me feel like I am the mother and she is the little kid who forgot her mittens. And that’s not how it’s supposed to be.

  But I hold her hand anyway. And by the time Regina pulls into my father’s driveway, her fingers are warm.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I say.

  “Anytime,” Regina says.

  When I let go of my moth
er’s hand to pick up my backpack, she grabs it again. She squeezes harder. “I’m sorry,” she says.

  I feel my stomach clench. “It’s okay, Mom.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I know.”

  “No,” she says, a little fiercely, as though I still haven’t heard her. “I’m sorry, Anna. I need you to believe me.”

  “I do, Mom.”

  “I’ll try to be better.”

  “Okay.”

  * * *

  I walk into my father’s house, feeling like crap. Why do I feel like crap? I think about the bags under my mother’s eyes. The smell of cigarettes. The break in her voice when she said good-bye. What if she never gets well? What if I have to live here, in my father’s house, until I graduate from high school?

  I walk into the kitchen, but instead of Marnie and Jane waiting for me, there is my father sitting at the table, typing away on his laptop. His skin is tan. His shirt is crisp. His hair is gelled. And I don’t know why, but the sight of him pisses me off.

  “What are you doing here?” I say, throwing my backpack on the floor.

  He looks up. “Well, hello to you, too.”

  “Where’s Marnie?”

  “Upstairs, taking a nap with Jane. How was school?”

  “Stupid.”

  “Stupid, huh?” He closes the laptop, settles back in his chair. “What was stupid about it?”

  “Why aren’t you at work?”

  “I worked from home today. Jane was up a lot last night and Marnie barely slept, so I wanted to help out.”

  “Huh,” I say.

  “Anyway, I’m finished working. It’s Wednesday.”

  “So?”

  “It’s our night.”

  “I thought we were done with that.”

  “Done with Denny’s?”

  “I’ve been living here for the past three Wednesdays, and we haven’t gone to Denny’s once.”

  “Ah.” My father nods. “Well, I wanted to give you time to get settled in and everything, spend some time with Marnie and Jane…”

  “Right.”

  “Come on.” He stands up. “We’ll eat cheese fries. You can tell me how stupid school is.”

  “Dad.”

  “Or not. We don’t have to talk about school. We can just eat cheese fries.”

  “I saw Mom.”

  “Right.” My father clears his throat, drums on the table a few times. “I know. Regina called earlier.”

  “Were you not going to say anything? Were you not even going to ask how she is?”

  “How is she?”

  “You should have seen her.” My voice wobbles. “She looked awful.”

  Silence.

  “She was like a zombie.”

  “The medication your mother is taking, Anna,” my father says, “antidepressants and mood stabilizers—they take time to reach full efficacy. It could be another week or two before there’s a measurable change in her symptoms.”

  So matter-of-fact. So clinical. So missing the point.

  I am sick of this. I am so sick of this, I can’t even see straight. It is shame and embarrassment and loss and betrayal and sadness and anger all rolled up together. Why doesn’t he get it?

  “You bailed,” I murmur.

  “What?”

  “You bailed on her. So many times.”

  “Anna—”

  “No, Dad. You did. Whenever Mom got depressed, you suddenly had a sales trip.” I scratch quote marks in the air. “What—you couldn’t work from home then? Your sales trips were so important?”

  My father shakes his head. “That’s not fair.”

  I look at him, standing there in his starched white shirt, and I think, Marnie got the upgrade. My mom got the old version, but Marnie got Husband 2.0. Diaper changer. Kale eater. Worker from home.

  “You’re right,” I say. “It wasn’t fair.”

  He frowns.

  “Why are you making that face?”

  “I’m not making a face.”

  “You are,” I say. “You always do when we’re talking about Mom. Why do you hate her so much?”

  “I have never said I hated her.”

  “No? Then why didn’t you help her?”

  “Anna—”

  “Why did you check out every time she got sick? Huh, Dad? Why didn’t you deal with it? Why did you call Regina every single time?”

  “That’s an exaggeration.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Regina’s a nurse,” he says.

  “So?”

  “So, she knew about depression.”

  “You know about depression. You sell drugs for a living!”

  “She’s your mother’s best friend.”

  “You were her husband! And you left! You quit on her!”

  My father shakes his head. “You know what? This is not a conversation we’re going to have right now.” He picks up a glass from the table and walks it over to the sink so he won’t have to look at me.

  I follow right behind him. “Then when are we going to have it?”

  “Why don’t you go do your homework? You must have a lot to catch up on.”

  “I don’t care about homework.”

  “You should care about homework. School is important.”

  “This is important! I care about this!”

  “Calm down, Anna.”

  “I’ll calm down when you tell me why you left! And don’t tell me marriage is complicated. And don’t tell me it’s no one’s fault. Don’t tell me any of that crap, just tell me the truth!”

  He whips around to look at me. “I tried, okay? Don’t you think I tried? I’m not the bad guy here!”

  “So, what—you’re blaming Mom?”

  “I’m not blaming her. I’m just saying … your mother had a choice. She had medication for depression and she wouldn’t stay on it. She didn’t like how it made her feel. What was I supposed to do, jam it down her throat?”

  “Maybe. Yeah.”

  We’re staring at each other.

  “She’s an adult, Anna. She’s in charge of her own bad decisions.”

  “You’re an adult. You’re in charge of your own bad decisions.”

  “Do you think I’m proud that I couldn’t make my marriage work?”

  “I don’t know, Dad.” I really emphasize the word, and I know how awful it sounds because I see him wince. And that wince makes me want to cry. “Why didn’t you take me with you?” I whisper. “Why didn’t you even try to get custody?”

  My father looks at me, stunned. “Is that what you wanted? For me to get custody?”

  I shrug.

  “Because … I’m confused … you wouldn’t even stay over in my apartment.”

  “That was after you already decided. You never even asked me what I wanted. You just said, Anna, we’re getting a divorce. This is how it’s going to be.”

  “We didn’t want to drag you into it.”

  “You didn’t want to drag me into it?”

  “It was an adult decision.”

  “An adult decision?”

  “Based on what the mediator suggested. Based on what we thought were your best interests at the time.”

  “My best interests?” I’m beginning to sound like a parrot.

  “Yes. Your mother was your primary parent. She was home more. I traveled for work—”

  “You think it was in my best interests to find her almost dead?”

  “No.” My father shakes his head and blows out a gust of breath. “No, absolutely not. I had no idea that was going to happen. If I had … if I could take it back … I’m sorry, Anna.”

  I nod. It’s the first time he’s apologized to me, and it’s not clear if he’s apologizing for his own actions or for my mom’s. It doesn’t matter, really. You can’t take anything back.

  “I’m going to bed,” I say.

  My father looks at his watch. “It’s only four forty-five.”

  “I’m tired.”

  “What about din
ner?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  He nods, reaching out a hand for an awkward shoulder pat, but I am already walking away.

  Later, I hear him in the bedroom with Marnie. I know they’re talking about me because I hear my name. In the past, I would have tried to eavesdrop, but now I don’t even care what they’re saying. When my father comes to check on me, I pretend I’m asleep.

  CHAPTER

  17

  IN ENGLISH, Mr. Pfaff takes one look at me and tells me to go see the school counselor. I start to argue with him, but he says, “This is not a suggestion, Anna. This is an imperative.” Sometimes I wonder if Mr. Pfaff sits around all weekend reading the dictionary. Is it part of his job description to use big words? Am I supposed to be impressed? Because I’m not.

  Anyway, here I am in Mrs. Ramondetta’s office, which is the last place I want to be. Although she is not remotely intimidating. In her crew-neck sweater and cargo pants, with her shiny brown hair in a ponytail, she looks more like a student than a school counselor. She also has a comfortable couch and an impressive assortment of lollipops, and she doesn’t ask a lot of questions. She just lets me sit here, sucking on a root beer Dum Dum.

  It feels like a long time. Long enough for me to suck the whole thing and start chewing on the stick.

  “Would you like another?” Mrs. Ramondetta asks quietly, holding out the basket.

  “No, thanks,” I say.

  More silence.

  Then, “What’s on your mind, Anna?”

  I don’t know how to answer that.

  “I don’t force anyone to talk,” she says. “You can just sit here if you like.”

  So I do. I just sit here, chewing on my stick.

  She has a lot of patience, Mrs. Ramondetta. I wonder how my mother does it. I can’t picture her, sitting in her counseling office, waiting quietly for some messed-up kid to have a lightbulb moment. When she’s not depressed, my mom loves to talk. She hates sitting still. She is motion and action and words and song. But I don’t know what she’s really like in there, Dr. Frances Collette, PhD. She had to be doing a decent job, right, over the years? She wasn’t falling asleep at her desk or crying in front of students or flashing the principal or anything, because if she had been, they’d have fired her. Maybe, like Dani’s uncle Patrick, an alcoholic who’s always hiding his bottles in the toilet tank, my mother just got very good at hiding her crazy.

  “How’s your mom doing?” Mrs. Ramondetta says.