Waiting for You

by Susane Colasanti

  “It would appear so.”

  “Why is everybody freaking out? I’m just taking some stuff down. It’s not a big deal. God.”

  “You’ve been sleeping a lot lately,” Mom goes. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “I’m just tired.”

  “I know the divorce isn’t—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You have to talk about it sometime, honey. You can’t just—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it!” I scream.

  This shocks Mom into silence. I never scream.

  Then she says, “What about our deal?”

  Our deal was this: As long as I’m doing okay, I don’t have to go back to therapy. I felt like I got everything I needed from it last year and it bothered me to keep talking about the same things. But if I’m not okay anymore, I’m supposed to go back.

  “I don’t need to go back,” I say. “I’m fine.”

  I can feel it. This familiar flood of despair, like in those nightmares where you know you’re going to end up falling. And I know, no matter how hard I try to fight it, that the downward spiral has me.

  May-June

  46

  When I got to Derek’s house, his mom told me that he wasn’t home yet but I could wait in his room. He was supposed to be here. We had plans to go to Andrea’s May Day party.

  I guess he forgot. Again.

  So here I am, alone in his room. A room with answers just waiting for me to find them.

  The clay sculpture I made for him during the pottery unit in art is sitting on his nightstand. I pick it up and all these memories come rushing back. The first day Derek sat at my table. Asking me out when I had almost given up hoping that he liked me. Derek kissing me at Shake Shack. Taking the blurry picture of him at Cosmic Bowling. All of those intense nights, kissing him for hours.

  I drop the sculpture and bend down to pick it up. There’s a Rocket Dog shoe box sticking out from under his bed. I immediately want to see what’s inside that box. Maybe the answers I’ve been looking for are right there. Or maybe I’m creating all of this drama for nothing. Maybe there’s nothing serious inside. Maybe it’s just a Boy Scout manual and some shells from vacations down the shore when he was eight.

  But I know this story has a different ending. I know there’s something going on with this box. And I know I need hard evidence so I can finally move on. I hate how jealous I am and it’s making my depression worse. I can’t feel better until I know the truth.

  There’s a chance I could get caught. Derek could come home any second and find me going through his stuff. But if he was going to be here, he’d be here by now.

  I slide the box out a little and flip the lid off. There’s a bunch of envelopes tied together with twine. My stomach immediately churns. This is them. The letters. From her. The ones Sierra wrote to Derek while she was away the summer they were going out. I heard that she sent him a card or a letter every single day for a month. And now here they are right in front of me and I can read them if I want to. I can read them and he would never know.

  If I really want to.

  If I read them, I’m just going to get upset and cry and be mad at Derek for something that happened before he even knew me. If I don’t read these letters, I’m always going to wonder what they said. I’ll be mad at myself for missing my chance to find out.

  So I decide to risk it. I slide the first letter out from under the knot of twine. It has his name in hot-pink pen. Hot-pink pen? How third grade is hot-pink pen?

  I only end up reading a few letters, just in case Derek suddenly comes home. They’re all the same, so I doubt I’m missing much by skipping the last twenty. They’re all about how Sierra misses Derek and can’t wait to see him again and other assorted gooey hoo-ha.

  That wasn’t what I was looking for anyway. I really need to know about what’s going on with them right now. Why didn’t I think this through before? Okay, focus. Where would recent info be? Stuffed in a shoe box under your bed? Or out on your desk?

  There’s Derek’s computer. Just sitting on his desk, sleeping. And he’s still not home. And his mom is downstairs. And if Derek comes home or someone starts walking up the stairs, I could totally hear.

  If Derek did what I’m about to do to me, I’d be wicked furious. But I really don’t care.

  I poke the mouse and the screen blinks on. Derek’s e-mail is open. There’s a folder labeled SIERRA. I double click it.

  Half an hour later, Derek’s still not home. I almost don’t even care if he can tell that I was on his computer. But I make sure everything looks the same when I’m finished, just so he can’t prove anything. This sucks. Not only did Derek totally forget about our plans again, he’s still not home. Plus he’s a skanky, lying manwhore.

  So I leave.

  The next day, Derek miraculously has time for me. He’s waiting at our spot when I get to school.

  “Sorry again about yesterday,” he says. “I completely forgot.”

  I don’t say anything. He should be sorry.

  “It won’t happen again,” he insists. He also called me last night to say he was sorry. It was hours after I left his house. “So my mom said you were in my room.”

  “Yeah. She said I could wait for you there.”

  “You were in there a while, huh?”

  “Well, you never came home, so yeah.”

  “Did you go through my stuff?”

  “What stuff?”

  “You know what stuff.”

  “Not really, no.”

  “The stuff in my box.”

  “What box?”

  He sighs. “The one under my bed.”

  “Um, no. I didn’t.” I don’t know where he’s getting that from. I put everything back the way I found it before I left. At least, I thought I did.

  Derek gives me this look like, Yeah, right.

  “Why are you accusing me?”

  “I just think you opened it.”

  “Okay. Let’s say I opened it—hypothetically. How would you even know?”

  “I remember how I put my stuff in that box. It was all rearranged.”

  Please. How many sloppy boys are so neat with their stuff that they know how they arranged it in a box? Five?

  I go, “What are you so afraid I saw?”

  Derek squints at me. “Let’s just go in,” he says.

  I should tell him I read his e-mail. I should tell him I know. But I can’t do it. I can’t admit that I know because then I would have to admit that I read his e-mail. And that’s not the kind of thing good girlfriends do. Good girlfriends are understanding and supportive and they’re always there when you need them.

  Just like good boyfriends. Who also don’t forget about your plans and keep you waiting forever. They don’t lie to you about why they joined yearbook. And they definitely don’t hang out with an ex who wants them back. Which is what Sierra’s e-mail said. She said that she made a mistake and wants him back. It was from a month ago. Oh, and Evan’s show and that after party? They totally went together. There was another e-mail planning it.

  It’s obvious that he wants us both. And he intends to have us both for as long as he can get away with it.

  Here’s the thing. Derek knows, in his heart, that he fits together better with Sierra, like pieces of a puzzle you can’t deny. Which is the most depressing realization ever. Sierra broke up with Derek. That’s the problem. Because when a girl dumps a boy, I don’t think he ever completely gets over her. How can he? She rips his heart out, but it’s still beating. And yeah, it’s kind of the same for girls, but I think it’s even worse for boys. There’s a whole other ego thing to deal with.

  Derek and me? I guess we had a connection, but he’s not the One. The One would never make me feel this bad. So it doesn’t matter about what kind of girlfriend I’m being. Because it has to be over. It’s just like John Mayer says in “Slow Dancing in a Burning Room.” When it’s this bad, you have to get out or you’ll get burned.
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br />   “Wait,” I say.

  Kids passing by sense something’s up. They give us looks, walking slower than they normally would, trying to hear. I see Sterling watching us near the door. Then she looks away.

  I’m like, “I know.”

  “You know what?”

  “I know what’s going on.”

  “I told you, there’s nothing—”

  “No, Derek.” I get all up in his face, but I’m eerily calm. “I know.”

  Here’s the part where he asks how I know and I have to tell him that I read his e-mail. And then he’ll get mad at me and twist it around to make it look like I was the one doing something wrong. Which is true, but it’s so not the point.

  Only that’s not how it goes. Derek stays quiet for a long time, staring at the grass. Something in his face changes. He knows I know. Game over.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Derek says.

  “Why did you keep lying to me?”

  “I knew you’d freak out. I’m with you now. Everything’s different.”

  “That’s interesting, because it looks like some things are still the same.”

  “Look.” Derek puts his hand on my arm. “It doesn’t matter if she still likes me, okay? All that matters is what I do about it.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “It’s pretty obvious what you’re doing.”

  “What am I doing?”

  “You’re flirting with her. You’re spending like every day with her. You’re—”

  “I told you we had—”

  “No!” I yell. I swear, if I hear any more of his excuses, I’m going to lose it. “Stop it. Just. Stop.”

  “Why are you so—”

  “She wants you back. You know she wants you back. And you obviously want her back, too.”

  “We’re not—”

  “I’m done.”

  Derek looks relieved. “Good.”

  “No, Derek. I’m done.”

  “Marisa, don’t do this. I want to be with you.”

  “No you don’t. You want to be with both of us. You want to be able to do whatever you want and have it be okay. Except, guess what? None of this is okay. And so I’m done.”

  I wasn’t planning to break up with him. I mean, maybe under the surface, somewhere that’s hard to see, I’ve known it had to end for a long time. I just never thought I’d be the one to end it.

  47

  I don’t know how I got through that horrible day, with everyone knowing that Derek and I just broke up. It was all over school by third period. Not that I think he told anyone. There were enough kids around for someone to hear. And it only takes one person.

  Before we broke up, I was in bad shape. But now I’m so much worse I can’t wake up in the morning. I didn’t even go to school today. I literally could not drag my body out of bed. It’s the third time this week. If I call out from work one more time, they’re probably going to fire me.

  I hate that Sterling and I are still in a fight. I really need her now. But if I call her, she’ll think it’s just because of Derek and not because I miss her. Which, of course, I do. And Nash is super busy lately, so he can’t always talk. Not that he’d want to talk about Derek. Maybe not even about us breaking up.

  My mom doesn’t want my dad. Derek doesn’t want me. Sterling hates me now. Nash has moved on. Things fall apart, even when you think they’re stronger than anything you could ever imagine.

  Aunt Katie is over. I’m not sure if she came over just because she felt like it or if Mom asked her to come. Mom knows that when Aunt Katie speaks, I listen. We’ve been talking for an hour. I’m still in bed, in my pajamas. So Aunt Katie changed into a pair of my pajama bottoms and got into bed with me.

  “We’re having a daytime sleepover,” she goes.

  “I wish we could have one every day.”

  “Me too.” Aunt Katie seems sad.

  “Are you okay?”

  She tells me about her latest date and how she really liked the guy. But then he never called her. So we’re both bumming hard-core. It’s an official pity party.

  “It gets better,” Aunt Katie says.

  “Which part?”

  “All of it. You’ll see.”

  “It’s hard to believe that now.”

  “I know. But you can’t hide in bed all day.”

  “It’s so unfair. You can be absent if you’re sick, but what about if you’re sad?”

  “Ha! Like instead of calling out sick to work, you called out sad.”

  “Exactly. Why don’t they have that?”

  Aunt Katie pulls the blanket over her some more. “Because if people were allowed to stay home every time they were sad, no one would ever go to school. Or to work.”

  “All that sadness is sad.”

  “You’re not allowed to wallow anymore. Remember what you learned in therapy—if you’re having negative thoughts, switch your focus up. Try to focus on positive things.”

  I nod. But I can’t help those thoughts. They’re all I can think about.

  “Derek doesn’t deserve you,” she says.

  I scrunch over and lean against Aunt Katie. She puts her arms around me. We sit like that for a long time.

  By the time she leaves, I sort of feel better. She’s right. Derek doesn’t deserve me. The only boy who deserves me is the one who realizes that I’m the best person he could possibly be with. Not that I know who that boy is yet. But I’ll never stop waiting for him to get here.

  Since I was absent today, I should probably try to catch up on homework. I am so behind at this point I don’t even know what most of my teachers are talking about. Especially in geometry. It’s like Mr. Wilson is speaking some foreign language and I’m the only one in the room who can’t decipher it.

  So I crack open my geometry book and try to figure out what page I’m supposed to be on. I keep having these nightmares about getting behind so far that the class is like four chapters ahead of the last thing I learned. It seems like my downward spiral has lasted way more than two weeks. I can’t remember what it feels like to be okay.

  I flip to a new page. Everything is gibberish. I have no idea what this book is talking about.

  When my phone rings, I attack it. It’s Dad.

  “Hey, kid,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “I wish I were there.”

  Do you? I wonder. Wouldn’t you still be here if you really wanted to be? Couldn’t you have made it work out?

  Dad goes, “I hate to do this, but I have to reschedule Friday. Megan has this work party I should go to that she just told me about.”

  I’m so not ready to deal with Dad’s girlfriend. That’s what she is now. I mean, duh, anyone could see it coming from miles away, but that doesn’t make it any easier now that it’s real.

  “Sure, Dad.”

  “Sorry. We’ll do next Friday, okay?”

  “Okay.” I get that he has to go. But it doesn’t make me feel any less lonely.

  After we hang up, I call Nash. His cell goes straight to voice mail. I hang up without leaving a message. What would I even say to him? I wish you hadn’t moved on? Where did you go?

  48

  The name Marisa means “sea of bitterness” and that’s what I am.

  Someone’s knocking on my door. I don’t even bother with it.

  Mom goes, “Marisa? May I come in?”

  I turn the page.

  “I’m coming in,” she says.

  Stupid door that doesn’t lock.

  Mom comes in, looking uncomfortable but determined. She has to step over wads of crumpled paper and duck shredded posters poking out from the walls. I haven’t had the energy to do anything about my room since the day I ripped it apart, so I’ve been living in the middle of this mess. Everything’s stuck in limbo.

  Then there’s my violin case. For the first time ever, I notice it’s covered in dust. I can’t even remember the last time I practiced. I know Mr. Silverstein knows I’ve
been slacking. Last week in orchestra, I let out a high squeak on the E string during a rest and he gave me such a harsh glare I thought he was going to bite my head off.

  I pretend to keep reading.

  “How are you feeling?” she says.

  What a lame question. Even without the breakup or all the days I’ve stayed home from school, it’s a lame question. She’s seen me in the downward spiral before. She knows what it looks like.

  She goes, “You’re not talking to me?”

  “I only answer questions that are worth answering,” I inform her.

  “I see.” Mom sits in the armchair. Dad made it for me when I graduated from middle school. I love that chair. It has really wide arms made of polished maple. Dad made wide arms for me because he knew that I’d want to put drinks and books on them while I’m sitting there.

  “Your school called,” Mom goes. “Your math teacher? Mr. Wilson?”

  I was kind of expecting Mr. Wilson to call. He kept me after class a few days ago and said I could talk to him about whatever’s bothering me. I didn’t know how to even begin explaining myself, so I told him maybe another time.

  “What did he want?” I ask.

  “He said that you haven’t turned in any work all week. And that you don’t participate in class anymore.”

  “I never participate in that class. It’s math.”

  “Well, he said it seems like something’s bothering you.”

  Mom gets up and goes over to the window. The river sparkles and flows. It looks happy in the springtime sunlight. I wish I could be happy, too.

  “Marisa, if you—”

  “I’m fine.”

  “But if you—”

  “I’m fine.” I’m not going back to therapy, which I’m sure is what she’s trying to ask about again. I don’t even want to hear it. I don’t want to be like that ever again. I should be able to get through this by myself. I just need more time.

  “You can’t stay home from school anymore,” Mom says.

  “I know.”

  “And you have to do your homework.”

  “I know, Mom!”

  “Mr. Wilson said he’s willing to accept makeup work if you hand it in by Monday.”