Until I stopped speaking, until I was silent. It was silence that saved my life.
Speak! The voice screams in my ears. Yet I can’t say a word.
But today, when Stella looked at me, something happened. Pleading, begging me to save her. She was counting on me. Her need was greater than my own, and I had to protect her. So I did what I had to do—I found my voice, and I took her away from them.
But it was too late; the damage was done. I could see it in the tears swimming in her eyes. All I knew was that I made her cry. Her tears pierced my heart.
Holding her hands, standing so close, I never wanted to let go.
I only hope she can forgive me.
ME AGAIN
— Stella —
If I am going back to school on Monday, I need to be caught up. That’s what I tell Mom and Emerson, anyway. I don’t want to tell them about my afternoon. I avoid them with homework. I plow through Spanish and health. Then I escape with Hamlet. Somehow, I can identify with him. His frustration. His disillusionment with the world around him. I find comfort in his words.
O, that this too, too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d
His canon ’gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!
How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on’t, ah fie! ’tis an unweeded garden
That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely.
I lie on my bed, reread the passage over and over. Let the language seep into me like rain seeping into parched summer grass.
Seeing Lily and Connor was a neon sign reminding me of what I have lost. I’ve lost everything. They have lost nothing. The accident that cost me my dream has made Lily’s dream come true. It gave her popularity. A boyfriend on the football team. A spot on the varsity cheerleading squad.
I imagine how I must have looked to them—to Hayden—in my silent bubble.
He wanted to get rid of me after that. I really am some kind of charity case.
That last thought bothers me the most. Hayden. More than Connor. More than Lily.
I want to disappear.
I close my eyes, seeking the blackness where I am free.
Suddenly, I am floating. Drifting down, down, down. In a sea of words and confusion, I don’t know who I am. I don’t exist. I am nothing.
The darkness surrounds me. Blankets me. Erases me. Then a hand reaches out. Touches mine. Grasps for me. I take hold. Know this is my chance at survival. My chance to breathe again.
The hand pulls me upward, to the light. I want the light. The hope. I want to breathe again. To be me.
I burst from the water, gasping for air. I am enveloped in strong arms. I am safe. I am me.
I look up and see only blue.
I wake up confused. Disoriented. Sweaty.
I remember everything. My body trembles. I wrap myself in a blanket and reach for the glass beside my bed. Take a long drink, letting the cool water glide down my throat. Calming me. I am here. I know that now.
I cannot disappear. I cannot give up.
This happened for a reason. Someday I will understand why. For now, I have to keep going.
I have to believe in myself.
I have to trust in me.
I reach for my phone to connect with him somehow. To ground me in this reality.
I find a message from him.
I’m so sorry about what happened. I promise I’ll be more careful with you, if you’ll let me.
He wants to spend more time with me? I don’t understand it. Not when I embarrassed him. I text him back, even though it’s the middle of the night.
It wasn’t your fault. I’m ok.
Liar, I accuse myself after writing the last part. But I don’t want to be his charity case anymore.
I don’t expect him to respond, but within seconds, he has texted back. A shiver runs through me as I realize that he, too, is awake right now. It makes me feel close to him.
I know you aren’t ok. You don’t have to pretend with me. I want to be the one person you never have to pretend with. Just be yourself.
I read his message over and over. Let the words wash over me to wash the humiliation away. They leave me fresh. Ready to begin again.
His words and my own determination give me the courage to reply.
I won’t pretend. But u can’t pretend either. B honest. Why r u really doing this? Because u feel sorry for me? Cause u don’t have 2 anymore.
My heart races. I have never been so honest. With myself or anyone else. The prospect is exciting and terrifying at the same time. Both turn my stomach upside down and make the back of my neck suddenly damp.
Minutes tick by. He doesn’t answer. Moments of my life are spent staring at a cell phone. I won’t stare at it any longer. I’m going back to bed. Back to my dreams. Or nightmares.
That’s when he answers.
I don’t feel sorry for you. I thought I was helping. I want to help you, but the truth is that you are helping me. Like no one ever has.
His words fill me with joy. Pure joy. I want to jump up and dance around my room. I breathe in and taste hope. Then I write back.
U r helping me 2.
I press send then type: I am going back to school on Monday. After today, I know how hard it will be, but I need to go.
He answers right away, like he is sitting beside me.
I know.
See you tomorrow at 2:30?
16
— Stella —
It’s a typical Saturday morning. Saturdays used to be family days, full of forced activities no one really wanted to do, but we all felt obligated to pretend to enjoy. But ever since Dad moved out and we became a split family, the pretense is gone, and we can be ourselves. On Saturdays, we are free to do whatever makes us happy, which, for Mom, is planting flowers. For Emerson, it is dancing. She is already dressed in her leotard and tights, hair pulled back into a tight bun. Mom is decked out in army pants and clogs, but she has to work before she can dig in the dirt.
Mom’s an accountant. She mostly works from home, so her schedule is pretty flexible except in March and April—tax season. With everything going on with me, Mom has taken entire days off. She must be behind schedule. She has been working really late the past few nights; I can tell by the circles underneath her eyes. She surely has work to finish before she can go outside.
“I can help with your work,” I tell her.
Her eyes widen in surprise. She smiles, happy to have my help. Mom shows me which office tasks I can do. I get started while she drives Emerson to the dance studio. I begin by assembling packages for Mom’s clients. I make copies of tax returns and stamp them copy. Each tax return and copy go into a special navy blue folder with extra envelopes that hold federal and state tax returns. Then I put everything into a giant mailing envelope. I like the mechanical nature of the task; it is relaxing. I don’t have to think too much, so I can let my mind drift.
I think about Hayden.
He’s an unknown to me. Maybe that’s why I like him so much. Maybe, if I’m being honest, I also like that he seems to understand me even though he hasn’t known me for long. He was right when he said I couldn’t imagine myself differently. I couldn’t. I only thought about Someday Broadway. It was my everything. I was so focused that I lost track of everything else. I used to like other things.
Now I can’t really remember what those things were.
I thought I knew who I was. But I was limiting myself to being one thing. Defining myself by my talent. There’s more to me than that. More I can give. More I can share. The truth is, I’m starting to like this new Stella better than the old Stella.
My mind turns again to Hayden. I think of the day he walked into the theater. When he stepped onto the stage. How nervous I was to sing in front of him. Until he began playing. Then I remember something
else. That day was also the first time I heard him speak.
And I was disappointed in the sound of his voice. That it wasn’t smooth and commanding. Or accented. How much importance I placed on sounds then. Sounds I can’t hear now. I remember the first time he said my name. It sounded beautiful the way he drew out each letter like music. And it hits me. The reason I can understand Hayden.
It’s his speech.
His words are slowed down. Stretched out. That’s why they’re easier to read on his lips.
The thought shames me and causes an ache deep in the pit of my stomach. That the thing which causes him so much pain would be the key to our connection. To my understanding. Does he know? How does it make him feel?
Mom calls a stop to our work at lunchtime, and we eat peanut butter and jelly at the table in the garden. It is a beautiful day, and I’m happy to have this time with my mom. It occurs to me that we don’t usually have much time alone together. With Emerson and me only a year apart, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have to share my mom.
“I like this day,” I tell her.
She smiles and says something. I imagine it’s, “Me, too.”
When we finish lunch, Mom decides to work in her vegetable garden. Emerson is still at dance class. I check my phone messages. Another one from Lily.
Can I come by tomorrow? 2 talk 2 u? I am très bereft without u. Please.
I debate whether to respond. I think about the past year we’ve been friends. How knowing her made being at a new school bearable. How I let her drama and excitement spice up my own quiet life. I thought she would be my best friend forever. That nothing could come between us. Would she feel the same about me if I’d hurt her? Even if our friendship will never ever be the same again, I can at least try. I owe her that.
Maybe tomorrow after church. Text me first.
I send it. I breathe. And I realize that a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Maybe letting Lily back into my life is something I need to do. Something that I need to heal.
Tomorrow, I am going to church with my mom in the morning. After that, if Lily wants to come over and be friends, well, I will let her. The sooner I get back to my old life, the better.
That decided, I look at the rest of my messages. One from my dad wanting to know how I am and reminding me about his firm’s annual picnic next Saturday. I write back.
I’m better. Thanks for checking. See u Saturday. XO
And then a message from Hayden.
I’ll be there at 2:30. Wear jeans and sneakers. H
I check the time—1:00. For the next hour, I read Hamlet then go to my room to exchange my sweats and T-shirt for jeans and a plaid shirt. Then I take out my ponytail and brush what is left of my hair smooth. I grab my sneakers and head for the front step. Mom has already left to pick up Emerson. She knows I am going out with Hayden and that I will be home by dinner.
At 2:30, I watch the indigo truck pull up in front of my house. I stand and meet Hayden at the bottom of the front steps. My earlier thoughts still run through me, causing me to twist my fingers around one another like knots.
Hayden wears a baseball cap, a T-shirt, and khaki shorts. He said I am helping him, but I have no idea how. So I don’t know exactly what to do and am a little shy today. I duck my head when he looks at me and only catch a glimpse of his smile.
When I raise my eyes to his face, he is waiting for me. He tilts his head to the side, regarding me with a serious expression. As though he wants to tell me something. Something really important. I hold my breath.
And then the moment passes. He must have changed his mind. I can see it in his change of expression, as if he drew the blinds closed. I can no longer see inside.
“Ready for some fun?” he says instead.
“Sounds good,” I answer.
Then he takes off his cap and puts it on my head. He nods. “Now you’re ready.”
Hayden opens the passenger door, and I climb into the truck.
As soon as he is in the driver’s seat, I ask, “What do you have planned for today?” I don’t expect him to answer, but I have to ask anyway.
He turns to me and gives me a lopsided grin. “Helping others. How does that sound?”
“I think it sounds perfect,” I tell him.
The drive is really short. At the corner, Hayden pulls into the parking lot for the elementary school. The lot is full of cars and people. The parents and students have made an assembly line to soap up people’s cars—a car wash. Hayden parks on the side, and we get out.
“What is this for?” I ask.
“A student here who has leukemia. The family needs funds for her treatment. The car wash is to raise money to help them.”
I think of my rainbow girl at the hospital. Her courage. This student’s courage. They inspire me. And I want to help. I tell Hayden.
He nods. “I thought you would. Let’s go.”
Together, Hayden and I join the assembly line. He helps with the drying. I help with soaping the cars. I hold a giant wet sponge in my hands. When cars come by, I dip the sponge into my bucket and scrub away.
Before long, I am soaking wet, but I don’t care. I’m here to help—and I’m happy to do it. Hayden waves at me. I wave back and notice wryly that he doesn’t have a drop of water anywhere. So when he comes by to see how I am doing, I let him know with a quick splash of some soapy water.
“Much better,” I say. He laughs and splashes me back. We are both drenched—and laughing.
I reach out to squeeze the sponge onto his shirt, but Hayden stops me with a touch on my wrist. He moves closer to try to turn the sponge around. His arm is around me. His eyes are the exact color of the sapphire paint. So deep. There is a whole world to see in his eyes. Suddenly, we aren’t laughing. He is so close. If I lean forward, I will meet his mouth with mine. But I don’t. I am dizzy with the nearness of him. I want him to kiss me.
He doesn’t. He smiles tightly and takes a step back. Releases my hand. Releasing me. Cool air tingles my wet skin. Or is it the coolness of rejection?
Hayden gestures to a bin of sodas. I force myself to breathe in and out. I follow him. I choose a lemon-lime; Hayden takes a bottle of water. We sit side by side on the swings in the playground.
“How much money do they need to raise?” I ask. I can’t stop thinking about the little rainbow girl.
“Thousands,” he tells me. “There’s a walk next week to raise more.”
“I can walk,” I say. “Will you take me?”
Suddenly, Hayden’s eyes fill with a light so bright I almost have to look away. Then, just as quickly, it is gone—he looks away, embarrassed. “Of course,” he says.
I use my feet to push myself slowly back and forth while I sip my soda. “You never talk about yourself,” I say. Watching him.
Hayden shrugs as if he isn’t important. But he is. To me.
“What do you want to know?”
Everything, I want to say. I want to have a book about you that I can read over and over. Memorize.
But instead, I shrug, too. “Do you live with your parents?”
“My grandfather,” he answers. There is something in that moment. A flicker of something. So quick, like a flash of lightning—there and gone. But the impression is left in his eyes. A jagged streak of pain.
I pry further. “No brothers or sisters?”
He shakes his head, mouth tight as if he has to keep it from saying more. About things he doesn’t want to share.
I am sorry for him then. I can’t imagine life without Emerson. Even when she drives me crazy, frustrates me or embarrasses me, she is still so much a part of me, like my right arm.
“It is lonely,” he responds. As though he can read my thoughts. It is disconcerting—having him read my mind. I wonder if he has been able to tell what I am thinking about him. The thought brings heat to my cheeks. I imagine they are flaming red.
“Are you and Emerson close?” he asks.
My answer is immediate. I nod. “We�
��ve been through a lot together.”
He looks surprised. I am reminded of his initial criticism of me. That nothing bad had ever happened to me, so I couldn’t imagine myself in a different way.
“My parents are divorced. My mom moved us here last year.” I think of my first day at Richmond. “We didn’t know anyone.” And we didn’t want to move here. I don’t tell him that part.
Hayden’s expression changes; he didn’t know. “That must have been hard for you,” he says. “I thought—you just looked like everything came so easy for you. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” It doesn’t matter anymore.
Then he broaches a difficult subject. “Do you see your dad?”
I shrug. “When he schedules us in. Emerson sees him more than I do.” I take a deep breath. “He really doesn’t know me at all.” It hurts to say it. Even though I can’t hear the words, I know they are out there.
Hayden shakes his head. A muscle tenses in his cheek. “I don’t understand how parents can just walk away like that. If I were your dad, I would want to spend as much time with you as I could. Nothing would be more important than being with you.”
His eyes blaze with passion. I can almost hear the intensity of his tone. My heart beats faster under the heat of his gaze.
And I know he means it as a criticism of my father, but also as a compliment of me.
“Thanks,” I tell him. He meets my smile with one of his own. Then he shares something with me.
“My grandmother passed away two years ago. It’s just me and my grandfather now.”
I picture him at a table, eating dinner with his grandfather. It does seem lonely. I catch Hayden watching me. And again, I have the sense that he is reading my mind.
“I’d like to meet him,” I say.
“He wants to meet you, too.” He is teasing me, of course. His grandfather can’t possibly want to meet me. But the thought gives me courage. Enough to say the words I have wanted to say all day.
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