by Sarah Dessen
It was my father who finally called two hours later. The sound of the phone ringing jerked me awake, and as I picked up the receiver, the sun was rising in the front of the house, the sky streaked with pinks and reds. “Your sister is going to be okay,” he said. “When we get home, we’ll explain what’s happening.”
After we hung up, I went back to my room and crawled into bed, sleeping two more hours until I heard the garage door open and knew they were home. When I came down to the kitchen, my mother was making a pot of coffee, her back to me. She had on the same clothes as the night before, her hair uncombed.
“Mom?” I said.
She turned around, and when I saw her face, my stomach dropped. It was just like all those years ago: her face so tired, eyes swollen from crying, her very features haunted. A sudden panic made me want to wrap myself around her, putting myself between her and the world and everything it could do to her, to me, to any of us.
And then it happened. My mother started crying. Her eyes welled up, and she looked down at her hands, which were trembling, and then she was sobbing, the sound seeming so loud in the quiet of the kitchen. I stepped forward, not knowing how to handle this. Luckily, I didn’t have to.
“Grace.” My father was standing in the doorway to the hall that led to his office. “Honey. It’s all right.”
My mother’s shoulders were shaking as she drew in a breath. “Oh, God, Andrew. What did we—”
And then my father was moving across the room toward her, taking her in his arms, his big frame encompassing hers. She buried her face in his chest, the sobs muffled in his shirt, and I stepped back, over the threshold, out of sight, and sat down in the dining room. I could still hear her crying, and the sound was awful. But seeing it was worse.
Eventually, my dad got my mother calmed down and sent her upstairs to shower and try to get some rest. Then he came back down and sat across from me.
“Your sister is very sick,” he said. “She’s lost an extreme amount of weight and apparently hasn’t been eating normally for months now. Her system just shut down last night.”
“Is she going to be okay?” I asked.
He ran a hand over his face, taking a moment before answering. “The doctors feel,” he said, “that she needs to go immediately to a treatment facility. Your mother and I…” He trailed off, looking past me, out at the pool. “We just want what’s best for Whitney.”
“So she’s not coming back?”
“Not right away,” he told me. “It’s a process. We just have to see how it goes.”
I looked down at my hands, which I had spread out in front of me on the table, the wood cool on my palms. “Last night,” I said, “when I first saw her, I just…”
“I know.” He pushed his chair out, standing up. “But she’s going to get help now. Okay?”
I nodded. Clearly, my dad was not up for discussing the emotional impact of what had happened. He’d given me the facts, what prognosis there was, and that was all I’d get.
After a couple of days in the hospital, Whitney was transferred to a treatment center, which she hated so much she initially refused to speak to my parents when they visited. Still, it was helping her, as she began gaining weight, bit by bit, day by day. As for Kirsten, she arrived on Christmas Eve to find my parents exhausted and stressed out, me just trying to stay out of the way, and any hope of holiday cheer completely out of the question. Which did not prevent her from dropping a bomb of her own.
“I’ve made a decision,” she announced as we sat at dinner that night. “I’m giving up modeling.”
My mother, at the end of the table, put down her fork. “What?”
“I’m just not into it anymore,” Kirsten said, taking a sip of her wine. “Truth be told, I haven’t been for a while. And it’s not like I’ve been working that much anyway. But I just decided to make it official.”
I glanced at my mom. She was already so tired and sad, and this clearly was not helping. My dad was watching her, too. He said, “Don’t do anything rash, Kirsten.”
“I’m not. I’ve thought about it a lot.” Of all of us, she was the only one still eating, scooping up a forkful of potatoes as she said this. “I mean, let’s face it, I’m never going to be a hundred and five pounds. Or five-ten, for that matter.”
“You’ve gotten plenty of work just as you are,” my mom said.
“Some work,” Kirsten corrected her. “It’s by no means a living. I’ve been doing this since I was eight. I’m twenty-two now. I want to do something else.”
“Such as?” my dad said.
Kirsten shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I’ve got the hostess thing at the restaurant, and I have a friend who owns a salon who offered me a receptionist job. So the bills will be covered, for the most part. I’m thinking I might sign up for some classes or something.”
My dad raised his eyebrows. “School,” he said.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Kirsten replied, although I had to admit, this was shocking to me, as well. Even before she’d stopped taking classes in New York, she’d never been much for academics. In high school the classes she hadn’t missed because of modeling she skipped, usually preferring to spend her time with whatever scruffy, free-spirited boyfriend she had at the time. “Most girls my age have already graduated and have real careers. I feel like I’ve missed out on a lot, you know? I want to get my degree.”
“You could take classes and still model,” my mother said. “It doesn’t have to be an either/or situation.”
“Yes, it does,” Kirsten replied. “For me, it does.”
Under different circumstances, maybe my parents would have pushed to discuss this further. But they were tired, and while Kirsten might have been known best for her directness, her stubbornness ran a close second. It shouldn’t have been all that surprising anyway, as she’d hardly been committed to modeling for years now. Coming so close to Whitney’s collapse, however, it meant more. Especially to me, although I didn’t realize it at the time.
Whitney stayed at the treatment center for thirty days, during which time she gained ten pounds. She wanted to return to New York once she was released, but my parents insisted she move back home instead, as the doctors felt strongly a return to modeling would risk any progress she’d made, or would make. That was in January, and since then she’d been going to an outpatient program, seeing an additional therapist twice a week, and sulking around the house. Meanwhile, Kirsten had kept to her word, enrolling in some classes at a New York college while juggling her other two jobs. Surprisingly, given her high-school experience, she loved school, calling each weekend happy and bubbling over with details about her classes and what she was studying. Again, my sisters were at extremes and yet similar at the same time: Each was starting over, but only one by choice.
There were some weeks when it seemed like Whitney was really getting better, gaining weight, clearly on her way. And then there were others when she’d refuse to eat breakfast, or get caught doing forbidden crunches in her room late at night, and only the threat of having to go back into the hospital and be force-fed was enough to make her get back in line. Through it all, one thing remained constant: She would not talk to Kirsten.
Not when she called. Not even when she came home for a weekend in the spring. At first Kirsten was hurt, then angry, before finally retaliating with her own silence. The rest of us were stuck in the middle, filling the awkward pauses with chatter that always fell short. Since then, while my mom and dad had both traveled up to see her at various times, she’d made a point of not coming back home.
It was weird. As a kid, I’d always hated it when my sisters fought, but them not talking at all was worse. Their complete and total lack of communication, now going on nine months, was scary in how permanent it felt.
The changes in my sisters over the last year were both evident and sensory. One you could spot on sight, while the other you heard about the moment you were in earshot, whether you wanted to or not. As for me, I found myself
where I’d always been, stuck somewhere in the middle.
But I had changed, too, even if only I could tell. I was different. As different as my family was that night it all began from what we appeared to be—the five of us, a happy family, sharing a meal in our glass house—to anyone in a car passing by on the road outside, looking in.
Chapter FOUR
For the first week of school, Sophie ignored me completely. Which was hard. But when she did begin to speak to me, I quickly realized I much preferred the silence.
“Whore.”
It was always just one word. One word, said clearly and with enough spite to sting. Sometimes it came from behind me, floating over my shoulder when I wasn’t expecting it. Other times, I could see her coming, and took it right in the face. The one thing that was always the same was that her timing was impeccable. The moment I started to feel a little better or have a half-decent moment in an okay day, she was right there to make sure it didn’t last.
This time, she was walking by as I sat on the wall during lunch. Emily was with her—Emily was always with her, these days—and I didn’t look at them, instead just focusing on the notebook in my lap and the history paper I was working on. I’d just written the word occupation, and I kept my pen to the page, making both o’s darker and darker, until Emily and Sophie passed.
There was a karmic aspect to this, although I didn’t like to think about it. The truth was, it hadn’t been that long ago that I’d been the one who walked alongside Sophie while she did her dirty work, when I was the person who, while not taking part in the slur, didn’t stop it, either. Like with Clarke.
Thinking this, I looked up, glancing around the courtyard until I found her sitting at one of the picnic tables with a few of her friends. She was at the end of the bench, a textbook open in front of her, half listening to the conversation between the girls next to her as she flipped through the pages. Clearly, sitting alone on that first day for her had been optional. She hadn’t come anywhere near the wall, or me, since.
But Owen Armstrong remained. Other people came and went from our wall, some in groups, some by themselves, but only he and I were there every single day. We always kept an understood distance between us—about six feet, give or take a few inches—that whoever arrived second was always sure to honor when they sat down. There were other constants, too. He never ate, that I saw; I always had a full lunch, courtesy of my mother. He seemed completely unaware, and uncaring, of what anyone else was doing, while I spent the hour convinced everyone was staring at and discussing me. I did homework; he listened to music. And we never, ever spoke.
Maybe it was because I was spending so much time alone. Or the fact that there were only so many minutes of my lunch hour I could spend doing homework. Whatever the reason, I’d become somewhat fascinated with Owen Armstrong. Every day, I made it a point to take a few sideways glances at him, cataloging something else about his appearance or habits. So far, I’d garnered quite a bit of information.
For instance, the earphones. He never seemed to take them off. Clearly, he loved music, and his iPod was always either in his pocket, his hand, or lying on the wall beside him. I’d also noticed that his reactions when he was listening varied. Usually he sat totally still except for his head bobbing, slowly and almost imperceptibly. Occasionally he drummed his fingers on his knee, and in very rare instances, he hummed along, barely loud enough for me to hear, and then only when no one was passing or talking nearby. Those were the times I wondered most what he was listening to, although I imagined it to be just like him, dark and angry and loud.
Then there was his appearance. His size, of course, you saw first: the height, the big wrists, the enormity of his mere presence. But there were little things, too, like his dark eyes, which were either green or brown, and the two identical rings—each flat, wide, and silver—he wore on the middle finger of each hand.
Now, as I glanced over at him, he was sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him, leaning back on his palms. A swath of sunlight was falling across his face, and his earphones were on, his head bobbing slightly, eyes closed. A girl carrying a piece of poster board walked past me, then slowed as she approached him, and I watched her as she carefully stepped over his feet, like Jack from “Jack in the Beanstalk” creeping past the sleeping giant. Owen didn’t stir, and she scurried on.
I’d once felt this same way about Owen as well, of course. Everyone did. But there was something about our daily proximity that had made me relax, or at least not jump every time he looked my way. These days I was more worried about Sophie, who was a credible threat, or even Clarke, who had made it clear that yes, she still hated me.
It seemed odd that Owen Armstrong could seem somehow safer than the only two best friends I’d ever had. I was beginning to see, though, that the unknown wasn’t always the greatest thing to fear. The people who know you best can be riskier, because the words they say and the things they think have the potential to be not only scary but true, as well.
I had no history with Owen. But Sophie and Clarke were different. There was a pattern here, some sense of connection, even if I didn’t want to see it. It didn’t seem fair or right, but I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe all of this, and where I found myself, wasn’t so accidental. Maybe it was just what I deserved.
After that night when Clarke and I returned her stuff to her at her house, Sophie started to hang out with us. It wasn’t a specific invitation as much as she was just eased in. Suddenly there was a third beach chair, another hand dealt into the card game, one more Coke to carry when it was your turn to go get drinks. Clarke and I had been best friends for so long it was kind of nice to have a fresh take on things, and Sophie definitely provided that. In her bikinis and makeup, full of stories of the boys she’d dated in Dallas, she was totally different from us.
She was also loud and bold, completely unafraid to talk to guys. Or wear whatever she felt like wearing. Or say what was on her mind. She wasn’t unlike Kirsten in this fashion, but while my sister’s forthrightness always made me uneasy, Sophie’s was different. I liked it, almost envied it. I couldn’t say what I wanted, but I could always count on her to speak up, and the events she set into motion—always a little risky, at least for me, but fun at the same time—were ones I never would have gotten to experience left to my own devices.
Still, there were moments when I felt uneasy around Sophie, although it was hard to put my finger on why, exactly. As much as we hung out and she became part of my day-to-day life, I couldn’t forget how mean she’d been to me that first day at the snack bar. Sometimes I’d just look at her while she was telling a story, or painting her nails as she lay on the end of my bed, and wonder why she had done that. And in the next beat, if she’d do it again.
For all her bravado, though, I knew Sophie had her own problems. Her parents had just recently divorced, and while she’d mentioned repeatedly all the stuff her dad bought her when she lived in Texas—clothes, jewelry, anything she wanted—one day I’d overheard my mom and one of her friends discussing the divorce, which was apparently very ugly. Sophie’s dad had left for a much younger woman, and there’d been a bitter battle over their house in Dallas. Mr. Rawlins supposedly wasn’t in contact with Sophie or her mom at all. But Sophie never mentioned this, and I didn’t ask about it. I figured if she wanted to talk about it, she would.
In the meantime, she hardly held back on anything else. For instance, she was always telling me and Clarke we were immature. Everything, apparently, was wrong: our clothes (so childish), our activities (boring), and our experiences (nonexistent). While she was interested in my modeling and seemed fascinated with my sisters—who both pretty much ignored her, as they did me—she was always giving Clarke a hard time.
“You look like a boy,” she said one day when we all went to the mall. “You could look really cute, if you tried. Why don’t you wear some makeup or something?”
“I’m not allowed,” Clarke told her, blowing her nose.
“Please,” Sophie said. “It’s not like your parents have to know. Just put it on when you leave, take it off before you go home.”
But Clarke wasn’t like that, and I knew it. She got along well with her mom and dad, and wouldn’t lie to them. Sophie, however, wouldn’t let up. If it wasn’t Clarke’s lack of makeup, it was her clothes, or her constant sneezing, or the fact that she had to be home a full hour before either of us, meaning that whatever we did as a group always had to be cut short in order to make sure she got in on time. If I’d been paying more attention, maybe I would have seen what was happening. As it was, though, I just attributed it to us all getting used to one another, and figured everything would work out eventually—at least until that night in early July.
It was a Saturday, and we were all spending the night at Clarke’s. Her parents were out at some symphony concert, so we had the house to ourselves to make a frozen pizza and watch movies. Typical Saturday. We’d preheated the oven, and Clarke was seeing what was on pay-per-view when Sophie arrived, dressed in a denim miniskirt, a white tank top that showed off her tan, and white sandals with thick heels.
“Wow,” I said as she came in, her heels clacking against the floor. “You look nice.”
“Thanks,” she replied, as I followed her into the kitchen.
“You’re pretty dressed up for pizza,” Clarke told her, then sneezed.
Sophie smiled. “This isn’t for pizza,” she said.
Clarke and I looked at each other. I said, “Then what is it for?”
“Boys,” she said.
“Boys?” Clarke repeated.
“Yeah.” Sophie hopped up on the counter, crossing her legs. “I met a couple of guys today, walking home from the pool. They said they’d be hanging out there tonight and we should come meet them.”