by Karole Cozzo
“I’ll make sure I get here really early tomorrow,” I promise. “So you have plenty of time to change.”
“But I wanted to make sure it fits. And that it looks right with my boots. I don’t have to come in tonight,” she assures me. “I could just wait in the driveway if you don’t mind running in to get it.”
“I’m a size four, you’re a size four. You’re only an inch taller than I am. I’m sure it’ll fit. I’ll just bring it in tomorrow.”
I return my attention to problem number two, trying to focus. Before I’ve even read it, I hear a shuddery, choked sound from across the table. My head jerks up in surprise and my eyes widen as I assess the tears filling Erin’s eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, genuinely shocked. I get that Erin’s worrying when it comes to outfit planning is a big deal, but this is excessive, even for her. “If it’s that big a deal, you can pick up the skirt tonight.”
“That’s not what I’m upset about,” she answers, voice quivering with tears. She bats at her eyes with the back of her hand, and meets my eyes. “I mean . . . Jordyn . . . do you even want to be friends with me?”
“What?”
She shrugs and shakes her head. “I don’t know. I mean, we’re supposed to be friends, but you have no interest in talking to me when you’re upset, and I end up feeling like I’m making you feel worse rather than better when I bother to ask you anything. And then I just want to stop over for five minutes and it seems like it’s the biggest bother in the world. God. Some days I feel like I’m pestering you more than anything else.”
I close my eyes against the stirring of the headache pressing against my temples. If I’d had any idea our conversation was going to take this turn, I definitely would have agreed to let her come over to pick up the damn skirt.
I open my eyes and look at my friend. “Please don’t feel that way,” I beg her. “I’m sorry I’m a crappy friend sometimes, but don’t take it personally.”
“You’re not a crappy friend. It’s just like . . . when I try to be a good friend to you, sometimes it feels like you don’t even want that. Like you don’t want anyone around you. And sometimes it’s just really hard not to take it personally.”
I stare at her helplessly. “That’s just me,” I eventually mumble. “And all I can do is promise you that it has nothing to do with you. You’re my closest friend at Valley Forge. I can’t imagine being here without having you as a friend.”
This is true, and I hate hurting her.
Erin smiles shakily. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.” I wave my hand dismissively. “I’m a weirdo sometimes, I know. Don’t read too much into the things I say or do.”
She wipes at her eyes a final time and pulls out a pressed powder compact to check her makeup. “Alright. I’ll try. Sorry for pushing you.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. I know you’re just trying to be a good friend.”
We finally shift our focus to homework, but my concentration has been destroyed. I’m way more upset than I’m letting on about how I’ve made Erin feel. I try to tell myself that it’s not all my fault and that Erin’s insecurities get the better of her all the time. I tell myself that I can make this up to her. I’ll surprise her and drive the skirt over to her house tonight, and I’ll take some accessories along with it, too. I tell myself this will blow over.
But at heart, I understand it’s my behavior more than anything else that caused Erin’s tears, and it’s a crummy realization to carry around for the rest of the day. A personal skirt delivery isn’t going to fix anything, not in the long run. It’s not going to change anything. It’s not going to turn our friendship into a two-way street.
Erin and I walk together toward the junior hallway for our fifth-period classes, passing the converted Home Ec/Autistic Support classroom on our way. The door is closed, but I can see, and hear, Phillip behind it. His face is practically pressed against the glass and he is shrieking about something. Or everything. Or nothing at all. Anne is saying all the right things to encourage him to return to his seat, but as always, he is oblivious.
Phillip is so damn oblivious to the damage he causes. It’s Phillip’s world and he can’t see beyond it to how his world sometimes really messes up other people’s worlds.
Neither my foul mood nor my headache has subsided by the time I get home after practice. In fact, my head is pounding harder than ever, because persistent rain showers moved practice indoors. It was way too loud in the gym, our coach’s yells echoing off the bleachers and her whistle louder and shriller than ever.
I’m still preoccupied with worries about my conversation with Erin. I really don’t want to lose her as a friend, and I hate the idea that she might eventually start pulling away from me if I don’t start behaving the way a so-called normal friend is expected to.
Things with Alex were weird during independent study, too. I can’t say he did or said anything differently than he always does, but something was definitely off between us. It left me wondering if Leighton had already talked to him about the way things needed to change. I couldn’t be myself with him, either. My instincts told me Leighton’s claim that he’d referred to me as a sister was a lie, but I couldn’t fully eradicate the idea that it could be true.
What if he really does see me like a sister? What if his parting words at the bonfire were nothing special?
What if I’m completely delusional about any lingering anything between us?
I am drained and confused, my head spinning in twenty different directions on the drive home.
When I walk into the kitchen, it’s obvious that my mom is in a much better mood than I am. She is seated at the center island, literally beaming at her iPad.
“What’s going on?” I mumble tiredly.
Her smile widens further. “I just got the most exciting phone call!”
I drop my stuff and wait for her to elaborate. Unless her news involves Phillip’s immediate transfer to a different school, I doubt I’ll share her enthusiasm.
“You know how Terry Roth is involved with the Happiness Circuit?”
I nod. Terry Roth, Phillip’s behavior specialist, the one I’d ignored at school, works with the charity in her free time.
The name of the charity is pretty self-explanatory. The organization’s basic mission is to spread some cheer among kids who are sick or just facing unfortunate circumstances. Volunteers help collect and deliver toys, games, DVDs, even computers. They get kids into celebrity meet-and-greets, concerts, sporting events, and theme parks. Sometimes they just go on junk-food runs or organize Nerf water-gun wars for kids stuck in the local children’s hospitals.
“Well,” my mom continues, tapping the screen of her iPad, “every year in November, they sponsor the Sparkle Ball in Philadelphia.”
I hover over her shoulder, reading the description of the event on the screen. It is, apparently, “a black-tie celebration and fund-raising gala akin to a Hollywood event.” Children battling chronic illnesses or other life-altering conditions are to be recognized for their courage and resilience; for one night, they are treated like movie stars. The evening includes a fancy dinner, live music and dancing, silent auctions and raffles, and games for the kids in one of the ballrooms at the downtown Four Seasons.
“It’s a night for these brave children to shine!” the Web site boasts.
“Terry nominated Phillip as an attendee,” my mom explains. “She submitted his math PSAT scores from when he took them last year.”
All college-bound students are required to take the standardized math and language test in eleventh grade, but statewide, students can opt to take a practice version of the test as eighth graders. Students who perform particularly well are honored with certificates of achievement and listed in “who’s who” booklets mailed out to parents willing to shell out twenty-five dollars to receive a copy.
Phillip was more than happy to sit for two hours, wearing his headphones, and complete math problems in an empty, silent room
. Given the accommodations he needed, he nailed the test. His score was higher than mine from my eighth-grade testing session.
“Terry just called to tell me Phillip was picked to receive an invitation!” My mom practically bounces on the stool. “And even more exciting? This is the first time the organization is recognizing students with autism for overcoming life challenges. Can you believe it, the first time, like kids haven’t been struggling with this diagnosis for years and years? Anyway, there’s Phillip, and a little girl they selected as well.”
My mom grabs my arm and shakes it. “Isn’t this exciting?! Terry says the event’s a really big deal. A lot of people get limos and the families get to walk a red carpet and everything. There’s TV coverage. We’ll all get dressed up, and you can get a new dress, and—”
The hammer in my head turns into a power drill.
Is she out of her damn mind?
“Umm . . . I’m not going.” I interrupt her excited monologue in a heavy, flat voice.
She stares back at me, mouth open slightly, surprised. I have extinguished her joy at once, like a damper to a candle.
“Have you lost your mind?” I ask. “Phillip would hate that. He would hate it. Everything about it. I mean, television coverage? Really, Mom?”
My mom stares down at the countertop. She powers off the iPad, and spreads her hands flat on the island on either side of it. “He should get to hear people clap for him, Jordyn,” she says quietly. “Just once.”
I laugh bitterly. “Even if people clapping for him is something that he’d hate?”
My mom still refuses to meet my eyes. She stares at the dark, blank screen. I bet she is wishing I never came home, that she was still reading about the ball and imagining a perfect night.
Maybe I should be merciful, but I can’t seem to stop dousing her with reality. “It’s not like Phillip is going to change, Mom. It’s not like he’s going to just snap out of it.” I shake my head at the ridiculousness of the Sparkle Ball. “It’s not like one day he’s going to look back and be glad you forced him to go. You realize that, right?”
“It doesn’t matter if he has a hard time,” she insists stubbornly. “He won’t stand out there. All the kids will have needs. Only people who truly want to be there will be there. It won’t be other people being forced to deal with him.”
I am tired and frustrated with everything. In the moment, I am mean-spirited.
I fold my arms across my chest and take a step back. “Well, don’t count me in as one of those people. I’m not going.”
My mom turns to assess me head-on. She stares at me a long time, as if I’m a stranger, a person she does not recognize standing in her kitchen. “What’s going on with you today?”
Somehow, her voice is still kind.
Mine is still not.
I look her square in the eye. “I just wish you’d be honest about all of this. This night isn’t for Phillip at all. This night is for you. It’s selfish.”
She pales right before me. Her throat constricts. “Do you need to be so cutting?” she asks, her voice quiet and broken.
“I’m just calling a spade a spade.” I walk past her, calling over my shoulder, “I have to drop something off at Erin’s. I’ll be back in a while.”
My mom doesn’t try to stop me and I don’t really blame her.
I can feel the acid in the pit of my stomach and taste it in my mouth when I’m being a bitch, and I don’t really like the way it feels any more than I’m sure she does.
But I’m not deluded enough to get excited about this dance. I think she’s straight-up crazy for thinking it’s a good idea, and I don’t understand why she’d want to subject any of us to such a fiasco. It would be great to escape to a world where Phillip can be treated like a movie star, and act like one, for a single night. I get it.
I stomp up the stairs and yank the purple skirt from my closet.
But welcome back to reality, Mom. There’s no such thing as a night off from autism. Not for Phillip. Not for me. And not for you.
Before I leave my room, I flip the cover back on my agenda and draw an angry X through the day. Even though it’s almost halfway over at this point, today, surviving another day brings little satisfaction.
Chapter Eight
On Saturday morning, I’m set to head out to Alex’s workday at the playground. I’m dressed for warmth and ready to get down to serious business in beat-up jeans, an ancient Hollister hoodie, and a knit hat. Before leaving my room, I make sure to grab the bag of special supplies I ordered online after Alex gave me my assignment last week.
As I walk down the hallway to the stairs, I hear my mom rustling around in our fourth bedroom, which is still serving as an office–slash–craft room–slash–storage space after the move. I hesitate outside. It would be much easier to keep walking, but really, I should tell her where I’m going. I take a deep breath and enter the room.
“I’m heading out now. I’m going to help Alex with his project.”
My mother, situated on the floor working on one project or another, doesn’t bother to lift her head. “Okay.” Her single-word response is clipped and brisk.
She’s been pretty icy toward me since our exchange on Monday night, and I know she’s well within her right to be acting like this. I was mean and hurtful. Since then, I’ve thought about apologizing a bunch of times, but I just haven’t. Our fight feels too recent and raw, and I can’t force the words out of my mouth.
We are both pretending nothing happened, while avoiding each other at the same time. My father is oblivious. I can tell she hasn’t told him about the incident or my behavior, which somehow makes me feel worse.
I wring my hands, thinking I’m really tired of the tension between us.
“I’m really sorry for what I said,” I blurt out.
She waits a minute before turning toward me and lifting her eyes to mine. Her expression is flat. “Are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you really sorry? For what? For saying what you said out loud?” She shakes her head and returns her gaze to the floor. “It’s not like it’s something you don’t believe or didn’t mean,” she murmurs.
Her blunt honesty catches me off guard. It’s not something I’m used to from her. I stand in the doorway, more tongue-tied than ever. The truth is, she’s right, and I can’t deny the thoughts and feelings I’d thrown in her face. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad.
“I’m sorry for how I said it. I’m sorry for hurting your feelings and ruining your day.”
It’s the best I can offer.
She studies me for a while, assessing my intent. I guess I pass her test, because her face clears and she reaches up from the floor to squeeze my hand. “Thanks for that,” she says simply. “You’re forgiven.”
A great sense of relief overtakes me, and my shoulders relax. It has felt like a very long week, with the way we’ve been tiptoeing around each other.
Eager to move past the ugliness between us, I look down at her project, wanting to change the subject. She’s sitting on the carpet with a gigantic pink box in front of her. It’s the size and length of the kind of box you’d use to store a wedding dress or something, wrapped in pretty paper that has started to yellow.
I step into the room and examine the box’s contents, immediately recognizing mementos from my many childhood successes: blue and red ribbons from summertime swim meets, art projects that won awards in the annual school show, goldenrod report cards with lines of straight As and glowing teacher comments, small trophies from gymnastics and ballet—both of which I’d given up on years ago—random certificates of achievement, and newspaper clippings from the “Kids’ Corner” where my fourth-grade poetry attempts were published. The box is meticulously organized, with smaller boxes and labeled file folders inside, cataloging my accomplishments in a year-by-year system.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She holds up a newspaper clipping. “I’m adding the newspaper arti
cle about this year’s team,” she answers, referring to the write-up on the varsity field hockey squad that Leighton had probably commissioned. “There are a few other things I haven’t filed yet, like your report card from the end of last year.”
“You save everything?” I pick up a misshapen clay pot and roll my eyes. “I mean, is this really worthy of saving for posterity?”
“I’m your mother.” She smiles wanly. “I think everything you do is beautiful, and special, and wonderful. It’s hard to think about throwing anything away, like it’s not important. Everything you do is important to me.”
Truly, my little clay pot does not deserve this kind of admiration. Parents are funny creatures.
My mom takes a deep breath and hesitates, like she’s scared of what she has to say next.
“I don’t want to start another fight with you,” she begins slowly, “but I want to show you something.”
She gets up, rummages around in the closet, and pulls out a box that’s identical to my pink one, but wrapped in yellowing blue paper. Structurally, it is more sound—it does not sag in the middle and its corners are intact. My mom carries it easily, like it’s feather light. “This is Phillip’s box. Nanny gave me yours, and she gave me one for him, too, when he was born. They were meant to be keepsake boxes.”
My mom sets it on the floor beside mine and opens it. Its contents are stark in comparison, and no yearly file folders are required to keep them organized. There are a few school pictures from years he managed to smile, a kind note from a teacher Phillip developed a really great relationship with, his score printout from the math PSATs. My box is full and overflowing—beside it, his box looks like a joke.
From beneath my sophomore year report card and the recent field hockey newspaper article, my mom pulls a printout of the e-mail from Terry about the Happiness Circuit nomination and the invitation to the Sparkle Ball.
“What I just said to you, Jordyn? How as your mom, I see everything you do as beautiful, and special, and wonderful?” She runs the palm of her hand over one of Phillip’s pictures. “I feel the same exact way about your brother, alright? Accomplishments are measured on a much smaller scale, and I have to find different things beautiful—the way he examines a fallen leaf during autumn, those brief moments when he checks into this planet to ask me a question about how something works, his silly laughter, his smiles . . . but I feel the exact same way.”