I'm Not Her

by Janet Gurtler

  She’s thinner than me now. It kills me because just a few weeks ago it would have made her so happy.

  After a while Kristina must sense me, because her eyelids start to flutter and then she opens her eyes. Her mouth morphs into a small smile but it disappears quickly.

  “Hey, Tess.” It almost sounds like she’s glad to see me.

  “Hi,” I say shyly.

  “I feel like crap,” she says.

  “I know.” It’s the best I can manage. “I’m sorry.”

  She makes a tiny mewing sound, but it’s just a sigh. “I know you are.”

  We don’t speak for a minute. “Do you want to see some sketches? I’m nowhere near where I need to be for the competition, but I’ve done some rough stuff.”

  “What competition?”

  She doesn’t remember.

  “The Oswald. The winner gets showings of their winning piece and a scholarship to the Academy of Art University.” I don’t tell her my inspiration has dulled since she got sick.

  “Really? Sure. Let me see.”

  She doesn’t sound enthusiastic but I paw through my backpack and pull out the book and open it to some of the sketches I want her to see.

  I’ve been working on volcano scenes. They’re raw with rippling lava and harsh lines. I hand her the pad and she holds it as if it weighs a hundred pounds. She is quiet as she flips through the pages.

  “These aren’t exactly what I want,” I tell her as she studies the sketch that is closest to what I want to portray. “I’m trying to get across the unique unstable ground. Volcano ridges. Explosions. I’m not there yet.”

  “I thought you just did portraits and animals, but this is amazing,” she says, and lays the book down on her chest like it’s too exhausting for her to look at it. “You’re really talented.”

  My cheeks warm and I take the sketchbook off her. “Thanks.” I close it and slide it back into the backpack. “That’s nice of you to say.”

  “Well, it’s true. You’re artistic and smart.” Her lips turn up at the corners, but she closes her eyes as she talks. “Being smart works for you. You’re so much stronger than me in some ways.”

  “I am?” I ask.

  “Yeah. You never worry what other people think. I know you think I care too much. But I can’t help it. I’m more like Mom that way.”

  I snort softly. “I worry more than you know, Krissie. I mean, you, you’re so good with people. Everyone likes you and you know how to talk to them. I’d love to be able to do what you do with people. People think I’m weird.”

  Kristina shakes her head but it’s a weak movement. “They don’t think you’re weird. They think that you’re judgmental. Or intimidating. With me, they only love who they think I am. Not who I really am. Or who I was.” She opens her eyes and turns her head to the wall. “I’m afraid, Tess,” she says, and a lone tear slides down her cheek. And then she closes her eyes again, her breathing slows, and she seems to drift to sleep.

  “Krissie?” I whisper, but she doesn’t respond.

  The conversation bothers me. I did think Kristina’s friends were shallow, but didn’t know it showed. Besides, it seemed kind of cool having a group to belong to like that. It surprises me that she has so little faith in them. Was being popular for Kristina just as lonely as not being popular for me?

  “I’m afraid too,” I whisper, and vow to let her be whoever it is she wants to be. If she even knows anymore.

  My thoughts whirl around my head, so I decide to get out of the room for a breather and head down to the cafeteria. As I ride the elevator to the main floor, I make deals in my head. Deals with God or whoever is in charge up there. Deals to help Kristina get better. I promise I won’t eat crappy food if Kristina’s cancer will go away. I won’t make fun of her friends. I add the Honor Society to my list. I won’t mind not making the Honor Society if Kristina gets better.

  Guilt nibbles at me as I know Melissa would be upset if she knew I’d sacrifice it, but truthfully, since Kristina got sick, Melissa’s been negative and nasty and it’s like I’m seeing her through new lenses.

  I don’t want to deal with that idea, and hurry through the cafeteria lines, ignoring the apple pie and sweet squares I want and picking out healthier choices. Salad. A whole wheat bun. A glass of skim milk. At the cash register, I glance back and spot Jeremy. Shoot. He’s in line with a tray of his own. I wave my hand, but turn back to the woman perched on the stool at the cash register. She gives me the total for my food, takes my money, and hands me change without expression.

  “Share a table?” Jeremy calls.

  I fake a smile. “Sure.”

  To offset all the healthy stuff, I slather butter on my bread as he sits opposite me, clutching his tray. I look at his selection of food. A triangle-shaped sandwich wrapped in plastic cling wrap, a glass of white milk, and a bowl of mixed fruit for dessert. Mom would approve.

  He sits and begins unwrapping plastic from the sandwich.

  “You here visiting your Mom?” I ask, stating the obvious.

  He nods, a serious expression on his face. “Yeah. She’s having a nap. How’s Kristina?”

  “Sleeping.”

  He nods again. “Chemo is really hard on the body.”

  I stop chewing and stare at the table. “Yeah,” I manage to say.

  “How’re things with you?” he asks. “You hear anything about the Honor Society yet?”

  I glare at him.

  “Clark said the selections will come in soon,” he says.

  I resume chewing. “I guess. I don’t know, I’ve missed more classes lately then I did my entire junior high career. And I haven’t exactly been a model student.” My stomach gurgles and I put down my bread.

  He chews slowly, watching me. “The school must be pretty good about it though. Under the circumstances.”

  “Maybe. In theory they’re not supposed to know. Outside of the principal. I think they do. But no one is talking.” At tables around us, different colored scrubs gather for lunch. I see two women wearing hot pink. One is holding a clipped-out obituary from the newspaper and showing it to her lunch mate. I wonder if it’s a patient they lost. If they care or it’s just gossip.

  “Yeah,” Jeremy says. “People don’t like to talk about cancer.”

  I see real sympathy in his eyes and then he turns the conversation over to less emotional ground. We talk about reality TV shows and I’m intrigued to find out he’s also a huge fan of MythBusters. When we finish eating, I tell him I should get back to Kristina’s room. Jeremy puts away his tray and heads out with me. I don’t prevent him from walking with me to her room, but he stops in the hallway.

  “I should get back to my mom,” he says.

  “Jeremy?” Kristina’s hoarse voice calls.

  He glances inside the room and the eagerness in his expression makes my insides flutter with a weird mix of happy and sad for my sister and him.

  I hold out my hand for him to go in ahead of me.

  “Hey,” he says, and the sparkle in his simple greeting lightens the heaviness in the room.

  I see Kristina struggling to sit up. He hurries to her side to help, but it’s not awkward or patronizing. Her face glows with more happiness than I’ve seen in days.

  “Beauty sleep seems to be working,” he tells her. He doesn’t let her hand go right away.

  “Shut up,” she tells him, but her lips curl up at the corners.

  “Think it would work for me?” I ask, trying to be funny.

  They both stare at me and then Kristina lets go of Jeremy’s hand. “She wants you to tell her she’s beautiful,” Kristina says, but she smiles at him.

  My cheeks turn red. “No, I don’t.” I’m horrified. Was I really looking for a compliment in the middle of all this?

  “You’re beautiful. Just like your big sister,” Jeremy says.

  “He’s a smooth talker,” Kristina says to me. “Watch out for him.”

  My mouth remains shut. I avoid looking at either of
them.

  “Nah. I am most decidedly not a smooth talker,” Jeremy says with a shrug. “Mostly I’m a dork.”

  The thing is, he doesn’t sound unhappy or apologetic about. Just accepting.

  “You are not. You’re sweet.” Kristina points at the MP3 player on the end table by the window. “He burned me an entire disk of Neil Diamond songs and loaded them on my iPod.” She looks back at Jeremy. “I think he made a copy for himself.”

  She’s teasing and my insides relax a little, enjoying their easy sparring.

  “Maybe.” Jeremy glances at me. “I stop by and see Kristina whenever I’m here. Last time, we were talking about the music our parents made us listen to growing up. She professed an undying love for Neil. Instead of mocking her, I had my own confession.” He seems to be trying to involve me in the conversation.

  I pretend to gag as the two of them riff off of each other, but it’s nice. I’m surprised I’m actually envious. Kristina eventually gets quieter and more tired and Jeremy notices too and excuses himself.

  Kristina goes to sleep almost as soon as he’s gone and I move my chair up beside her bed until Mom arrives from her late lunch. Kristina is still asleep so we make hand signals over her sleeping body and get up to leave.

  We drive home in silence until Mom pulls the car to a stop at a red light. My head rests against the passenger window and I’m thinking about Kristina. And about how nice Jeremy is. Easy to talk to.

  “Tess?” she says, as if my name is a question.

  I consider pretending to be asleep but she knows me well enough to know I can’t sleep in cars. I wish she’d leave me alone to think. Or not think. Just alone.

  “Gee’s mom called me today. She told me the girls are really worried about your sister. Apparently, the team had a meeting about it. They wanted to come by the house as a group with some magazines and books and stuff for Kristina.” Her voice drops off. “She wanted to know if I wanted to come to the next game with her. She said they miss me in the stands. My cheering.”

  “What’d you tell her?” I ask, still looking out the window.

  “I said it was a nice gesture but that Kristina wasn’t up for visitors and I didn’t feel comfortable going to the games until Kristina is well enough to come with me. But I miss them too. I miss the other moms and I miss the games.”

  Her answer makes my stomach hurt and I turn to look at her. She’s gripping the steering wheel, staring straight ahead.

  “Then she asked if she could bring over food or something. The girls want to do something for her. To show they miss her. That they care.”

  “Well, you can’t expect Kristina to just drop off the planet without her friends noticing. It’s a major source of gossip.”

  “I know. I just want to respect your sister’s privacy right now. I want to do what’s best for her.”

  I don’t answer that. I have my doubts about her motives.

  “I need a favor,” she says.

  I want to tell her no before I even hear what it is. On principle. She’s making me do enough things I don’t want to do already. Missing school. Sitting with my sister, trying to think of things to talk about. Keeping her cancer a big friggin’ secret.

  “What?” I ask with a deep sigh, bracing myself.

  She reaches across the console separating us and takes my hand and holds it. I have an urge to pull away. It makes my skin scratchy but I don’t move.

  “You think I’m silly,” she says and her voice is sad. “You think my life is silly.”

  “No, I don’t,” I say, but it doesn’t sound convincing, even to me.

  She smoothes her fingers over my skin, patting me. I’m dying to break the contact.

  “I’d like to take you shopping,” she says, and her voice catches.

  I pull my hand away. “What?”

  The light changes to green and a car behind us honks but she doesn’t move yet. “I don’t know what to do, Tess. I don’t know how to handle this. I’m lying to people. I don’t know how to help my own child.” She starts to cry. “When I’m upset, I shop. And I know it’s silly and I know you think it’s stupid, I’m stupid. But I’d really like it if you would go shopping with me.”

  The car behind us honks again and she starts driving.

  “I don’t think you’re stupid. I mean, don’t cry. Kristina’s going to be all right. I’ll go shopping with you. Don’t cry.”

  It feels surreal. My sister is in the hospital getting chemo and not one of her friends is aware of it. My dad seems to have disappeared, and now my mom is crying and wants to take me shopping?

  Mom’s foot presses hard on the accelerator and she speeds up and drives to the mall. When we’re inside, she drags me into her favorite stores.

  “Try on a pair of these jeans,” she says, and holds up an expensive pair of low-riding jeans that I would never in a million years wear.

  “Those are Kristina jeans, not me.”

  Her eyes are lit up like patio lanterns at midnight and she ignores my comment. “Oh, come on, Tess, live a little. You’re so skinny—you can wear these. They’ll show off your long legs…”

  I shake my head, but she’s already grabbed one pair and then she grabs a few others and pushes me toward a changing room. A salesgirl sensing a woman with a wallet and a purpose runs toward us and Mom sends her off in search of cute shirts to go with the jeans.

  Mom drapes the jeans over my arm. “Go,” she says, and pushes me inside the dressing room.

  Mumbling and grumbling and ignoring my pasty white skin that looks even sicklier in the fluorescent lights, I turn from the full-size mirror and pull on the first set of jeans. I can’t even do up the zipper. I suck in my stomach, but the zipper won’t budge. I check the size and shake my head as I pull them off. Good thing I don’t have a complex, because they are my size but they definitely are too small. The next pair is too baggy around my nonexistent hips. Sighing, I toss them to the ground, remembering with vivid clarity why I hate shopping so much.

  I pick up the third pair and they’re softer than they look. I pull them on and they snuggle down below my belly button in a way that’s surprisingly comfortable. I turn my head and peer over my shoulder, and a tiny thrill courses through me. My butt looks friggin’ amazing in these jeans. I’m not supposed to care, but it looks…friggin’ amazing.

  I stare and suppress a giggle. Instead of being as flat as my chest, my butt looks rounder and, well, for lack of a better word…bootylicious. The bottom half of my body actually looks attractive.

  Mom rattles on the other side of the door. “Let me see!”

  I allow her access and she squeals with delight as she makes me do a pirouette. The salesgirl joins us and demands that I come out of the room and they practically shout with excitement. The salesgirl holds an armful of tank tops and offers them to me, but I shake my head.

  Mom looks at my face and must sense my brain is about to go into overload. “Okay, no tops. Well, maybe just this one.” She pulls a turquoise top off the salesgirl’s arm and checks the size. “And a black one. They’re your colors. You don’t even have to try them on. Just these and those jeans.” She smiles at the clerk. “Maybe another pair of the same style in black? Okay? Please, Tess.”

  I’m the weirdest teen in the world if my mom is begging to buy me cool clothes.

  “Okay, okay,” I say, like I’m being forced, but I close the door to the changing room and turn to admire the reflection of my butt and then the front view. The cut of the jeans makes my legs look long but the color and texture add muscle tone to my thighs. I’m rocking these jeans like a friggin’ Sister of the Traveling Pants. It shouldn’t matter. I’m above needing clothes to make me feel good. But I love them. And I want them. I imagine Nick checking out my butt and then freak out inside and pull them off and put my old comfy pair back on.

  At the cash register, Mom pulls out her credit card and, as the clerk slides it through the reader, she smiles, seemingly having reached the shopping high she was
looking for. While she’s signing the receipt I wonder if I’ll have the nerve to ever wear them to school. I don’t want to look like I’m trying to be one of the cool kids, do I? I’m not sure I can pull it off or if I even want to risk it.

  She puts an arm around my shoulders as we head to the parking lot. “I know it doesn’t change anything, but believe it or not that helped.” I wiggle out from under her. “Thanks,” she says. “For doing that for me.”

  It’s hard to say “You’re welcome,” to something so self-serving. Coping is so stupid.

  ***

  The next day I bike to school but I don’t stop at my locker before class. Melissa is acting snarly and I’d rather not face her questions or snarky comments about Kristina.

  She finally catches up with me at lunch when she finds me outside. I’m taking advantage of the warm fall weather before the snow arrives. “Where’ve you been?” she asks.

  I lift a shoulder and bite into my sandwich. She makes a face as she unwraps hers and plops down on the grass beside me. “How’s your homework?” she asks, but there’s much more in her voice.

  “Fine.”

  “You getting good grades?”

  I shrug again.

  She takes a big bite of her sandwich. “I heard rumors about your sister.” She’s speaking with food in her mouth, and it turns my stomach almost as much as her words.

  My head snaps up. “What rumors?”

  “She’s sick. I heard brain tumor.” Chomp, chomp, chomp. She bites off another hunk of bread, watching me.

  I swallow. “She does not have a brain tumor,” I tell her, my voice tight and uppity.