by Denise Jaden
“I’m sure you misunderstood, sweetie.”
His jaw tightens, he picks up his bowl and spoon, and heads for the sink. He clanks his bowl on the counter and walks out of the room.
I wish I’d never asked.
Halfway through cleaning the stew pot, the phone rings. I hope it might be Dustin or Amy, even though they’ve never called on the home line. But I wonder if my cell’s turned on. I dry my hands and head for the handset on the kitchen wall. On the fourth ring, I pick up and say hello, but I guess I’m too late because a click sounds on the other end. Then silence. Out of habit, I scroll through the caller ID.
Missed Call. 6:37 PM
E. & T. Lockbaum
Tessa. I drop the phone on the kitchen counter and hug my arms across my chest.
What does she want from me?
chapter EIGHT
Plan F: Find my long-lost social life.
The next day at school, I catch Amy in the hallway. The first bell rings, and I can tell she’s in a hurry, but I grab her by the shoulder anyway.
“Hey.”
“Oh, hey.” She glances around like she’s trying to find an escape route.
Maybe the whole dealing-with-tragedy thing is too much for her. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t find her at lunch yesterday.
“I’m okay, Amy. You don’t have to avoid—”
“I’m not avoiding you,” she says, way too fast. “The bell … Henderson hates it when I’m late.”
I run alongside her. “No, not just today. We haven’t hung out since before Evan’s party.” I know that’s mostly my fault, but at school it should be easy enough to get back to normal. I’m trying to make it easy.
“Oh, that. Yeah, I guess I’ve just been busy.” Her eyes don’t leave the hallway in front of her, but even from her profile I’m sure I see the guilt. “Have you talked to Dustin?”
She’s changing the subject. “No, not really.” It’s hard to talk with saliva in my ear. But I don’t say that. Amy would be way disgusted. She fiddles with her books, itching to get away, but instead I offer a solution. A way to make up for leaving me at the hospital. “You could be there for me now,” I say in just a murmur, like it’s a subliminal message.
She stops suddenly and faces me. “All you can think of is yourself.” She points a finger at my chest. “Did you ever consider maybe this has nothing to do with you, or your sister who you didn’t even give a shit about until she died?” She turns her head so I can’t see her eyes.
Stunned into silence, I back up a couple of steps. I know I pushed her too far, pushed her into defensive mode, but did she really just say that?
She takes my retreat as an ending to the conversation, spins, and stalks off to her class.
History class: always a great opportunity for thinking, doodling, and writing bad poetry. Mr. Clancy, Clairvoyant Clancy, knows I need a break, a chance to process. He told me so yesterday, but today when he says it again, I can’t stop thinking about Amy’s words.
Once I’ve calmed down I’m not all that surprised that she went from zero to bitchy in 2.7 seconds. What I am surprised about is how her words hit home. Maybe I didn’t give a shit about Faith until she died. Maybe I do think about my own needs too much.
The other students work feverishly on this week’s test that I don’t have to take.
Not today, I decide in a flash. I don’t want special treatment. I’m fine. It’s everyone else who thinks that I’m not. Marching to the front of the class, I’m about to snatch up the sheet of test questions and head back to my seat, when I notice Clancy already holds a copy outstretched toward me. He looks at me but doesn’t say a word.
I scan the quiz twice and quickly realize this was not my best decision. Without much choice, I fill in the only historical figures I can drum up in my mind. Napoleon, Christopher Columbus, Thomas Jefferson. It’s been weeks since I’ve opened my textbook.
By the time I finish scribbling in answers that don’t make any sense, I’ve decided I’ll back off for a while with Amy and everything will be fine.
After the lunch bell sounds, I stand at my locker feeling very alone. If I go to the cafeteria, who will I sit with? I won’t want to approach Amy’s table—my table—and the rest of the student population can barely look at me. While I rearrange my books, then rearrange them again, trying to appear busy for the hall monitors, I mull over the possibility of finding somewhere outside to eat.
A bang on the locker next to mine startles me. But I don’t look over. That’s Tessa Lockbaum’s side.
The binder I’m fiddling with falls to the ground and I scramble to pick it up.
“Hey,” she says, talking to someone she knows behind me. Even though I can’t remember her ever talking to anyone so casually, I don’t bother to check who it is. Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I shove my binder into a space that suddenly seems too small for it.
“Hey, Jenkins,” she says.
My heart stops. During middle school it was obvious why she never spoke to me. My churchy reputation didn’t exactly fit with her death metal, extra-black-eyeliner image. “Rockin’ Lockbaum” was the nickname she had for herself. Terrifying Tessa, Troublesome Tessa, Tormenting Tessa—those are what we actually called her.
“Hey, Jenkins,” she says again.
“Me?” I ask, which is over-the-top stupid, since I’m now the only one in the school with that last name. I turn toward her, but keep my eyes on her black leather boots.
“Pretty screwed up what happened to your sister, huh?”
What’s even more screwed up is that you’re talking to me about it. “Yeah,” I whisper. And when the word comes out of my mouth, something changes. It feels good to have someone talk to me. To talk about it. Even if it is Tessa Lockbaum.
“Meet me in the bathroom on the second floor after last class,” she says. “We’ve got something to discuss.”
Her tone makes my throat go dry. What would she have to discuss with me? And why can’t we just discuss it right here and now? But I’m not sure how to challenge Tessa Lockbaum and by the time I look up to respond, she’s gone.
I feel sick all through lunch, and even though I head out to a stoop at the back of the school with my brown bag, I don’t bother to open it.
Plan G: Talk to Tessa.
After last class, I’m on my way to face her when I practically barrel into Dustin, still sweaty from P.E. A strand of his sandy hair sticks to the side of his face.
“Hey, babe.” He tries to hug me, but I put a hand to his chest as a knee-jerk reaction. When I realize what I’m doing, I pull my hand away and move in close to him.
“Hi.” I feel a bit better with the proximity today and take quick, shallow breaths.
He ignores my jilt and whispers in my ear. “We should do something tonight, just us.” He plants a sloppy kiss at the base of my neck.
It seems like all he wants to do lately is grope me, and I try to remember if he’s always been like this. After all that preparation of how to answer him, he hasn’t even asked how I am.
I realize a second later that I’m probably overreacting. Any girl at Sharon High would give up her first car to date a guy like Dustin. And here I am thinking of throwing it all away. But I need to find an excuse to take things a bit slower. Just for a while until I’m a little more balanced.
“I can’t tonight,” I tell him. “My parents have this thing planned.” I don’t mention that “this thing” is the fact that they’ll probably never let me leave the house again at night after what happened to Faith.
He scowls at the word “parents,” but I don’t care. I push him harder with my hand. And for a second he looks offended.
“You going for a shower?” I try to pass it off and scrunch my nose for effect.
The offense fades as he remembers the sweat dripping down his chest. He leans in for one more quick, slobbery kiss to my cheek before heading off in the direction of the changing rooms.
I walk to the second-floor bathroom, reset
ting my thoughts on Tessa and taking deep breaths the whole way. I know I need to face this or I won’t sleep tonight. But only two girls are in the bathroom applying makeup at the mirror, and neither of them is Tessa. I head to get my things, relieved. She probably just wanted to scare me.
When I turn the corner, Tessa stands in front of her locker. I consider heading home without my backpack, but then remember that I need to face this eventually.
“Hey,” I say, forcing a calm, cheerful tone. I don’t look at her when I sidle up beside her.
She doesn’t respond. Did I imagine our whole conversation earlier? I dial my combination and push my binders into the bottom of my locker in a big pile.
Tessa’s door slams beside me. I jolt, but keep my eyes focused into my cavern. My heart beats so loud, I swear it’s echoing through the hallway.
“So are we meeting, or what?” she demands.
“Um, I have to get home.” Pure nervousness makes the excuse fall out of my mouth.
I feel her studying me, like she’s not sure if she can believe this.
“I guess I can stay a few minutes,” I force out, knowing I need to get this over with.
“Good. Let’s go.”
Following Tessa down the hall and up to the second floor, I ignore the stares of the few stray students still left in the building. So what if she wants to meet me in a bathroom, I tell myself. We’re still in the school, and surely someone will hear if she bangs me up against a stall door or something.
But when I step off the top stair, the upper floor is deserted. When Tessa pushes open the bathroom door, the same two girls are still in there with makeup strewn across the counter.
Tessa kicks the bathroom door to the wall, which instantly brings their conversation to a halt. The girls grab their purses, shove the strewn makeup into them, and rush out the door.
“Come on,” Tessa says.
I swallow, moving inside, but glue my backside to the wall nearest the door. “You wanted to discuss something.”
Tessa faces me and leans up against the counter. “Does everyone act idiotic about Faith’s death, or just the freaks near our lockers?”
I’m so surprised by the question, I don’t know what to say.
“You’d think people would grow up a little by the time they reach high school,” she adds.
I have a difficult time grasping where she’s going with this. Could Tessa be the most levelheaded person I’ve spoken with in ages? “I guess people just don’t know what to say.” My words are quiet, but in the small space they’re enough.
“My sister died when I was … six.” She mutters it like she’s figuring out which class she has first thing tomorrow. “I get it. Kinda.”
I feel her eyes on me, but I’m still a little scared to look up from the counter.
“What’s even more messed-up than funerals,” she says, “is the way people treat you after the funeral. Like you’re diseased or something. I mean, come on.”
“Yeah. You’re right about that.” I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. Or I guess she’s having the conversation. Mostly I’m just agreeing.
I look up at her for the first time. Her eyeliner doesn’t seem nearly as scary close up. It’s as if the black marks are there to hide her eyes, not to make them spine-chilling. I remember her glaring at me from the back of the church. Or was she just watching?
“Corey was hit by a truck.”
I blink, not knowing what she’s talking about, but also not about to ask.
“My sister, Corey. I was supposed to be watching her while my mom went inside to get us a snack,” she adds, without emotion, like she’s said it a hundred times.
“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. Does she want to talk about it? I mean, obviously she does if she’s brought it up. “Were you and Corey close?” As soon as it leaves my mouth, I bite my lip. It’s so not what she wants to hear. I, of all people, know that. “I mean, does it get easier? Like, after a few years.”
Even though she doesn’t answer right away, the question feels much better. And the look on her face tells me she’s thinking about it.
“Yes and no,” she says, finally. “Sometimes you have to force things to get easier.”
I think about that. About her wardrobe and attitude. I try to think of ways I could force my life to get back to normal, force my parents to talk to me, but I can’t imagine myself taking such drastic steps. Things must have been pretty bad for her.
“Is that why you were at Faith’s funeral?” I ask, picking at the stitching on the side of my jeans.
She shrugs. “I guess. I just thought, you know, we should talk.”
I offer a smile, thinking we’re having a bonding moment. But suddenly she walks straight for the door beside me, and whips it open so hard it bangs against the wall again.
“I gotta bail,” she says, and tromps down the hallway without even saying good-bye.
chapter NINE
by the time I get back to my locker, it’s after four and I’ve almost regained my proper breathing pattern. Who knew Tessa and I could relate on any subject, especially this one? I grab my backpack, stuff it with books, and head for the door. My cell phone beeps through the canvas, and I bend down to dig it out.
Three missed calls. Two from Dad’s office, and one from home. Dad doesn’t like wasting minutes on my cell phone, so whatever it is, it’s important. My hands tremble while I scroll to the last call and hit send.
All I can see in my mind is Mom’s depressed face.
“Are you okay?” Dad asks when he answers the phone on the first ring.
“Uh, yeah, of course,” I say. “Is everyone … is Mom okay?”
“Yes, yes. Where are you?”
I start to clue in that he’s worried about me because I’m late getting home from school. “I’m on my way, Dad. I had to stay after class to catch up.” He doesn’t need the whole background on Tessa Lockbaum. He’s got enough to worry about and I don’t know how I’d even start to explain.
“When will you be home?”
He suggests picking me up, but I talk him out of it and promise to be home within minutes. I hang up and break into a run.
Plan H: Apologize profusely until Dad calms down.
After catching my breath, I push through the doorway and wait for Dad to start his lecture so I can reply with my apologies. Then, while we’re at it, I can tell him how confused and alone I feel. Get it all out before I start dying my hair black and covering my body with piercings. I’ve spent the last few years avoiding talking to my parents, but maybe now’s the time to start. Maybe this one good thing could come of Faith’s death.
“I have to get back to the office,” Dad says, reaching past me for the door, not saying another word about it.
My mouth drops open as I watch his back all the way to the van.
The rest of the week, I focus on avoiding Amy in the hallways. Tessa doesn’t come by our lockers while I’m there and I wonder if it’s coincidence or if she’s avoiding me now. I’ve been coming up with fresh excuses of why I can’t be alone with Dustin. Thankfully I haven’t had to use the “my sister just died” excuse yet, but I can feel it coming, especially Friday afternoon when he tells me he has the whole weekend free for me.
“My dad, he’s not letting me go out at night right now,” I say.
He cocks his head like he doesn’t understand, and I feel like a child, an elementary school student who has to ask permission to go to the neighbor’s and play.
“Maybe we could go to a matinee or something?” I offer.
He purses his lips, not like he’s considering it, but like he doesn’t quite have the words to reply. Like he’s caught on to my sidestepping and is about to call me on it.
“Or maybe I can sneak out,” I add quickly, not meaning to, hardly comprehending that I could do that to my parents right now, but feeling him slipping away.
He smiles and kisses my cheek. “That’s my girl. I’ll call you,” he says bef
ore backing into the school for wrestling practice and leaving me to walk home with my horrible self.
Saturdays are not a usual workday for Dad, but he’s gone by the time I get up the next morning. Mom ignores me, which is nothing new. Since the funeral she pretty much ignores life, but today I take it personally. I think it’s my fault for scaring her yesterday when I didn’t come home right after school. Obviously Dad wouldn’t have had a clue if she hadn’t called him to come home from the office.
Mom pads around the kitchen in silence, and I know it won’t be long before she ducks back up to her bedroom.
“I’m sorry,” I say when we bump into each other at the kitchen sink. And I am. Sorry they got stuck with me. I’m sure they’ve wondered about it too: Why couldn’t we have kept the good one?
Mom doesn’t respond, just fills her coffee cup and walks out of the room.
I drop my head to the counter. Why won’t my parents talk to me?
When I lift my head several minutes later, I stare around at our drab kitchen. My loneliness personified. Mom used to breathe creativity and life into our house. Used to bring home flower arrangements from the shop almost daily. Then she’d change up tablecloths, artwork, whatever, to give the place a fresh feel. That’s what she called it. Fresh.
Not that I ever showed any appreciation for it.
The dust on the blinds, scum around the usually shiny stainless steel sink, and crumbs accumulating on the edges of the floor make the place feel old and used-up.
Stale.
It wouldn’t kill me to do something about it.
For the rest of the morning, I don’t leave the kitchen. I wipe down the blinds and the counter; I pull out the scrub brush and go to town on sink scum. Scrubbing. Polishing with a vengeance. The harder I scrub, the harder I need to scrub. Hating myself. Hating Faith for leaving me to be the sole hope for my parents. Even hating Tessa for making me feel for only one second like I wasn’t alone.
When Dad walks through the door after lunch, he looks different. His suit jacket is folded neatly over his arm. He places his car keys down deliberately and walks across the room with measured steps.