Got a long lecture from Dad when he got home about “facing up to my problems rather than avoiding them” and “not being a quitter” and “Do you really want to earn back the right to go to prom, because if so, you’ve got a terrible way of showing it …”
When he said the part about facing up to problems rather than avoiding them, I was sooooooooooo tempted to say, “What, you mean like how you’re facing up to the problems of not paying your female executives as much as the men?” but since Jamie Moss is asking someone to prom tomorrow and that someone still could be me, zipping it was probably the smarter move.
But it’s painful to have to swallow all that anger. Sometimes I feel like I’m choking on it. And I mean seriously—talk about being a hypocrite! Dick Wallach, the CEO who is on the front page of every single freaking newspaper and business magazine in the country for not holding himself or his subordinates accountable (the same publications that previously praised him for his exceptional leadership skills) is lecturing me about personal responsibility? As Grandma Sally would say, “That takes chutzpah!” He’s the new poster guy for failing to do what it took to protect the bank’s customers from cyber attack. Forget the customers. He didn’t protect me from it, either. I practically have to bite through my tongue to stay silent.
After I made the cookies, I packed some up to take to Noah, and some for Rosa and Margo as peace offerings. Then I chilled with Scruffles and finished The Light Between Oceans. It was a three-tissue ending. Scruffles commando-crawled over and put his head on my knee, because he was worried about me crying.
“It’s okay, Scruffs,” I told him. “It’s just a book.”
I don’t know why I felt the need to lie to my dog.
Because the line that set me off was this: “Perhaps when it comes to it, no one is just the worst thing they ever did.”
It made me think about Dad. It made me think about me, and how I’m afraid my best friends hate me. Neither of them have responded to my texts.
I want them to give me a break, to remember that our friendship is more than just the stupid rants I wrote in a journal I thought no one would ever see. But does that mean I have to figure out how to give Dad one, too?
Dad drops me off at school on the way to work. “Keep your chin up, Sammy,” he says. “Remember: Never surrender to servitude and shame—”
“Yeah, I know. Churchill,” I say as I get out of the car. “And thanks to events that have nothing to do with me, there’s a greater than fifty percent chance this day will be filled with agony.”
I slam the car door on whatever Dad planned to reply and start stomping toward the front entrance of school before I remember that I should keep up the front of meh. Complete nonchalance.
Stop. Deep breaths. Activate zombie self.
Especially because today’s the day. The day I put off by skipping—when I have to face judgment at school. I’m shaking, and want nothing more than to go home, close the curtains, crawl under the covers, and hide with Scruffles curled up on the bed next to me.
But I can’t do that forever, as much as it seems like the best plan right now, because whether I like it or not, life goes on. And I have to go on with it, no matter how awful it will be.
On the other hand, there’s this: I know from my Secret Spying that today is also Jamie Moss promposal day.
The rest of my life leaves plenty to be desired, what with the hack and being grounded and wondering if my dad is really who I always thought he was. But today, Jamie Moss is going to ask someone to the prom, and until he’s asked, that someone can still be me. It’s like Schrödinger’s cat, but with the prom, if the box is the promposal, and I’m the cat. Or wait, am I the cat or the person who opens the box? Maybe the ask is the cat and I’m the person who opens the box, so until I open the box, he could either have asked me, or someone else.
It makes me wish I could freeze this moment, because the box is unopened and so there’s still hope and possibility.
If Jamie does ask me, then I know I can work my way back to Most Well Behaved Daughter status and earn back the right to go to prom. I’ve been a good Hamster Girl for all my life until this month. I know what to do.
I try not to notice that kids are staring at me and whispering as I walk into school. I’m not sure I can do this. The entire school has probably read everything by now.
Why should I have to earn back the right to go to prom? My parents should owe me for making me suffer this agony for something that has nothing to do with me. But maybe this is a sign that if I open the box and the cat is dead, I should be relieved rather than devastated. If Jamie doesn’t ask me, then I won’t have to go face all the stares.
The student center is even more crowded than usual. I spot Noah and think of the cookies for him in my backpack. Strangely I wish I could stand with him because it would feel safe. At least I know he doesn’t entirely hate me. He cared enough to check in on me yesterday.
The problem is that it would be awkward to be with one guy when another guy asks you to the prom.
If that first guy asks you, that is.
I finally catch sight of Rosa on the far side of the student center. She’s sitting with Eddy Lau and looking happy and animated. I think, despite all Rosa’s protests about them just being friends, they’re becoming a thing. I start to head in her direction, even though I don’t know what her reaction will be, but I’m only halfway across the student center when the music starts. Everyone starts looking around to see who is behind what is obviously another promposal, but I already know. It’s Jamie. The ask is happening.
My heartbeat quickens as Jamie bursts through the doors of the student center, holding a red rose, with Nick Snow capturing his every movement on video. I can barely breathe as he starts looking around.
I’m over here.
His eyes continue searching, rest on me for a brief instant, and move on.
Probability zero.
The box is open and Schrödinger’s cat is dead as a doornail. I don’t feel relief. I’m paralyzed watching Jamie Moss go up to Geneva Grady and hand her the rose as Peter O’Doule and Daryl Williams unroll a sheet that says PROM? in big letters, and Jason Fremont opens a bag of gold and silver helium balloons, which float up to the ceiling.
Say no, Geneva. Say no.
But she doesn’t. She nods and smiles. The sound of everyone in the student center clapping and cheering for my crushed dream unfreezes me. Luckily, the attention is on them as I move to the doors and run as fast as I can to the nearest bathroom, where I lock myself in a stall and bite my lip so I won’t cry. But it doesn’t work.
I have nothing to look forward to anymore. Nothing at all.
Except taking four APs and the SAT and being grounded until all the tests are over. Joy.
I never understood the importance of being able to believe in the possibility of a live cat inside that stupid box. Until this exact moment, when I’m sitting on a toilet in the school bathroom, hiding from the world. Without it, life seems like a bleak expanse of nothingness.
The bathroom door opens and two girls come in, talking excitedly about Jamie’s promposal. Just my luck, it’s two of Geneva’s friends, Tanika Ward and Mackenzie Kilkenny. Great. The bell is going to ring in three minutes and I have to wash my face, which means I can’t stay in this stall till they’ve gone or I’m going to be late for class. They’re definitely going to see that I’ve been in here crying.
Could my life get any worse?
At least there’s still toilet paper in this stall. You can’t always count on that these days. I blot my eyes and then use the cover of flushing the toilet to blow my nose. Hoping it’s not totally obvious that I’ve been losing it, I open the door and force myself to go out and face them.
Tanika’s in a stall, but Mackenzie’s at the sink putting on lip gloss. She gives me a dirty look at first, until she really sees my face in the mirror. “Oh … Sammy. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine,” I lie.
“It’s just … you look lik
e you’ve been crying.”
“No, I’m fine. Really.”
The big sniff following that statement probably diminishes my credibility, but what can I do? My nose isn’t cooperating with the attempt at subterfuge.
I wash my hands, avoiding Mackenzie’s gaze, pretending I really went to the bathroom and wasn’t just crying my eyes out in the stall because Jamie Moss asking Geneva Grady to the prom instead of me was the final nail in the coffin of my doomed social life.
When I look up, her eyes meet mine in the mirror, filled with pity and something I can’t figure out. It makes me want to slide down the drain with the soap bubbles. It’s bad enough suffering total public humiliation, without having to face the pity.
“Look, Sammy, you said some nasty stuff about Geneva in your diary, and she’s my friend and I’m mad at you for that, but …”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That was supposed to be private. I never thought anyone would see it.”
“That doesn’t make it any less mean,” Tanika calls from the stall before she flushes.
I wait till she comes out before replying.
“I know,” I say. “But …” I swallow, trying to find the courage to ask. “Can you honestly tell me you’ve never said anything mean about anyone? Ever?”
Mackenzie and Tanika exchange a glance, which tells me if they say they haven’t, they’ll be lying.
“I can’t,” Tanika admits. “I was trash-talking you something awful when I read what you wrote about Geneva.”
“Me too,” Mackenzie said. “But then … well …”
I get this feeling, suddenly, that there’s something I’m missing here.
“We’re really sorry about your mom,” Tanika says, her brown eyes filled with genuine compassion.
My mom? What is she talking about?
“I’m praying for her,” Mackenzie said.
“Yeah, me too,” Tanika says. “My mom sent an email to our church prayer circle so everyone’s been offering up prayers.”
Prayer circle? They make it sound like my mom is at death’s door or something.
My parents told me not to read the hacked stuff that was published online. Dad said it was “private, personal information, obtained illegally.”
Apparently no one else got the memo.
Which means they know something that I don’t.
“Um, why are you praying for my mom?”
Tanika gasps, and she covers her mouth with her hand. Mackenzie stares at me, horrified.
“You d-don’t … know?” she stammers.
“Know what?” I persist.
The bell rings. Great, we’re all late for class now, and I still don’t know what it is that I don’t know.
“We gotta go,” Tanika says. “You should ask your parents.”
She grabs Mackenzie, who is nodding her agreement like a crazed bobblehead, and drags her out of the bathroom as fast as they both can without running.
Saved by the bell. Which doesn’t help me.
I take out my phone and text my parents.
what’s going on? why are people holding prayer circles for mom? what aren’t you telling me?
It’s only a few seconds before my mom replies.
Go straight to the office. I’m coming to pick you up from school.
My breakfast flips over in my stomach and I have to swallow, hard, to keep it down. If Mom is coming to take me out of school, that means …
That means that whatever it is that Tanika and Mackenzie are talking about must be true.
When I get to the office and say my mom’s coming to pick me up, Mrs. Vaner, whose nickname is the Dragon Lady—and not just because of her long red nails—tells me in a soft calming voice I never imagined could come out of her mouth, “Your mother already called us, Sammy dear. Have a seat. She said she’d be here in fifteen minutes.”
More frightened than ever by her uncharacteristic niceness, I sink into the nearest chair, wondering what is going on.
“Do you want a cupcake?” Mrs. Vaner asks me. “I made them for Mrs. Bell’s birthday.”
“No, thanks,” I say, because the Dragon Lady being nice to me makes me lose whatever appetite I might have for comfort food. It’s a sign that something must be seriously wrong. Besides, I have a lifetime supply of undelivered cookies in my book bag.
Then the school psychologist, Mrs. Heller, comes out of her office. “Samantha,” she says. “Why don’t you come sit in here while you wait for your mother?”
Okay, whatever this mystery thing with Mom is must be something really, really bad. I wonder if my parents are getting divorced. Maybe the hackers released more New Territories stuff and Mom found out Dad was having an affair with someone from work or something. It’s not anything I would have thought possible before, but after having read the sexist stuff he wrote in those emails, what do I know?
How do any of us really know everything about the people we love and think we know? Guess my mom was right when she said trust was hard to build and easy to lose. Not that I’ll admit that to her.
I shuffle into Mrs. Heller’s office and sit in the chair as far away from her desk as possible. It’s not like I’m here for counseling or anything.
She shuts the door and sits in the other chair, instead of behind the desk. Leaning forward, she gives me a concerned look.
“Sammy. How are you holding up?” she asks. “I’m here whenever you need to talk.”
“Uh, good to know,” I say. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
Mom better get here soon. This is seriously awkward.
“How have things been? Are other students … making your life unpleasant?”
What does she think? That they’re showering me with flower petals and telling me how awesome I am? I skipped school yesterday and didn’t even make it to my first class today, but I’m already getting the cold shoulder from my best friends and people are staring at me like I’m a freak.
I stare down at my hands, unsure of how to answer.
“You had an unexcused absence yesterday,” Mrs. Heller says. “Your mom called to explain about your need for a ‘mental health day’ ”—she does air quotes while saying this—“but without a doctor’s note, it still counts as unexcused.”
So much for the parental pass. Chalk up two points in the Bad Girl Sammy column.
“I know this might be tough, but running away doesn’t solve anything,” Mrs. Heller continues.
I look up at her. “Easy for you to say.”
“You’re right. It is easy for me to say, when you’re the one who has to live it. But I’m here to help you do it—and so is the rest of the team here at Brooklawne.”
There’s a “team”? Do they get letter jackets?
It’s like having a conversation in a language I’ve only just started learning, because I guess I’m the only one who doesn’t know the full extent of the “it” I’m supposed to be living through. People are praying in circles for my mother and I don’t know why. How messed up is that?
“Yeah, thanks,” I mumble, stealing a glance at the clock over her head. When is Mom going to get here?
“Things are hard now, but I’m sure everything will be okay,” Mrs. Heller says in a comforting voice.
But I don’t see how it can possibly be okay when I don’t even know what’s not okay.
Even though it makes me angry instead of comforting me, I can’t say how I feel, because this is still school and the principal’s office is only feet away.
When I finally see my mom walk into the office, I run out and launch myself at her, almost knocking her over with the force of my hug. I promptly burst into tears.
She winces. “Careful, Sammy,” she says.
But I’m not in the mood to be careful. I just want to know. “Tell me,” I sob into her neck. “What’s going on?”
Mom pats my back, and I look up at her, noticing how she is uncomfortably aware of Mrs. Heller, Mrs. Vaner, and the rest of the office staff looking at us and listening. “
Let’s get out of here first,” she says.
She signs me out, telling Mrs. Vaner that the principal authorized my release. After they exchange a knowing glance, we head to the parking lot. Things must be really, really bad.
“Mom, they said—”
“Sammy, please,” Mom cuts me off before we even get to the front door. “I will tell you everything, but not until we’re somewhere private. It’s bad enough that our personal lives are being exposed like this—we don’t have to add to the circus ourselves.”
“I’m sorry if telling your own daughter things that everyone in the entire world seems to know is a circus.”
My mom stops and turns to me. She cups my cheek with her hand and quietly, so softly I can barely hear her, she says, “I’m sorry.”
I can’t have heard her correctly. I think she said she was sorry.
My parents don’t apologize. Not to us, anyway.
Before I can ask her to repeat what she just said, she turns and starts walking briskly toward the door, leaving me standing there, dumbfounded.
“Come on, Sammy,” she calls back to me. “Let’s go.”
As I follow her to the door and out to the car, I watch for any clues of why she might be in need of Tanika’s church prayer circle. Try as I might, I can’t spot anything.
Except for the fact that she’s come straight to school to pick me up, saying we have to talk.
The silence is thick between us as Mom pulls out of the school parking lot. I look at her out of the corner of my eye, waiting for her to start talking, to start telling me what is going on. She’s biting the edge of her lip, the way she does when she’s on the phone talking to Grandma Gertie, Dad’s mom who lives in Florida, when Grandma’s listing all the amazing and wonderful things her other grandchildren are doing (clearly implying that RJ and I are inadequate slackers).
We hit the first stoplight and Mom still hasn’t said a word. I feel like I’m going to choke on my fear of unspoken words.
“Mom, tell me. What’s the matter?”
She grips the steering wheel, hard. Blue veins in her hands are revealed like roads on a stress map. I wish she’d just say whatever it is. Or do I? Is this a cat box better left unopened?
In Case You Missed It Page 11