by Stacie Ramey
Nick looks at me and smiles, then goes back to his painting. He’s mixed a dandelion, a cocoa, and an acid-washed moss. The colors are perfect and subtle. He’s painting a baseball field, which is sort of brilliant, because it is the most basic thing he could paint. Everyone knows a baseball field. Especially him. But there are ten thousand ways to paint them and almost none of them are wrong.
“Wow,” I say, and he blushes.
“Kid stuff really, but I gotta get my painting arm warm.”
I smile. Nick is now mixing baseball and painting as adeptly as he’s mixing his paint and that makes me wish I could find my art as easily as he always does.
I stare at my palette. I want to see what he sees. I just don’t. I can’t. I feel the presence of someone next to me. Is Leah here?
Piper’s voice—not Leah’s—says, “I remember what you wore that night.”
Nick steps closer, and Piper holds up her hand. He tries to shake her off, but she doesn’t listen.
She leans over me and mixes a perfect Venetian red—like the dress I wore to the party. She steps away. I see Nick out of the corner of my eye, watching me as I stare at the beginning of the end—that red dress.
“Tap into the pain if you have to, Allie. Art bleeds it out of you.”
I mix the Egyptian-blue color, the dress Leah wore, my hand shaking as I do. I keep saying I want answers. I keep asking Leah. Why can’t I just make myself remember? Fill in the blanks? I look at the colors, loud and accusing. Leah looked amazing that night, even better than usual. She shined when we walked into the party. My eyes close as I glimpse that memory.
“Come on,” Leah had said, pushing me onto the stage. Her stage. “This is going to be your night, the one you’ll always remember.”
She was right about that. I will never forget that night—the parts that aren’t pushed away by my damaged psyche or buried by my drunken blackout. The little pill in my pocket calls to me. Would it help unlock me? I shoot Nick a smile and then twist to grab my backpack and my Gatorade.
My heart beats fast as I slip the pill between my lips and swallow it with the thought that I’m going to end up just like my sister.
“It’s not the worst thing in the world,” Nick says, making me feel like he’s gotten inside of my head. He points to the canvas and says, “You’ll get it. You always do.”
Nick goes back to working on his field. Piper is working at her painting. She’s doing a portrait of a girl leaning against a window. It’s mostly grays and blues, and it’s kind of brilliant. That just leaves me and my blank canvas.
What’s the easiest thing to paint? Still life. The words come to me. Not from Leah but from my mind, like it’s taking over for me in this chess match. Still life. Still alive. Leah. It always comes back to her. But at least it’s something I can work with. I start to sketch flowers in a vase, taking a top-down perspective. I am really just playing with angles, but it makes the flowers look like they’re being slaughtered. Mr. Kispert says art is about choices. Am I making the right ones?
The headphones are snug in my ears, and the pill starts to kick in. My head starts to feel warm, in a tingly sort of way. And the pressure that’s built up in my temples and neck and shoulders lessens. In truth, I loosen. And I get why Mom takes this stuff.
I turn up the music and try to create without thinking. I stop looking at the lines I’ve drawn and reach inside me for the colors. The red goes on the canvas.
We walk into the party. I see her friends. They were all smiling and toasting me with those red Solo cups that smelled like beer that had already gone sour. I turned away from the cups, and Jason handed me a strawberry daiquiri because he said it tasted better than beer.
Egyptian blue explodes on the canvas. I see Leah and Sean taking me home. Both of them are pissed, not just about me but at each other.
I paint one flower, jet-black for when I found her. She’s dead.
“I’m sorry,” Leah whispers in my ear.
For once I don’t want to hear her voice with her excuses. And it’s not just because I’m in school or was supposed to have a say in this. It’s because I’m trying hard to get that last image of her out of my mind. I don’t want to remember Leah with her colors bleeding out of her.
I blink. And she’s there, standing next to my painting.
She looks at it and then back at me. “I like it. It’s strong.”
I wish I could get her to leave, but I know she won’t. So I ignore her and let everything spill from inside me onto the canvas. And just this once, I don’t care if it’s right. Or if it’s okay. Or if it’s enough.
But when I’m done with my paint rapture, I’m scared. Because I think I might be insane—with the colors I chose and the emotion I unleashed. So I dip my smallest brush and add a tiny magenta outline and a few lines for accents, hoping a little bright can save this painting. Hoping a little Happy can fix it. So no one will see how fucked up it is.
Mr. Kispert stands behind me. A crowd follows him. My stomach tightens. “The colors…”
“I know. They’re different…”
“They’re powerful. Evocative.” Instead of being a peaceful still life, my flowers look like baby vultures, mouths opened, reaching for their next meal. “I love the perspective. Stunning.”
Leah crosses her arms over her chest and beams. “You painted my colors.”
She may be right. They’re definitely not mine.
Nick looks at my canvas, shakes his head, and smiles. “I told you. You’re amazing.”
I try to see what they see. The colors may be powerful, but they’re stains from a wound. The only controlled element is that outline—one skinny purple line where I tried to rein it all in. I shake my head. I shouldn’t have listened to Leah. I’ve made a mess of this. It’s sloppy. Leah used to call me that—sloppy seconds.
I remember one day in my room last spring.
“It’s perfect,” she said as she typed it. All one word, lowercase letters. Now my new password for the new computer Dad got me.
“It’s a play on words,” she said. “Get it? You’re second in the family and you’re sloppy.” She laughed so hard, she cried. I remember I did too. Everyone was all in when Leah was happy.
And now, I stand here in front of a painting that’s more hers than mine. My head starts spinning, and I get dizzy. I’m that purple line, holding everything together. I wonder how long I can keep this up without letting my crazy explode.
Leah chews on her fingernail. “I know what you’re thinking. You think you’re crazy, but you’re not. You’re just sad. Trust me, I know the difference.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m just sad. But what’s the difference between sad and depressed? What makes her a suicide and me suicidal? I mean, if that’s what I am.
“You never wanted to do it. I knew that.”
I close my eyes and try not to think about how I wasn’t strong enough or committed enough or good enough to make a pact with Leah. How I lied to her the whole time.
Mr. Kispert nods at my newest creation. “Great work. Okay, everyone, let’s clean up. Bell’s going to ring.”
I meet Nick at the big sink. “You’re very talented,” he says.
I turn to him. Get dizzy. My hand reaches for the edge of the sink for support.
He cocks his head. “You okay, Allie?”
“I’m fine.” I avoid his eyes. I’m feeling all strung-out and raw, and I don’t exactly need his attention right now.
“Call you later?” he asks.
“Definitely,” I say, making my head move in exactly one north-south movement.
I stagger to the bathroom, hoping not to run into Emery or Max or Mr. Hicks on the way. When I get there, my eyes are glassy and bloodshot. I pull out my cell. Two hours till lunch. Not that I’m hungry. But I’m not exactly sure how I’ll make it through honors U.S
. history and honors biology—the two roadblocks that stand in my way. I lean over the sink and throw water on my face. When I lift my head, Leah’s there.
I jump. “Shit, Leah, you scared me.” I look around to check that we’re alone.
“No one’s here. We’re good.”
“I need a way to get through this,” I tell her.
Leah looks at me and nods. “Don’t skip classes. That’s a rookie mistake.”
“So how am I going to do this?”
“You got any NoDoz? Any caffeine at all?”
“Excedrin. That has caffeine, right?” I paw through my purse, my fingers raking for the pills I should have in there.
“Take two and get your ass to class. Before you’re late. Also, do not start getting detentions. The key is not to draw any extra attention to yourself. Got it?”
I want to ask her if she thinks that’s the best plan, considering: a pill to bring me down, another to wake me up. Like Alice in Wonderland, I’m stuck. When does it stop?
“You gotta get moving,” she whispers.
I take one last look over my shoulder as I go. She’s slumped against the wall.
Leah aims her gaze at me. “It’s hard to be dead.”
I leave the bathroom, the door banging behind me.
Chapter 10
I’m sitting at my desk trying to concentrate, but I just can’t do it. I close my English lit book and pick up my phone. 6:45. It vibrates in my hand. I almost drop it.
Nick.
Sophie texted me a few minutes ago. She wants to go for a walk.
I smile. She doesn’t have opposable thumbs. How did she text?
Her cute little nose?
This time I laugh out loud. I guess if she took the time to text you, she must really want to meet up. Ten minutes?
Deal.
My phone goes in my pocket, and I walk into my bathroom to check my look. Not too bad, definitely less strung-out than before. I’m glad. Nick shouldn’t see me all rehab-ready.
I’m walking out of my room when I hear a tapping behind me. Max. He used to climb in my window before we had cells—or other people to date. I rush to open it for him.
“Hi, beautiful.”
“You haven’t done this in a long time.”
“I have to talk to you.”
I move out of the way, letting him climb into my room, even though his words freeze me, remind me of last spring. “What’s up?”
“Can I talk to you? I—”
“I’m going to meet Nick. I’m late.”
The muscles in Max’s jaw tighten. “Please.”
He sits on my bed. I join him, knowing I probably shouldn’t. Max puts his hand on my thigh, making me self-conscious. Where is Mom? How long until I’m supposed to meet Nick? And more importantly, what does Max want?
“I know I’ve blown it with you.”
I shake my head. Why is he doing this? Why now?
“I know I have.”
I hold his stare so he can tell I mean what I say. “We’re fine, Max.”
He looks down at his hands, and I sigh. The cocoa butter he uses to heal his swimmer’s skin relaxes me. I love that smell.
“Allie,” he starts. “I wish… I wish…” He looks up at me; the misery in his eyes makes me want to end whatever pain he’s feeling. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“Max, please…”
“You know how I feel about you, right?” He puts his hand on my face, and I cover his with my own. He puts his lips on mine. My heart races. He kisses me. Soft. Sweet. Sincere. I kiss him back. Of course I do, but then I remember how it ended with Max and me last time. And I wonder what this whole play is about now. I pull away, winded, confused. He looks me in the eyes, and I swear I see tears. My gut clenches. There’s no reason for Max to be crying.
“I’ve done some things I wish I could take back.”
Is he talking about last spring?
“I was so worried about you. I still am. I need to know, was the pact because of me? Was that why you were going to do it?” Max asks.
I actually thought he wanted to be with me. This is just his guilt talking. My face heats. I can’t look at him. “No. It wasn’t you.”
His fingers trace my cheek. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
“It wasn’t you.”
His eyes plead with me, and that makes me feel powerful, like all I have to do is find something he needs so I can give it to him. “What’s really going on now, Max?” I ask. “What are you trying to tell me?”
The silence spreads between us. He takes my hand. “You remember Terry’s party?” he asks.
“Don’t,” I say. “Tell me why you’re here now. What’s going on?”
He inches closer until his hand is on my thigh, and I can barely breathe. “It was ridiculously hot that day,” he continues.
He leans in until I feel his breath on my neck. “Max…don’t. I mean it.”
“Someone started a water balloon fight.”
I try not to give in to the pull of Max. Of the story of us. But it’s hard, especially when he’s doing this. “You mean you started it.”
He gives me a lecherous smile. “Because I wanted to see you wet.”
I smile back even though I know it’s not the truth. I remember. He wanted to see Kelly Starks wet. He was chasing her then.
He reaches up and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. “And then Billy Sullivan came after you, remember?”
“You nailed him with a shaving cream bomb. My hero.” I laugh even though I don’t want to.
“And…”
“And he chased you. You were caught; you had nowhere to go.” I take over the story, not caring that Max has won. “So you flipped over the fence like it was nothing.”
“And…” Max whispers, his face so close to mine now I can smell the gum he’s chewing.
“And I knew I had to meet you,” I finish.
“I know I haven’t always been who you want me to be. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I do. You know I do. You’ve always been mine, Allie. No matter what happened before or happens now. It’s always been you.”
I’m outside my body, yelling at myself to be happy. These are the words I’ve been dying to hear. And now he’s saying them. But the thing is, I know it hasn’t always been me. Most times, it’s been other girls. The fun ones. The ones he didn’t care about like he cared about me. Supposedly. But the ones he chose over me. Every single time.
“Please, Allie. Don’t you want to try?”
I let my fingers trace his cheek, his stubble rough under my touch, making this moment feel so real. I understand what he means. He is mine. I am his. In the most important ways. I know that’s insane. I know I’m being stupid and gullible and just plain weak, but I can’t help it when it comes to Max. Then I remember—those are the same words he used last spring. Right before he left me.
He leans in like he’s about to kiss me, then stops. “Text him.” Max puts his hand in my pocket and pulls out my phone. “Or I’ll do it.”
I grab for my cell, which he is holding out of my reach. “Tell Mr. Baseball you’re mine.”
It hits me like a punch to the heart. That’s what this is really about. “Are you kidding me?” I try to catch my breath. I stand. Turn to face him. “You don’t want me until someone else does?”
He staggers toward me. “You’re mine. Tell him you’re mine and always will be.”
I’m so disgusted by him. “Yours when you’re not drunk? Yours in the light of day? Yours all the time, not just for a day or a week or a month until you get all claustrophobic and want someone new?”
“No. That’s wrong. I was worried I would hurt you.” He makes a motion with his hands. “I’m not a good boyfriend. I know that. Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you thi
nk I’d take back all of it if I could? Everything I’ve done? Don’t you think I know I shouldn’t have pushed you?”
“More like you shouldn’t have replaced me the minute I wasn’t ready.”
Max licks his lips. Shakes his head. “I was scared. I knew I’d hurt you.”
“Then why did you start to begin with?”
“I couldn’t help it. I loved you. Love you.”
“You have no idea what that word means. You are a player and you always will be.”
“Not with you, Allie.”
“No. Because this time I’m the one who’s walking away.”
I grab my phone and head for the stairs, not caring that Mom’s in the kitchen, overhearing this dramatic little scene play out. Max doesn’t want me. Max doesn’t want me. I repeat that horrible chorus in my head till I know—even if I don’t believe—that I’m being stupid. Max doesn’t want me. He just wants Nick not to have me.
“Sophie!” I make it all the way downstairs and grab her leash and sweater.
“Come on, Allie…” Max holds his arms out to me.
Sophie comes, her nails making a clicking sound on the floor as she trots to me. I bend down and put her sweater and leash on.
“One day, we’re going to be together for real. One day when we’re through with all the other people, when we’re ready to just be together, we will.”
I burst out the door and leave Max standing there with his “one days” and his stupid, horrible, mean plays. Leah told me I was starstruck when it came to him, that I needed to grow up. She’d be happy to see that I’m finally on board.
Chapter 11
The day is gray, like my mood, and I’m glad. I walk into Mr. Kispert’s room, the headache on the edge of my temples. Migraines used to just happen for me. Now they are a promise tucked into the back of my eyes, feeding on the sadness and the anger, taking over my head like an invading army.
I grab two Excedrin and a bottle of water from my backpack. Maybe this will be enough to hold the headache off for real. Piper is already staring at her easel. Nick’s is prepped and ready for him. Mine is empty. I wonder if Mr. Kispert just ran out of time or if he’s finally getting the message.