Tragedy Girl

by Christine Hurley Deriso

  I can’t hear Jamie’s response, but Blake replies, “Don’t go there. Just change the subject. You’ve got to stop letting … ”

  Jamie spots me first, and Blake’s gaze follows his.

  I finger the rings under my shirt. “Melanie’s waiting for you at the pool table,” I say.

  Jamie blushes, nods, and walks away. For some reason, I take his seat rather than scooting back in next to Blake in the booth.

  “That sounded kind of intense,” I say, figuring it would be more awkward to ignore the tension than to point out the obvious.

  Blake nods, his expression dark and brooding. “I keep telling him we have to move beyond the drowning,” he says. “Just because other people bring it up doesn’t mean we have to talk about it. It just keeps him really stirred up.”

  I lean into the table. “I don’t get why he acts mad at you,” I say.

  Blake considers my words, then shakes his head bitterly. “I think he feels like I didn’t do enough to help her.”

  I gasp a little. “That’s terrible. How dare he make you feel like that.”

  Blake shrugs. “Why shouldn’t he feel that way? I do.”

  I reach across the table for his hand, and he lets me hold it. “Don’t do that to yourself,” I say in a hushed voice. “Don’t beat yourself up with guilt.”

  Blake’s chin quavers and his blue eyes fill with tears.

  “Oh, Blake … ”

  “Jamie was right there,” he says in a trembling voice. “He knows what happened. There were so many things I did wrong. Why did I let her take a swim that time of night? If I couldn’t talk her out of it—and no, by the way, I didn’t even try—then why didn’t I go with her? Why did I wait so long to go look for her? And did I try hard enough? Could another five minutes on the jet ski have made a difference?”

  I rub his hand with my thumb. “Stop it,” I whisper. “It was just a terrible accident.”

  He swallows hard, then looks at me, his eyes still misty. “That’s what I tell Jamie. He acts like he’s mad at me, but I think he’s really mad at himself. He feels guilty too.”

  I shake my head briskly. “There’s no place for anger or guilt in all of this. Blake, listen to me: I felt guilty after my parents died. What if I’d made dinner that night so they wouldn’t have gone out? What if I’d gone with them? They asked me to. And, you know, I could have made them wait an extra five minutes while I got ready, or wait while I ate dessert—any single variable could have changed everything. A single instant could have changed everything, and I’d still have my parents.”

  He squeezes my hand and touches my cheek with his index finger.

  “I think we need to let go of all the what-ifs,” I say. “I think it’s time to cut ourselves some slack.”

  Blake gazes into my eyes. “You’re amazing,” he tells me, and a deep sense of calm washes over me.

  Maybe this is real. Maybe it’s right.

  “Why do you sound so giddy?”

  I huff playfully. “Quit peering into my soul, Sawbones. It’s annoying.”

  “Oh my god. It’s that guy, isn’t it?”

  Okay, I haven’t so much as mentioned Blake, even though he just dropped me off and I still have the warm, salty taste of his kisses on my lips.

  “Did you see him tonight?” Sawyer asks.

  I roll my eyes. “So what if I did?”

  “Just seems like things are moving kinda … fast. You said this year was going to be all about school and getting positioned for good scholarships. Since when did your college goals take a back seat to some guy?”

  I huff. “You make it sound like some childish, shallow relationship,” I say, then curse myself for uttering the word “relationship.” “It’s not like that at all. Blake and I have both been through a lot. We understand each other.”

  “Hmmmm,” Sawyer says.

  “But just to put your mind at ease,” I say, “it’s not like we’re planning to elope. That whole college scenario? I’ve still got that penciled in.”

  I expect him to crack wise, but instead he says, “I really hope so, E. I don’t want you getting off track.”

  I toss my head back as my jaw gapes. “Oh my gosh, I barely know him!”

  “Yet you mentioned something about a relationship,” Sawyer says, and I groan aloud.

  “Please trust me,” I tell him solemnly, irritated and yet a little touched as well.

  “I trust you implicitly, E,” he says. “Guys, on the other hand—”

  “Hey, Sawbones, somebody’s buzzing in. Catch you later?”

  “Catch you later,” he says.

  I press a button on my phone. “Hello?”

  “Anne?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s Melanie.”

  I sit up straighter. Why does she sound so strange? “Is everything okay, Mel?” I ask, pressing a finger against my lip.

  “Something’s weird,” she says, her voice a chilling monotone.

  “What? Did something happen with Jamie?”

  “No,” she says. “At least I don’t think so. I’m not sure what’s going on.”

  I pitch slightly forward on my bed. “What?”

  Melanie takes a deep breath. “When Blake and Jamie dropped me off tonight, I noticed the flag was up on my mailbox. I thought that was odd—the flag up on a Saturday night? So I looked inside.”

  I swallow. “Yeah?”

  “There was an anonymous note in there,” Melanie says.

  I clutch the phone tighter. “What did it say?”

  “It says: Rethink your love life. Please. Your life may depend on it.”

  “What? ”

  “And the last sentence is underlined, Anne: Your life may depend on it.”

  Eight

  “Okay, let’s just think this through.”

  Melanie paces in her bedroom, running her hand through her hair.

  “It’s got to be Natalie,” I say, sitting cross-legged on her carpet as crepe myrtle branches rustle outside her bedroom window.

  “But Natalie’s hung up on Blake, not Jamie,” Melanie says, repeating the same argument she made last night on the phone yet shaken enough to regurgitate the precious little information we have at hand. “Why would she care who Jamie’s dating?”

  I rest my chin on my knuckles. “You said yourself she likes to call dibs on all the guys—that even if they’re not interested in her, she doesn’t want them being interested in anybody else, either,” I say. “And Jamie’s transformation into a stud surely hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

  Melanie stops pacing and catches my eye. “That means it hasn’t gone unnoticed by Blake, either.”

  My eyebrows crinkle. “What do you mean?”

  Melanie taps her index finger against her thigh. “Jamie was always a little nobody, just Blake’s hanger-on. His wannabe. Maybe Blake’s not taking it so well that Jamie’s finally getting some attention.”

  “What? How insecure do you think Blake is? Besides, guys don’t even care about that kind of stuff, do they? And, uh, there’s that little detail of Blake being with us all night … including when the letter was placed in your mailbox.”

  “I mean, he could have had somebody put it there for him … ” Melanie says, then glances at me for a quick sensitivity check. She walks over and sits next to me on the floor. “Hey, Anne, I’m not ragging on Blake. I think he’s a really nice guy, and I agree, this doesn’t seem like a guy move at all. I’m just trying to think everything through. And like you’ve been saying, there’s some heavy-duty tension between Blake and Jamie these days.”

  Melanie’s mom creaks open the door and peeks in. “You girls doing okay?” she asks. Melanie nods impatiently, prompting her mother to close the door again and leave us alone.

  “Blake explained that to me last night,” I s
ay. “He thinks Jamie blames him for not saving Cara, or, I don’t know, not trying harder … something like that. But he thinks Jamie is mostly just mad at himself. There’s a lot of guilt there. Both of them feel guilty.”

  Melanie nods. “I know. I feel like Jamie and I are getting along okay, but there’s a wall there, you know? He just seems so … wounded.”

  I peer into space. “I just thought of something else weird.”

  “What?” Melanie prods.

  “It’s probably nothing, but … do you think Lauren and Garrett are pissed that they weren’t invited last night?”

  Melanie contemplates the question. “It’s possible. Lauren actually had fun with Garrett Friday night—at least when Natalie wasn’t spazzing out on us. She was hoping he would ask her out, but she thinks the chances are low. She said he doesn’t seem interested. He seems kinda … preoccupied. Like Jamie. I guess that girl’s drowning really did a number on everybody.”

  “Speaking of Friday night,” I say. “After the bonfire? Garrett was in the car when Blake walked me to the door. We … kissed. And when I pulled away, I saw Garrett looking at me. He looked … I dunno, worried, or concerned or something. It kind of creeped me out. The look in his eyes … it was really intense.”

  “You think Garrett planted the note?” Melanie asks. “But again, that theory leads back to Blake, not Jamie.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think.”

  Melanie taps her fingertips on the carpet. “I can’t help thinking it has something to do with the dead girl.”

  We sit there for a moment, then Melanie’s eyes sparkle mischievously. “Maybe it was the dead girl,” she says. “The one whose body was never found?”

  Whatever expression I get on my face makes Melanie wince. “Oh, right … too soon for dead-girl jokes. Sorry.”

  We sit quietly for another minute, and then I ask, “So, are you going to tell Jamie about the letter?”

  Melanie shrugs. “I don’t even know if he’ll ask me out again. Like I said, he acts awfully … distracted. Hey, maybe he slipped me the note. I guess that’s one way to dump somebody.”

  “Blake mentioned the four of us going out again next weekend.”

  Melanie raises an eyebrow. “Did he now. Quite the take-charge kind of guy, no?”

  I feel my cheeks flush.

  “I was kidding,” Melanie says. “Didn’t mean to insult your sweetie.”

  Now my face feels hotter than ever. How stupidly presumptuous of me to act like Blake and I are some kind of couple. I barely know him! Sawyer’s right: I’m not acting like myself at all. First, I’m gushing over some guy I barely know, and now I’m having a gossipfest with a girl (who, let’s face it, I barely know either) about a drama-filled note. I was more mature than this in middle school. I hardly know these people at all, and worse, I’m starting to feel like I hardly know myself anymore.

  “I’m feeling a little sick to my stomach,” I tell Melanie, managing a weak smile. “I better head back home.”

  Home. Yet another dubious concept.

  I wonder if I’ll ever feel at home anywhere again.

  “Hey, beautiful.”

  The text is from Blake. He’s sent me several today, probably half a dozen just since I got back from Melanie’s house, but I’ve responded to only a couple of them, and then as tersely as possible. It’s almost midnight, I’ve been studying for an English Lit test for hours, I have a shrink appointment after school tomorrow, I need some sleep …

  But maybe these are just excuses. The note Melanie got really shook me up. It’s one thing to stumble through life when nobody is paying attention, but this situation … I know it’s not Blake’s fault, but what with Natalie’s outbursts and the creepy anonymous note and my general sense that Blake is the most talked-about person in school, I feel like a monkey in a zoo, being observed, monitored, scrutinized—the same feelings that drove me four states away after my parents died. It just feels like a lot of pressure.

  “Talk to me, babe.”

  I stare at the text, nibble a fingernail, and then respond: “Been studying all day. Sorry I’m not very chatty .”

  He texts back: “I’m lying in my bed crying.”

  I push myself up onto an elbow. “Crying? Why? ”

  “A movie on TV tonite, this sappy movie about these star-crossed lovers. I saw it at the theater a few months back.”

  “With Cara? ” I probe.

  “Yeah. Stupid, huh? ”

  I stare at the words for a few seconds, take a deep breath, and then call him.

  “Hey, babe,” he says in a choked voice, sniffling.

  “Hey. I hate that you’re upset. I’m sorry; I didn’t know … ”

  “I’m okay,” he says, weeping through his words. “I’m much better now that I’m talking to you. I think I spent three solid hours at her gravesite today.”

  “I get it. Really, I do.”

  “Do you? Because, Anne, I want you to know, I think you’re … I think you’re maybe the greatest girl I’ve ever met.” More sniffles. “I don’t want to blow this by spending all my time with you talking about her.”

  “No, no, not at all. I’d think something was wrong with you if you didn’t feel this way.”

  “I get that about you,” he says, his voice still quavering. “You’re so sensitive. Plus, you’ve been there. You know.”

  “Yeah. I know … ”

  “Well … I’m not going to spend the rest of my life blubbering. I’m going to devote my future to honoring her past. That’s the least I can do.” He chokes on his words.

  “That’s great, Blake.”

  “I mean it,” he stresses. “I already do a lot of volunteer work for the children’s hospital—that’s where I was treated for my cancer, you know—and I’m told I’m really good at motivating and inspiring people. I’m going to devote my life to doing good. For Cara’s sake.”

  I nod. “That’s really admirable.”

  “But I’m not going to live in the past. Am I selfish for wanting to move forward?”

  “No, of course not.”

  He sniffles some more. “I want to move forward, Anne. I want to move forward with you.”

  Nine

  “I keep having these dreams.”

  “Yes?” Dr. Sennett says, a pencil resting against her chin.

  I push my sweater tighter against my chest, chilled by the artificial air in her office. “I dream I catch a glance of my parents, then rush toward them, but then they’re gone. I know they can’t be far—I just saw them—but every street I take, or every door I go through, just gets me more off track. They get farther away instead of closer.”

  Dr. Sennett nods inscrutably, her brown hair resting on her shoulders.

  “The weird thing,” I continue, “is that I feel like I’m actually communicating with my mom while this is happening. She’s telling me it’s too soon to see them, that seeing them now, while my grief is still so raw, will only leave me upset and frustrated.”

  Dr. Sennett smiles mildly. “Sounds like a wise mom.”

  “But she’s wrong,” I say firmly. “I need to see them.”

  Dr. Sennett leans up, resting her forearms on her legs. “Anne, I don’t delve too deeply into the supernatural, but just because you don’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there. The love and guidance they gave you while they were living? That’s still here. They’re still guiding you, if in no other way than through the seeds they planted while they were raising you. Can you be content knowing they’re still a part of you without having to actually see them? At least for now?”

  I blink briskly, surprising myself by having tears in my eyes. “I’m just so lonely … ”

  The clock on Dr. Sennett’s wall ticks off the seconds. She plucks a tissue from a nearby box and hands it to
me. I dab at my eyes.

  “Can you make a little room in your heart for your aunt and uncle to pick up where your parents left off?” she asks quietly. “Can you do that, knowing that’s what your parents would want?”

  I smile ruefully. “My Aunt Meg is nothing like my mom.”

  Dr. Sennett nods, then asks, “Does she have to be?”

  Yeah, she kinda does. No offense, Aunt Meg, but my mom was amazing—funny and whip-smart and ironic and quirky. She couldn’t do perky if her life depended on it.

  “In a way, maybe it’s better that she’s not like your mom,” Dr. Sennett continues. “No ambiguity or divided loyalty there, right? Plus, the ways that she’s different might add things to your life that you’ll end up valuing, even if you can’t appreciate them right now.”

  I dab my eyes some more. “But you don’t understand,” I say. “Aunt Meg and I don’t have a real relationship; we’re just cordial to each other. Don’t get me wrong; I appreciate so much what she and Uncle Mark have done for me—in fact, I feel like every moment of my life has to be a testament to my appreciation. It’s exhausting. There’s nothing authentic about a relationship where you’re constantly prostrate with gratitude.”

  Dr. Sennett fingers a lock of her hair. “What would you tell her if you weren’t prostrate with gratitude? What would you share with her if your relationship was authentic?”

  I think about the question, idly fingering my tissue. “I actually did tell her about these dreams the other day,” I acknowledge. “She’s a good listener. She’s really sweet.”

  Dr. Sennett nods. “What else might you want to talk to her about? What else do you think your aunt could help you with?”

  I think for a moment, then blurt impulsively, “I’d tell her I’m obsessed with a guy I met at school … that he’s crazy good-looking and seems really nice … but that I’m not really sure if any of this is real or right, but then again, I tend to overthink every little thing, so … ”