Reconstructing Amelia

by Kimberly McCreight

  “The door was unlocked,” Zadie said smugly, moving around like she was trying to get a better shot with her phone. Dylan pulled up the throw so that her breasts were covered and turned her face away. “You guys must have been in quite a rush because I don’t even think the door was really closed.”

  I wanted to get up and grab my clothes from Zadie, but I didn’t want her filming me, walking across the room naked.

  “What are you, like, a stalker or something? How did you even know we were here?!” I yelled at her. “You can’t be here! This is my house.”

  “Stalker? That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?” Zadie smirked. “But, if you must know, I did follow you. And then I waited and waited and waited outside, forever.” She pulled the phone away for a second, staring straight at Dylan, who wouldn’t look at her. “I have to give you two credit. You have stamina. But then I guess it’s different for girls.”

  I waited for Dylan to scream at Zadie. To turn back into that girl I’d seen in Zadie’s basement that day. But she was just sitting there, dissolving into the couch.

  “Get out!” I yelled even louder. “Get the fuck out of my house!”

  Zadie let out a bored sigh as she turned the camera back on me.

  “You know, this isn’t going to make a very good movie unless you guys do something, you know, interesting.” She walked closer, until the camera was only a couple of feet from my face. “You don’t get two million hits on YouTube just for being two half-naked girls. It’s totally been done. We need action. How about a kiss? Or somebody could maybe grab a boob or something?”

  Then something in me snapped. I jumped up and lunged at the clothes under Zadie’s arm. She dropped them instantly, springing away so that she and her phone were safely out of reach. She kept filming the whole time, though, as I scooped my clothes off the floor and pulled on my T-shirt and jeans. When I was dressed, I spun around and shoved my face right up into hers.

  “Get the fuck out of my house or I’m calling the police.”

  “That’s cute.” She leaned in closer. “You’re defending her honor.” Then she shook her head with disappointment. “Tsk, tsk, Crazy Eyes, I thought you were supposed to be extra smart. Do you think Dylan actually gives a shit about you? You think you mean something to her? You don’t even know her. You’re nothing. And by tomorrow, you’ll be forgotten, like the stale skanky ho you are.”

  “If you don’t leave”—my fingernails were digging into my palms inside my clenched fists—“I am going to make you get out.”

  “Ooh, how very butch of you.” Zadie whistled, then leaned in to hold her camera up in my face. “Is that your thing? You wear the pants? I like it. It’s hot.”

  “You fucking bitch—”

  “Stop!” Dylan shouted suddenly from the other side of the room. When I turned, she was fully dressed, pushing her feet back into her boots. She looked ready to cry. “Please, just stop.”

  “What are you doing, Dylan?” My voice squeaked, like a panicked little kid. “Where are you going? You don’t have to leave. Zadie’s going, right now.”

  “Oh yes, sweetheart,” Zadie said, smiling viciously. Dylan was already shuffling toward the door. “I am leaving. And your girlfriend’s coming with me.”

  I got back to school somehow. I wanted to find Dylan before she forgot what we had. I didn’t remember leaving the house, but the next thing I knew I was sitting in Liv’s class. She was standing at the front of the room talking. I could see her mouth moving, but the words were all garbled and faraway.

  I realized she was talking to me only when I saw everyone staring.

  “Amelia? I know that you know the answer to this,” Liv said. “Please enlighten the rest of the class.”

  When I turned toward the sound of Liv’s voice, my head felt filled with wet sand. Like it might snap free of my neck and thud lifeless to the ground.

  “Amelia? Are you okay?” Liv sounded worried. “You don’t look very good.”

  Finally, my eyes focused on her. When they did, they filled with tears. Liv was still staring at me when the bell rang and all the other kids moved at once, the room a rush of color and flesh and sound. Except for me. I couldn’t move.

  Instead, I sat there replaying it over and over in my head—Dylan lumbering like a zombie out of my house. She hadn’t even turned back to say good-bye. Then there was that look on Zadie’s face, so fucking pleased. The whole thing had turned out exactly as she’d planned.

  “Do you need to go to the nurse, Amelia?” The classroom was empty, but Liv was at my desk now. She looked freaked. “You’re as white as a sheet. I could walk you down.”

  I tried to shake my head, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “Okay,” Liv said, sounding unconvinced. “But there is something wrong. I can see that. Do you want to talk about it?”

  Did I want to talk about it? Did I want to tell my nice English teacher that the first girl I’d ever loved had just sliced open my chest and plucked out my heart?

  “I just got my period,” I said instead. “I have cramps.”

  “Oh,” Liv said, looking embarrassed that she’d pushed for details. “Are you still up for stopping by Mr. Woodhouse’s office? He asked me to send you down after class. But if you’re not feeling well enough—”

  “No, it’s okay,” I said, because it was a thing to do, a place to be. A direction to move in. And maybe a tiny part of me hoped Woodhouse would do something to make Zadie disappear. “I can go.”

  I sat in Woodhouse’s office waiting for him to get off the phone. I could see my legs against the seat of the chair, could see the armrests under my hands. But I couldn’t feel any of it. I couldn’t feel anything.

  “Sorry,” he said when he’d hung up. He shook his head. “Alumnae can be insistent. Don’t be that way years from now. It’s . . . well, anyway, I don’t think you ever would be.”

  I stared at him. I couldn’t even pretend to do anything else.

  “Are you okay, Amelia?”

  Fix it, I screamed silently. Throw her out of school. Have her arrested. “I have a headache. A migraine.”

  “Oh, okay, well then, I won’t keep you.”

  He grabbed an envelope off his desk and held it out to me. I stared down at it.

  “It’s yours,” he said quickly. “Open it.”

  I stared at it a little longer before finally reaching for it. Everything was moving in slow motion. I felt the weight of the envelope in my hands, saw Woodhouse staring at me as if he’d just given me a present. I felt sure that inside was going to be an eight-by-ten glossy of Dylan and me rolled up together.

  “Come on, I already know what’s in it. They called me,” Woodhouse said. He sounded giddy now. “Open it.”

  My fingers were clumsy and thick as I tried to tear the envelope open. Inside was regular paper, nothing glossy like a photograph. I sucked in a little air as I tugged out a letter addressed to me, in care of the school. My eyes fell on the second paragraph: “This fellowship will cover the full cost of the conference, and an excerpt of your piece, Today, I Am, will be published in the accompanying anthology.”

  “Liv feels badly because she submitted the piece over your objections,” Woodhouse said. “She didn’t want you to feel pressured to take it, so she decided not to be here.”

  “Oh,” I said, staring down and trying to process that I’d won some fellowship I hadn’t even applied for.

  But given what a huge mound of shit the rest of my life had become, it did make me a little happy. Not happy happy, but less dead, maybe. It was a good reminder that there had been a me before I’d ever heard of the Maggies, or Dylan.

  “You should celebrate,” Woodhouse said. “You’re the first Mittlebranch winner Grace Hall has ever had. It’s a testament to your talent, Amelia. Really.” Then he took a deep, tired breath. “But Amelia, the fellowship is contingent on my writing a recommendation for you. And to be able to do that in good conscience, I need to know you’re out of the club. That you’r
e not a Maggie any longer. I’m also going to need for you to give me the names of the other girls who are members. I’ve been overlooking a lot, Amelia. You’ve left school grounds unauthorized at least five times in the past three weeks. I can’t write that recommendation unless you help me, now.”

  “You’re blackmailing me?”

  “Amelia, you know that’s not what I mean.” Woodhouse frowned. “But these girls are going to hurt someone. I know they will. Maybe not you, not yet, but it will happen eventually. Asking you to do the right thing isn’t blackmail. If I can get their names from you, maybe I can protect them from themselves.”

  “And what happens when they find out it was me who gave them up?” Not that there was any way I was telling Woodhouse anything, not with Zadie holding that video of Dylan and me. “What then?”

  “That won’t happen, Amelia,” Woodhouse said. “I promise.”

  “Sure you do.” I stood up. “Can I go?”

  “Yes, Amelia, you may go,” Woodhouse said. He looked more than disappointed. Sad almost. “But think about what I said. These girls aren’t worth your future.”

  gRaCeFULLY

  OCTOBER 17TH

  * * *

  Because there are 176 definitions for the word loser on urbandictionary.com.

  Don’t Be a Statistic

  * * *

  Hey people,

  So Dylan Crosby is indeed in love. That’s the word on the street. Who she’s in love with is another question. I know we were all hoping it would be Mr. Woodhouse. I mean, I feel like he deserves a hot, nubile, young thing. But it’s not Phillip, as far as we can tell.

  A bunch of the senior class—the membership of Devonkill, sources tell me—got picked up by their parents at the 78th Precinct last night. Seems like they mistook a stoop for a nightclub on the wrong block. Come on, people, everybody knows that you don’t party on Montgomery Place. That little block is like the nicest in the whole hood. And John Turturro suffers stoop sitters for no man.

  But lucky for those idiots, one of their dads is a councilman. So faster than you can say expunged, they were all bounced. One of them did get her sweet seventeen at the Standard Hotel kiboshed. Don’t worry, though, sunshine, I’ve heard that place won’t even let you wear tiaras.

  We’re still a few months off from early decision notices going out, but Zadie Goodwin seems really confident about her early admission chances. Part of me thinks that’s because her stepdaddy’s been greasing some serious wheels. Then again, maybe she’s been greasing them herself, down on her knees.

  Kate

  JULY 23, 1997

  Called in sick to work for third straight day. I promised myself it was the last. I’ll go back tomorrow. Seems stupid to ruin my whole entire life just because I screwed up a part of it.

  Last night, I decided to go drown my sorrows at a bar by myself. And I drank a lot of beer. I don’t even drink beer.

  But that was what Rowan was drinking. And you want to know who Rowan is? He’s the completely cute boy I ended up talking with all night long about his passion for teaching and mine for helping people as a lawyer, which was when I remembered that that was what I’d gone to law school to do: to help people. I was going to be a public defender or help homeless people. Instead, I ended up in the Slone, Thayer pit of corporate greed.

  I blame Gretchen. The worst part is that I fit right in. They love me there. I blame her for that, too.

  Rowan would never fit in. He’s funny and principled and smart, with this great shaggy beard and the warmest eyes. I felt as if I’d known him my whole life, and that was even before beer number three, when I got pretty drunk.

  And so by the time he dropped the bomb that he was on his way to Africa, where he was going to build schools and then teach whole villages how to read and probably purify all their water in his free time, I had already completely fallen for him.

  We exchanged e-mail addresses. But come on, three years? One night? I give us two e-mails back and forth.

  The only really good choice I made was not sleeping with him. At least then it doesn’t really count as another failed romance. The kiss was amazing, though. And I needed it. I was pretty much convinced that I was never going to be able kiss anyone again, at least not without feeling like a whore.

  Kate

  SLONE, THAYER

  JULY 24, 1997

  Jeremy: Are you okay?

  Kate: I’m fine

  Jeremy: Are you sure? You were out for three days.

  Kate: The flu. I’m fine.

  Jeremy: I can make an excuse for you. You don’t have to be at the meeting. I have your memo.

  Kate: No, I’ll be there. I’m fine. Really.

  SLONE, THAYER

  JULY 25, 1997

  Daniel: Are you coming tonight?

  Kate: No

  Daniel: Why? You know you’re doing the exact opposite of what you’re supposed to do as a summer associate. You’re supposed to NOT do any work and party nonstop on their dime.

  Kate: You do know these firm chats are monitored, right?

  Daniel: Slone, Thayer knows the deal as well as I do. Come. It’s a catered picnic for the philharmonic in the park. Free champagne. A bunch of us are going out afterward too.

  Kate: Ok; I’ll come

  Daniel: Seriously?

  Kate: Seriously.

  Kate

  AUGUST 15, 1997, 4:18 AM

  To: Kate Baron

  From: rowan627@aol.com

  Subject: Sorry!

  Katie! I just saw your e-mail! I know you sent it about two weeks ago. And I’m so glad you did. How has your summer been? I’ve thought so much about you since I got here. I really did feel a connection with you, Katie. I wasn’t just saying that. And I hope you e-mailing means you felt the same way.

  Do I sound crazy? Probably. That’s the problem with e-mail. There’s nothing to stop me from running my mouth . . .

  Anyway, Ghana is cool. Weird and scary and beautiful. And they seem to like my guitar playing, which is a bonus. I wish you were here to see it with me. And I know we don’t even know each other. But I still mean it.

  Anyway, write with news of the U.S., more importantly, of you. Have you thought any more about bagging the corporate gig . . . ? If you do, we could always use an extra set of hands down here. I’ll have access to Internet for the next few weeks, but then I’ll be out of touch for six months, I know. Six months. Six months and we only knew each other like six hours.

  Then again, things that are meant to work out, usually do.

  Everyone has beacons. Lights that guide them home.

  peace,

  Rowan

  Kate

  NOVEMBER 28

  A girl. Amelia was in love with a girl. After Lew had dropped Kate back home, she’d sat on her living room couch, coat still on, repeating the words to herself over and over again. My daughter was in love with a girl. My daughter was in love with a girl. Her interest in boys hadn’t been late blooming; it had been dead on the vine.

  Kate wasn’t upset that Amelia had been gay, but she was hurt and shaken that she’d had absolutely no idea. None. I’m sure you had a feeling, deep down, her friends would have said if they knew. Because in some magical, cosmic way, mothers were supposed to know every important thing about their children. Kate had worried from the start that she might lack this special motherly intuition, but she’d always believed her genuine closeness with Amelia would overcome any shortfall. She’d been so very wrong. That was obvious now.

  Suddenly, all those little “I hate you” notes had taken on an even more sinister meaning, too. Was that what the Birds of a Feather group had objected to, that Amelia was gay? It seemed a stretch that being gay would be such an offense to a bunch of teenagers in a neighborhood as progressive as Park Slope. But maybe it had been an affair between two of their members that had been the real problem. Because Dylan had been on the list, too. Lew had pointed out her name after they’d left Liv’s office. It had taken every ounce of K
ate’s self-control not to race straight to her computer when she got home and pull up Dylan’s Birds of a Feather pictures. But seeing her daughter’s girlfriend posing half naked for the camera was, Kate knew, more than she could possibly handle.

  She dug her phone out of her bag and texted Seth instead.

  Amelia was gay.

  In under a minute, he called. As she knew he would.

  “What do you mean she was gay?” were the first words out of his mouth.

  “I just found out she had a girlfriend.”

  “Huh.” There was a long silence as Kate waited for Seth to say something more.

  “ ‘Huh’? That’s it?” she snapped. “That’s all you’re going to say? I mean, did you know?”

  “How would I know?” Seth asked, sounding defensive. “It’s not like we all emit some secret frequency that only other gays can hear.”

  “But you don’t exactly seem surprised.”

  Seth took a noisy breath. “I thought maybe Amelia was figuring some stuff out. I mean, she was gorgeous and a teenager and without a boy in sight? It raised some flags. But I’m sure none of that was lost on you.”

  Except that it had been, completely and totally, lost on her.

  “Why didn’t she tell me?” Kate asked. Her voice was thin, rough. “We were close. Why didn’t she think she could come to me?”

  “Listen, my parents are lovely people. They love me unconditionally, and we’ve always been close, too. I knew that my having feelings for other boys would never change that. And look how long it took for me to come out, even to myself. I wasn’t ready. That was the bottom line. It didn’t have anything to do with my parents.”

  “Then why do I feel so awful?”

  “Listen, Lola’s only five, and even I know that being a parent is awful ninety-five percent of the time,” Seth said. “As far as I can tell, it’s that last five percent that keeps the human race from dying out. Four parts blinding terror, one part perfection. It’s like mainlining heroin. One taste of life on that edge and you’re hooked.”