The guy right across from me, who is wearing a baseball cap sideways, says, “Hey, sorry about your friend.”
The others mumble similar things. I nod and put my head down, hiding behind my curtain of droopy brown hair as I stab at a small pineapple chunk on my tray.
Curtis gestures at my tray, which has a tiny cup of fruit cocktail, a roll and a few slices of ham. “Don’t overdo it.”
For a second, I’m paralyzed with fear. My heart is racing. Then he playfully bumps his shoulder against mine.
“Chill out. You are among the nonjudgmental portion of our fine student body. In other words, we don’t give a shit. Look around,” he swings his arm, gesturing to the table full of his friends.
One girl shoots me a tentative smile and at that simple gesture, my whole body relaxes.
“Every single kid in this school is fighting their own demons. Every single fucking one of us,” he says, his voice rising. “Just so happens that your own personal hell was made public. We’re all just lucky we’re able to keep our own shit under wraps. But we all got shit. Every single person in this room.”
The girl nods, lifting her eyebrows as she chews.
I am wide-eyed at his speech. I’m also a little mortified.
“Listen,” Curtis says, obviously not finished. “My old man taught me something. When I first came out and some people in my family couldn’t handle it, my pop told me, ‘Curtis, consider the source.’ You know what that means? For me, that meant realizing my grandma was told her entire life that homosexuality was a sin, so think about what it is like for her to hear her grandson is gay. She’s probably not going to accept it. At least not at first. Maybe not ever. But she still loves me. I just don’t talk about it when she’s around, you know. It sucks a little bit, but I have to remember she’s old. And that she loves me. So, consider the source. Those kids can’t handle the thought that they could easily be like you — with all their dirty laundry aired in public. Dig?”
I am speechless. “Thanks,” I finally manage.
Is this how all the theater kids talk?
If so, I think I’ve found my people.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When the bell rings at the end of the day, I hang back from the excited crowd storming out of school. My mother texted me during math saying Dr. Shapiro would see me today. The city bus that takes me to my appointment in Uptown won’t be here for ten minutes.
Thank God for Curtis taking me under his wing during first period and at lunch because the rest of this day was pure hell. Every single class was filled with stupid people whispering about Danielle. It got to the point where I left my ear buds in the entire time. None of the teachers said a word to me about it, only gave me sideways glances. I’d been treated as special ever since that first day I returned back from the hospital in the beginning of ninth grade. The school nurse had apparently talked with all the teachers in the school and as long as I turned in my homework on time, they never said squat to me. They must think I need to be handled with kid gloves. I try to remember what Curtis said — consider the source. But away from his confident presence, it doesn’t help.
I hate it. All I’ve ever wanted is to be normal, average, like everyone else. It was a long time ago — two full years since I had to be hospitalized. It’s over. But in the back of my mind I think about how I still see Dr. Shapiro every week.
DR. SHAPIRO’S OFFICE isn’t like a shrink’s office you’d see on TV. Her office is tiny, barely fitting a desk, two chairs and small bookshelf. Her desk faces a wall of pictures and she turns her chair around to face mine. A small bookshelf on the wall beside us has books with names like, “The Boy Who Was Raised as a Dog” and “Smart but Scattered.” When I was younger, she’d fish the colored pencils and paper off the bottom shelf and tell me to draw how I was feeling.
She was the first one who told me I could actually study art in college if I wanted to. She showed my drawings to my mom and said, “Encourage this talent.” Ever since then, every Christmas or birthday has included art supplies from my mom. My mom said she dropped out of college when she had me. Her dream is for me to get a college degree.
Now that I’m older, Dr. Shapiro and I don’t talk about my eating disorder, we just talk about how I’m feeling. I truly don’t think I need to see her anymore — I’m up to a healthy weight and don’t hear the voices anymore telling me I’m fat — but my mom says let’s finish out the school year. Because the truth is that Dr. Shapiro tells me it’s something I always need to watch. Or fight.
“I’m so very, very sorry to hear about the death of Danielle,” Dr. Shapiro says holding her door open for me from the lobby. Her eyes are soft behind her giant red plastic frame glasses Her big lacquer black bouffant of hair doesn’t move as she walks. Today, she wears a black leather choker with a giant green stone in the middle that I can’t stop staring at. I always love her jewelry.
“I got this in Belize at the foot of the Aztec ruins,” She fingers the stone. “Do you like it?”
I nod and look down at my Converse sneakers. There’s a little brown dot on the toe. Puke? Dr. Shapiro knows the whole story with Danielle. She knows how I’ve never really been able to get over how our friendship ended. How I secretly — or not so secretly — have been jealous of Danielle. Jealous of how popular she is, how her parents are still married, how she still lives in our old neighborhood.
Nothing to be jealous of now, is there?
“After your mother called I thought it would be a good idea to see you today instead of waiting until your next appointment.”
I nod again.
“I thought it was important we address the situation right away.” She peers at me over the top of her glasses. “I don’t need to remind you that one of the coping mechanisms you’ve acquired in your lifetime is to avoid acknowledging scary or difficult or uncomfortable situations.”
I pick at my cuticle. I realize by her silence, she meant that as a question. I look up.
“And we’ve also talked about how those fears end up manifesting themselves in other ways?”
“Yes, but this is different,” I say, trying to hide the hint of exasperation I can hear in my voice.
“Is it?”
“Yes. I’m eating just fine.” The voices have disappeared.
“You know that’s not what I’m referring to.”
I shift in my seat, uncomfortably. She means how I don’t seem upset on the outside. “I cried at school.”
She puts her lips together and gives a satisfied nod. “That’s good. That’s healthy.” She leans forward. Waiting.
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say.” I fidget, now putting my foot up on one leg and picking at a piece of rubber coming off my shoe.
“This isn’t Therapy 101, Emily,” she says. “We’ve been through all this before. I want to know how you feel.”
I think for a second. “I feel guilty. She called me. Last week. I didn’t call her back. I thought I was punishing her, you know. Making her wait. And now it makes me ... it makes me sick that I didn’t even call her back. That was my last chance to talk to her and I blew it.”
Dr. Shapiro leans back. “Okay, let’s pause right there. You didn’t ‘blow’ it. You had no way of knowing that it was your last opportunity to speak to her. That is very common — to feel guilt when someone close to us dies. The death is always surrounded by many “should’ves” and “could’ves.” But none of them are true. We can’t predict the future. And, Emily,” she waits until I stop picking my shoe and meet her eyes. “The way Danielle treated you the past few years, your reluctance to return her call was a very natural reaction. A self-preservation action. I’m proud of you for that reluctance. What else do you feel? Let’s go deeper.”
I close my eyes. A sob rises to my throat and sits there like a lump.
“I feel sad. Sad that I’m never going to see her again. And that we never really ‘made up.’” I open my eyes when I realize this is true.
“Good, good
,” Dr. Shapiro says, smoothing back a strand of her hair. “What else? What else is there below the surface that you feel? Go a little bit deeper now, even deeper than the sadness.”
I close my eyes and think about the emotions swirling through me. So many. But what one is the strongest? Fear. I open them and stare at a picture of Dr. Shapiro and her husband at Machu Pichu.
“I feel scared. I feel like I could die any second, just walking down the street. Like why am I even here? I could die tomorrow. What’s the use?”
“Aha,” says Dr. Shapiro and sits back with a smile. “That is very normal and yet insightful for a girl your age.”
I frown. I don’t want to be “insightful.” I’ve never wanted to be different or special. I just want to be average.
IT’S SUNSET BY THE time the city bus pulls up. I’m cold and tired when I board. I scan my bus pass and settle in at my regular seat, pressing my face against the window. I rummage in my tote bag to find my book. I’m about two chapter’s into “The Fixes,” and want to bury my nose in that book and forget about the real world. I need to escape the images flitting into my mind of Danielle’s body bobbing in the waves. As the bus drives down Hennepin Avenue a group of kids take over the sidewalk near the McDonald’s. Gutterpunks.
I sit up and crane my neck to watch them. Even from afar, they look dirty, like they need an industrial strength hose turned on them. Their clothes make them look like punk rock hobos — ripped tee shirts and jeans. They wear layers upon layers. Scuffed boots with the laces undone. Grime on faces and hands and necks. Hair snarled or in dreadlocks. Noses and eyebrows and chins pierced. Tattoos everywhere. Leather jackets. At least one pit bull on a thick chain leash.
The bus is stopped at a red light so I have time to stare as they push and jostle each other. I see one take a long pull out of something in a brown paper bag and tuck it back inside his long trench coat. I’m searching for a familiar profile in the group.
Then I spot him.
He stands out from the rest. He’s wearing that same newsboy cap. I know for sure now — he’s the boy Danielle looked at so adoringly. He was there last night at the lake.
The light changes and almost immediately our bus pulls into the transit station about a block away. I arch my neck looking through the back windows of the bus, trying to get a glimpse of them. They are heading our way.
The bus driver follows the passengers out the door. We must be early. The bus driver is taking a quick break. I settle in for the wait, watching, as the group gets closer.
Soon, they are beside the bus. A girl rushes up to the guy in the newsboy cap and gives him a hug. Then he fists bumps a guy at her side. The couple wears huge backpacks. They exchange hugs with the others.
Everyone backs away except the couple and a guy with sloped shoulders and a weasel-like face. He leans in and talks to them for a few seconds. Their smiles fade and they nod, seemingly listening intently to what he is saying. The girl looks down at the ground with a frown. He takes an envelope and sticks it in the boy’s front shirt pocket. It is thick. They turn and he pats them on the back and they board the bus opposite mine. Number 23.
Standing back, leaning against a wall is the boy in the cap. He looks down and shakes his head. Then, he takes the back of his hand and swipes it over his eyes, quickly looking around to see if anyone is watching.
I want to jump off the bus and talk to him — ask him if he was with Danielle the night she drowned. Ask him if he was her boyfriend. Why did the cops take him and those other two gutterpunks away that night? My leg twitches, but I stay put in my seat. Staring. I wonder if he can feel my stare. But he never looks up. For some reason, watching him and his friends fills me with longing. I’m overcome with loneliness. I don’t understand it at all. Is it because Danielle chose them over me?
He stands alone, puffing on a cigarette. He watches until the 23 bus with the other gutterpunks on it pulls away. I am jolted when our bus lurches away from the curb. I hadn’t even noticed the bus driver get back on board.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Even though I know we don’t have money for it, my mom brings home takeout from the Thai food restaurant where she waits tables.
“Got really good tips today,” she says without looking at me as she gets some plates out of the cupboard. “Big business men from out of town with the company credit card. Thought I’d use part of it to give us a treat.”
She’s lying. We can’t afford to eat at her restaurant, but she has become a food pusher ever since I got the eating disorder. Even now that I’m healthy again, when she worries about me, she feeds me. I wish she had saved her money. I’m fine.
The money my Dad sends barely makes a dent in our steep rent, even in this part of town. When Dad’s construction business folded, he lost everything. So, now the judge says he doesn’t have to give my mom very much money each month. My dad keeps telling me he’s about to hit the big time on some new scheme in New York. It never happens.
But my mom says the cost of rent is worth it to be in a house. She says it’s better than living in a duplex. I heard her whispering to Sam one night about how bullets can go through walls in a duplex. She rents this tiny two-story house in the Camden neighborhood with bars on all the downstairs windows, even though she won’t let me walk the neighborhood at night and practically throws me to the floor if she hears distant gunshots. She wouldn’t even let me take the bus if it wasn’t for the bus stop being right in front of our house. But that also makes her nervous when she sees tough-looking people waiting for the bus.
I don’t want her to worry so I smile at her and act excited about dinner.
Tonight, she’s brought home my favorites, including chicken coconut soup and cream-cheese-filled wontons.
The table is set for two. Sam isn’t here. It’s my fault. I haven’t forgotten how they fought over me this morning. But before I can say anything, Mom says that Sam is busy at a city council meeting tonight. Sam’s a city attorney for a small suburban city to the east of us.
“He’ll be bummed he missed this dinner,” she says and gives a little smile. Is she trying to convince herself or me?
I twirl my Pad Thai on my fork and dip it in the extra container of peanut sauce my mother always orders. The noodles are the first food that has tasted good — not like sawdust — all day. My mother watches approvingly, trying not to let me see she’s doing so. But after only a few bites, my stomach gets that full feeling again. It’s been nearly a year since I felt this way — what I dubbed “The Fat Feeling” — and for a second a jolt of panic surges through me. You’re fine, Em. You are at a healthy weight. It’s just been a hellish day. I choke down another few bites.
“How’d it go with Dr. Shapiro?”
“Good,” I say, taking a sip of my creamy, sweet Thai iced tea. I don’t want to drink very much of it or it will make me feel even more bloated. Despite myself I take another long tug on my straw.
There was a time when even my favorite foods sounded horrible. Simply liking the taste of food means I’ve come a long way. At least that’s what Dr. Shapiro would say. After seeing her weekly for four years, I can often hear her voice in my head, praising me or urging me to think about my choices.
“I cried today.” I volunteer this and take another big slurp of my drink.
“Oh, that’s great, honey.” My mom says it like I’ve just told her I got an A on a term paper.
My mom takes another bite of her egg roll. Sometimes I wondered if she keeps me seeing Dr. Shapiro so the therapist can deal with all my emotions instead of her. As soon as I think this, I’m filled with guilt. I know that’s not fair and not true. My mom clears her plate. She’s eaten every bite. I nibble on a won ton and move the pieces around enough so it looks like I’ve eaten more. I know I’m not fooling anyone.
LATER, I GO TO MY ROOM to work on my English homework, an essay about Nelson Mandela, and try to ignore thoughts of Danielle’s body bopping in the waves.
After a half hour, I shut m
y laptop lid. I rummage in my tote bag and get out my sketch book, playing with images of that boy I saw in the cap. After a few lame attempts where I can’t quite get his face right, I put the sketch book back and instead reach down to open my desk drawer.
Like everything else I own, I know exactly where the pictures are. I carefully take out all my old sketchbooks and the container of my pastel pencils out of my bottom drawer and set them on the floor. Underneath is a shoebox with all my special pictures — I dig through the ones of me and my mom and dad before the divorce when we lived in our Pleasanton house. I unearth the ones I’m looking for. Pictures of Danielle and me — up until ninth grade when it all went bad.
The picture on top is an old one. We’re in front of my old house. The one with the perfect lawn, giant wrap around front porch and big Maple tree out front. I push the sadness down and carefully study the photo. I was only thirteen, but I weighed more than I do now, four years later. I have on shorts and my thighs stick out like little sausages. I shake away that thought and give it a closer look. No, those are little girl legs like most little girls have. They are healthy and strong and normal — words Dr. Shapiro taught me — not “fat.”
I feel sorry for this girl in the picture. This girl I once was. Her little legs aren’t sausages. She’s not fat. She’s just normal — what I’ve always wanted to be. Normal. I close my eyes, thankful that with a little bit of self-talk I can see this. Finally.
Opening my eyes, I run my finger across the photo.
In the picture, I’m watching Danielle out of the corner of my eye, probably jealous of her skinny legs. I remember that when I saw how she was standing, I struck the same pose, jutting my hip out and putting my hand on my waist like she was doing.
From the first time I met Danielle in preschool, I’ve wanted to be like her. I’ve wanted to be the girl the boys chased and teased. The girl who got the most Valentines in our class. The kid that girls and boys alike fought over — to sit beside, to invite to birthday parties, to pick for their team on the playground.
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