“We’re doing two kinds of potatoes,” Mom said to me, gesturing for me to pull a couple of plastic bags from the dispenser. “I’m doing my creamed casserole, and Whitney’s doing some kind of roasted potatoes with olive oil.”
“Really,” I said, handing the bags over to her.
“It’s some recipe Moira gave her,” she said. “Isn’t that great?”
It was. My own problems aside, I could not help but be impressed with Whitney’s recent progress. A year ago everything had started; now, while she was still by no means cured, the changes in her were yet again evident, but they were all good ones.
First, she’d started cooking. Not a lot, and not constantly; it had started slowly, after the dinner she’d made for me. Apparently Moira Bell was big into natural foods and organic cooking, and when Whitney told her about making spaghetti, she’d lent her a couple of cookbooks. My mother’s meals tended toward the creamy and hearty: lots of casseroles with cream of mushroom bases, heavy sauces, meats, and starches. Whitney’s interest, not surprisingly, leaned in a different direction. She’d started by contributing salads to our dinners now and then, going to the farmer’s market and loading up with vegetables, which she’d spend ages slicing and dicing. Her dressings were vinaigrettes, swirled with herbs; reach for the Thousand Island or ranch and she’d shoot you a look suggesting that you don’t. Then, the weekend of the fashion show, she made grilled salmon with a lime sauce for my parents, followed by steamed green beans with fresh lemon to replace the gooey casserole with french-fried onion topping we normally had for Thanksgiving. My mother was a great cook, the kind who worked on instinct, with no real measurements, only pinches and dashes. When Whitney cooked, she was all about exactitude, and her natural bossiness—about the dressing, or how yes, we could live without butter on every side dish—was just part of the process. But even at its most annoying, it was still an improvement, and we were all eating better. Whether we liked it or not.
She was also writing. She’d finished her official history by the end of the October, but since then she’d kept at it, often sitting at the dining-room table scribbling on a notepad, or curling up by the fire chewing her pencil. So far she hadn’t let me read anything she’d written, although it wasn’t like I’d asked, either. Still, the couple of times I’d found her notebook on the stairs, or the kitchen table, I’d been tempted to open it, just to see what was within all those carefully written lines. But I didn’t. After all, I could understand about keeping things to yourself.
The most amazing thing, though, was the herbs. After sitting in the window doing absolutely nothing for a couple of months, the rosemary had suddenly sprouted just before Halloween. It was just one tiny, green shoot, but in the next week the others followed suit. Whitney checked on them every single day, testing the dampness of the soil with her fingers, turning them slightly for the optimum amount of light. Where I’d once thought of my middle sister as a closed door, these days when I pictured her I saw another image: her hands, curved around a chopping knife, or a pen, the handle of a watering can, moving across the plants, helping them grow.
Kirsten, meanwhile, had not only survived the showing of her piece to her professors and classmates but emerged victorious, winning the first-place prize in the competition. I’d expected her to call and regale us with one of her typical monologues, full of stream-of-consciousness details, but instead she’d left a message—telling us about the win and that she was very pleased with it—that clocked in at under two minutes, which had to be a record for her. It was so strange we were all convinced something must be wrong, but when I called her back, she said it was just the opposite.
“Things are great,” she told me. “Just great.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Your message was awfully short.”
“Was it?”
“I thought the machine had cut you off, at first,” I said.
She sighed. “Well, that’s not altogether surprising, I guess. I’ve really been doing a lot of work on how I convey myself these days.”
“You are?” I asked.
“Well, sure.” She sighed again, a happy sigh. “It’s amazing what I’ve learned this semester. I mean, between the filmmaking and Brian’s class, I’m learning a lot about the true meaning of communication. It’s really opened my eyes.”
I waited for her to go on, to explain. Especially about Brian. But she didn’t. Instead, she told me she loved me and had to run, and that she’d see me soon. And then we hung up. In under four minutes.
Kirsten may have been mastering the art of true communication, but I was failing miserably. Not just with Owen, but with my mother as well, as I’d somehow, in the midst of everything else that was happening, agreed to do another Kopf’s commercial.
It happened the same week I’d heard about Emily’s pressing charges. When I got home from school that Friday, my mother was waiting for me at the door.
“Guess what!” she said, before I even stepped over the threshold. “I just got a call from Lindy. The Kopf’s people contacted her yesterday morning. They want you for their new spring commercial.”
“What?” I said.
“Apparently they were very pleased with how the fall campaign went. Although, I have to say, I think your meeting that man from marketing last weekend didn’t hurt. They’re shooting in January but they want to see you in December for a fitting. Isn’t it great?”
Great, I thought. The truth was, a couple of months ago this would have been a much bigger deal. A couple of weeks ago, maybe I might have even been able to stop it. But now, I just stood there, and barely managed to nod.
“I told Lindy I’d call her as soon as I told you,” she said, going into the kitchen and picking up the phone. As she dialed, she added, “From what Lindy said, the ad skewed really well with younger girls, and that’s what really won the Kopf’s people over. You’re a role model, Annabel! Isn’t that something?”
I thought of Mallory’s room, the screen captures lined up on the wall. And then her face staring into the camera, the feathers from the boa floating up to the edges.
“I’m no role model,” I said.
“Sure you are,” she replied, so easily. She turned and looked at me, smiling again as she shifted the phone to her other ear. “You have so much to be proud of, honey. You really do. I mean—Lindy?…Hi! It’s Grace, I’ve been trying to get through…is your receptionist out?…Still?…That’s horrible…. Yes, I’ve just talked to Annabel, and she’s thrilled….”
Thrilled, I thought. Not quite. And not a role model, either. Not that it mattered. As long as someone else thought I was those things, that was all that counted.
October had folded into November and then December somehow without my even noticing, the days getting shorter and colder, Christmas music suddenly on the radio. I went to school, I studied, I came home. Even when people did try to talk to me at school, I barely replied, so used to my isolation that now I preferred it. At first, on weekend nights, my mom and dad seemed curious as to why I didn’t go out or have plans. But after a few times of telling them I was just so tired from the Models and school and trying to catch up on my schoolwork, they stopped asking.
Still, I was aware of what was happening around me. I knew from the rumor mill that Will’s trial was coming up, and there was still talk that some girls from Perkins Day would come forward with stories similar to Emily’s. As for Emily herself, she seemed to be doing well. She certainly wasn’t hiding out. In fact, I saw her everywhere—in the halls, the courtyard, hanging out in the parking lot—always with a bunch of girls around her. A week or so earlier, in the hallway between classes, I’d caught a glimpse of her standing by her locker, laughing at something. Her cheeks had been flushed, her hand covering her mouth. It was just one moment, one thing, but for some reason it stuck with me, all that day and into the next. I could not get it out of my mind.
Sophie was not faring so well. Usually when I saw her, she was alone, and she now left for lunch almost ev
ery day, a black car sliding to a stop to pick her up. It wasn’t Will, and I wondered if they were still together. Because I hadn’t heard otherwise, I assumed they were.
It seemed like a million years ago now that school had begun, and I’d been so scared of her. Now when I saw Sophie, I just felt tired and sad for both of us. Only when I saw Owen did I feel a twinge of something like loneliness. But even though we weren’t talking, I was still listening, in my own way.
Not to the radio show, although I still found myself waking like clockwork at seven A.M. on Sundays, a bad habit that proved impossible, for whatever reason, to break. Even harder to shake was the music itself. Not just his music, either, but all music.
I wasn’t sure when it had started, exactly, but suddenly I was very aware of silence. Everywhere I went, I needed some kind of noise. When I was in the car, I instantly turned on my stereo; in my room, I hit the light switch first, my CD player ON button second. Even in class, or sitting at the table with my parents, I’d always have to have some song in my head, repeating itself again and again. I remembered Owen telling me how music had saved him in Phoenix, that it drowned everything out, and it was the same for me now. As long as I had something to listen to, I could blur the things I didn’t want to think about, if not block them out completely.
It took a lot of music to do this, though, and after a few weeks, I’d burned through my entire collection multiple times. Which was why, on a recent Saturday night, I’d broken down and pulled out the stack Owen had burned me. Desperate times, I thought as I opened up the PROTEST SONGS one again and stuck it in.
I still didn’t love it. Some of the songs were strange, and others I didn’t understand. But while I’d expected it to be weird to listen to Owen’s music, I found a surprising comfort instead. There was something nice about picturing him picking the songs for me, organizing them so carefully, hoping I’d be enlightened. If nothing else, they proved we had been friends, once.
For the past few weeks I’d been working my way through the discs, song by song, listening to every single track until I knew them all by heart. Each time I finished with one, I felt sad, knowing there were only that many more left before this, too, was over. Because of this, I was planning to save the one that said JUST LISTEN. Like Owen had been to me once, it was a total mystery, and sometimes one I thought maybe was best unsolved. Still, I pulled it out every once in a while, just turning it in my hands before sliding it back to the bottom of the stack and leaving it there.
When my mom and I finally headed out into the Mayor’s Market parking lot, I was surprised to see it was snowing. The flakes were the big, fat kind, too pretty to stick or last, but we both stopped still for a moment, looking up at them as they fell. By the time we got in the car and pulled out of the lot, they were already slowing, some catching the wind, blowing in circles. My mom turned on the wipers as we sat at a stoplight, watching the flakes hit the windshield.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she said. “There’s something about snow that just makes everything seem so fresh and new. Don’t you think?”
I nodded. The light was a long one, and even though it was barely five P.M., it was already getting dark. My mom glanced over at me, smiling, then reached forward to the radio. As she twisted the volume, filling the car with classical music, I turned my head to the side. The window was cool against my cheek, those pretty flakes still falling, as I closed my eyes.
Chapter SIXTEEN
The library carrel where I was spending my lunches was deep in the far right corner, out of sight and away from most foot traffic. I wasn’t used to having company. Which was why when Emily came looking for me thirty minutes into the last lunch before Christmas break, I saw her first.
Initially, she was just a flash of red in the corner of my eye, blurring past once, then twice. I glanced up from my English notes, which I had spread out in front of me, doing some last minute cramming, then looked around me: nothing. Same quiet shelves, same rows of books. A moment later, though, I heard footsteps. When I turned around, she was standing at the end of the stack just behind me.
“Oh,” she said. Her voice was quiet but audible. “There you are.”
Like I’d been lost. Misplaced, only now turning up, like a sock you find long after you’ve assumed it was eaten by the dryer. I didn’t say anything, too distracted by a rising panic. I’d picked my spot because it was secluded, faced the wall, and was tucked away from everything, the same reasons it was the last place you wanted to find yourself trapped.
Emily started toward me, and without even realizing it I leaned back, bumping the carrel behind me. She stopped, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Look,” she said. “I know things have been weird between us this year. But I…I need to talk to you.”
Somewhere nearby, I could hear voices, one male, one female, chatting as they moved through the stacks. Emily heard it, too, turning her head at the sound, until it faded. Then she grabbed a nearby chair, dragging it closer to me, and sat down. Her voice was barely a hush as she said, “I know you’ve heard what happened. What Will did to me.”
She was so close I could smell her perfume, something fruity and floral.
“Afterwards,” she continued, keeping her green eyes level on me, “I started thinking about you. And that night at the party, back when school ended last year.”
I could hear myself breathing, which meant she probably could, too. Behind her, the trees beyond the window shifted, and a shaft of sunlight spilled across the shelves of books, dust dancing within it.
“You don’t have to talk to me about it,” she said. “I mean, I know you hate me and all.”
I thought of Clarke, looking up at me from that chair at Bendo. Is that what you think? she’d replied, when I’d said this same thing to her.
“But the thing is,” Emily said, “if something did happen…something like what happened to me, it could help. Make it stop, I mean. Make him stop.”
I still hadn’t said a word. I couldn’t. Instead, I just sat there, immobile, as she reached into the pocket of her jeans, pulling out a small white card.
“This is the name of the woman who’s been working on my case,” she said, holding the card out to me. When I didn’t reach for it immediately, she put it on the table, beside my elbow, faceup. The name was in black, a seal of some sort on the top left-hand corner. “The trial starts on Monday, but they’re still wanting to talk to people. You could just call her and tell her…whatever you wanted. She’s really nice.”
The one thing that scared me more than anything, the reason I hadn’t been honest with Owen about what was really bothering me that night at Bendo—she made it sound easy. If I couldn’t tell him, the one person I actually thought could take it, how on earth could I be expected to confide in a stranger? There was no way. Even if I wanted to. Which I didn’t.
“Just think about it,” she told me. Then she took in a breath, like she might add something, but didn’t, instead just pushing herself to her feet. “I’ll see you around, okay?”
She pushed the chair back into place, then started down the nearest row of shelves. After taking a couple of steps, though, she turned back to face me. “And Annabel?” she said. “I’m sorry.”
These two words just hung there for a moment in the air between us, and then she was walking away, disappearing around the empty carrel on the far end of the row. I’m sorry. It was the same thing that I wanted to say to her, that I’d wanted to say ever since that Saturday night at the fashion show. What did she have to apologize for?
But even as my mind grappled with this, trying to work the logic, I could feel it, a visceral reaction to what had just happened, her coming closer than anyone to the truth. My truth. And just like that, I could feel something rising up inside me. I looked around, wondering where on earth I could get sick quietly and discreetly. But then something else happened: I started to cry.
Cry. Really cry, the way I hadn’t in years, the kind of full-out sobbing t
hat hits you like a wave, pulling you under. Suddenly the tears were just coming, sobs climbing up my throat, my shoulders shaking. I turned around clumsily, trying to hide myself, banging my elbow on the edge of the carrel, and the business card Emily had left fell to the floor, fluttering end over end before landing at my feet. I put my head in my hands, pressing my palms over my eyes to shut out everything, even as the tears continued. I cried and cried, there in the library, tucked away in the corner, until I felt raw inside.
I was so scared about being discovered, but nobody came. Nobody heard. In my own ears, though, my sobs sounded primal and scary, like something I would have turned off if I’d been able to. Instead all I could do was just ride it out, until it—and I—was done.
When that happened, I dropped my hands and looked around me. Nothing had changed. The books were still there, the dust dancing in the light, the card at my feet. I reached down for it, closing my fingers over one edge and lifting it up. I did not read it, or even glance at it. But I did slide it into the pocket of my bag, stuffing it down and away just as the bell rang and the period ended.
For the rest of the day, you could just feel the pre–holiday-break restlessness in the air, everyone counting down until vacation officially began.
After finishing my exam late, I headed to my locker, then to the bathroom, which was empty except for a girl who was leaning in close to the mirror, putting on liquid blue eyeliner. Soon after I went into the stall, I heard her leave, and I thought I was alone. When I came out, though, Clarke Reynolds, in jeans and a TRUTH SQUAD T-shirt, was leaning against the sink.
“Hi,” she said.
My first instinct was to look behind me, which was crazy, as well as kind of stupid, as I could see in the mirror there was no one there.
“Hey,” I said.