“I’ll be back in thirty,” I said, and took off. I wanted a break from her, from how happy she was that I’d let her take me somewhere, but there was no way I could spend an hour in the mall. It reminded me too much of Julia, of the way things used to be.
I avoided all the stores we went in, which left me with the stationery store, with its cutesy fake-homemade cards, and the kitchen store. I went in the kitchen store and walked around looking at the pots and pans and twelve dollar jars of salsa. It was very boring, even with a huge candy display at the back of the store, and after what felt like three hours, the cutting-edge and very expensive clock on display said ten minutes had passed. I moved on to looking at vinegars. That took three minutes, and that included reading the back of one of the bottles. (Apparently organic vinegar is necessary if you really want to “taste the flavor” of your food. Go figure.)
I’d saved the candy for last but it was “old-fashioned” stuff involving a lot of dried fruit. There was a ton of it, though, and after a while I found something with chocolate and marshmallows that looked edible. I could almost hear J saying, “Finally! Real food!”
I went through the whole stack of boxes twice before picking one up. It looked like all the others, but choosing that one meant that by the time I was done the clock showed twenty-three minutes had passed.
Then it hit me. What was I going to do with the candy? Buy it? Julia wasn’t there to share it with, to pick off the marshmallow parts and eat them first like she did with s’mores. The store’s cash register froze up as I stood there, and I watched it spit a long trail of receipts into the air.
The salesperson, who was about Julia’s mom’s age and had her color hair, bright bottle blond, looked like she was going to burst into tears. I had to put the candy down and leave then. I don’t know why. It wasn’t because I thought I was going to cry or anything. I just…I felt bad, seeing that woman’s face. Being there, in the mall, without Julia.
I should have run into someone from school then. A big dramatic moment, straight out of one of those crappy movies J used to love to watch. A run-in with mustache girl, maybe. We could have exchanged glances, both of us knowing that shopping alone on a weekday afternoon wasn’t normal. It couldn’t ever pass as normal.
But I didn’t see mustache girl. I didn’t see anyone, and I walked back to Mom. She was talking on her cell when I got to the food court, facing away from me with one arm propped up on a table, head resting on her hand as she talked.
I used to sit like that when I talked to Julia.
“I’m trying,” she said. “It’s just difficult. She still hasn’t said a word to me about visiting Julia’s grave. Has she said anything to—? No, I know you’d tell me if she had. I just…I hoped. Right, I know. All she said was ‘Fine’ on the way here, Colin. No matter what I ask, that’s always her answer. I don’t know what she’s thinking. I look at her and…”
She should have realized I was behind her. Heard me breathing. Seen the shadow I cast. But of course she didn’t. “I don’t know her,” she said. “How can she be such a stranger to me? Why can’t I—? No, honey, I’m fine. I am. I just wish you and I—”
I left the mall. I didn’t want to hear her wishes. I could already guess what they were.
Outside, I went to the bus stop and stood next to two women with elaborate makeup and tired eyes. They discussed work schedules and how to sell moisturizer. They both told me I was lucky to be so tall. I sat behind them on the bus and listened to them all the way to the transfer stop, where they got off. I stayed on, resting my head against the window, and watched the sky turn dark.
Corn Syrup got on the bus my second time through the transfer stop. Her pep squad uniform was poking out of her bag just so, as if everyone on their way from work would be impressed by the fact that she’s a second-rate cheerleader. She looked washed out under the bleary lights that blinked on as passengers climbed aboard, like a shadow of herself. She paid her fare and sat down on one of the seats that face sideways, the single seats that are supposed to be for old people or pregnant women. I could almost hear Julia laughing at that. We both knew bus etiquette real well.
I missed riding the bus with Julia. I hated it when we did it, couldn’t wait for J to get her car, but now…now I would have given anything to have her sitting next to me.
An angry-looking pregnant woman got on at the commuter rail station and asked Caro, “So when is your baby due?” with a smile that was just bared teeth. Corn Syrup got up, apologizing and tripping over herself, and looked around for a seat. I watched her spot her choices. Next to a fat man sprawled out with the paper, bulk and newsprint spreading over a seat and three-quarters, or next to me.
She picked me. When she sat down, she held her bag close to her chest, biting her lip. Julia would have said, “Hi!” and stared at her until she looked away. I looked out the window. It was dark enough that I couldn’t see much of anything, and we rode in silence for what felt like a thousand years. (It was probably only nine hundred.)
No one pulled the cord for her stop, so she had to lean across me to do it. She mumbled, “Excuse me,” in a snotty voice, but the effect was totally ruined when the bus hit a pothole and her head smacked into the seat in front of us.
I didn’t laugh. I was going to, probably, but she didn’t give me a chance. Before I could do anything she’d straightened up, hands clenched around her bag again, and said, “You know our group project? For English? We should all meet at the university library this Saturday. They have to let anyone use it because it’s a state school, right?”
I shrugged. She was right about being able to use the library but I didn’t want to encourage conversation, especially since I could guess what was coming.
My silence didn’t stop her.
“I was thinking maybe you could come.”
“Why?”
“It’s a group project.”
“Right. So that’s why, in class, you and Mel spend all your time asking me what I think.”
“We’re all getting graded and we all have to—”
“Sure, that’s it. Come on. You want me there because of Beth.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Please. If just you and Mel meet, Beth will make it so you’ll be stuck eating lunch with people like me.”
She sighed. “Fine. You’re right. Look, I’m—I’m on the bus now because Mel asked me if I wanted to meet up this weekend before practice. Beth heard and told me she couldn’t give me a ride home.”
“And what, that surprised you? I could have told you your ass would be on the bus for talking to Beth’s property without her permission, and I haven’t spoken to her in years.”
Caro was silent for a moment. “Amy, about the other day—”
“What about it? I was bored, I got a meal out of listening to you whine—no big deal.”
“Right,” she said tightly. “So what about Saturday?”
“What about it?”
“I’m begging, okay? I can’t work on our presentation with just Mel.”
She sounded so miserable, and for a second I felt sorry for her. But only for a second. “Patrick will be there.”
“He won’t show up, or if he does, he’ll leave after ten minutes or something. You know he hardly ever does anything, and this certainly isn’t going to be any different. And look, it’s not like group work is optional. We all have to give this presentation. And I can’t deal with what will happen if—” Her voice cracked.
“Fine.” I so didn’t want to go through another round of Caro’s dumb Beth thing. It would just remind me of my stupidity the other day.
“Really?”
“Sure,” I said, but I didn’t mean it. If Patrick could skip out early, I could skip the whole thing. If nothing else, it would bring my A average down to something more familiar.
“Great,” she said, and relaxed her stranglehold on her bag. “So should we meet up at, like, ten? On the library steps?”
“Whatever.”
She was silent for a minute as the bus slowed down and then spoke in a rush as the brakes squealed us to a stop. “I’m going to get breakfast at Blue Moon before. I’ll be there around nine. If you want…you could meet me there.”
She stood up before I could ask her if she was having an aneurysm. I stared at the bus floor, with its covering of rail ticket stubs and crumpled newspapers, until the bus started moving again. At the next stop, I got off and called home.
Dad and Mom both came to get me. Dad was driving. He kept his head turned away when I got in the car, but as I sat down I got a glimpse of his face in the rearview mirror. His eyes were red and swollen.
Mom said, “I don’t think what you’ve done is something to smile about, Amy.”
I reached up and touched my face. There was a grin stretching across it, so wide and sharp my fingers skimmed across the edges of my gritted teeth.
On the way home she asked where I’d gone and why. I told her about the bus. I didn’t mention Corn Syrup.
“Why did you leave the mall?” Dad asked as we pulled into the driveway. In the dark his eyes looked fine.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Amy, we understand that you need your space, but your mother and I—”
“I left because she was on the phone with you, talking about me. You know, the stranger you two live with. The killer.”
“Amy—” Mom said, but I tossed her credit card at her and got out of the car before I could hear her say anything else. If there’s one thing I know, it’s how little words mean, and right then I didn’t want to hear any more of them.
Right then I knew that I couldn’t.
135 days
Hey J,
It’s Saturday night, but when I told Mom and Dad I was going to study in my room after dinner, they didn’t say, “Are you sure you don’t want to call someone and go out?” or “Maybe you could take a break later and watch a movie with us.”
That’s right, I’m spared an evening watching Mom and Dad snuggle on the sofa. The reason for this freedom? I went to the stupid library to work with my stupid English group on our stupid project.
I wasn’t planning on going, but when I got up this morning Mom had made chocolate chip muffins and Dad was looking through the Lawrenceville Parks and Leisure guide, and it was so—the whole scene should have been under glass in a museum. Or on television. Mom with fresh-baked muffins! Dad planning a family outing! Rehabilitated teenager standing in the kitchen ready to embrace family and life!
All I need is to be six inches shorter, bustier, with normal-colored hair, and the ability to act like I believe in these moments they keep trying to create.
I know what you’re thinking. Yeah, Amy, how horrible to have parents who are always so nice! What a burden to have them look so hopeful when you do something as stupid as refill someone’s juice glass as you’re taking the carton to the table!
What a blessing that they never expected or wanted anything from me until after they had to see me with glass in my hair and listen while an ER doctor told them what it meant, that I’d been there when my best friend died. What a blessing to hear your mother screaming for you even though you’d never answer before turning to me with hate-filled eyes. What a blessing to haunt my parents’ house but never have them really see me until newspaper stories ran featuring a photo taken by Kevin, bleary-eyed me leaning against a tree with a bottle pressed to my lips as you stood next to me, smiling bright-eyed and beautiful at the camera. (An hour later, the photo would have shown you with pinholes for eyes, your forehead blister hot, slurring that no, Kevin promised it was good shit before you threw up everywhere.)
Too late, too late, juice pouring does not a kind soul make, and I killed you.
I had to get out of the house after that. When they asked me where I was going, I didn’t look at their faces as I told them. I didn’t want to see the smiles, the relief in their eyes. I turned down the offer of a ride. I did take the twenty bucks Dad said he wanted to give me.
You already know where this is going, don’t you? You know I probably would have gone to meet Caro if there hadn’t been any muffins or grateful looks when I poured juice.
You know that if you had never moved to town I would be just like her.
I don’t want to understand how she feels, I don’t. But I do.
EIGHTEEN
WHEN I GOT TO BLUE MOON, it was too early for students to be there, but Corn Syrup was right up front, sitting by herself at a table by the window. She was pretending to read a book. I know because when she saw me walk up, her eyes got wide and flicked from me to the page and then back again. Then she waved, one of those small ones you do when you aren’t sure the other person will wave back.
I didn’t wave back, but I went inside. Don’t get me wrong, I knew what was going on. It was okay for her to eat breakfast with me outside of school when it was too early for anyone she knows to show up and see her. It was okay for her to talk to me about class, for us to wonder how we’re going to fill a ten-minute presentation. It was even okay for us to talk about her parents and sister. For some reason, I even mentioned Mom and Dad, the morning o’ muffins, and gratitude for juice pouring.
“That must be weird,” she said.
I pushed a piece of pancake around on my plate. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you know, having them be all over you. They used to be so into each other.”
“Still are.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“Wow. I remember when we were little and I’d come over to play, they’d say, “Go outside and have fun!” and then actually let us do that and not check in every ten seconds like my mom did. Plus the day we tried to climb up to the roof—do you remember that?—I went in to get a drink of water and they were, um, making out in your living room.”
She cleared her throat. “Anyway, Mom used to talk about how you’d follow her around the kitchen whenever you came over and she was making dinner. She thought it was so great that you asked if you could help and then did. She always said…” She trailed off.
“What?” I’d massacred my piece of pancake into nothing, and my fork slipped across the plate.
Caro bit her lip. “She said you always seemed so lonely.”
“Oh.” I put my fork down and pushed my plate away, resting my hands in my lap, palms down and pressing into my knees.
“I didn’t mean to—look, she’s crazy. She’s convinced that if I stand up straighter I’ll get a boyfriend. Really, that’s what she says.” She laughed but it was soft, weak sounding, and I could tell she knew what her mother had said wasn’t crazy at all. I pushed my hands down harder, as if I could press through my jeans, my skin, my bones, and into something else, something more solid, more real.
I wanted to tell her that what happened at breakfast with my parents wasn’t weird, it was awful. I wanted to tell her that I hated them for trying so hard and hated myself for how much part of me wants to believe that they love me as much as they love each other.
I wanted to smack her, hard, and tell her to wake up, go after Mel, grab life and live it like Julia did. I wanted to tell her that people like me and her aren’t really living at all. We’re just here. I was lucky. I got Julia, even if it wasn’t for as long as I thought. Even though I ruined it.
“We should go,” I said, and got up, dug around in my pockets and found the twenty, dropped it on the table.
“That’s too much,” Caro said, but I was already gathering my stuff and heading for the door.
She came after me. I was heading away from the university, walking toward home and those stupid muffins, when she grabbed my arm.
“You have to come or Beth will destroy me,” she said, and in that moment I actually liked her. She didn’t pretend she wanted to pay me back for her breakfast or act like she cared about what she’d said. She told me the truth. She needed me to come with her because when she talked to Beth, she had to bitch about me being
there so she could be safe.
So I went to the university library with her. Mel was already there, perched outside on the stairs waving his arms around like he was talking to someone even though he was alone. Caro let out a little sigh when we saw him.
“I bet if you tried, he could be yours by the end of the day,” I said.
“I don’t want him,” she said, and before I could laugh, added, “Oh. He’s not talking to himself. Patrick showed up. I didn’t think he would.”
Patrick was indeed there, sitting beside the huge book-drop bin, almost totally hidden from view. Inside, Mel said something about being closer to the reference databases as we grabbed a table by a window and near a door, but it was obvious that wasn’t the reason why because Patrick practically threw himself into the chair closest to the window and then stared out it like he wanted to be gone.
I wondered if that was how I looked to other people. How I acted. Maybe it should have bothered me, but it didn’t. Patrick looked uncomfortable with life, and I knew that feeling.
Mel sat across from him and next to me. Caro sat across from me. They didn’t talk at first, but within three minutes they were arguing and we’d been glared at by a couple of bleary-eyed students slumped over laptops. After a while, they went off to look something up, still arguing, leaving me with Patrick.
It was just like being alone. He didn’t talk, and every time I glanced at him—Caro wanted me to look through a list of things she’d written down, and it was so boring—he was staring out the window. Mel and Caro came back after a while, still arguing and clearly having a good time doing it because both of them were fighting back smiles as they talked.
“We can look at the other articles. I’m just asking you to—” Mel said.
“No, you were telling me there’s only one way to talk about the Mississippi River’s role in the book.”
“I’m not. I swear! It’s just that Patrick worked really hard on the multimedia presentation and I don’t think we should ask him to change—”