Annie says give us a break. To not think of Garret. She’s right. I know she is.
“So?”
“I could see you were upset. I’ve been waiting for you. What’s wrong?” he asks.
I have to look up to peer into his eyes. He’s basketball tall (though he plays rugby). His hair’s a little longer than the last time we were this close.
I love you.
Forget him.
I miss you.
Words get caught in my mouth, try to pass my teeth. Pig is in there and We’re too serious and that image of my sister looking so afraid. I can’t say any of that. Can’t put words to those thoughts. Nothing is full or spoken. I want to tell Garret everything — like I used to — even though I shouldn’t. Instead, I shake my head because tears will spill if I speak, and I don’t want him to think those tears are for him. I may be heartbroken, but I have some pride.
I manage to say, “I’m having an off day.” A fluorescent light above flickers, buzzes, goes out. The hall just-like-that feels like a scene from a slasher movie. Garret says nothing, just steps nearer — quiet, pretty the way he is, Garret. He wears that soft leather jacket, the one that almost feels like satin. His hair is damp — maybe from the snow? I lick my lips without meaning to.
“Need company?”
I don’t answer.
I can do what Annie says.
So I walk. He goes down the hall with me and I am struck, like a fist hits me, of walking down this very hall when Garret reached for my hand, caught his fingers in mine. My face went red then and I lost my voice that day too.
This walking close is something I miss. The way his hand brushes mine. (On purpose? Not on purpose?) There’s other stuff too. Like the fact that Garret is nice. How many guys out there are nice? (Did a guy write that note? A girl? Did Garret write the notes? Would he? Why? No. No, it was someone else.) I miss the way he laughs. Miss watching him play sports. Watching movies at my house. Doing homework at his. It all sort of crashes through my head, the memories. I’m so dumb. I shouldn’t want to walk beside him. But I do. I should let him go, like Annie says. But today I can’t.
I can’t.
So even though I don’t say anything and neither does Garret, we walk in step like we’re meant to be together. Like we always did. The two of us. There’s not a word between us. Just the sound of our feet on the tile floor.
sarah
At lunch, Annie finds me at my corner table and plops down next to me. She pulls out her food (homemade, of course). We could go home, but with weather like this, we’d never get back in time.
Three girls sit a few seats away. They whisper. Stare. One catches my eye. Lyndi, who was in a photography class with me last year, raises her eyebrows. It’s like this every day. The queen has fallen. Is that what they think?
Does it bother Annie like it does me?
Am I making something of nothing?
When I glance back, they’ve pulled out Norton’s Anthology and Lyndi thumbs through the pages.
I look away. A real sister, a true friend, would stand up, speak out, confront anyone who even seems to be acting nasty. But not me. I’m numb with anxiety. Did any of these girls leave that note?
The lunchroom is uncomfortable. I don’t like being here. I used to eat in the library, where there wasn’t the pounding noise, where the room wasn’t crammed hot with bodies. Then the librarian said no more.
Today I didn’t bring anything. Not even cash. I was too sick to my stomach. Somebody lets out a yodel. Another person has turned on music.
I put my hands on my stomach. Feel it move as I breathe. Concentrate on that — the air coming into my lungs. Leaving my body. Slow. Deep. No rushing or I might trigger a panic attack.
“You okay?” Annie asks.
I nod. Sure. Whatever.
A few tables over is where Melanie Simpson sits with Maeve Bradley and Georgie Wilde. Melanie has an empty chair beside her, and when she sees Annie, they wave at each other.
“Hey,” Melanie says, calling over the din of voices. Her smile is genuine.
“Hey.” And that’s all from Annie.
I would never think, to see them talking like this (or not talking?), they used to be best friends.
“Have you been crying?” Annie asks when lunch is laid out before her. There’s a turkey sandwich with avocado sticking out the edges, potato chips, a candy bar, banana, and Thermos with I-don’t-know-what in it.
I look away and Annie moves closer.
“Why?” she asks. “Why, Sarah? Did someone say something to you? Or is this about Garret? Or that silly note?”
Garret walked me to class. Caught my wrist in his hand a moment then went on to Calculus. Bent close to me like he sometimes does when we see each other. Closer. Close enough I could put my arms around his neck. I won’t. But I could.
I shake my head, clear my throat. Push at the nerves. “No. I’m okay.” I’m a little louder this time, but not that much.
Annie offers me half her sandwich and I take it because I’m starved. Instant breakfast doesn’t last long. Or maybe crying burns lots of calories.
Melanie talks loud enough for us to hear her (she’s always been loud. This group is loud. So was Annie.), but I don’t listen. Many of Annie’s friends from Before have filled in the chairs near us. They’re laughing. Made up. Pretty.
Melanie waves to someone, and I see it’s Garret. She’s telling him to come over. Come here, Garret. Sit here.
I must have imagined his closeness earlier.
I’m shaking on the inside when I catch his eye. Then don’t watch what happens. I’m not sure I can stand it if he stays with beautiful Melanie, my sister’s used-to-be best friend.
“He’s such a . . .” Annie stops talking.
“He doesn’t owe me anything,” I say. I know that. He can sit where he wants. With whomever he wants to sit. He plops into the chair near Melanie and she kisses his face hello like she’s from Europe or something.
“You better not be crying because of him,” Annie says. She looks at me, hard.
“No,” I say. That kind of crying is for home. Not school. That kind of crying is embarrassing and can be loud and is mostly reserved for the shower or when I’m all alone in the house. And why isn’t she weeping over that note? Why am I the one left to mourn over this?
Melanie laughs like she’s read my thoughts.
“Good. Let’s talk.” Annie picks up a potato chip. Waves it in front of me. “I want.” She pauses. “To start.” She grins in my face. “A club.” She points to my half of her sandwich. “I want it to be the kind that won’t discriminate against people because of the way they look. Or how they think or even what they do.”
How much did that note bother her? Does she remember the color of the ink? The slant of the letters? The hole where someone pressed too hard on the paper?
It’s so loud in here my ears hurt.
”You’d be perfect at that. Perfect.” Annie is an expert at this kind of stuff. A pageant girl spends a lot of time doing community service. Organize things for the good of others.
Annie bounces in her seat. “I know, right?” She takes a bite of sandwich. Chews slow. She gestures at me with the avocado side of the bread. “You could help.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can almost see Garret. I pretend to pay attention to Annie.
“Want to?”
“How?” I sip at chocolate milk she’s set in front of me, poured from the Thermos. There’s a hint of malt in it. It’s yummy.
“Could you make a few fliers in your design class?”
I look at my sister. Pause. Wait. Think it through. I could, with a little help from Mrs. Staheli. “Sure. What would you want?”
Annie hesitates. Then, with a gulp, she says, “What Mom said last night got to me.” She sort of glances away, like she’s embarrassed. “A mom always thinks her kid is beautiful. That’s what I thought.” She pauses. “Sarah, am I so fat I’m not pretty anymore?”
; Now I’m listening with all of me.
Annie’s inches from my face. Looking me right in the eye. Voice low.
A note from a stranger, bad enough. Stinging words from your mother? The worst.
You were pretty. You were.
When I answer, there’s hurt in the words.
“You’re beautiful, Annie,” I say. And I mean it.
annie
This is me.
Safe.
The way any girl should be.
sarah
In design class I think, A club?
Is this something, could this be something I might be able to do for Annie?
Adobe Photoshop is set up on my computer.
A flier is easy. Won’t take much time at all. A good flier? That will take a little thought. Maybe working on this will help Annie and I become even closer. Cup-my-face-in-her-hands close.
The room is filled with the hum of talk as people work on different projects. Alex Henry sings under his breath. I stare at him, trying to see if I know the song. It’s something I’ve heard on the radio. He looks up, sees me watching him. (Why am I watching him? My skin goes sunburny.) Gives me a wave. His hair is cut short. When he smiles, his eyes disappear in a squinty line. He has a nice mouth.
“Hey, Sarah,” he says.
“Hey.” I feel my face go red from embarrassment and pleasure. Who would think I have room in my heart for a cute boy to make me smile?
“What are you working on?” He walks over, dragging his chair behind him.
“Ummm.” There’s that panic. The fear of speaking. The want-to-run feeling.
Alex sits next to me. I feel his warmth. His knee touches mine.
The screen’s blank.
I force myself to look at him even though, for a moment, I think that avocado sandwich might come back up.
“I don’t have anything yet. But.” Deep breath. I can do this. Get beyond sweaty palms. Come on! “I’m thinking of a slogan for a club.”
“Club?” Alex’s eyes are too blue to look at. He has a perfect smile. He looks at the blank screen with me.
“Kind of discrimination free. Be who you want to be.” It’s a wonder I don’t stutter. “I’m helping my sister.”
“Cool.” He nods.
Does he know Annie? Of course he does.
I try to think of everything Mrs. Staheli has taught us. What are the best colors to use? The best words? What catches the eye?
“I can help out a little,” Alex says. He’s settling in. He smells so good. “If you want. I finished my project.”
“Sure,” I say, thankful I’ve spoken at all.
If helping Annie helps us, I’ll try for her. I’ll talk to Alex Henry.
Once I punched a neighborhood kid in the nose when he said Annie was ugly. Knocked him clean off his bike. That’s what I want again. That kind of a relationship. Where I’m not scared to risk anything.
So Alex and I play around for a while. He suggests a sans-serif for the font. We decide on blue and gray as the palette. We move words. Phrases. Keeping it short and sweet, like Mrs. Staheli says. “People don’t want to waste time reading when they’re walking down a hall. Driving past a billboard. Keep it pithy.”
We don’t talk much.
But I catch Alex looking at me more than once. And when I do, he smiles, eyes disappearing, every time.
annie
A club for misfits.
A place to fit in.
Saying the word lets oxygen into my lungs
and I can breathe.
sarah
We show the work to Mrs. Staheli, Alex scooting closer so our teacher can see the screen better.
“You want the colors to pop. Try this.” Mrs. Staheli makes a few small changes. “See?”
I nod.
“It’s compelling, though a little dark. What do you think? And how many fliers will you want?”
Alex has his arm on the back of the chair.
How many? Will people even show up for Annie’s club?
The Beauty Pageant Pig
“If Annie gets permission, I’d think several per hall,” our teacher says when I don’t answer. Then she rests her hand on my shoulder and says, “Good design, Sarah.”
I sort of nod. “Alex helped.”
Are these nerves for Annie or about getting so much attention from my teacher, or because Alex is moving his chair away, back to his own computer?
annie
I’ve been on the outside long enough now
to know who is here
at the edges.
I see them
alone
heads down, some
reading or studying the floor or focused on their hand-
held devices.
How do they feel
to not
fit in
when maybe they want to?
Do they hurt?
Pretend to be okay?
Nurse wounds at home
at school
or
alone?
How many of them are like Sarah?
annie
And
I have been on the other side
I have been the mean girl
I have hurt the loners —
the person I am now
the person I choose to be
the person my sister has always been
I have walked away from friends
from family
from truth
from myself.
Will I stay me
if I make a place
for all of us?
annie
My focus was so thin then. Narrow.
It’s as if with my fat I have grown
a broader view of the world.
I am focused
on me yes now
but not like before.
Not on just the shiny parts of who I am.
But the beating parts too. The parts that
matter. The heart.
annie
I cannot go back and
make it all better.
Unhurt who I hurt.
Who I ignored.
Who I pushed out of my way.
I can’t flush away
my own pain
the words of a note writer
a mother
a man
my own self
But if I can
help even a few
find hope
and if I help me too
then this will be a
part of my
redemption.
annie
Redemption.
Does it take the pain
move it far
narrow it to nothing?
Will the fear subside
shame leave
dark grow light?
Can I fix myself
get rid of the vile
push out the black
or
is this unseen part
of me
forever?
Am I married to my
ugly
secret?
sarah
I’m fresh from sign language class. Almost smiling while finger spelling my way down the hall. The day has evened out. I’ve calmed from the morning. From talking to my teacher and sitting so close to Alex. From agitating myself with thoughts and memories.
Ahead, I see Annie. She stands in line in front of the cheerleading squad, who are running a bake sale for new uniforms. Annie’s coat hangs near her elbows, like a cape that slowed her to a stop in front of sweets. The hall is crowded, rumbling with noise, the floor wet from leftover snow on shoes, ringing with the sounds of lockers slammed shut. One of the male cheerleaders tries to do three back handsprings, but can get only two completed because so many people crowd the area.
It’s almost too much stimulation for me. I want to clap my hands over my ears, but that kind of behavior isn’t acceptable. I must tolerate, breathe through, calm myself in quiet ways.
<
br /> So I watch my sister. Students pass like water around her. A few mill at the table, waiting to purchase goodies. Someone bumps into her, another kid speaks to her and she nods, flashing a smile at him. He cuts in line and buys something for himself.
All the while Annie studies the baked items. Brownies and cookies and cupcakes. All colors. She calls to me.
“Sarah, I see you,” she says, even though she hasn’t even looked in my direction. “Want something?”
Okay, truth be told, even on my worst days I can tell when she’s near too. I know when she’s snuck into my room late at night.
I concentrate on getting to Annie, block out the frenzy of the halls between classes, between the calls of the squad captain to buy for Springfield High spirit. When I’m close enough to really hear her, Annie says, “Did you come up with something spectacular?”
A couple of people glance at me and I feel my skin turn warm then cool off. I nod, move so we’re shoulder to shoulder.
“I did,” I say. “I sent it to you. You should be able to see it.”
Annie flips through her phone, opens my text. Reads through and then looks at me, eyes sparkling. “Sarah, I love it.”
“You do?” Her happiness thrills me. I grab Annie’s hand and she squeezes my fingers. When I glance up, I can see us in the reflection of the office window. Can see the cheerleaders. Even the color of cupcake frosting in the glass. We’re not broken apart like at home.
The crowd flows around and Tommy Jones (with a couple of jocks) calls out, “No more food, fat freak.”
Annie doesn’t react.
I do a double take. Have I heard wrong? But I know I haven’t. My face burns. Down my neck. On my chest. I want to run after that kid and punch him in the throat. Knock him off his bike. If he had one, I mean.