I’M BOTH excited and nervous about Luis and Julisa visiting today. Ashley and a few girls from cheerleading came by last week to drop off fashion magazines and flowers, but I was taking a nap, and to be honest I was glad Mom let me sleep, because I wasn’t ready to see them yet. But Julisa and Luis are different. I know them better.
Even so, it’s hard. Julisa bursts into tears when she sees me and hugs me so tight I think my ribs will break.
“Don’t you dare scare me like that again,” she says, her tears dampening my shoulder.
“I won’t,” I tell her, hoping that I mean it.
Luis stands behind her, uncharacteristically awkward, clutching a bunch of bright yellow tulips. He smiles tentatively as I look at him over Julisa’s shoulder.
“Hey, Lara,” he says.
Julisa releases me from the bear hug, and he hands me the tulips. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you right now,” Luis says.
“Thanks. Tulips are my favorite,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says, looking down at the carpet.
“How do you know?” Julisa asks the question I am wondering.
Luis looks straight into my eyes. “You told us last spring. When we went to the concert in the park.”
I can’t believe he remembered. A group of us went to a free concert in the park downtown last spring. It was a beautiful sunny Sunday, and they’d set up a stage under a tent. The daffodils and tulips were out, and the leaves were back on the trees and everything seemed hopeful again — especially for me, because I’d made new friends after Bree dumped me.
That he cared enough to remember something so small about me makes me cry.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, worried, as tears stream down my cheeks. “I’m sorry — I thought they would make you happy.”
“Th-they d-do,” I sniff. “I j-just c-can’t believe you r-remembered.”
Luis looks totally confused. “I will never, ever understand girls,” he says with a sigh.
Julisa puts her arm around me. “Tontito, all you need to understand is that Lara likes the flowers, okay?”
“But if she likes them, why is she crying?” Luis asks, running his hand through his thick, dark hair.
The poor guy is so bewildered I can’t help giggling, despite my tears. I’d probably be confused, if I were him.
“It’s complicated,” I say, glancing at Julisa, who starts laughing, too.
Luis finally throws up his hands, says something in Spanish I don’t understand, and joins in the laughter.
I realize how happy I am to see them. And that it’s the first time I’ve really laughed like that since … since that awful night.
Later that night, I’m in bed trying to think of a third thing for my Gratitude List when the phone rings. I’d already written the first two:
1. Luis remembered I like tulips and brought me some.
2. Mom was so busy with work that she didn’t bother me for an entire hour and a half. I got to be alone, even if she could watch me out of the kitchen window.
I’d gone outside to read — luckily the visual problems I had after the overdose turned out to be temporary — but instead I ended up just listening to the leaves rustling, as the breeze blew them from the branches to meet their fallen comrades below, and to the geese honking as they flew south from Canada in a perfect V. I also listened to the thoughts in my head, the whats and the whys and the hows and the whos, and even though they made me sad and mad, at least I could just sit there with them and have them go through my head without anyone trying to “process” them. They were just there.
But I’m stuck on the third thing. My life is very limited at the moment. I go from home to Linda’s office and back home again. I’m not allowed on the Internet, except to do the schoolwork my teachers send home, and when I do that, Mom is in the same room and constantly looking over my shoulder to make sure I’m not on Facebook or chatting with anyone. What she doesn’t understand is that now that I know that Christian wasn’t real, I’m afraid to start all that up again. Because what if I make the same mistake again?
I miss my cell phone more than Facebook or Instagram or anything else. My parents haven’t even let me have that back yet, because I might go online with it, so I can’t even text my friends. I said they could turn the data off, but they said there’s always Wi-Fi and, besides, I have to “earn the privilege.”
I’m a lab specimen under constant observation. It’s as irritating for Mom as it is for me. She’s really resentful about how time keeping an eye on me is taking away from her work and the campaign. She’s trying to be a good mom so she doesn’t come straight out and say it, but it comes out in lots of little ways.
Sometimes, she takes me for a walk around the neighborhood to “get some fresh air,” but really so I get some exercise. I’ve already done enough damage to her campaign by being mentally unstable. I can’t compound it by getting fat again.
I wonder if Mom will ever stop thinking of me as her “problem child.”
I wonder if I’ll ever stop being one.
When I hear the phone ring so late, I’m afraid that someone is in the hospital. Or worse, has died. That’s what those calls usually mean. Late-night calls are never about good news.
My stomach clenches. Is it Grandpa, who has angina, or Nana, whose cancer has been in remission? Please don’t let Nana’s cancer have come back. There’s enough bad stuff going on right now. Pleasepleasepleaseplease!
Dad’s angry shout of “WHAT?” so loud that I hear Syd stir in her sleep next door tells me the call isn’t about death or illness. It’s something else. For once I’m glad about my “open door” restriction, because I can hear what’s going on.
Finally!
3. Open Door Policy helps me eavesdrop better.
“WHERE DID YOU HEAR THIS?” Dad yells.
I hear Mom telling him to stop shouting, because he’ll “wake the girls.”
Um … a little late for that, Mom.
Syd stands in my doorway, bleary-eyed and bed-headed.
“What’s Dad shouting about?”
“Haven’t a clue,” I tell her.
She comes in and collapses in a huddle on the end of my bed, her head resting on my stuffed Hedwig.
“What kind of sick —”
“What is it, Pete?” Mom interrupts him. “Who’s on the phone?”
“A reporter from the Lake Hills Independent,” Dad tells her, then recommences his rant.
“PETE! Tell them no comment and hang up, now!” Mom hisses at Dad.
“No comment! Good-bye.”
Syd and I look at each other as we hear the phone slam back in the cradle.
“I’m going over there right now and I’m going to rip them to pieces with my bare hands!”
I’ve heard my father angry before, but I’ve never, ever heard him like this.
“Who’s he going to rip to pieces?” Syd asks. “What’s he so mad about?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But he’s really starting to freak me out.”
“Me too,” Syd says, cuddling Hedwig.
I slide my toes under her for warmth, and she doesn’t protest. She encircles my ankle with the hand that’s not holding my stuffed owl.
Mom is telling Dad to calm down, that he can’t take things into his own hands.
Dad comes stomping down the hallway, with Mom on his heels.
“Pete, you have to let the police deal with this,” she pleads. “It won’t do anyone any good if you go vigilante.”