“Well, she… I… she’s still throwing up her food.”
Your expression doesn’t change.
“And hiding food, too. She pretends to eat it, but she’s really throwing it away.”
You uncross your legs. “How do you know?”
“I watch.”
You nod.
“It makes me feel sort of weird that I know what she’s doing. It also makes me feel really bad for Debbie, since Debbie does nice things for her like covering her up with a sweater when she’s sleeping.”
Talking about Debbie and Becca and Sydney and Tara is surprisingly easy. I realize I know a lot about them; I guess I even sort of like them. I check the clock to see how long it is till lunch.
Your chair groans. “But I understand from the staff here that you’re not talking in Group yet.”
Yet. You say this like it’s simple, inevitable. My lips are chapped; I pull the corner of my lower lip into my mouth, then bite down a little.
“Can you tell me why?”
I shrug, for the millionth time.
You tap your lip.
“There’s this other girl,” I say. “She’s new.”
“Oh?”
“This new girl, Amanda, she wears shorts and flip-flops…”
You lift an eyebrow, ever so slightly.
“… like it’s the middle of summer.”
There’s a long, long hush. Far off, I can hear a plane boring through the sky.
“She does what I do.”
I watch for your expression to change, for there to be some slight shift from neutral to… to what? Disgusted? Disapproving? You wait calmly.
“She showed everybody her scars.”
I bite my lip some more. That’s it. I’m finished. I listen for the plane, but it’s gone.
“You think she should have kept them to herself?”
“Huh?”
“Do you think this new girl should have kept her scars hidden?”
“I don’t care.” Then, right away, “They’re gross.”
I pull on my sleeve, pinch the fabric tight, wrap it safely around my thumb.
“What’s wrong with letting people know what you’re doing, or how you’re feeling?”
“It’s not fair,” I say.
“Not fair?”
“It might upset them.”
You look puzzled.
“Can we change the subject?” I say.
“Of course.”
But I can’t think of what to talk about.
“My mom sent me this name thing,” I say at last. “I told you she does crafts, right?”
You nod.
“She made this thing for my door. It’s my name. In fabric. It’s quilted.”
The name thing seems silly, impossible to describe.
“It’s a decoration?”you say.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“My mom has to take it easy,” I explain.
“Yes,” you say. “You mentioned that before. That she needs a lot of rest.”
All at once, though, I’m the one who feels tired. Exhausted, actually.
“Is it OK if we stop now?” I say.
“Yes, of course,” you say, smiling a little. “Our time is just about up anyway.”
It’s almost the end of Study Hall. Debbie’s writing in her journal. Sydney’s listening to her Walkman. Everyone else is asleep. I’m memorizing chemistry terms: osmosis, reverse osmosis.
Sydney leans across the space between our desks, waving a folded note. She points to Tara. I know right away she wants me to pass the note to Tara; I take it without thinking. Then I see the problem. Tara is sound asleep, her head on her arms, turned away from me.
I watch Tara breathing for a minute, try to decide what to do, then lean across the row and slide the note under her elbow. She doesn’t move. I look over at Sydney, who’s giggling silently, her hand over her mouth. The corners of my mouth turn up; I bite down on the insides of my cheeks and turn back toward Tara.
I reach over and slip the note out from under Tara’s elbow. She still doesn’t move. Sydney is practically having a convulsion trying not to laugh; her face is beet red. My chest feels like it’s about to explode. I swallow, then burst out with a noise that sounds like air escaping from a balloon.
Tara jumps. Sydney laughs out loud, like this is the funniest thing she’s ever seen. All I know is that my hand is shaking as I pass Tara the note.
“Thanks,” Sydney whispers.
“Sure,” I say. Sure. It’s the kind of thing that comes out automatically. The kind of thing a person can say without really saying anything.
I close the door to your office; before you can ask me what I want to talk about, I show you the Wayne Gretzky card.
“It’s Sam’s favorite,” I say.
You smile. “You told me how much he loves those cards,”you say.
I sit back on the couch; my feet stick out. I sit forward; my back gets tight. “Yeah, but he doesn’t actually play. He just looks at the cards.”
You nod.
“He has this tabletop hockey game. I set it up for him. It has plastic players that you control with sticks, you know?”
I can’t tell if you understand what I’m talking about, but the words keep coming anyhow.
“He got it the Christmas before last. It had about ten pages of directions. Stuff like ‘Put bracket X in slot Z, post Y in hole 22.’”
“Sounds complicated,”you say.
“Yeah, the box said ‘Adult assembly required.’ But my parents were out. My mom was visiting Gram at the nursing home.”
“So you put it together by yourself?”
“No big deal.” This sounds somehow like bragging, so I tell you the rest. “I got mad at Sam, though. I hardly ever get mad at Sam.”
You tilt your head to the side.
“He put the stickers on crooked.” This sounds stupid, trivial. “The directions say that’s the last thing you’re supposed to do.”
“And that made you angry?”
“Maybe. A little,” I say. Then, “I was mean.”
“How were you mean?” You sound faintly disbelieving, like you can’t imagine me being mean.
“I yelled at him.”
I check for your reaction. You just look calm, as usual.
“He got sick.” I let the words fall in my lap, then look up.
You nod.
“He had to go to the hospital,” I say.
You give me a worried look; I want to make it go away.
“You know what Sam said? He still believed in Santa. He said he was mad at Santa for not putting the hockey game together. I said maybe Santa was too busy. So Sam said, ‘That’s what he has elves for.’” I smile, thinking how funny that was coming from a little kid.
You smile a little, too. I decide to tell you more.
“He put the stickers on when I wasn’t looking. They were all wrinkled. And he put the stickers that were supposed to go on the players’ uniforms on the scoreboard. I told him he was wrecking the whole thing. He hid the rest of the stickers behind his back, and then he started to cry.”
I don’t check for your reaction; I keep my eyes on the rabbit and go on.
“I didn’t pay any attention. I kept working on the hockey game. He kept crying, though. Then he pulled on my sleeve and said he couldn’t breathe. His eyes were really big and he made this scary noise, this wet sound that came from his chest, like he was drowning from the inside.”
I rip the tissue in my lap and decide to skip over the other part.
“They took him to the hospital. It was after midnight when they got home—”
“Excuse me a minute, Callie.” You’re leaning forward in your chair. “Who took him to the hospital?”
“My parents.” I glance at you, then away.
“So they came home?” You look confused.
“Yeah.” I go on, faster “It was after midnight when they got home, 12:12 in the morning. I remember. I decided that if they weren’t home by 12:34 I was going to call the hospital to see if Sam was OK. You know how on a digital clock 12:34 looks like 1-2-3-4? That was going to be the sign that I should call.” I don’t wait to see if you understand. “But they came home, so I didn’t have to.”