I didn’t like that. I hated it. I hated him. I hated everyone, everything. I wanted to rip the whole world apart so it wouldn’t be like this anymore. Patrick blinked and something passed through his eyes, a curious understanding. He didn’t say a word.
I pushed past him and went outside to wait for Mom, but I could still see that tattoo, see Julia’s name. I could still hear Kevin saying how much he loved Julia when she wasn’t around to hear it. I could still see Patrick looking at me, and I knew none of it would go away.
I knew I’d remember it all.
67
104 days
Hey J,
It’s Wednesday, but that doesn’t matter. All my days are the same.
I:
Get up, eat breakfast with Mom. Read encouraging note left by Dad, who has to leave early every morning because his company is in talks with another company in the UK and he’s having all these teleconferences. Take shower. Get dressed. Look in mirror. Still freakishly tall. Hair still the shade of red that makes people (usually old) say things like “My, it looks like someone lit a match on your head!” I miss you telling those people to watch out or they’d get burned.
Mom calls out that we’re “almost very late” and 68
drives me to school. So far this week I have learned that Mom:
— hates chairing the curriculum committee she’s on because the proposed changes won’t attract more students into art classes.
— is “very proud” of my being a vegetarian and has ordered some “yummy” cookbooks. I told her she could let me know how they tasted. She laughed. I can’t remember the last time I made anyone do that.
School is locker, class, no time for locker, class, rush to locker, barely make it to class—you get the idea. Of course there’s still lunch too. The past few days I’ve caught Corn Syrup looking at me a couple of times. For someone allowed to bask in Beth’s glow (ha!), Corn Syrup usually looks pretty miserable. Beth has probably gotten angry with her for having split ends or something.
After school I get a ride home with either Dad or Mom.
Because the UK thing is going pretty well, Dad has been able to make it so he works at home in the afternoon every other week. This week he’s home, so he picks me up.
Things Dad likes to talk about:
—Tennis
—How my day was
—Tennis
69
I’m starting to think the reason my parents are so in love is that they both realize they are so boring no one else could stand being with them.
At home I continue the excitement and work on homework. My grades are good so far, but I’m not sure I get the point of the whole studying thing. Take English, for instance. We’re reading The Scarlet Letter and all anyone talks about in class is what’s-her-name and her big red A.
I find myself wondering what Pearl’s going to be like when she grows up.
Oh, and get this—Mom and Dad got rid of my computer. It’s so I can “focus on my studies,” but hello, I was the one in Pinewood, and I sat through all the lectures about the “dangers” of “falling back in with old friends and habits.” Anyway, now I have to type my papers and do research in the study, which (of course) is where whoever has taken me home has camped out. I thought about telling Mom and Dad that the only person I ever talked to online was you, but the computer in the study is nicer. Mine always sounded like it was powered by a hamster running around in one of those little wheels.
After I study, it’s dinnertime. Mom and Dad cook together, and you’d think I’d get a break then, but nope.
I “help” by stirring stuff. There was a weird moment the 70
other day when I was eating baby carrots and hoping my arm wasn’t going to fall off from stirring some rice dish and Mom said, “You know, I could never get you to touch a carrot when you were younger.”
I said, “Well, I guess things changed when my teeth came in or something,” and she looked shocked for a second, and then she looked sort of pissed off. Like it’s my fault she never noticed what I ate before? She was grating cheese, and she slammed the block of it down on the counter, saying, “I was simply trying to talk to you.
There isn’t any need to—”
“What? Point out the obvious? You didn’t even know I was a vegetarian.”
Her face fell, and she picked up the cheese again, staring at it and blinking hard. Dad touched Mom’s arm and said, “Grace,” gently, sharing a look with her before he turned to me and said, “So, how’s that rice looking?”
“Kind of gloopy,” I said.
He smiled, and then she did, but I could tell I’d rattled Mom, that she’d realized that not only did she not know that her kid was around or that she was drinking, but that she didn’t even know I ate carrots. And that I knew she knew nothing about me.
71
I liked that.
I liked that she had to see that, J. And I like that every day brings a whole lot of time with my parents. I know how it sounds, okay? But I like that it’s not them and then me anymore.
I like that they finally have to face the fact that I’m here.
72
E I G H T
IN ENGLISH CLASS TODAY (109 days without Julia—I can only measure time by that, by how long she’s been gone), I got stuck in yet another group thing with Mel and Caro and Patrick. We were still discussing The Scarlet Letter, and I watched Corn Syrup twirl a piece of her hair around one finger as she argued with Mel. So far, they’d argued about what the A really meant (I hadn’t realized that was up for debate) and then the symbolism of the color red. I’d drawn squares in my notebook. Patrick had fiddled with his book, then picked his fi ngernails, and then fiddled with his book some more.
Then—and this is where things started to get strange—
Mel looked at Patrick and cleared his throat. Patrick stopped picking his fingernails and glared at him. Watching them do that reminded me of how Julia and I used to 73
talk without words. I started thinking about her and then Mel sighed, turned to me, and said, “What are you doing Friday night?”
“What?” I said, completely thrown and positive I hadn’t heard him right.
I had, though, because Caro stopped the hair twirling so fast her finger got caught and she had to yank it free.
And Patrick was—well, he was fiddling with his book again.
“Maybe we could go to a movie,” Mel continued. “I was thinking that you and me and maybe . . .” He cleared his throat again and then, I swear, flinched like someone had kicked him or something.
He glared at Patrick and then looked back at me. “You wanna go?”
“Um,” I said, and realized that:
1. At sixteen, I was finally getting asked out on an honest-to-God date.
2. I was asked on said date by someone who, as far as I could tell, wasn’t even interested in me. Mel never checked out my (admittedly small) chest, tried to grope me, or even seemed interested in my answers to the questions he was always asking.
3. I was clearly taking too long to reply because Caro was staring at me and Mel like we both had two heads.
74
Mel was blinking a lot and had turned bright red, and Patrick had actually stopped flipping through his book and was watching all of us.
I knew I had to say something, but I had no idea what.
I tried to think of the right thing, but nothing came to mind and I panicked.
I panicked, and said the worst possible thing.
I panicked and said, “When?”
“Friday,” Caro snapped. “He said Friday.”
“Caro,” Mel said, glancing at her. He looked upset.
“What?” Caro said, her voice full of challenge and hurt, and she looked about ten times more upset then Mel did.
Mel opened his mouth, then closed it. His face was still bright red. I didn’t get what was going on, but it was clear I needed to say something else.