I mean, it’s time I face my future and accept the fact that M isn’t really such a good friend to me, and hasn’t been for awhile now. My dad doesn’t care about me, and now that he’s remarried, the sick fact is he’ll probably give himself a second chance and have a few more kids. So if I was holding onto any smidgen of hope that he’d come around, well, I’d better just let it go right now.
My grades suck, especially in History and Economics, and there’s just no getting around the fact that it’s completely my fault. I totally blew my junior and senior years. I just buried the whole thing in a big pile of apathy.
And even though I’ve been doing better about going to class and stuff, it’s still too late for a scholarship and it won’t get me into a good school. But that doesn’t mean I can’t fix it. I mean, maybe it’s time I write the story of my own happy ending.
I dig around in my purse looking for a pen and a scrap of paper. I’ve got to make a list. I’ve got to have a plan. Because I refuse to be running around like this the same time next year. I want to have something of value.
So at the top of the page I write ME in capital letters, then I underline it. Then next to the number one I put SCHOOL. School is very important. Duh. Okay, I may be a little late in figuring that out but better late than never, right? So what if I have to go to community college for awhile. If I work during the day and go at night, maybe it won’t be so bad. And if I really buckle down and get serious then I can wipe out the last two pathetic years, get my A.A., and apply for a scholarship for a better school in a year or two.
At number two I put WORK. The truth is I’d like to be a writer. But until that happens, I could probably do more with the job I have now. I can probably switch to full time after graduation and even inquire about that assistant buyer position that I heard is opening up soon.
Next to three, I put FAMILY. Then I write DEAL WITH IT.
Next to four, I put LONDON. But I’m not going. I mean, it was nice of Connor to invite me, and to offer me a first-class ticket, but I’ve been sidetracked by too many people for too long. I’ve wasted a lot of time waiting for other people to start my life for me, and I’m just not willing to put my dreams on hold for some guy. Connor is not my future. And I’m not gonna make the same mistakes my mom made.
I guess I got a little ahead of myself when I numbered the page to five because I really can’t think of a fifth. It just always seems that every list should include at least five items. But Rome wasn’t built in a day, was it? At least I think that’s what they said in AP History.
Then at the very bottom of the page I write, CHANGE IS CONSTANT. ‘Cause that pretty much sums it all up for me. Then I carefully fold up my list and put it in my purse and I just lean back and watch the people and try to make my coffee last.
And right when I’m thinking I should probably get up and head home, I see him, the Iguana Man. He’s dressed in a pair of dirty old cutoffs and the same old Grateful Dead T-shirt with the same old iguana sitting right there on his shoulder, like it’s permanently attached or something. I’m just watching him walk aimlessly down the boardwalk when all of a sudden he stops and looks up. We stare at each other for a moment and now he’s cutting across the sand, quickly heading toward me. I look around nervously, hoping I’m mistaken, hoping that there’s someone else he’s fixated on. But I’m the only one sitting here.
I know I should get up and get out of here, but it’s like I’ve grown roots deep into the earth and I’m unable to move. So I just sit and hold my breath, and pray that he won’t recognize me, that he won’t speak to me.
As he approaches I can hear the song he always hums under his breath, and smell his strange odor, and my body tenses up in a primal preparation for fight or flight. But when he’s right, exactly in front of me, I start to relax. Because the truth is, he no longer scares me. I’ve got a plan now, a direction, and there’s just no way I’m gonna end up like that.
He passes by, as though we’d never met, and goes straight for a big, metal trash can and starts rummaging through it. I watch him retrieve an old, empty beer bottle, and as he’s walking away I realize there’s something I want to do.
I grab my purse and go after him and when I’m right behind him I say, “Hey, Iguana Man! Stop! I have something for you.”
He stops and turns and looks at me and his eyes are still red like last time but I can tell they don’t recognize me. I remove the Tiffany bracelet that M gave me and I hold it out to him in offering and say, “Here. This is for you. I want you to have it.”
He holds it up and squints at it, then peers at me closely. “Why?” he asks.
I just shrug and say, “I helped someone once and she gave it to me. You helped me, so I want to give it to you.”
He looks at me for a moment as though he’s trying to place me, and then he just nods his head and puts it in his pocket. And as I watch him wander away I wonder if it ever occurs to him to try another beach, another city, another zip code. Or if he got tired long ago and just gave up. I vow to just keep moving forward, no matter what, because there’s just no way it stops here for me.
When I can no longer see him I tell myself I’m ready to move on. And this time I really mean it.
Chapter 40
The last days of school are total chaos, but somehow I manage to keep up with it all. I took the week off work, doubled up on my study time, and even offered to do some last-ditch extra credit for History and Economics. I guess I forgot how much work it is to be a good student, but if they give me a diploma, then it will all be worth it.
I haven’t seen much of M. She’s missed some days of school and I guess her mom is keeping a pretty tight rein on her now. A few days after I left her in LA, she knocked on my door and apologized while her mom waited outside in the car. She told me that she spent the entire weekend getting high with those guys and when she finally made it home she was pretty messed up. But she just walked right into the kitchen where her parents were having breakfast, stood next to the table until they looked up from their newspapers, then she said, “I have something to tell you.”
She told them all about the drugs, and the drinking, and how it had nothing to do with me, that it was all her. I guess her dad started yelling at her but her mom told him to shut up. Then her mom came around the table and put her arm around her daughter for the first time in years and walked her down the hall to her bedroom where they could talk in private.
M’s mom made her see a psychiatrist, but after one or two sessions the doctor insisted that her parents go too, and that’s when M finally confronted her dad about his mistress. So now her parents have their own weekly sessions, and the trip to Greece and France has been delayed indefinitely, but M seems pretty okay with it. She said it’s kind of a pain having them all involved in her life again, and that she can’t wait to get out of Orange County, go to Princeton, and get a fresh start in a new place. I have no doubt that she’ll totally excel there too.
My sister called on Tuesday and said, “Hey Alex, I bought a ticket to visit you and Mom. And while I’m there I was hoping I’d get to see you in a cap and gown?”
I started laughing. “I think it’s gonna happen. I’ve been studying really hard.”
“Congratulations!” she said. “I’m really proud of you.”
“So I guess you heard about Dad?” I asked, twisting the phone cord around my arm.
“Yeah, Cheri sent me an announcement. He didn’t even call. Can you believe it?”
“Yeah, I can believe it,” I said.
“Does Mom know yet?”
“Well,” I said. “I was really nervous about telling her, you know? But it didn’t go too badly. She just shrugged and said, ‘Better her than me.’”
By Thursday, I’d taken all of my finals and although there’s no doubt that I could have done better, I didn’t choke near as much as I could have. And the good news is they’re going to let me graduate.
M waited for me after AP History and asked me if I’d si
gn her yearbook. She seemed nervous about asking, and even though we’re not best friends anymore it still made me feel bad. So she gave me hers and I gave her mine and we took them home over night so that we could write something really meaningful.
But when I got home, I sat in my room and stared at the empty page she reserved for me and I tried to come up with something good, but my mind just kind of went blank. It’s like, I’ve known her forever, and we’ve had some crazy good times and more recently, some crazy bad times, but I didn’t feel like recapping them, and I’ve never been very good at the mushy stuff, and I definitely wasn’t writing “don’t ever change,” because change is what it’s all about. So I borrowed a line from a Sheryl Crow song and wrote, “Regret reminds you you’re alive.” Because I guess we’ve both had a few things to regret lately. And then I borrowed a line from some famous French lady and wrote, “Non, je ne regrette rien.” Because you just can’t regret the things you learned from.
The last day of school I’m sitting at my desk in French listening to the morning announcements drone on and on, stuff about a final bake sale at noon, and last-minute grad night info. And then this, “Congratulations goes out to graduating senior Alexandra Sky for winning first place in the statewide Teen Fiction Writers Contest. Alexandra will be receiving a two-thousand-dollar scholarship award, and will go on to compete in the Nationals for a trip to New York City, an additional five-thousand-dollar scholarship, and publication in Sixteen magazine.”
I sit at my desk stunned at hearing my name over the loudspeaker. After I secretly submitted my story that day, I just put it out of my mind. I mean, I was so convinced I didn’t stand a chance that I didn’t mention it to anyone.
Everyone in my French class just stares at me, but then M starts clapping and whistling and they all join in. And I just sit there and smile because I got a scholarship! and I never thought that would happen.
When Mr. Sommers sees me at my locker he comes over and says, “Alex, it’s been a pleasure knowing you the last few years.”
I’m shocked that he’d say that and I look at him and go, “It has?”
He laughs and says, “I’m aware of your attendance record and I’m flattered that you managed to make it to my class more than any other.” I just look at him and then he goes, “And congratulations on the Fiction contest. I think you’re very talented.”
I go, “Really?”
And he goes, “Really. And thanks for the Tolstoy essay.”
He smiles at me then and wishes me the best of luck in my future. Six months ago I never could have imagined that happening.
M’s parents have invited us to dinner after the ceremony. I guess they’re trying to make amends or something. But even though I’m not angry about the whole drug mess anymore, I’m not going. I’m not going to grad night either. Instead I made plans to have dinner with my mom and my sister, and afterward I’m meeting up with Guy for a late-night horseback ride.
My dad never did call or send a card, but I’m okay with that, really I am. I guess he’s just busy honeymooning with his virgin bride. Okay, maybe that was a little sarcastic, indicating that I’m not entirely over it, but you know what? I will be. I’m working on it. After all it’s number three on my list.
And speaking of my list, I carry it around all the time. Even sitting in the hot sun with this graduation gown sticking to the dress that Blake designed and made for me. In one pocket I’m carrying my list, and in the other is the scholarship check that Mrs. Gross presented to me after school.
It was the first time in the last two years that I was called into her office for something positive. When she handed me the check she came around her desk and hugged me and said, “I knew you could do it.”
You probably think it’s foolish to carry the check around in my pocket. Like, I may end up losing it or something. But no way is that gonna happen. I’ve finally got a good firm grip on the future. I look out into the stands and search the crowd and see my mom and my sister. I wave at them and they see me and wave back. And then I see M’s parents, the size two and the doctor, but they don’t see me, they’re too busy looking at all the other parents. Then I look over at M and she rolls her eyes at me and I stick out my tongue at her, and we both crack up.
Acknowledgments
The following people deserve major thanks:
My mother, for teaching me to read Horton Hatches the Egg at an early age, and thereby starting my lifelong love of books.
Fares Sawaya, my high school AP English teacher, who by reading one of my stories aloud changed everything.
Susanne Dunlap, a talented writer, whose generous referral turned out to be the first link in the chain of events that got me here.
My agent, Adam Chromy, whose wisdom, persistence, and expert advice enabled me to realize a dream.
My editor, Elizabeth Bewley, for being cool, smart, and for totally getting what I wanted to say. (And for coming up with a much better title than the one I had!)
Phyllis Taylor Pianka, for the invaluable critiques and an amazing amount of patience.
Robert McKee, an amazing genius and story guru, who taught me to write the truth.
Justine Tumolo, for reading it way before it was ready.
Kenny Blake, Jolynn Benn, the Campbells, the Velazquezes, the Larkins, the Jarrells, the Shermans, and the Rothsteins for simply being there.
But most of all, thanks to Sandy Sherman, who diligently served as loving husband, supportive best friend, motivational coach, legal adviser, personal gourmet chef, comic relief, tireless proofreader, adamant scene turner, bad mood eraser, tech support, and for never, not once, wavering in his belief that it would be done.
Saving
Zoë
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Ninteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
One
They say there are five stages of grief:
1. Denial
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Depression
5. Acceptance
Up until last year I didn’t know there were lists like that. I had no idea people actually kept track of these things. But still, even if I had known, I never would’ve guessed that just a few days before my fourteenth birthday I’d be stuck in stage one.
But then you never think that kind of bad news will knock on your door. Because those kinds of stories, the kind that involve a stone-faced newscaster interrupting your favorite TV show to report a crucial piece of “late breaking news,” are always about someone else’s unfortunate family. They’re never supposed to be about yours.
But what made it even worse is that I was the first to know.
Well, after the cops.
And, of course, Zoë.
Not to mention the freak who was responsible for the whole mess in the first place.
And even though they didn’t exactly say anything other than “May we please speak to your parents?” It was the regret on those two detectives’ faces, the defeat in their weary eyes, that pretty much gave it all away.
It was after school and I was home alone, trying to keep to my standard cookie-eating, TV-watching, homework-avoiding routine, even thou
gh I really couldn’t concentrate on any of it. I mean, normally at 4:10 P.M. both my parents would still be at work, my sister, Zoë, would be out with her boyfriend, and I would be sitting cross-legged on the floor, wedged between the couch and the coffee table, dunking Oreos into a tall glass of cold milk until my teeth were all black, the milk was all sopped up, and my stomach was all swollen and queasy.
So I guess in a way I was just trying to emulate all of that, go through the motions, and pretend everything was normal. That my parents weren’t really out searching for Zoë, and that I wasn’t already in denial long before I had good reason to be.
But now, almost a year later, I can honestly say that I’m able to check off stages one through three, and am settling into stage five. Though sometimes, in the early morning hours, when the house is quiet and my parents are still asleep, I find myself regressing toward four. Especially now that September’s here, putting us just days away from the one-year anniversary of the last time Zoë shimmied up the big oak tree, climbed onto my balcony, and came in through my unlocked french doors.
I remember rolling over and squinting against the morning light, watching as she pressed her index finger to her smiling lips, her short red nail like the bottom of an upside-down exclamation point, as she performed her exaggerated, cartoon-ish, stealth tiptoe through my room, out my door, and down the hall.
Sometimes now, when I think back on that day, I add a whole new scene. One where, instead of turning over and falling back to sleep, I say something important, something meaningful, something that would’ve let her know, beyond all doubt, just how much I loved and admired her.
But the truth is, I didn’t say anything.
I mean, how was I supposed to know that was the last time I’d ever see her?
Two