When the woman at the funeral home, the one in the long floral dress, with the frizzy french braid, asked for a picture of Zoë, my mom dropped her head in her hands and sobbed so hysterically that my dad pulled her close, clenched his jaw, and nodded firmly, as though he was already working on it.
I stared at the toe of my black Converse sneaker, noticing how the fabric was wearing thin, and wondering what that lady could possibly need a picture for. I guess it seemed like a weird request, considering how pretty much everywhere you looked in our town you’d see a picture of Zoë. And since my sister was always so elusive and hard to pin down in life, it seemed like I actually saw more of her after her disappearance than I had when she lived down the hall.
First there were the two “missing person” flyers taped to just about every available surface. One a stiff, grainy, black-and-white grabbed in a panic and copied from last year’s yearbook. The other, one of Zoë’s more recent headshots, depicting her as beautiful, loose, and happy, more like the sister I knew, that also included a generous reward for anyone with any information, no questions asked.
And then, as the days ticked by, her face started appearing just about everywhere—in newspapers, magazines, and nationally televised news reports. Even the makeshift memorial, built by well-wishers and propped up in front of our house, contained so many candles, poems, stuffed animals, angels, and photos of Zoë that it threatened to take over the entire street until my dad enlisted a neighbor’s help and hauled it all away.
The funny thing was, Zoë had always dreamed of being a model, an actress, someone famous and admired by all. She longed for the day when she could escape our small, boring town, and go somewhere glamorous, like L.A., or New York, just someplace exciting and far from here. And so, while we were out searching, while we were busy smothering our doubt with hope, I played this kind of game in my head where I pretended that all of this was great exposure for Zoë and her future as a famous person. Like it was the ultimate casting call. And I spent those long, empty, thankless moments imagining how excited she’d be when she finally came home and saw her face plastered all across the nation.
But then later, in the mortuary, as I watched my parents make the world’s most depressing arrangements, encouraged into credit card debt by the man in the stark black suit who guided them toward the most luxurious casket, the most abundant flowers, and the whitest doves—sparing no expense at her memory—I sat wide-eyed, realizing the lucrative business of loss, while wondering if my mom got the irony behind Zoë’s ambition and the woman’s request, and if that’s why she was crying so hard.
But then, I guess there were millions of reasons to cry that day. So it’s not like I had to go searching for The One.
I didn’t know why that woman wanted a photo, but I doubted my dad, grief stricken and distracted, would ever remember to give her one. So after they’d signed away their savings and were headed out the door, I reached into my old blue nylon wallet, the one with the surf brand sticker still partially stuck to the front, its edges frayed and curled all around, and retrieved the photo Zoë had given me just a few weeks before, the one that showcased her large dark eyes, generous smile, high cheekbones, and long wavy, dark hair. The one she’d planned to send to the big New York and L.A. agencies.
“Here,” I said, pressing it into the woman’s soft, round hand, watching as she did the quick intake of breath I was so used to seeing when confronted with an image of Zoë for the very first time.
She looked at me and smiled, the fine lines around her blue eyes merging together until almost joining as one. “I’ll be doing her makeup, and I want to get it just right. So, thank you—” She left that last part dangling, looking embarrassed that she knew all about my loss, but didn’t know my name.
“Echo.” I smiled. “My name is Echo. And you can keep the picture. Zoë would’ve liked that.” Then I ran outside to catch up with my parents.
Three
Zoë and Echo are Greek names, even though we’re not at all Greek. Zoë means life, and Echo, well, I know you know what it means, so I’ll just say that it’s also a nymph who pined away for some guy named Narcissus until nothing was left but her voice. Which is something, by the way, that I would never do. You know, fade away over some guy. I mean, not even Chess Williams, the cutest guy in my class since fourth grade, is worth crumbling for. Anyway, it’s basically a Greek mythology thing, and I guess that’s why we got names like that. Nothing to do with nationality, and everything to do with academics.
My parents are big on academics. Which I guess is why they’re both professors. And, knowing I’ll risk looking like a total brainiac nerd, I’ll just go ahead and admit, right now and for the record, that I’m pretty big on academics too. But Zoë? Zoë hated all that. She was beautiful, and wild, and too busy getting into trouble and sneaking out of the house to ever slow down long enough to actually finish a book. Yet she was so sweet about it, and had such uncontained enthusiasm (for everything but homework), that no one ever held a grudge or judged her too harshly.
“Life is too exhilarating to read about! You gotta get out there and live it!” she’d say, just moments before sneaking onto my balcony and down the old oak tree, as I lay in bed reading one of my numerous library-issued novels.
But I’m nothing like Zoë. I’m average, not beautiful. I mean, my hair is medium brown and kind of limp, not rich and wavy like hers. And where she had amazing dark eyes with extra-thick long lashes, mine are light hazel, which may sound nice on paper, but believe me, they’re far more functional than special. And my body, well, I’m really, really hoping that the years between fourteen and sixteen will be as kind and generous to me as they were to her (though so far, I’m a couple weeks shy of fifteen and there’s nothing to report). And I’ve definitely never been in any kind of trouble. Well, at least not the serious kind. I mean, so far my biggest offense is returning a library book two weeks late because I liked it so much I decided to read it again.
But Zoë? Well, let’s just say that had she actually made it home that day, she would’ve been in for it big time.
“Echo?” my mom calls from the bottom of the stairs. “I’m leaving. Are you sure you don’t need a ride?”
“Nope. Have a good day.” I peek around my bedroom door, catching a quick glimpse of her as she heads outside before locking all three dead bolts, even though I’ll be leaving in less than two minutes.
But that’s how we live now, overly cautious, verging on completely paranoid. And it took a solid fifty-five minutes of carefully argued debate, during last night’s meatloaf, steamed asparagus, and garlic mashed potatoes dinner to get both of my parents to let me walk to school, as opposed to getting door-to-door service from one of them.
And it’s not like I’m going it alone or anything, since all I have to do is go halfway down the block to my best friend Abby’s, before we both stop on the corner to pick up our other best friend, Jenay.
Though I guess it’s pretty much a miracle my mom decided to go back to teaching in the first place. I mean, right after everything happened she took a sabbatical so she could stay home and “look after me.” I guess my parents blamed themselves for what happened. Thinking that their busy, working lives didn’t allow for the kind of constant vigilance required to protect us.
But really, how much can you actually protect someone before it turns into imprisonment? Because just a few months into it, that’s exactly how I started to feel, like a prisoner in my own home. I mean, at first I thought it would be nice to spend more time with my mom, especially after what we’d all just been through, but it didn’t take long before she started acting more like a warden. And all she required of me was to go to school, come straight home, not to talk too much, and never to venture past the front door without:
A valid reason and detailed explanation containing
all of the whos, hows, whys, and wheres
&
an approximately exact ETA and ETD.
But none of that would’ve been
so bad if I hadn’t been so lonely. I mean, Abby and Jenay didn’t come over nearly as much as you’d think. Mostly because their parents wouldn’t let them, always mumbling some excuse about our family “needing our space during our difficult time.” But I knew that wasn’t the reason.
It’s like when something really horrible and tragic happens, pretty much everyone starts giving you these sad, regretful looks as they slowly back away. Like our tragedy was contagious. Like our once warm and inviting home was now a place of darkness and doom, where extreme caution was clearly warranted.
So basically, all last year, when I wasn’t at school, I was pretty much alone. I mean, my mom mostly stayed curled up on the couch, clad in her old blue terry cloth robe, staring blankly at the TV, tears pouring down her cheeks, while my dad lingered at work, staying later and later, and only rarely making it home before my bedtime.
And the weekends? Well, that’s when they argued. Hurling accusations back and forth like blows in a boxing match, never tiring of their need to prove, once and for all, just who was more responsible for what happened to Zoë.
I used to think that tragedy brought people closer. But now, from everything I’ve experienced, I know it pretty much tears them apart.
Then again, all of that happened before my mom started taking her “happy pills,” which enabled her to get off the couch, out of her robe, and back to work. The fighting stopped too. Only to be replaced with a flood of formality and excessive politeness, like we’re all just strangers on a cruise ship, forced to eat our meals together, and act like we’re interested.
And even though on the surface we seem to be doing better, the truth is my dad still “works” late, and my mom’s eyes are more vacant than ever.
And as much as I miss Zoë, as much as my heart aches, as much as I’d do anything in the world just to get her back, there are times when I actually hate her too. Because this is what she’s done to me. This is what she’s left me with. Two broken, deeply suspicious, hollowed-out shells for parents, and the morbid curiosity of everyone I encounter.
Tucking my hair behind my ears, I grab my backpack, run down the stairs, lock all three locks, and head toward Abby’s. But before I’m even halfway there, I see her heading toward me.
“Hey,” she says, her long black ponytail swinging from side to side as her face breaks into a smile, exposing the blue metal braces she can’t wait to get off, as her brown eyes squint against the sun.
“Am I late?” I ask, glancing at my watch, then back at her.
“I’m early. Aaron’s driving me crazy, so I bailed,” she says, shaking her head and rolling her eyes as we head toward the corner where we’ll pick up Jenay. Abby’s brother Aaron is two years younger and pretty much the bane of her otherwise extremely orderly existence.
“What’s up with Aaron?” I ask.
“What isn’t up with Aaron?” She shakes her head again. “He bugs me so bad, sometimes I wish he’d just disappear, never to return. Then I’d have some peace. I mean, just this morning—” Suddenly she stops walking, stops talking, and just stands there, gaping at me, her mouth hanging open, her brown eyes full of sorry and regret. “Oh God, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, forcing my face to smile. “Seriously. So you were eating breakfast and . . .” I loop my arm through hers, leading her toward the corner, and hopefully away from her guilt. Everyone is always apologizing to me now, and sometimes I wonder if it will ever stop.
“And there’s Jenay,” she says, deftly changing the subject. “Omigod, are those—? Oh man, she is so lucky! How did she talk her stepmom into buying those jeans? How?”
“Hey, you guys,” Jenay says, leaning in to give each of us a hug.
But Abby’s strictly business, determined to gather the facts. “I need details,” she says. “How did you get those? What did you do? And will it work on my mom too?” she asks, slowly circling Jenay, her eyes coming to rest on those telltale designer back pockets, the ones with the gold embroidery that makes the whole $220 price tag seem worth it.
“Well, if you promise to get straight As, babysit my little brother every Saturday night for the rest of your life, and remain a virgin until you’re old and gray, then maybe she’ll get you a pair too.” Jenay laughs.
“Call me when you’ve got that whole potty training thing handled. The last thing I need is another squirt in the eye,” Abby says, maneuvering herself into the center, looping her arms through ours, and leading us toward school.
Since Abby, Jenay, and I don’t share any classes, this is the last time we’ll see each other until the ten-minute break between second and third periods. Which, even though technically it’s only two hours away, I have to admit that right now it feels like forever.
“Okay, so everyone remembers where to go, right?” Abby asks, having deemed herself our group leader sometime back in early elementary school, when Jenay and I were too oblivious to argue or engage in any kind of power struggle.
I nod and gaze nervously around campus, as Jenay laughs. “Yes, Mom.” She smiles.
“Okay, and remember, you can totally text me if you need anything. Because I’m leaving my cell on vibrate,” Abby adds.
And even though I’m gazing across campus at Marc—who up until last week I hadn’t seen for nearly a year—I’m fully aware of Abby’s stare and how that last part was meant for me.
If you were going to categorize us, and let’s face it, most people just naturally do, you could say that Jenay is the clumsy, funny, pretty one (even though most of the time she doesn’t know it), Abby’s the super-organized, bossy one (and yeah, most of the time she does know it), and I’m the completely tragic one. Though before last year, most people probably would’ve said that I’m the cynical, brainy one. But that doesn’t mean that Jenay’s not smart, or that Abby’s not pretty, or that I can’t be hopeful. Those are just the things that people usually notice first. But since Abby and Jenay have been my best friends for as long as I can remember, I guess I don’t really see them that way. When I look at them I just see two people who are always there for me, who can always make me laugh, and who can sometimes even help me forget.
Clutching my schedule, I recheck my room number, even though it’s practically tattooed on my brain, ever since the “dry run” Abby subjected us to a little over a week ago, so we wouldn’t look like “your typical clueless freshmen” (even though we were) on our very first day.
“They’re here. The schedules. Check your mailbox and meet me on the corner in five,” she’d said, as I slipped on some flip-flops and fled out the door, thankful that my mom was out running errands, which spared me the usual detailed explanations.
When I got to the corner, Jenay was already waiting, her long blond hair flowing loose around her shoulders, as her fingers picked at the hems of her layered blue and white tank tops.
“Hey,” she said, gazing up and smiling, her blue eyes squinting against the sun. “Abby forgot her cell so she ran back to get it.”
“Why?” I asked.
But Jenay just shrugged. “You know Abby,” she said, reaching for my schedule. “Damn. Once again, no classes together. Well that’s what you get for being so smart.” She laughed, returning the yellow slip of paper and getting back to her double frayed hems.
I just stood there, not saying a word, since I never really know what to say when she gets all self-effacing like that. But then Abby ran up, waving her phone, as evidence of her mission accomplished, and led us on the three-and-a-half-block trek to our future home away from home for the next four years—Bella Vista High. Go Bobcats.
Having grown up in this town, it’s not like I hadn’t already been there like a zillion times before, not to mention how it’s the same school Zoë went to right up until the first month of her junior year. But still, every time I approached that concrete slab of a campus I couldn’t help but wonder just exactly what those founders were thinking when they named it Bella Vista. Because as far as beautiful views went
, well, there weren’t any.
We navigated our way around, located our lockers (which thankfully weren’t all that far apart), and decided where we’d meet on our ten-minute break (Abby’s locker), and then again at lunch (Abby’s locker—until we secured a more solid place). And after we’d memorized all of our room numbers and their corresponding locations, we headed back home, with Jenay doing an impersonation of Ashlee Simpson that had me bent over laughing the entire way.
Well, until I saw Marc.
I stopped midstride, just stood there and stared. Noticing how his shoulders slumped low, how his dark eyes stayed guarded, and how each drag of his cigarette seemed filled with intent, like he was meant to be sitting on the hood of his car, just outside the Circle K, at precisely that moment. But just as he lifted his head and his eyes fixed on mine, Abby and Jenay each grabbed an arm, pulling me away from him and closer to the safety of home.
But now, having just seen him again, I realize this will probably become like a daily occurrence. And I can’t believe I didn’t grasp that before. I mean, even though I don’t share the same opinion of him as most people in this town, having to go to the same school with him just totally sucks. Because now it’s like there’s no safe place, nowhere I can just be me without the constant shadow of Zoë. No place where I can start fresh and try to move on.
Four
Even though it probably seems like Abby would’ve been the one to secure the good lunch table, it was Jenay who succeeded. Because in the world of cafeteria real estate, long blond hair, big blue eyes, a great smile, and a nicely filled out snug white T-shirt trumps the best laid plans of a future life coach every single time.
“It must be the jeans. They’re magic, that’s why they cost so damn much,” Abby says, sliding in next to Jenay and gawking at Chess Williams and the almost equally cute Parker Hendricks, who are sitting just mere inches away.