Seven
The second I hear “Surprise!” I feel like an idiot. I mean, thinking back on Jenay’s inability to keep a secret, and Abby’s oh-so-obvious attempts to cover, it’s pretty clear I should’ve known from the start. But after last year’s birthday, when the only candles I was asked to blow out were for Zoë’s candlelight vigil, my expectations for any future celebrations were at an all-time low.
“Were you surprised?” Jenay and Abby ask, obviously delighted at being able to pull it off so successfully.
“Totally,” I say, slipping out of my favorite navy blue peacoat and gazing at all the decorations: the purple, orange, and pink paper lanterns; the matching candles, floor pillows, and balloons; not to mention the big red velvet cake pierced in the center with fifteen pink candles that my mom must have dropped off when I was bogged down in homework.
“So I guess you don’t really need this after all?” I say, smiling as I hold up the dog-eared copy of he Petit Prince, which is not only required reading for French I, but also Jenay’s excuse for luring me over.
But she just laughs as she leads me deeper into the room.
I’m surprised by how crowded it is. And even though I smile and wave and say hi to all of these people I recognize from school, if you tried to test me, pop quiz me on their names, the truth is I’d totally fail. I mean, just because they came doesn’t mean I actually know them. And it feels like one of those episodes of Friends, where they throw a party and all of these extras show up. All of these supposed other good friends, lounging on that famous TV couch, talking and laughing and sharing the screen, like they’ve been there all along and you just hadn’t noticed.
And even though I’d like to believe that all of these people are here to see me, the truth is I know it’s because of Abby and Jenay. They’re the ones who invited them. They’re the ones who’ve gone out of their way to know them.
Abby runs off to get me a drink as I squeeze into a narrow space on the end of the couch, smiling awkwardly at the girl sitting beside me, who turns to me and says, “Omigod, you should’ve seen your face when you first walked in! You looked so surprised, like you’d just seen a ghost!”
Then I watch as her face freezes in horror, just seconds after realizing what she really just said.
But I just launch straight into my well-honed “damage control” routine. The one where I smile and nod and give a friendly look, one that hopefully conveys the message: as far as I’m concerned you have nothing to feel bad about. Then I get up off the couch and mumble something about needing to go help Abby.
And as I’m walking away I hear her friend say, “Omigod, I can’t believe you just said that! Hello? Remember what happened to her sister?”
Eventually it’s gotta stop, right? The way people look at me. The way they treat me. The way everyone around me goes out of their way to avoid certain words in my presence. As though the mere sound of missing, vanished, Internet predator, gone, lost, or disappeared will somehow reduce me to tears.
I know she meant well. I know she was only trying to make conversation with me, a girl whose party she’s at and yet barely knows. But how can I ever be friends with someone who can’t see me as anything other than Tragedy Girl?
How can I hang with people who refuse to see that despite the whole thing with my sister, I’m really not so different from them?
How can I make new friends when everyone feels so uncomfortable and guarded around me all the time?
I mean, right after the whole thing with Zoë, I became hugely, insanely popular. All of these kids who’d barely spoken to me before started lining up in hopes of being my new best friend. But even though at first I kind of liked all of the attention, it didn’t take long to figure out how most of them were just voyeurs. Just a bunch of tragedy whores who wanted to get close to me so they could report back to the others. As though their social standing would somehow elevate once they told the story of how they went for ice cream with the sister of the girl who got . . .
Anyway, I learned pretty quick how to spot those people a mile away. And Abby and Jenay wasted no time in forming a tight, secure shield, protecting me from any and all future fake friendship attempts.
But now that we’re in high school, it’s obvious they want to branch out, meet new people, expand their horizons, whatever. And it’s not that I blame them, or would ever try to stop them. I’m actually more worried about holding them back.
Or even worse, attracting all the wrong people, like the sideshow circus freak that I am.
“Here’s the birthday girl,” Jenay says, acting all giddy, even though I’m 100 percent certain the only thing occupying her cup is crushed ice and Sprite.
Abby hands me my drink and sits on the couch, as Parker scootches away from her so he can make room for me. “Have a seat,” he says, smiling and patting the free space beside him.
I glance at Abby wondering if she minds, then squeeze in beside Parker, thinking how weird it feels to be doing that considering how long I’ve known him, and how that’s the first time he’s ever scooted anywhere for me. But then again, the only time he ever spoke to me before was to say, “Sorry” as he fetched a soccer ball he’d just accidentally kicked at my head.
But I guess that’s because Parker always hangs with Chess, and Chess always hangs with the popular crowd. And even though our junior high was just as cliqued up as any other school, and even though Abby, Jenay, and I have never been part of that über-cool group, we somehow managed to get out of there pretty much unscathed, avoiding a big, dramatic, Mean Girls showdown, which left us with a clean slate and no grudges to carry over into high school.
But now, with Parker making room for me, I realize Jenay was right about them being demoted, as most of the girls from their old group have already moved on, setting their sights on all the hot sophomores, juniors, and seniors. Which pretty much leaves the pick of the freshman litter for the rest of us to browse.
“We should play spin the bottle,” Chess says, his eyes darting among us, looking to see who, if any, will bite.
“Why not seven minutes in Heaven?” Parker says, laughing and high-fiving Chess.
“Um, when did my party become a Judy Blume book?” I ask, hoping and praying that they’re not at all serious.
“I think it sounds kind of fun,” Jenay says, looking at me with eyes that are practically begging me to lighten up. “You know, retro.” She smiles.
Retro for who? I think, since neither she, I, nor Abby has ever played this game before. Remember what I said about not being cool? Well, that means we weren’t invited to any of the cool parties either. But since it’s obvious she just wants an excuse to kiss Chess, and since I don’t want to be the one who gets in her way, I just shrug and act like I really don’t care.
Then Teresa, the alpha girl who held the top junior high royalty position solidly through both seventh and eighth grades, and who’s now decided to join our meager group (probably because her original group disbanded and she’d rather be a big fish in our tiny little pond than a guppy in an ocean of upperclassmen), rolls her eyes and says, “Please, those games are so juvenile.”
“But I just saw Carrie play it on Sex and the City,” Jenay says, her voice sounding as pouty as her face looks.
“Again, over! Syndication!” Teresa shakes her head as she digs through her purse, having positioned herself on the rug near our feet. “I mean, if you guys want to make out with someone then just make out. Get over it already, because nobody cares.” She pulls a vodka mini from her bag and unscrews the cap. “Anybody?” she asks, holding it up in offering.
I glance at Jenay and it’s clear that she’s torn. Partly pissed that Teresa’s taking over the party, yet partly wondering if she should maybe just relax and let her. I mean, the fact that Teresa deigned to show up probably feels like a major coup.
“None for me,” Abby says, leaning back against the cushions and narrowing her eyes at this new, bossy intruder.
“Ditto,” I say as
a show of support, even though I do kind of want some, just to see what it’s like.
And when I look over at Jenay, waiting for her to chime in, she just shrugs and holds up her cup, pushing it toward Teresa.
Apparently Teresa’s dad is a frequent flyer, which basically means she’s got a purse full of airplane minis. And with pretty much everyone drinking (except Abby and me), and the lights turned low, and the music turned up, Parker leans in and whispers, “Wanna take a walk?”
I glance over at Jenay and Chess, who are totally making out right in front of us, then I squint at Parker and go, “Where? I mean, Jenay’s parents are upstairs so we really shouldn’t leave the basement.”
But he just smiles. “I know a place,” he says, standing before me and offering his hand.
And even though it sounds totally fishy to me, I still get up and follow.
When I think of coat closets, I usually think of itchy wool and cloying mothballs. But that’s only because I don’t have three brothers. Because from the moment I stepped inside there’s been a hockey stick wedged against my butt, and it’s accompanied by the most gag-worthy smell of B.O. I’ve ever encountered. Though I’m sure it’s not coming from Parker since I don’t remember him ever smelling bad, not to mention how this entire time, both his hands have been wrapped loosely around my waist and haven’t wandered anywhere near my butt.
“Have you ever done this before?” he whispers, pulling me close.
I squint into the dark space before me, trying to make out the blondishness of his hair, the bluishness of his eyes, and the overall cuteness of his face that’s kept him solidly in the number two position, directly beneath Chess, on the “cutest boys in school” list we’ve been keeping since fourth grade. But all I can make out is the vague outline of his head, and I wonder if he’s asking if I’ve ever been in this closet before, or if I’ve ever kissed a guy before. Because to be honest, that wasn’t exactly clear. But still, I guess the answer to both of those questions is pretty much the same, no and no. So that’s what I tell him.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” he asks, his voice filled with so much sweetness and concern that I’m shocked. Because honestly, I thought he’d be in full grope mode by now. “I mean, you’re so nice. And I like you. So I don’t want to push or anything.”
I’d give anything to see his face right now, because this is not at all the cocky, loud, overconfident Parker from the lunch table, the one I assumed I’d be wrestling with. And the truth is, whether he actually kisses me or not really doesn’t matter. I mean, I feel pretty neutral about the whole thing. I’m more surprised by the fact of how he even wants to kiss me. And how he’s being so nice. And how he just said he likes me!
And I know I probably shouldn’t waste this opportunity since things like this never happen to me, and because of that, this could be my one and only shot at a normal adolescent experience. But still, I can’t help but ask, “Did you just say you like me?” I know it’s lame and insecure, but I need a little clarification, ‘cause to be honest, this is pretty hard to believe.
“Yeah. I think you’re really cute, and nice, and stuff. Always have. You just never seemed very interested,” he says.
I know I should probably be satisfied with that, and just shut up and let him kiss me already, but I really need to get to the bottom of this. So I go, “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” He laughs. “But it’s like, you and Jenay and Abby were always so tight that I guess I was too shy to try to break in.”
“You’re shy?” I say, unable to keep my disbelief in check.
“Yeah, but I’m working on it,” he says, pulling me even closer. “So, is it okay? Can I kiss you now?”
I kind of wish he hadn’t asked, ‘cause it makes me feel really awkward to give him permission. But still, I guess it’s better than never being asked, and possibly never being kissed. So I just nod and go, “Um, okay.”
So he does. He leans in and kisses me. First he does it with his mouth closed. Then with it slightly open. And at one point he even slips his tongue in for a little bit. Then he pulls away, and says, “Was that okay?”
I nod. But then I remember how dark it is, which means he probably couldn’t see that, so I clear my throat and say, “Um, yeah, it was nice.”
And that’s when he does it again.
Eight
By the time I get home, the house is mostly dark. And as I tiptoe upstairs and peek into their room, I’m surprised to find my parents already asleep. I mean, normally, well, I guess normally I don’t go to parties, but still, for the last year, every time I left the house unchaperoned, I always returned to blazing lights, a flickering TV, and at least one, if not both, of my parents staying up late, playing night sentinel.
But maybe this is a good sign. Maybe things are finally looking up. Maybe my parents’ paranoid period is coming to an end. Or maybe, this is just the result of my mom’s addiction to happy pills, and my dad’s utter exhaustion.
I change out of my clothes and slip into my pink-and-white striped pajamas, then I pad into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face of what little makeup I bothered to wear. And as I peer at my reflection, I lean closer to the mirror, noticing how my lips are all red and swollen, and my cheeks all flushed and tender, and I watch them grow even redder when I realize it’s because of Parker.
I guess I just never imagined something like that would happen to me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I planned to join a nunnery, or take a vow of celibacy, or anything crazy like that. Heck, I even assumed I’d get married someday, giving birth to the requisite number of kids. But all of that seemed so distant and far away. Like it was just one more thing on life’s big “To Do” list. Just stuff that grownups did, like subscribing to a newspaper or paying bills.
I guess I never thought about the whole attracting part of it. And how I might feel about someone. And how they might feel about me.
And it’s not like I’m hideous or anything. I mean, I’m pretty much your basic, all-American, standard issue girl. But still, it’s not like I’m fun and sparkly like Jenay. And I’m certainly not amazing like Zoë. So I guess that’s why it’s hard for me to make sense of that kiss. And how afterward, Parker stuck by me for the rest of the night.
When I wake up soaked in sweat at 3:06 A.M., feeling panicky, with my face all wet and my throat all tight and sore as though I’ve been sobbing in my sleep, I force myself to just lay there, slowly breathing in and out as I count, starting at one hundred and working my way down, just like that shrink suggested that time I accidentally told him about my dreams.
But even after counting, even after changing out of my damp pajamas and into clean dry ones, even after drinking a glass of water and assuring myself that there’s absolutely no reason to panic, I still can’t seem to relax enough to fall back to sleep. And then I make it even worse when I start thinking about my party, and how everything’s changing so fast in a way I once anticipated, only now that it’s happening, I’m no longer so sure.
I mean, my parents didn’t wait up, and a boy actually wanted to kiss me. And even though at the beginning of the night those two things would’ve sounded amazingly cool, now at o dark thirty, they no longer do.
Because, let’s face it, there’s comfort in being cautious.
And there’s peace in the predictable.
But now, if everything’s going to be different, if everything’s going to be filled with possibility and opportunity, how will I know if I’m ready? How will I know how to deal?
And it’s not like Zoë ever worried about these things. “Better to ask forgiveness than permission,” she’d say. And God knows she doled out her fair share of apologies. But still, nothing ever fazed her. Nothing ever tripped her up. She just moved through life at lightning speed, expecting nothing but cooperation, approval, laughter, and fun.
Zoë was street smart and naïve.
She was thoughtful yet reckless.
She was sexy but
innocent.
She was a walking dichotomy.
And I want to be just like her.
I climb out of bed, grab my backpack, and retrieve the cobalt blue book that Marc gave me. Then I switch on my reading light, slip back between the sheets, and with totally shaking hands, turn to the first page, shivering when I see her familiar, round, loopy scrawl, and read:
This is Zoë’s diary. And you should NOT be reading it!
I knew she was right. But I also knew she had something to teach me. So I ignored the warning, and turned the page.
Nine
June 14 (finally!)
I don’t know why they call it the last day of school, when really it’s the first day of freedom. Cuz the second that minimum day bell rings at 12:20 P.M., there’s not a teacher, principal, or school administrator w/in 50 miles that can touch me—and that includes YOU, Coach Warner, you disgusting old pig. You think I don’t notice when you look down my top? Next year I’m gonna stick a tiny mirror down there so you can see your own ugly reflection staring back at you!!!
As usual, classes were a joke—everyone just ignoring the teachers, running around, signing yearbooks, and promising to hook up sometime during the hot days ahead. All I could do was nod and smile and go through the motions, because the whole entire time I was thinking about ditching Stephen so I can hook up with Marc.
I know he’s into me.
I’m never wrong about these things.
June 15
Didn’t make it downstairs ‘til after 11, still feeling drunk from last night. Walked right into the edge of the kitchen table and had to grab the corner to steady myself. Thank G nobody noticed. Dad had his nose buried in a pile of papers (as usual), Mom was outside working in her over achiever garden wearing her big old hat, SPF 75, wraparound sunglasses, gloves, and a long-sleeved shirt—like she’s allergic to the sun or something. Only Echo sniffed the air as I passed, flashed me a knowing look, but didn’t say a word as I headed for the coffeemaker. Didn’t even get to the second sip before Carly called, wanting to bitch me out for ditching Stephen and trying to hook up with Marc behind his back.