After I hang up the phone, I lie in bed picturing my mother in one of those old war movies, sliding along the underbrush on her belly. See how hard I’m trying? she says. It’s not easy to get out of the woods. There are leaves in her hair, a little smile on her lips.
But in the next scene she’s dead. Gun to the temple. Boom.
I can’t sleep. I can’t get that image out of my head.
* * *
On the bus in the morning, Sarabeth is still buzzing about her party. How great were everyone’s costumes? How much fun was that, singing together? Who knew Reese could beatbox? As usual, she keeps talking, even though it’s a one-way conversation. Why is it so hard for me to form words and push them out of my mouth? Why do I feel like I’m underwater? My mother’s voice runs through my head, an endless loop. Can’t get up. Too tired. Can’t get up. Too tired. Well, I’m tired, too, Mom. Did you ever think of that?
“Are you okay?” Sarabeth asks finally.
“I’m tired.”
“It seems like more than that. Not just today. You seemed down at my house, too.”
I wasn’t expecting this. I don’t want to start unloading my drama, not here, not to Sarabeth Mueller.
“It’s just my dad’s baby,” I say. Which isn’t exactly a lie. “Her room is right next to mine and she’s up all night crying.”
“Your dad’s baby?”
“My half sister, technically.”
“I thought you were an only child.”
I glance at her. “I was.”
“Remember third grade?” she says. “We did those family trees? You and I were the only ones without siblings.”
“You remember third grade?”
“I loved third grade. Everyone was friends then.”
The way she says it, I know she’s including me in “everyone.” It’s kind of a naked comment, and I’m not sure how to respond. Then this memory pops into my head: a bunch of girls playing Chinese jump rope on the blacktop behind the jungle gym. Sarabeth winding the elastic around her skinny ankles.
“Chinese jump rope,” I say.
She smiles. “Yeah. And four square. You were really good at four square.”
“I’m horrible at sports.”
“Really? You won all the time in third grade.”
The bus pulls up to the circle and we’re awkward for a moment. This is where I usually take off, speed walking ahead to my locker. I’m about to do it again when it hits me.
“Was I mean to you? After third grade?” I am remembering the names people used to call her. Casper the Ghost. Albino. Powder. X-ray.
Sarabeth hesitates. “Not really. Not directly. You just kind of … drifted away with Danielle and Keesha. And I just kind of … drifted the other way.”
I’m picturing icebergs.
“Anyway.” She shrugs. “We’re back.”
Sure of herself. That’s how she sounds. I think, How are you so weirdly confident? But I find myself walking off the bus with Sarabeth Mueller, all the way to our lockers.
* * *
Dani made cheerleading. I know because there is a big banner on the wall outside the gym: football players’ names in blue, cheerleaders’ names in gold. “Danielle Loomis,” it says, right there for all the world to see.
My heart is heavy in gym class. My legs are heavier. Chloe stands on the other side of the badminton net from me, shaking her head, laughing. “You’re allowed to move your feet, Anna.” Nicole isn’t in our gym class, so Chloe has no one to fight with about witches. She is almost normal. If normal means missing every birdie that comes her way. I’ll serve it to her, and she’ll make one of those dramatic, grunting leaps that professional tennis players make, and whiff, missing the birdie completely.
“You’re allowed to make contact, Chloe,” I find myself saying.
“I’m going for style points.”
“You’ve got style all right.”
“Look at this arabesque,” she says, lifting one leg and doing another remarkable whiff.
“Wow. Thanks for the breeze.”
Mrs. Strand is not amused. “Ms. Hartman,” she says to Chloe, “save the fancy stuff for ballet class.” She demonstrates ready badminton position: wide base, racket centered.
Chloe nods. She squats and bounces up and down, showing how ready she is. Then, as soon as Mrs. Strand turns her back, she does a flying leap, this time with her tongue out.
“Nine point two,” I tell her.
“Is that all?”
“You didn’t point your toes. Major deduction.”
Chloe laughs. And I don’t know why, but I leave gym feeling less like I swallowed a wrecking ball.
CHAPTER
11
IT’S BEEN TWO WEEKS since I’ve seen my mother. She has used up all her sick days at work, and it doesn’t sound like she’s getting any better. The good news, Regina tells me on the phone, is that my mom qualifies for a three-month medical leave for “restoration of health.” Regina has filled out all the paperwork and everything has been approved.
“How is that good news?” I say.
“It means she can focus on getting well without worrying about work.”
“But she’s not getting well.”
“It doesn’t happen overnight, Anna.”
“Yeah, well it hasn’t been one night. It’s been two weeks.”
“I know how long it’s been.”
Regina sounds annoyed. With me. Like it’s my fault she volunteered to take my mother in. Like it’s my fault the medicine isn’t working.
“What do the doctors say?”
“They say to be patient, Anna. She’s in a holding pattern.”
A holding pattern? Airplanes flying around in circles, waiting for clearance? It is another stupid metaphor. My mother can’t get off Regina’s couch, let alone fly. She won’t even eat, Regina says. If she won’t eat, how will she ever have the energy to get off the couch?
* * *
MondayTuesdayWednesdayThursday. School is a blur. I feel like I’m sleepwalking. In math, we have an angles quiz and I can’t even hold up my pencil. Ms. Baer-Leighton leans over my desk and whispers, “Do you want to go to the nurse and lie down, Anna?”
Her breath smells like cough drops.
“It’s okay,” she says gently. “You can make this up later.”
So I go to the nurse. I lie on the cot with the crinkly paper. I close my eyes.
* * *
Friday afternoon, eighth period, we have a pep rally. With cheerleaders. Of which Danielle Loomis is now one. I find myself on the bleachers watching Dani jump around in her blue-and-gold skirt, shaking her blue-and-gold pom-poms. I am not filled with school spirit. I don’t know what I’m filled with. Dani doesn’t stop smiling, not for a second, and part of me thinks she’s faking it, but another part thinks she is actually happy.
S is for super!
U is for unique!
P is for perfect, ’cause you know we’re sweet!
Shelby Horner cheerleaders have a passionate need to tell the world how great they are, and now they have to show the world how flexible they are by twisting their bodies into the letters S and H.
“All they need is an I,” a voice mutters in my ear, “and a T.”
I know instantly it’s Shawna Wendall. I’m not sure how she got here, since we’re supposed to be sitting by homeroom, but when I turn my head she is beside me, baring her teeth. “How much Cougar pride are you feeling right now?”
“None.”
“Liar,” she says. “You want to be out there cheering.”
“No I don’t.”
“Yeah you do. You want your voice to be heard. You want to sound your barbaric yawp all over school.”
I shake my head.
“Just like at Sarabeth’s house. You were dying to get up and sing with us. You were on the edge of your seat.”
“Yeah,” I say, not because I’m agreeing but because I don’t have the energy to argue. “You got me.”
&
nbsp; Before she can respond, the bell rings.
“TGIF, Cougar fans!” one of the ninth-grade cheerleaders whoops into her megaphone. “Come cheer on our boys tonight as they take on the Wolfpack under the lights!”
I can’t get out of here fast enough. I grab my backpack and make my way down the bleachers, through the swarm of bodies.
“Hey,” Shawna says.
She is still beside me. Why is she still beside me?
“Want to hang out? Go to Teavana or something?”
I look at her. “You drink tea?”
“Yeah. So?”
“You don’t look like a tea drinker.”
“What do I look like?”
I shake my head.
“No, really,” Shawna says. “I want to know.”
But I don’t answer. Maybe later I will tell Shawna how her plucked-out, drawn-on eyebrows don’t do her any favors, but right now I am too tired.
Shawna stops talking. She must have taken the hint. She doesn’t seem mad, just quiet—walking along beside me, her messenger bag bumping against her leg. We make it to the buses, which is a relief. All I want is a window seat so I can rest my cheek against the glass.
“It’s a compulsion,” Shawna blurts just as I’m getting on.
“What?”
“My eyebrows.”
It’s the first time she’s mentioned them. I don’t want to miss my ride but something in her voice makes me step back down.
“Trichotillomania,” Shawna says quietly. “It’s an impulse-control disorder. I don’t do it on purpose. I just … pull them out.”
I glance at her.
“It’s okay. I know I look weird.”
“You don’t look weird,” I lie.
“Anna,” she says. “Come on. You think I draw them like this by mistake? I own this look. I could glue on fake ones and look ‘normal’”—she scratches quote marks in the air—“but this is my choice. This is me.”
I don’t know what to say, so I nod. I’m still nodding when my bus pulls away.
“Sorry about that,” Shawna says.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I can walk.”
“Is your house close?”
“I’m staying at my dad’s, in town.”
She nods. “Divorced?”
“Yeah.”
“Mine, too … Remarried?”
“My dad is.”
“Bummer.”
“Yeah.”
We’re awkward for a moment. Then a big black car pulls up.
“This is me,” Shawna says.
I am bug-eyed for a minute. “Is that a limo?”
“Town car,” she says. “My dad likes to impress people. Are you impressed?”
“Kind of. Yeah.”
“You want a ride?”
I shake my head. “I’ll walk.”
“All right, then.”
She gives me a little punch on the shoulder. “Stay gold, Ponyboy.”
I choke on my spit when she says that. I have read The Outsiders exactly fourteen times. “That’s my favorite book!”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course it is.”
I return the shoulder punch, harder than intended. Shawna looks surprised, but then her mouth twitches. “Don’t make me take you down, Collette.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
She looks completely different when she smiles.
* * *
A weird thing happens when I get home from school. My cell phone rings. At first I don’t even realize what the sound is. I think it’s the TV because that’s what I’m watching. Then it hits me. I unzip my backpack and pull out the phone.
“Hello?” I say.
“Hey. It’s Sarabeth.”
“I know,” I say. I don’t bother telling her she’s the only one who has this number, so who else could it be?
“Want to go to the game tonight?” she says.
“What game?”
“The football game. Cougars versus Wolfpack.”
“I don’t think so,” I murmur.
“My mom said she’d drive us.”
“That’s nice, but—”
“Shawna’s coming.
“Shawna’s coming?”
Sarabeth laughs. “I promised she could make fun of the cheerleaders.”
“Huh,” I say.
“Come on. It’s Friday Night Lights.”
“Friday Night Lights,” I repeat. This rings a bell. Did I see the movie?
“It’s gonna be a great game. The Wolfpack was nine-and-oh last season, and we were eight-and-one, but our offensive line is faster.”
Apparently Sarabeth is a football fan. Who knew?
“I don’t know if I can go,” I say.
“You can go!” Marnie calls from the kitchen.
Either she has bionic hearing or she’s been listening on one of Jane’s baby monitors. Either way it’s annoying. I picture a night of Marnie hovering over me, asking if I want a snack.
“I can go,” I tell Sarabeth.
* * *
By the time we get there, the bleachers are packed. The band is playing.
The cheerleaders are lined up along the track, shaking their pom-poms and bouncing all over the place. S-P! They shout in unison. I-R!… I-T!… YOU GOT SPIRIT?… LET’S HEAR IT!
Dani has her hair in two braids, shot through with blue and gold ribbons. I watch her do a straddle jump. Her toes come all the way up to touch her fingertips. She is so high.
Shawna elbows me in the ribs. “What did the cheerleader’s left leg say to her right leg?”
“I don’t know.”
“As if they’ve ever met.”
“Ha, ha.”
Sarabeth, Shawna, and I squash together on one tiny stretch of bleachers. There’s an electric energy in the air, a smell of popcorn and fall, but I can’t enjoy any of it. There are moms everywhere. Sporty moms in Shelby Horner sweatshirts. Designer moms in 7 jeans and Uggs. Crunchy moms in flannel. There are moms laughing, moms texting, moms drinking coffee from paper cups. Everyone else is watching the football players; I am watching the moms. I am thinking, What if she never gets off the couch? What if she keeps refusing to eat? What if Regina goes out for milk and leaves her home alone? What if she tries it again? I keep checking my phone, to see if Regina has called.
“Why do you keep checking your phone?” Shawna says. “Are you a CIA operative or something?”
She is wearing the anti–Shelby Horner uniform: all black, from hoodie to combat boots.
“No.”
“FBI? Mafia?… Drug dealer?”
I shake my head, tuck my phone back in my pocket. I am not in the mood for jokes. I am sitting here, surrounded by school spirit, but I don’t feel it. I’m missing something. I’m missing my mom.
“Hey,” Sarabeth says, taking a break from the cowbell she has been ringing. I can’t believe she brought a cowbell. “You okay?”
I nod. I can feel Shawna looking at me, too. I can feel the tears pressing against my eyeballs, but I won’t let them fall. I am like the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dike, holding back the flood.
What would I even say? No, actually, you guys, I’m not okay? My mom is depressed? My mom has bipolar disorder? She tried to kill herself and I’m afraid she may try it again?
I don’t want to say any of these things. Not out loud.
At some point in the third quarter, Shelby Horner finally scores a touchdown. Everyone jumps up, screaming like maniacs. Except for me, because my finger is still in the dike. And Shawna, because she is anti–school spirit. Then the Wolfpack scores. Then, with nine seconds left on the clock, Shelby Horner scores again, and everyone jumps up and screams even louder because we won. Shawna glances at me, and our eyes lock, and she grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet.
And the band is playing and the cheerleaders are leaping and Sarabeth is banging on her cowbell, and Shawna is growling and scratching the air like a Cougar. I know she is doing this sarcastically, but it actuall
y catches on and a bunch of people around us start doing it, too. For a moment I forget all about my mom and it feels so good. But the next moment I feel awful. Because how can I be jumping up and down at a football game when she is stuck to Regina’s couch? What kind of daughter am I?
CHAPTER
12
MY FATHER AND MARNIE are fighting again. It’s a stupid fight. My father has stepped out of his post-treadmill shower and there are no clean towels. This does not compute with his Sunday-morning routine.
“Just use the towel you used yesterday,” Marnie says.
“I don’t want the towel I used yesterday. I want a fresh towel.”
“Well, I don’t have one for you.”
“Why not? Is the washing machine broken?”
“No. I just haven’t kept up with the laundry.”
“Well, do you think you could do a load today? Could you squeeze that into your busy schedule?”
Marnie storms out of their bedroom. I watch her bang open the laundry hamper and start tossing dirty clothes all over the floor. “Here!” She hurls a towel at my father, who is standing at the top of the stairs in his boxer shorts, dripping wet. “Do your own laundry!”
I watch the whole thing through a crack in the guest room door.
I watch my father try to smooth things over. He is a bumbling idiot. He has no idea how to say “I’m sorry,” because he and my mother never apologized to each other. It is pitiful to behold.
“I’ll go out after breakfast and buy more towels,” he says, missing the point so completely I think he’s joking.
He is not.
Marnie can barely look at him.
Jane wakes up and starts screeching.
“Great,” Marnie says. “Now you woke the baby.”
The tension is so thick I almost wish it were a school day so I had somewhere to go.
* * *
Later, I overhear Marnie on the phone. “I used to have a life,” she says. “I used to be fun. I used to do things. Now I clean. And cook. And get spit up on. I don’t even recognize myself.”
Silence for a moment. Then, “I know, Harp.”
Harp. Harper, from the wedding. Marnie’s maid of honor. She’s about six feet tall and lives in Atlanta.