Jake finished his burger, slurping up the last bit of onion and tomato. Then he said, “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know why you and Val figured it out and I can’t.”
“I haven’t figured out anything,” I said. “I’m just making it up as I go along.”
“Me, too,” Val said.
Jake held out the rest of the fries to us. “I always feel like there’s some rule book everyone else got that I never got.”
Val and I laughed. We hadn’t gotten the book, either.
“I’m sick of feeling like crap,” he said.
Val touched his knee. “It gets better.”
“Oh, yeah? When?”
“I don’t know. But it does.”
He crumpled up the empty bag. “For everyone but me.”
I remembered feeling that way, that night in the garage. And again on the way home from Val’s after she’d rejected me. And every time I’d had to look at that stupid pink sweater in my closet. And when I’d found out that Nicki had lied to me. Every time I thought things might be okay, the ground caved in under my feet.
But then, like Val said, things got better. And worse again. And better. I was beginning to see this wave of ups and downs stretching out in front of me forever, beginning to think maybe that was just life.
“If you hang on,” Val said, “I promise you it does get better.”
Jake’s hand shook. He crushed the balled-up bag tighter. “Bull,” he said, but his voice shook, too, and I knew he wanted to believe her.
He turned to me. “Does it get better?”
That was the question, and I owed him Patterson Honesty. And so I gave it to him.
“Yes,” I said.
• • • • •
Late that afternoon, I returned to the waterfall. I didn’t go under the cascade. I dunked myself in the pool and watched water pour over rock. I put everything I knew about Nicki and her father back together, tried to replace the lies with the truth. It wasn’t always easy to remember which puzzle pieces belonged, or to put the new pieces in place of the old.
When Nicki showed up on the bank with four other kids who lived along the highway, I almost ducked under the water, but I knew I couldn’t hold my breath until they left. I recognized a couple of them from the bus stop last year—not that I’d spoken to them. I used to sit alone on a rock, with earbuds on. Some of the time, I didn’t even have any music on. I wore the earbuds because they gave me an excuse not to talk to anyone, and they gave everyone else an obvious reason not to have to talk to me.
Now the kids settled on a clump of fallen trees well back from the water’s edge, talking, smoking. The girl who’d called me the “local loser” wasn’t there. Nicki looked from me to her friends, as if not sure where she belonged.
I splashed out of the water and toweled off, dripping on the moss, feeling their eyes on me. If I walked away without speaking, they wouldn’t think it was unusual. They probably didn’t expect anything else from me at this point.
And what about Nicki?
She had said, I think I could like you a lot, if you’d let me, and I had been running those words through my mind, over and over, rubbing them smooth like beach stones. I could’ve said those same words about Val. But every time I saw or talked to Val now, I felt the space between us widening.
I think I could like you a lot.
I met Nicki’s eyes, and she glanced away instantly, the way drops of water ricochet off a hot pan.
I thought I could like her a lot. Maybe I already did.
In spite of everything. Maybe because of everything. Because we both knew what it was like to feel bad and choose the wrong way to cope with it. Because we’d both covered up things we couldn’t stand to admit. Because we both wanted to believe there was such a thing as forgiveness.
I crumpled my towel and walked over to the group. I said hi and they nodded back, made a few jokes about school starting next week, offered me a smoke. I’d forgotten what it was like to talk to people—casually, at least—to bullshit about ordinary stuff. But after a few minutes the rust flaked off my voice, and I managed to sound something like a human being.
Nicki sat silent, her face flushing every time I looked at her. A wisp of hair blew across her cheek, and I wanted to brush it away.
“Want to take a walk?” I asked her. I hadn’t thought her face could get redder, but it did then.
“Yes.”
We said good-bye to the others and took the path that led to my house. As soon as we were alone, she said, “I’m really sorry I lied to you.”
I nodded. “I’m sorry you lost your dad.” After a pause: “You know that what he did wasn’t your fault, right?”
“Most of the time I know it.”
“Well, it’s true. It was him, not you.”
“Thanks,” she said, so softly I almost missed it.
I rubbed my tongue against the roof of my mouth, looking for any moisture, anything to help get the next words out.
“What?” she said, and I shook my head. She stopped then, so I stopped, too, and we faced each other. Mostly what I wanted to do was touch her, her arm or maybe her back, the way she’d touched me on the deck.
I didn’t know exactly what we were to each other, but I didn’t have to stick a label on it yet, either. I needed Val’s shadow to fade more before I could be sure, but I thought I knew what I would find when it did fade. I willed my hand to move, and for a second it seemed like the pane of glass was back, blocking me, but my hand twitched. And even though my arm was stiff and heavy, I managed to lift it and rest my hand on Nicki’s shoulder. I ran my thumb along the seam in her shirt. She touched the back of my neck, rubbed the cool skin where water seeped down from my hair. “You’re shivering,” she said.
“I know.”
My hand shook, but I wasn’t numb. I felt the roughness of the fabric and the warmth of her body, the slight rise her shoulder made with every breath. I realized I wasn’t the only one shivering. We leaned into each other, and I bent to rest my forehead against hers. Scared as I was to be that close to her, I stayed there, my skin touching hers. I didn’t move away.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to everyone at the Curtis Brown agency, especially Ginger Knowlton and Anna Umansky; and to the crew at Viking and Penguin, especially Leila Sales. I am grateful for the guidance provided by Catherine Frank and Nathan Bransford. I appreciate not only the outstanding professional skills of everyone mentioned here, but also the fact that they are a joy to work with.
A big thank-you to the critiquers who helped me improve this book: Tracy Dickens, Jessica Dimuzio (VMD), Carmen Ferreiro-Esteban, Laurel Garver, Colleen Rowan Kosinski, and Molly Lorenz. I greatly appreciate the support and friendship of fellow writers Lisa Brackmann, Angela De Groot, Kelly Fineman, and Julia Hoban. A group hug goes to the communities who have helped me so much: Debut2009, the Tenners, the 2k classes, the Milestones Critique Circle of Chestnut Hill, and the Kidlit Authors Club. Thanks to gracious writing-retreat hosts James and Martha Bosco. I acknowledge with gratitude that R.E.M. inspired this book’s title.
Loving thanks to my family and friends, especially my parents, Jim and Cheryl; my sister, Bonnie; my grandmothers, Dorothy and Jane; and my stepson, Will. Most of all, to my husband, John: deepest love and thanks for always being there, and for always being wonderful.
Finally, for those who need to hear this: things can get better. They can even start getting better today.
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
&nbs
p; TWENTY-TWO
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Jennifer R. Hubbard, Try Not to Breathe
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends