I rolled back over. She was standing in my doorway, Dad holding her hand and right by her side.
The truth is, I feel beyond sad. I feel empty. Numb.
When I drank, this was always how I wanted to feel.
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T H I R T E E N
I SHOULD HAVE SAVED the whole skipping school thing for a better day. Like today. After yesterday, with the weirdness of hanging out with Caro, of all people, and then that horrible conversation with Mom and Dad, I could have used a day off from the forced-knowledge factory.
But of course I didn’t get one. Even worse, I had to face Giggles with Mom and Dad along. Apparently we’d all been summoned for a meeting.
The ride to school with them was quiet. Too quiet.
No one said anything about why we were all going to school. No one said anything about last night. I expected as much. I know what I’ve done and I hate myself for it, so why should they be any different?
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Still, I’d—I know what I did, but I guess I thought that maybe Mom and Dad would . . . not understand, not that. But I thought there might be more than the endless quiet.
When we got to school, we sat in the guidance offi ce and waited. It’s not like I haven’t done it before, except then it was Julia and me, and this time it was just me. And Mom and Dad.
I might as well have been alone, though, because while we waited Dad used one of the six million gadgets his company’s given him to check his e-mail. Mom wandered around for a while, then came back and flipped through college brochures, muttering things like “Emphasis on the arts? Since when?” Neither of them said anything to me.
I thought about the last time Julia and I were here.
It was late last May, and Giggles had grabbed us as soon as we’d come in, loudly pointing out that we were three minutes late and then dragged us to her office for her usual “you’ve got detention and don’t think I won’t be watching you” lecture.
Julia was wearing the dress she’d made out of an old-fashioned slip we’d picked up at the Methodist church thrift store, Lawrenceville’s answer to vintage. Her fi ngers were still stained purple from the dye she’d used to 144
color it. In the car, she had braided her hair while we sat waiting at a traffi c light, giving the drivers behind us the finger when they honked because the light had turned green, and then looped the braids into a bun knotted with purple ribbons.
She looked so amazing. All day long, people turned to watch Julia walk down the hall, and after third period Kevin apologized for his latest screwup. She laughed at him and then patted his head like he was a little kid or a dog, but forgave him at the end of the day, folding her arms across her chest the way she did when she wanted to look sure but was actually nervous.
“He loves me, I know he does, and it’ll be different now, won’t it?” she said afterward, and I knew the question wasn’t one she wanted answered. So I tugged a hair ribbon instead, pulling it free, and her braids slipped out.
She laughed, loud and strong like she always did, and then said, “I’m supposed to go meet him, but I’m feeling the need for a trip to Millertown and some ice cream.
Besides, he deserves to wait around wondering where I am. What do you say?”
We drove to Millertown. In the grocery store parking lot we sat on her car hood, eating stolen ice cream and making up stories about everyone walking by.
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“When we get old, we’ll go grocery shopping together every week,” Julia said after a little old lady (I’d said she was a former snake handler/brothel owner) walked by.
“We’ll bitch about our fake hips and the weather and steal ice cream every time. Promise?”
“Promise,” I said, and she smiled.
I miss her so much.
Giggles appeared after first period had started. As she swept into the room she claimed to have been “occupied elsewhere” and then said, “You know, we feel it’s important to maintain contact with our students because it fos- ters the best atmosphere for education.” Ha! I suppose lurking in the halls trying to find someone to chew out is about creating atmosphere.
Her office was the same as always, plastered with her degree from Crap U and all her certifi cates. (Apparently they give them for something called “Word Processing II.” Pathetic.)
She then “apologized” for “having to bring yesterday’s troubling matter to light,” and said, “I think we should take another look at Amy’s situation. As you know, her record here is spotty at best, and it may be that an alternative school, like Pinewood’s vo-tech program, might be—”
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“How are her grades?” Dad asked.
“Well, her grades aren’t really the issue. What happened yesterday is why we’re here, and I’d like—”
“You mentioned needing to take another look at Amy’s situation,” Dad said, his voice icy, and now I knew why whenever someone from his work called, they always sounded nervous. “Since you brought it up and mentioned an alternative school, this must mean Amy’s grades are an issue. Grace and I haven’t heard anything of the sort from any of her teachers, or, for that matter, you, so if you know of any academic problems, I certainly hope you’ll share them with us now.”
