Julia’s house?
“She probably hates being dead more,” Julia’s mother said, pushing away from the car.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know exactly what you meant. You knew her better than I did. Are you happy now, Amy? She wouldn’t trust me with anything, even something as stupid as what color she likes, but she trusted you. She trusted you and you —”
“I know I never should have let her drive. We should have . . . I should have . . . I swear I never would have done any of it if I’d known what—”
“But you did do it. You let her drive, and now she’s gone. She’ll never turn eighteen, she’ll never fi nish high school. She’ll never . . . I’d give everything I’ve ever had or will to hear her voice again, even if it’s to tell me to go to hell. But I’ll never have that, will I?”
“I’ve tried to call, I’ve wanted to say—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” she said, and walked toward me. When she was so close I could see her foundation cracking in the lines around her eyes, see how it didn’t hide the dark circles under them, she stopped and grabbed my 181
arm. “I don’t want to hear from you, I don’t want to see you. I’ve lost everything because of you. Everything.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and fi nally, finally it came out.
Finally I said it. “I’m so sorry for what I did.”
“You’re sorry?” She dropped my arm like my skin burned her. “You’re sorry? She was my world. Your words, your ‘sorry,’ what does it do? She’s still gone, and you’re still here.” She hit me with the flowers, the plastic smacking my face, petals flying into the air around us.
“Keep your words. They aren’t enough. They won’t ever be enough.”
I ran then, turned and stumbled my way across the parking lot, toward Mom’s car and Mom sitting calmly inside, smiling like she was glad to see me. I said I had a headache and lay down in the backseat, pressed my face into it and wished it would swallow me whole.
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130 days
I saw you, J. I saw your mother too, and she . . . well, what she said to me is true. Sorry is just a word, and a word can’t make things right. It can’t change what I did.
It can’t bring you back.
Mom knew something happened, I guess, because when we got home, she came up to my room and checked on me every five minutes till I finally gave up and went downstairs. I floated, numb, through homework and dinner, saying yes, I was fine, when both Mom and Dad asked, and then cried the tears I couldn’t before in bed. I didn’t feel better afterward.
I knew I wouldn’t.
I can’t sleep. I’ve been lying here for hours and hours thinking about the cemetery. About your mother’s face.
About what she said. About your grave.
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I’m thinking about you. Remember when we went to Splash World? You totally scammed us inside and even got us onto all the best rides without waiting. We bought cotton candy and ate horrible seven-dollar hot dogs. We got our picture taken with Swimmy the Seal.
I still have the picture. I’m smiling in it. You’re standing in front of me. Your face is a blur because you’d turned toward me, the camera capturing you like you were, always in motion. The side of your mouth is open, laughing, and you’re leaning in a bit, like you’re going to rest your head on my shoulder.
You did. You always did that when I made you laugh or when someone else made you sad.
I’ve thought about that day, and about the time we tried to make caramel in your kitchen and had to open all the windows to get rid of the horrible burnt-sugar smell. I’ve thought about all the times I rode to school in your car, digging around on the floor through the pile of CDs you’d burned and how no matter which one I picked there was always at least one stupid love song that you knew all the words to. I’ve thought about all the times I lay on your bed, watching you make faces as you talked on the phone.
I’ve thought about how you would make me knock on the door and pretend to be your mother if it was a guy you 184
didn’t want to talk to, and the way we’d laugh afterward.
I’ve thought about all the times we walked down the hallways at school and you’d whisper, “Amy, you’re model tall.
Model! Show it off! I didn’t loan you my T-shirt so you could do the slouchy hiding thing, you know.”
I’ve thought about what Laurie asked me.
That night, the one with the guy with mean eyes and the grain alcohol? You knew. I know that now. I can—I can say it. You knew. You knew everything. You said you were scared afterward. I know what that means. I think maybe I always did. You meant you were sorry.
I think Laurie would say that means something. I think she would say it means something big. I think she would say it means you hurt me.
I think it means you were sorry.
