I pretended I didn’t feel like my heart was breaking.
14
80 days
J,
Dad and I went to one of those huge offi ce supply stores this afternoon. I now have more notebooks and pens than anyone could ever need. When I was shopping with Mom we couldn’t really talk because I was constantly trying on things and telling her I didn’t want them. (Plus I think she was mentally rehearsing for the sex conversation.) With Dad there was a lot more silence to fill because it’s not like there’s a lot to talk about when it comes to notebooks.
I did learn I’m going to be a junior—I guess my final grades from last year were better than you’d said they’d be. Also, on the first day of school, I have to go in with Mom so we can meet with a guidance counselor and talk about “my future.”
15
I was looking at pens when Dad told me that, and I thought about the first day of school last year. We were at your locker, bitching about our schedules, and Kevin walked by and said, “Hi.” You smiled at him. That was how you two began.
I’d been hoping I wouldn’t be let back into school at all.
I picked up a package of pens and ignored Dad, who was still talking. I didn’t want to remember past that, the first day of school last year and your smile, but I did. I remembered the party, remembered your devastated face.
Remembered looping my arm through yours that night and saying, “Let’s go, everything will be fi ne, school’s finally over and summer’s here. Screw Kevin and his freshman skank, you can do better and you will. It’ll be okay. We just need to get out of here.”
We walked out of the party, warm night air blowing over us, and didn’t look back. I was proud of myself, you know. I really was.
“My future,” and there’s another “ ” for me to hate.
I told Dad we had to leave and sat in the car while he paid. We came home and I’ve been here, in my room, ever since.
And I—
16
I want a drink so bad. I just want that moment where all my worries melt into warmth. I want that moment where everything feels right, you know?
I don’t deserve to have that feeling.
I still want it anyway.
17
T H R E E
I’M GOING BACK to school soon. Very soon, in fact.
Tomorrow is the big day.
Tomorrow is too soon.
After I found out, after Dad told me, and after I wrote to Julia, I had to— I couldn’t stand being in my own skin.
I couldn’t stand myself.
I went up to the attic. I looked around, sat on the floor, and then got up again. Mom and Dad found me there after a while, looking for something to drink.
They made an emergency therapy appointment for me right away. I hate that I’ve become a bunch of quota- tion marks. “In Recovery.” “At Risk.”
“Murderer.”
18
Julia’s mother screamed that at me in the emergency room the night Julia died. She screamed it and screamed it and then stopped, stared at me with her face drawn tighter than I’d ever seen it. She stared at me and then whispered it.
The screaming I hadn’t even really heard—it’s how Julia’s mother always talks—but that whisper, that little cracked sound.
It is me.
Laurie didn’t seem too surprised that I ended up coming to see her a couple of days before I’m supposed to. She said it was “good” I didn’t drink, and it was still
“good” even after I pointed out that I would have if I’d found something.
“But you didn’t find anything, did you?” she said.
“I wanted to,” I said, and then she clicked her pen twice and gave me one of her “I see something you don’t” looks. I hate it when she does that. I hate her pen clicking too.
Mom drove me home after, and stayed with me because the university was closed for Labor Day. I went up to
