I had to get out of there then, so I asked to go to the bathroom.
I was actually going to leave, but halfway down the hall I realized where I was going. I’d automatically headed for it.
Your locker.
I saw it, J. Do you know what they’ve done to it? It’s plastered with foil stars covered with glitter. On the stars are bad poems and little messages about you. People MISS YOU! and LOVE YOU!! and are THINKING
OF YOU!!! I opened it—it was unlocked—and inside was the same thing. All your stuff was gone. The card Kevin got you for your six-month anniversary. The pictures of you and me. Your makeup bag. The plastic bag way in the back, the one you always kept filled with tiny liquor bottles for me and a couple of pills for you. The coat you never wore and the picture of you and your mom where you were both smiling for real that you kept hidden in the pocket. It was all gone, replaced by fake stars and fake words.
I wanted to tear it all down. You could have. You would have. You always knew what to do, what to say. You knew how to make anyone smile or shut the hell up. You dyed your hair purple with Kool-Aid for kicks and made 25
snoring noises when Giggles lectured us about being late.
Even drunk I could never do those things.
So now I’m here, at school, hiding out in the teachers’ bathroom, and I don’t know what to do. I can’t leave, Julia. I’m just stuck here freaking out. If I close my eyes, will you come to me? You don’t have to make everything all right. You don’t have to do anything. I just want you here. Just for a second.
Please.
26
82 days
J,
Me again. Guess where I am?
History class. Excuse me,
“You’re a very smart girl, Amy,” she said, and it was weird to be sitting locked in a toilet stall and hear that. It was weirder hearing Mom say it. “You have an opportu-nity for . . .” She trailed off then, which was good because I was afraid she was going to say something like “a new start” or “a second chance.” I was afraid she’d say something I have no idea how to get and wouldn’t be able to even if I did.
I was afraid she’d say something I don’t deserve to hear.
27
This one girl keeps staring at me. She looks kind of familiar. She has very straight, very blond hair and is totally adorable in that way only girls like her can be.
You’d imitate her, make me laugh and forget I’m a million feet tall and not adorable at all.
There are two guys looking at me too. I think maybe I made out with the first one once or something because he looked away when I stared back at him. He probably has a girlfriend, and she’s probably in this class too. Great. The other one guy—I don’t know. There’s something about him, plus when I looked at him he just stared back at me.
That’s not what guys do when I look at them. They smile and look away or just look away. I don’t get it.
That girl is
28
F O U R
I HADN’T MADE OUT with the guy who looked away. In fact, I hadn’t done anything with him. The more I looked at him, the more I was sure I didn’t even know him. I mean, I’d seen him around at a few parties, but that’s how it is with parties. Or at least it’s how it is with the ones around here. You see everyone at them eventually.
In English he sat down near me, smiled, and said,
“Hey, I’m Mel.”
“Hey,” I said back, and noticed everyone—by which I mean the girls—was watching me. It was easy to fi gure out why. Mel would be the most beautiful boy ever except for two things:
1. He barely comes up to my shoulders.
2. He will not shut up. (That’s when I knew for sure 29
that I hadn’t done a thing with him. I never went for the talkers.)
These honors kids have everything so fucking easy.
In English, for example, our assignment was to sit in groups and discuss our thoughts about a novel. That’s a class?
Please. It was just like study hall, only more boring.
Anyway, Mel ended up in my group. The bitch girl from history was there too. Mel called her “Caro,” and as soon as he said it I realized I did know her.
Julia and I used to be friends with her.
