CHAPTER
1
I USED TO THINK your friends were your friends no matter what, but that’s not how it works. There is elementary school, and then there is middle school, where suddenly all the rules change and no one tells you how to play and the only thing you know for sure is that you are losing. Everything about you is wrong: your hair, your personality, your jeans.
Danielle Loomis’s jeans, however, are perfect. When she gets up from her desk and struts across the room to spit out her gum, you can see this clear as day. Indigo, low-rise, frayed just right. I wish I could be happy for her. I wish I could be glad that this summer, when her braces came off and her boobs came in, the whole world noticed and made her popular. But I’m not glad. I just want everything back the way it was.
I’ll always care about you, Anna. Those were Dani’s words on September 3, outside Brickley’s Ice Cream, right after she bought me a shake. Just because our lives are moving in opposite directions and we’re hanging out with different people doesn’t mean I don’t care.
Seriously. Those were her words. And trust me, when your best friend since kindergarten tells you point-blank she doesn’t want to be friends anymore, here is what you do: cry. It just happens, like when you get hit in the face with a ball in gym. Wah, wah, wah, like a baby. You can’t help yourself, even when Ethan Zane and all of his low-shorts-wearing friends suddenly appear in front of Brickley’s Ice Cream on their skateboards.
That was three weeks ago. This is now. English class, and we are getting a lesson on irony. The firehouse burned down. The police station got robbed. If Mr. Pfaff wants irony he should take a look at his seating chart, aimed to “maximize our learning potential.” To my left: Loomis, Danielle, Ex-Best Friend. To my right: Zane, Ethan, King of Eighth Grade. They are stealth-texting each other under their desks. Every two seconds Dani glances over at Ethan, flips her coppery hair, and smiles. A month ago, she didn’t even have a cell phone. A month ago, she would have been passing notes to me on a scrap of paper. Ironic much?
“Anna?” Mr. Pfaff is standing at my desk, petting his goatee. “Can you think of an example of irony?”
How much time do you have, Mr. Pfaff? I can give you a whole list. Things I find ironic:
1. An ex-best friend who used to be so bucktoothed that Ethan Zane called her the Beaver. Suddenly she can’t stop smiling.
2. Teachers who think their students are learning when they are actually texting under their desks.
3. Teachers who wear goatees to look cool.
4. Facial hair in general.
Now I am remembering the mustache my father wore for his wedding and how ridiculous it looked. The whole event was ridiculous. Which brings me to:
5. Fathers.
6. Weddings.
7. Marriage vows.
“Anna?” Mr. Pfaff is waiting. “Any ideas?”
I shake my head like I’m drawing a blank. If there is one thing I’ve learned in middle school, it’s this: keep your mouth shut. I am practically an expert.
For three days I have been staying in my father’s guest room. I have been told that this room is “mine,” but that’s not how it feels. This is my father’s new house, my father’s new family. Every night, his baby wakes me up. Whimpering, crying, screeching, I hear it all. She sounds like the monkeys at the Roger Williams Park Zoo, only I don’t feel sorry for her the way I do for the monkeys. The noise drives me crazy. I don’t care that she is only a baby and half-related to me. I want to scream back. Instead, I jam a pillow over my head and wait for morning.
My stepmother, Marnie, is breast-feeding. She will strip off her shirt and bare all in front of you with no regard. My father thinks this is great. He also changes Jane’s diapers like he’s been doing it his whole life, which I know for a fact he hasn’t because my mom told me. Your father never changed a single one of your diapers. Direct quote.
I am so glad she isn’t here to see him. My mom is in the hospital, and I don’t know when she’s coming out. I have been told it’s no one’s fault, but I am the one who called 911, so do the math. Before the ambulance came, she was in bed for seventy-two hours. “Can’t get up,” she said every time I walked into her room. “Too tired.” So I would pour my own cereal, pack my lunch, call her work and lie. She can’t come in today. She has the flu. Even though I knew she wasn’t sick—not with the flu, anyway. I’d been through this enough times, but I’d always been able to drag her out of bed before, help her into the shower.
That morning, my mom didn’t even respond when I shook her. At first I thought she was asleep, but then I saw the empty Advil bottle in her hand. Her skin wasn’t even a color. Her pulse was barely a pulse.
Finding my mother like that was the scariest moment of my life. But do I talk about it in my father’s house? No. I sit in his kitchen, quiet as dust, while Marnie whips it out right here at the table. Sometimes when she is nursing I have to look away, I am so embarrassed. Other times I see her and Jane all snuggled up together and I want to cry. But I stay silent. Respectful. I imagine my father’s house is a five-star hotel and I am only here on vacation, eating the complimentary waffles.
“How did you sleep, Anna?” The waitress smiles at me. “Were you warm enough?”
I nod my head yes.
“I hope Jane didn’t wake you.”
I shake my head no.
Marnie is so pretty, if she actually were a waitress she would get great tips. Long honey-colored hair. Curves in all the right places. If she were in eighth grade at Shelby Horner Middle School, she would put Danielle Loomis to shame. That is a fact. Dani would kill to be her friend.
My mother would not kill to be Marnie’s friend. She does not speak to Marnie unless absolutely necessary. She barely speaks to my father. Last year at the wedding, while I was busy being a bridesmaid, my mom was on the couch in her sweatpants, staring at the TV. That is how I found her when I got home, staring at a television that wasn’t even on.
My father is oblivious. This morning, he joins me at the bus stop—a first. There is a routine to his mornings. Number one, treadmill. Then shower, shave, read the Wall Street Journal. Marnie makes his coffee in a to-go cup, which my mother never did. Organic roast, almond milk. Normally he would be gone before I left, but today, there he is, standing at the end of the driveway with his hair slicked back, comb tracks still in it. Blue suit. Loafers so shiny you could see your face.
Here is the conversation:
“Got everything?” he says, eyeing my backpack.
“Yeah.”
“That’s good.”
I nod.
He takes a sip of coffee, then another. “How’s school?”
“Okay.”
“Good.” He juts his chin at me. “That’s good.” He looks away, sips his coffee. Straightens his tie.
The silence is so loud. “How are broom sales?” I say. It is a bold call, making the joke my mom used to make, about him selling brooms for a living like Hansel and Gretel’s dad.
Well, that was a mistake. He does not smile.
“Anna,” he says.
I look up at his face—dark brows, tan skin, handsome enough for pharmaceutical sales. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry about your mother.”
And there it is. The punch in the stomach, the squeeze of the heart. “It’s okay,” I say.
His words buzz around in my ears. Best doctors. Psychiatric care. New drugs for depression.
I nod and nod.
Elevactin. Just came on the market. Free samples.
Thinking about it now, I almost laugh. Because here is the irony: My mother, Dr. Frances Collette, PhD, is the school counselor at North Kingston High School. She has an advanced degree in clinical psychology from Brown. She is a trained professional in the field of mental health. And three days ago, she tried to kill herself. The school counselor tried to kill herself. Mr. Pfaff … ding, ding, ding … we have a winner!
* * *
Dani is trying out for cheerleading, which says it all. On my way to the bus, there she is outside the gym, fixing her hair and bouncing on her toes. She is not standing with Jessa Bell or Whitney Anderson, so the line must be alphabetical. I watch her from the end of the hall for a few minutes, then walk by. Casual, like I don’t see her.
“Hey, Anna.” Dani tosses her ponytail and smiles.
“Oh, hi,” I say.
She has on a tight white tank top, a magenta tennis skirt, and Nikes. Gold hoops in her ears. Eyeliner. I want to walk away, but I am frozen.
“I’m trying out for cheerleading! Can you believe it?”
“Yes.”
“Lauren Goldfarb broke her leg, so there’s only one spot and I probably won’t get it, but … hey—” Dani’s voice drops and she takes a step toward me. “I’m really sorry.”
I look at her, hoping. “You are?”
“I heard about your mom.”
“Oh.”
“My mom heard from Mrs. Rose … at Big Y or something … I wondered why you weren’t on the bus. I guess you’re staying at your dad’s…”
Dani keeps talking, but I am not listening. Regina Rose is my mother’s best friend. I have known her my whole life and I have always liked her, but now I hate her. I hate her stinking guts.
“… my mom sent flowers to the hospital, from all of us. Tulips.”
Tulips. Well, hallelujah.
“I’m sorry.” Dani cringes, reading my face.
I say nothing.
“I really am, Anna. You know I love your mom.”
Nothing.
“Remember that time I was sleeping over and she gave Mr. Bojangles a makeover?”
Of course I remember. Mr. Bojangles was my guinea pig. I got him for my eighth birthday. He was calico—orange, tan, and white—but, for whatever reason, my mother decided he wasn’t quite colorful enough. So one night she brought out the markers and colored all of Mr. Bo’s white spots green, purple, and red. He stayed that way for weeks.
“I remember,” I say.
“And that time she took us to the movies and bought every kind of candy in the concession? My mother would never do that.”
Fact. Mrs. Loomis is obsessed with calories.
“Your mom is so cool,” Dani says.
I know, right? Fifty Advil in one sitting. Can your mom do that?
Sarcasm is rising in my throat like lava, but before I can say anything, the gym doors open and Mrs. Strand steps out with her clipboard. “Jensen, Joerger, Loomis, Lustig.”
“Omigod!” Dani is smiling again, a big, happy cheerleader smile. “Wish me luck, okay?”
Flash of the teeth.
Swing of the skirt.
I’ll always care about you, Anna.
Gone.
Text copyright © 2016 Natasha Friend
