“I kind of have to be somewhere,” I lie.
“Understood. Just a quick check-in. I wanted to see how you’re, y’know, doing?”
“Fine,” I say quickly.
“I should have asked days ago, but I didn’t want to push. And Dr. Sanders said you have a good support system in place with your church and your grandparents. But, well, I’m the guidance counselor!” He laughs awkwardly. There’s even a little jazz-hands moment.
“Well, I’m fine,” I say again, feeling my jaw tighten. Because even though his voice says heeeey!, his eyes scream helllllp! It’s that same look Mr. Gonzales had last week. As if maybe I’ve been fooling them all this time. Maybe I really am capable of—
“Stoicism is an admirable quality,” Donnelly goes on, “but I’m interested in what makes us human. What we go through on a daily basis. And I would imagine that having the whole school learn your childhood trauma couldn’t have been easy.”
“What, that?” I say. “It was awesome.”
He pauses, lips tugging into a pinched frown. “As much as I’d like to believe you, the truth is, I’m worried.”
That look of uptight concern suddenly has me seething, a harsh reality dawning on me. “Are you worried about me, or are you worried about what I’m capable of? Y’know: Does Jo have a locker full of guns? Let’s check, shall we?” I don’t wait for a response before flinging my locker door wide, so hard it bangs against the one next to it. We both jolt. “Go ahead and look, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
A blush edges around Mr. Donnelly’s ginger beard. He coughs, gently shutting my locker door without so much as a glance inside. “That’s not what I’m thinking. Honestly. I’m here to talk.”
Talk about what? I want to ask. How I’m a stain on your precious private school? How you need to find a way to keep it quiet? To shut me up? To kick me out?
When I don’t respond, Donnelly claps his hands together in action. “Why don’t you stop by during study hall in the next couple of days? I really am here for you. Scout’s honor.”
For a second, I almost let myself believe him. That my adorable guidance counselor could take away any of the pain or guilt or humiliation. But then I see them again, out of the corner of my eye. Kids I’ve known since pre-K, cowering, glaring, distrusting every inch of me. My problems are an ocean, and Mr. Donnelly is barely a grain of sand.
But I smile dutifully. “Sure, Mr. Donnelly. I’ll stop by.”
Anything to look less like the murderer they all see.
23
Lately, my bedtime ritual has centered around flipping through photos of my mother. I’ve only had them for a few weeks, but I swear they’re already getting tattered and bent along the edges. I don’t want to put them in an album, though. I need them close, need to feel them between my fingers. If I look hard enough, stare long enough, sometimes her face is so fresh in my mind that she enters my dreams. I’m nearly there when my phone buzzes.
Robert: Hey kiddo!
Robert: What’s cookin’?
I squint at the time on my phone. Midnight. On a Wednesday. While I’m trying to fathom how to respond in a way that doesn’t make me sound exhausted, or self-deprecating and loser-ish, he writes again.
Robert: Have you heard of a book called Girl Code: Going Viral?
I furrow my brow, trying to switch gears.
Me: I don’t think so?
Robert: A buddy of mine is recommending it. Says his daughter loved it.
I wait for him to write more, because, what? Nearly midnight and he’s texting me book recommendations? Now I can’t sleep though, so I grab my laptop off my desk and bring it over to the bed, googling the title. It pops up on the screen, and I start to tug on my lower lip as I read the description. Maybe not totally my cup of tea, maybe a little young, but it could be interesting. I guess.
Me: Looks good!
I mean, it’s the correct response, right?
Robert: I’m going to buy you a copy.
Robert: Is that cool, or will Kate and Jimmy go ballistic if they see you’re getting mail from me? Don’t wanna get u in trouble.
Me: Oh.
I pause.
Me: Just send it from Amazon. I’ll say it’s for school.
Robert: Right!
Robert: Got it. Will do.
Robert: Good night!
I look at my phone, mystified. That was worth a midnight text? Must be a really fucking scintillating book. But I’m here now, in bed with my laptop. I yawn, clicking open some of the bajillion tabs dotting the top of my screen. A few kids in my grade have posted a quiz, which sounds like the perfect amount of mindless for my mood.
1. What is your favorite childhood memory?
a) Sailing
b) Disney World
c) Shooting Mommy
My neck stiffens. I sit up straighter.
2. As a kid, did you prefer playing with:
a) Seashells
b) Dinosaurs
c) Dad’s .22
Heat rushes through my body.
The third question’s just sloppy. It’s not even a question, just three possible answers:
a) Fungicide
b) Insecticide
c) Matricide
My breath goes ragged. I skim the last few questions and click C for every one, and then, there it is. Typed in bold and comic sans: Murderer.
“Jesus,” I whisper.
I grab my phone to text Leah or maybe Milo, but it’s so late. They’d answer, but they’ll be groggy and confused, and they don’t deserve my midnight meltdown. I think about texting Robert again, but I don’t want to drag him into this either. Not when he’s off in Texas being so thoughtful, buying me books and stuff.
My hands shake as I scroll through the comments. Lots of LOLs and laughing emojis; just as many vomit-faces and removal requests. The worst, though, are the people who say they are “Johanna-ing” the shit out of this quiz.
Johanna-ing. When did I become a verb?
In a moment of blind rage, I type out an all-caps comment, calling the creator of this quiz a million of the nastiest insults I can summon up. It feels good. It feels glorious and justified … but it also feels pointless. I select the whole rant and press Delete.
I stare at the ceiling for a few minutes, heart thwacking my chest, making it impossible to fall asleep. Outside, the wind howls, mocking me. I grab my earbuds and put on Echo & the Bunnymen, hoping some haunting post-punk will absorb the pain. It does. Ish. But I can’t resist taking the quiz again. This time I click through with all A’s, only to find out I’m destined to be Moana. Enough B’s and I’m some character from Jurassic Park. Then I full-on Johanna it again, just to twist the knife.
Matricide.
Such an ancient-sounding word.
I’m still staring at the quiz results as my laptop screen goes dim and then black, leaving me alone in the dark, with nothing but “The Killing Moon” and my crime running circles in my head.
24
Mrs. Fromowitz is desperate for my presence at Shabbat dinner on Friday night.
Leah won’t shut up about it, promising various perks. Between her legendary challah bread and a little kosher wine, it sounds significantly better than another silent dinner with my grandparents, so I put on my charcoal gray DVF knockoff and then sneak into the living room, ducking over to Gran’s antique oak credenza on my way out. The top display half is all china and tchotchkes, but the lower half has tablecloths and a liquor cabinet. And by liquor cabinet, I basically mean one ancient bottle of half-drunk sherry. Gran and Grandpa aren’t big drinkers, so they’ll never notice it’s missing.
“You heading out?” Gran asks as I poke my head into the kitchen.
I nod. The Shabbat card is a low-hanging fruit, but Gran never argues when I tell her that’s where I’m going. I think she feels secretly self-conscious for knowing nothing about Judaism. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She offers a weak smile and turns back to the stove.
Yeah, not going to miss another evening of that.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m parked outside Leah’s ranch-style house, uncorking the bottle and downing a hefty swig of sickly sweet syrup. My whole body shudders. I mean, no wonder this bottle is only half-full. It is truly a disgusting, disgusting beverage. I take another sip, bigger this time, to calm my nerves. Night hovers quietly around me, waiting for my next move. Just a few more minutes, a few more sips, and I’ll be ready.
I keep thinking about how many times I’ve been in Leah’s house. Hundreds? Thousands? And yet, for once, I feel dread. I exhale, trying to steady myself as I apply some eyeliner to my bleary, bulldozed eyes. Another two gulps and the sherry bottle is accidentally empty, leaving me warm and lightheaded with a sluggishly thumping heart. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, searching the car for mints I don’t have. Spearmint ChapStick will have to suffice.
I let myself into Leah’s house through the open garage door and the kitchen practically vibrates. Garlic in the air; Madonna, the corgi, yipping at my feet. Aretha Franklin’s on the stereo at volume a thousand, feeling like a natural woman.
Leah rolls her eyes when she sees me. Rolls them twice when she smells my breath. “Dude, you’re late,” she whispers. “I saw you park like fifteen minutes ago.”
“Sor—” I start to say, but that’s as far as I get when a grown version of Leah bounds over to me in black spandex and platform wedges that still only bring her up to my shoulder. Mrs. Fromowitz is a teacup poodle in the best possible way, jumping up and down as she hugs and kisses me. I have no choice but to do the same, and I don’t even mind, thanks to the sherry. She pulls back and licks her thumb, wiping cranberry-colored kisses from my cheeks.
“Jujube, you made it!” Gilda squeals. “Look at you. Are you losing weight?”
“Stop,” Leah says, elbowing her way between us with a tissue. She rubs my cheeks harder. “Mom, you made her look like the Little Drummer Boy.”
“Nonsense. A little color on those pale cheeks.”
“Shabbat Shalom, Johanna!” says Leah’s dad. “So glad you could make it.”
I smile and wave at Mr. Fromowitz who is balancing a platter of roast chicken in one hand and a lite beer in the other. “Shabbat Shalom, Jeff. Thank you for having me.”
“Come,” says Leah, grabbing my hand.
The warmth in my chest makes my body sway after her. We get to the dining room, and I swear you’ve never seen so much furniture. There’s their regular dining table, plus a card table, plus I’m pretty sure the ironing board, all underneath long white tablecloths surrounded by every chair ever and a piano bench. The glasses range from colorful stemmed goblets to plastic sippy cups.
Twenty people take their seats—I’m sandwiched between Leah and this older guy who kind of looks like Kylo Ren—and Gilda reaches across the table for my hand, quickly squeezing it with sad, sympathetic eyes before Jeff gets started singing the prayers.
My body teeters as I mumble along. I’ve heard these songs before, but really, I’m thinking about Gilda. The way she squeezed me and how my skin still throbs. Not because it hurt, but I don’t know why I thought tonight would be different. What’s that saying? Wherever you go, there you are? Like, there’s no escaping me.
Now there’s a shitty thought.
Jeff says some more blessings while the bread gets passed around, and I down my kosher wine, sneaking a refill even though anybody could be watching.
“Jo!” Leah gasps. Yup, she was watching.
I chug my second glass too, and groan out loud when she refills my cup with grape juice. After that, the whole table goes into Disneyland-mode. Gilda’s discussing diaper rash with a fellow pediatrician. Jeff’s talking football with his son, Dan, and a few other third-graders. Poor Leah is trapped in a conversation with I don’t even know who.
“You go to Chavez Academy?” Kylo Ren asks, offering the salad bowl. “My daughter’s going to be a freshman next year.”
“No way! How cool is that!” I whoop, then force my voice down a couple decibels. “I’m a junior. Maybe you’ve heard of me? I’m pretty well known around there.”
He offers a curious smile, but I feel Leah yank my elbow. “Are you about to tell him about your mom?” she whispers.
I burp yes.
“How about no? He’s my dentist. I really don’t think it’s any of his business.”
“Fine,” I say with a wink. “You got it, toots.”
Across the table, I notice Rachel, Leah’s fourteen-year-old sister. She won’t stop staring at me. I’ve known her since she was a baby—even babysat her—and yet she’s looking at me like I’m wearing nipple tassels. Her friend too. Mousier and blonder, but full-on gawking at me.
“What are you looking at?” I slur.
Rachel ducks her head, turning instantly magenta.
The other girl waves. “Hey, I’m Jenny. Remember?”
I squinch my nose, watching her head as it blurs.
“Jenny Ireland?” she adds. “I texted you last week?”
My brain takes one … two … three seconds to remember. And then I snort, elbowing Leah in the ribs. “She’s the one who thinks I need therapy!”
Leah wipes her mouth. “What?”
“Y’know, therapy,” I stage-whisper.
“Jo.” Leah’s eyes dart around the table. “Do you want to talk about this later?”
“You seemed pretty willing to talk to her about it at school,” I scoff. “I’m obviously a complete whacko, since you spammed my number to this freshman, so she could harass me like a 1-800-INJURED lawyer.”
The room grows quieter. Only a little at first, conversations drying up like summer rain. Forks still scrape, mouths brimming with Gilda’s potato kugel.
“Everything okay?” Jeff asks.
I scrunch my nose. “Maybe I should es-explain,” I say, hiccupping. “See, I ki—”
“Jo,” Leah pleads. Her eyes go heavy on mine as she shakes her head.
“No,” I snap. “I want to tell them that I killed my mom.”
Nobody says anything—they don’t even breathe. Which is a little disappointing, honestly.
“Maybe you heard about it already,” I relent. “At the grocery store or the dentist’s office, or—oh, hey, you’re a dentist!” I turn to Kylo Ren for a high five, but his white face has gone gray, like he’s thinking a self-inflicted root canal might be better than this dinner party. I pat his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Kylo. It was a long time ago. I was only two and a half when I shot her dead.”
Someone gasps—finally—but I can’t tell who because my head won’t switch directions that fast. Instead, I look at Gilda, sitting across from me. She’s got tears in her eyes, a hand pressed tight against her chest.
“Did you know little kids could shoot guns?” I ask her.
Her lower lip quivers.
“Hey, lemme ask a question. Get a group sinsensus—consensus.” I glance around the room, squinting one eye. “How hard do you think I had to pull the trigger to get it to go off? Pretty hard, right? Do you think my body jolted from the force of it? I was wondering about that too. Like, if I bumped into a wall and got a bruise on my back. On TV, you always see people using two hands to shoot a gun—” I raise my arms to demonstrate, one hand on an imaginary gun, the other one steady around my shooting hand. “Did I do it like this? I mean, I couldn’t have, right? I wouldn’t have known how. So, if I only held it with one hand, how come I didn’t dislocate my shoulder? Or go deaf from the noise? Or, why isn’t my brain scrambled because of it? That could happen, right?”
Nobody answers. But nobody stops gaping either. Even the third graders are silent, all sagging jaws and gap-toothed wonder.
“Jo, let’s go to my room,” Leah begs, but I swat her hand away.
“You know what’s funny—I just thought of this. People go to the shooting range all the time to work on their aim. But not me! I hit her on the first try. Does that make me lucky?”
�
�Of course not, sweetie,” Gilda says solemnly. “Jujube, honey, let’s excuse ourselves. Leah, I’ll take her for a minute.”
Leah nods, but I shake my head, the room or my body starting to spin. “You’re kicking me out? Come on, Gilda. I thought you were cool with me murdering my mom.”
The room goes ice cold. Even though my skin is on fire and hot salty tears are tickling my cheeks; even though I’m sandwiched among twenty warm bodies, I can’t help shivering. They all know. I mean, I guess maybe they didn’t before five minutes ago, but they do now. A hiccup turns sour in my mouth, and Gilda lunges for me, taking me by the waist and maneuvering me down the hall.
Her bedroom is dark, but despite my blurred vision, something flickers in the corner—a row of fireflies, bright and delicate. She flips the light switch, and I realize it’s the famous Fromowitz shrine, aglow with votive candles. I gravitate toward it, tripping over clothes and shoes, or maybe just my own feet. Seeing the shrine up close makes me breathless. It’s this big wooden box, about the size of a dartboard cabinet. In fact, maybe it once was a dartboard cabinet, with two doors opened wide and inviting. The first thing I notice are the mandala beads in an ice cream shop of colors, hanging from little pegs along the back. Lots of photographs too. A wedding portrait of her and Jeff. Baby pictures of Leah and Rachel and Dan. Other friends and relatives I don’t know. In the flickering candlelight, I notice a photo of Leah and me, back in fifth grade, soaked and hugging each other in our bathing suits. It’s a great picture.
“I lit a candle for you,” Gilda says softly.
“Leah told me.” I hiccup. “Why?”
“It’s … it’s sort of like an offering.”
I smirk. “What do you get in return?”
“I don’t know.” She takes a slow, steady breath, squeezing my clammy hands in hers. “All I want is for you to be happy. To get the answers you deserve. Find meaning in all this. Maybe find peace.”
I squint one eye at her, wagging my finger. “Are you allowed to be such a hippie, Mrs. Fromowitz?”
Accidental Page 15
