I should be giggling, but sobs barrel out of me instead.
“Oh, sweetie. Come sit.”
She rests me on the edge of her bed, gently rubbing my back. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“You mean, more than the shit I blabbed in front of your poor dinner guests?” I gasp and cover my mouth. “Shit! I said shit in front of you.”
She smiles faintly. “I’ll live. It’s good to get these things off your chest, Jujube. An uncluttered mind is a peaceful mind. You’ll hurt yourself, keeping it all pent up.”
“I know,” I say, voice quiet and lost. “But it’s like I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m angry with myself, sorry for myself. I feel claustrophobic. I’m stuck in my body, my life, this world. And what am I supposed to do? I wish someone would tell me, because I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do anymore. I’m so scared I won’t ever feel okay again.”
My words begin to muddle, lost between sobs. Thick, dirty tears, smearing my makeup. Gilda hands me a bottle of water from beside her bed. She smells like rose petals. Being around her reminds me of a fancy English garden. I take a sip and wonder what Mandy smelled like—not just her perfume but the scent of her skin. Did it make me hungry, when I was a nursing baby? Would I know it now?
All the tears rush out of me, cannonballing into my lap. My chest heaves and burns. Gilda rocks me from side to side, humming an old Carole King tune. “ ‘You’ve got a friend,’ ” she sings, but I don’t want one. I want my mother. I desperately need what I can’t have. What I stole from myself.
It’s calming, though, listening to her sing. Feeling her arms around me.
Does that make me a traitor?
“We love you, Jujube. So many people love you.”
I wipe my nose with my palm, burping up a little bit of wine. Gross.
“I’m guessing this goes beyond a glass of Manischewitz?”
“What?” I ask.
“The wine. You look like you’ve had a few.”
I cringe.
“It’s okay, sweetie. You’re in a safe place, it’s okay to let loose sometimes. Just promise me this isn’t going to become a habit. I don’t think I have it in me to tell your grandmother I got you drunk.”
“Oh my God,” I gasp. But then giggle. Gilda does too. “Do not tell them. Please.”
“I won’t,” she swears. “Let’s get some food in you, huh?”
I wipe a straggler tear from my eye. “I’m too embarrassed.”
“Nonsense,” says Gilda. “You’re with family. You can’t embarrass yourself in front of family.”
“Even the dentist?”
She snorts. “The look on his face! Sorry. I’m awful.”
I sniffle. “It’s okay.”
She helps me to my feet, and when she opens the door, joyfulness pours in. It’s clear that Shabbat dinner has achieved its previous vigor. People are laughing, kids running, Jeff strumming on his guitar. I look over my shoulder before we leave Gilda’s darkened bedroom, glancing one last time at the candle whose sole purpose is to burn until I find peace.
25
On the bright side, I doubt I’ll ever become an alcoholic.
My brain is doing a war reenactment inside my head when I wake up, not helped by the ten million third graders blasting cartoons and sword fighting throughout the entire house at 7 a.m. I blink a few times, looking over at Leah under the covers beside me. Drool drips from her mouth as she snores. It blows my mind that anyone could sleep through this, but then, I’m an only child. I’m used to silence.
More and more, lately, come to think of it.
I use Leah’s deodorant and splash some water on my face, rummaging through her closet for the one sweater of hers that I really love, and then sneak quietly out of her bedroom. Dan and his friends barely blink twice at me as I weave through their meticulous blanket fort. At least I don’t have to worry about my Shabbat meltdown making the elementary school circuit.
“You’re up early,” Gilda says as I’m trying to slink through the kitchen.
Morning light haloes her as she leans against the sink. Her hair’s wild, like she slept upside down. She raises her eyebrows, gesturing toward the coffee mug in her hand.
“No thanks. I think I’ll let the headache punish me a little longer.”
“I guess I won’t ask how you’re feeling.”
“I’m really sorry for ruining your dinner.”
“Sweetie, you ruined nothing. Are you going to be okay today?”
I nod, then shake my head, then sigh.
“Do something nice for yourself,” she suggests. “A pedi, or see a movie. You like shopping. Here—” She reaches for her wallet on the table and pulls out a twenty.
“I can’t take that,” I say. “I don’t even want it. I feel like I’m sick of thinking about myself. It’s exhausting.”
Gilda nods. “I get it. Maybe it’s time to find another way to channel your feelings.” She pauses, shrugs, sips her coffee. “You’re going to be okay, Jujube. I’m not just saying that. You’re a strong girl—Jeff and I have always thought so. It may not seem like it now, but you will get through this.”
“You really think so?” I whisper, tears inching up my throat. “Because I don’t know how much longer I can go on feeling this way.”
Then I’m sobbing, Gilda rushing around the table for a hug. It lasts forever, and when she pulls away, we’re both tearstained.
“You will find a way to heal. It takes time.”
“I guess so.” I let her hug me again, then pull away, opening the door to the garage. “Hey, Gilda?”
“Yeah, honey?”
“Keep that candle burning for me, okay?”
She nods as I shut the door softly behind me.
• • •
Gran and Grandpa aren’t home when I get back. She’s written a note, explaining a fundraiser meeting, hoping I slept well at Leah’s, an arrow pointing toward a saucepan on the stove full of homemade tomato bisque. I heat up a bowl and eat it with saltines, which are about all my stomach can handle, then take a ridiculously hot bubble bath and text with Milo for a while. My face is splotchy from the heat when I get out, but I feel clean. I mean, duh, but I actually feel cleaner. Renewed almost, thinking about Gilda’s words. That I will find a way to heal.
I brush my hair in front of the mirror and picture my mother’s face. Eyes round, with lashes for days. Our chins, strong and square. I reach for the photo of the two of us on my nightstand—the original, un-photoshopped one—needing to be reminded of its simplicity. In this picture, there is love. No gun in my hand, no blood darkening her blond hair. It repulses me that someone could have done that. As if I’m not punishing myself enough. They’re not just afraid of me, they hate me. For something I did before I could blow my own nose.
Thinking about it makes me want to explode. I’m so goddamn fucking fed up with all of it. The sick humiliation of seeing Annette rip down posters of my blood-soaked mother; how I loathe walking with my head held down in shame, sitting idly by while they all click C on some ridiculous quiz. I can’t take it much longer.
Rather than suffocate in self-pity, I grab my phone, snapping a selfie. I make my face tough and determined, all hot ‘n’ bullshit-immune like Debbie Harry on the cover of Parallel Lines. The first one comes out bad, so I take a few more, posting the best one in my stories with the caption: Enough and a few black hearts and muscle emojis. I like the way it makes me feel, but too quickly the power fades. It’s too small a taste. I need more. Need to be more, do more. What I said to Gilda was true. I feel trapped by my story. Defined by a gun I was too small to hold and should never have had access to.
A badass selfie isn’t enough and never will be.
I have to do something. Be proactive. When Annette asked me to go to Sanders’s office, I should have said yes. The day I went in, after the English class bullshit, he treated me like I was less than human—less than Tim, anyway—but am I?
Now my skin is on fi
re, bubbling over with rage. The fact that I’ve let it go on for this long. Two fucking weeks of allowing imbeciles to push me, pull me, bully me. Not anymore, though. Hell, no. This is about me. It is my story. Because of my past, I will make sure my future is different.
I throw on some clothes and fling open my laptop.
But then my phone rings.
“Yeah?” I bark.
“Whoa,” Leah says. “I was going to be like yeah, gurl because I saw that fierce picture you just posted, but you sound like Gabby after losing a debate competition.”
“No, I’m fine,” I say. “You saw the picture?”
“Me and everybody else. Did you see how many likes you’re getting? I didn’t know you even had that many followers.”
She’s right. I click on the image, buoyed by the flurry of likes and hearts, smiley faces and peace signs.
“I want to do something.”
“Sure,” Leah says. “Movies? Mani-pedi?”
God, she is so her mother’s daughter.
“No, I want to do something big. Like, why should I sit around picking my ass while people post stupid quizzes? Don’t you think it’s time I showed everyone I’m not a doormat or a fucking serial killer?”
“Yeah!” Leah whoops.
“I’m tough,” I go on. “I’m strong. I should do something with that. Like—” I let a giant puff of air through my lips. Heart racing, clacking with the ferocity of my sewing machine. “I don’t know. Fight gun violence. Ban guns. Or, what’s it called, with the background checks?”
“Umm … background checks?”
“Leah, we could do anything—I mean, I.” My cheeks burn. “Sorry. Obviously, I won’t drag you into it.”
“What?” she says. “Of course, we. I’m behind you one hundred percent.”
“Really?” I’m choking up, even though I shouldn’t be. Leah’s my trusty Rottweiler, and I’m hers. Now and forever. “So, where do we start?”
The two of us get all Charlie’s Angels after that, googling different ideas, various school projects to prevent gun violence. Petition ideas, rallies, protests. Leah finds this whole website on gun laws in New Mexico. How they’re like, the saddest thing ever. Some of the least restrictive gun laws in the whole country. Out of curiosity, I look up California too. Fresno, where I was born. Gun laws in Cali are a lot stricter. Probably why Robert got prosecuted.
When I hear Gran call me to dinner, I kind of can’t believe it’s already that late. I didn’t even know they were back home, but I’m buzzing with ideas, drowning in links to print at the library tomorrow. Stuff I can’t wait to throw in Donnelly’s I’m-worried-about-you face. Because, after today, I have a crystal-clear idea in my head. A full-on mental vision board that is going to change everything.
I head toward the dining room, adrenaline sapping out of me as I smell Gran’s tuna casserole. Do I eat tuna now? Was mom a what-do-you-call-it—pescatarian? I don’t know, but I decide not to complain because I’ve pushed the limits enough lately.
The table’s set. That’s supposed to be my job. I was too far down my gun violence rabbit hole, but I still feel guilty. I take my seat, wondering how long we’re going to go on like this—silent treatments and avoiding the truth. Can we make it till I graduate next spring? Would it be better if I packed up and moved to Texas with Robert? I take my seat and let the thought crystalize in my mind. Picturing Robert and me sharing his apartment. Me, cooking us breakfast and sewing him collared shirts; him, helping with my homework and signing up for parent-teacher conferences at my new Houston high school. The movie marathons, the late-night chats. He’ll call me kiddo, and I’ll start to feel comfortable saying Dad.
It could be perfect.
Silent treatment or not, Gran reaches across the table for my hand. Her fingers feel smooth and warm as they curve around my palm. I take Grandpa’s hand too, and our heads lower.
“O Lord,” Gran begins softly. “Thank you for the food we are about to receive. Thank you for the family beside us, and the love between us. Amen.”
“Amen,” Grandpa says, and spoons a mound of casserole onto my plate while I fill our water glasses and Gran offers around the snow peas.
“Amen,” I whisper too.
Silence mounts after that. Mushy noodles, steam rising from our plates, the conversation of audible gulping. But her words trip me up with each bite.
The love between us.
Maybe they still care about me after all.
26
“Hey, can I come in?”
I poke my head through Mr. Donnelly’s door before school on Monday. He’s sitting behind his desk, rocking a ginger man-bun and staring at his phone while devouring a bacon, egg, and cheese.
“Johanna! Of course.” He pushes aside his breakfast, licking greasy fingers clean. “Take a seat. I’m glad you finally came in.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
He flashes a sad, overstated smile. “How are you?” he asks. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through these last few weeks. But you’re handling it? Your grandparents are helping? They seemed so sweet at the open house last fall.”
“What? Oh. Yeah, they’re awesome,” I say with a dismissive wave. “Hey, so, I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m ready to take action.”
I reach into my bag for the printouts—the ones Ms. Daya, our school librarian, helped me with when I nearly mauled her as she unlocked the library doors at 7:20 a.m. Anyway, I dump the inch-thick stack on Mr. Donnelly’s desk with a smack.
He glances down and then back up. “What sort of action are we talking about?”
“Gun control!” I explode. “I’ve read the entire internet. There was this one statistic—did you know gun violence is the second-biggest cause of death for kids in America? And that one hundred people a day are killed by guns in this country? I mean, that’s over four people an hour. Doesn’t that blow your mind?”
“It’s heartbreaking,” he says. But, like, still clearly mystified.
“It’s appalling! And I want to do something about it.” I tuck my hair behind my ears and lean forward. “I’ve been feeling so lost lately, and I finally know why—because I’m not doing anything. Guns are everywhere, getting into kids’ hands. Now that I’m part of the statistics, it’s up to me to incite change. I’m ready to fight for social justice. What do you think?”
The immediate oh-my-God-definitely reaction I’m anticipating takes the form of Donnelly’s slack jaw. “Wow. I know I’ve been talking to you about more extracurriculars for a while now, but is this—”
“I know! It’s absolutely perfect.”
I grab an article about my mom’s death, the one from the Fresno Bee, and try not to shake as I push it far away from me, practically into Donnelly’s lap.
“Toddlers in this country shoot people on a weekly basis,” I say. “Weekly. I mean, Mr. D. It happens all the time. It could literally be happening right this second. Doesn’t it make you sick? To think that, somewhere, some innocent little girl just shot her own mom? Or dad, or brother, or sister? She’s never going to see them again. No more hugs or birthdays. And she’s going to have to live with that guilt forever. I have to live with that guilt forever. It isn’t fair. It’s fucking tragic!”
“Hey—swear jar.”
I roll my eyes, breaking from my impassioned tirade to rummage through my bag for a quarter to put in Mr. Donnelly’s “Retirement Fund.”
He sighs heavily. “But you’re right. It is fucking tragic.” He tosses in a quarter of his own. “I feel like I missed a step, though. What do you want to do, exactly?”
“Initiate.” My fingers trip through pages, looking for—“Here. This one. There’s a local organization that does all kinds of stuff to raise awareness through education and advocacy and stuff, and they do a lot of work with schools.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“It is. And I want to get them to work with Chavez Academy on a mural project where they bring in a professional
artist to work with the kids, teaching us how to paint these epic murals to end gun violence. Look—”
I cue up my phone to a video of a mural they did in Española. All these kids working on stencils, painting these sad, weepy children in bright, psychedelic colors, slogans like We Are The Change and End Gun Violence dancing throughout. I nearly cried watching it over the weekend, and I know it’ll punch Mr. Donnelly in the gut too.
When it ends, I shut off my phone. “Well?”
Because this is it. The end of my plea. My insides are bursting, gleaming with determination. I don’t just want this. I need it. It must happen.
“That was great.” Donnelly exhales, brow furrowing. “But I thought you wanted to come in here so we could talk. Y’know, about your childhood? Don’t you want to talk about your feelings?”
He cringes. I’m pretty sure we’re both embarrassed by the phrase talk about your feelings, but he masks it with a chuckle.
“What I want,” I say carefully, “is to make a change. With this mural project, we could make an actual difference in the community. It would get the whole school involved. The paper could write a piece about it, we’d be raising awareness about serious issues. It could be your magnum opus, Mr. Donnelly. You have to back me up.”
An eternity passes. Donnelly sits there, stroking his Wildling beard, exuding contemplation. Meanwhile, I am slowly developing an ulcer.
“Please?” I whisper. “This could be so amazing.”
Maybe he believes in the project, or maybe he’s swayed by the desperation wafting off me, but finally, his lips curl into a small, compassionate grin. “I’m in.”
• • •
Before bed, I call Robert. All I get is his voice mail, but I decide to leave one anyway.
“Hey, Dad—that still sounds so weird. Sorry. I thought about calling you Robert, but then …
“Anyway. I got the coding book in the mail today. Thanks.
“So, I have some kind of exciting news. I just proposed this art project at school, and my guidance counselor approved it! It’s all about ending gun violence. Obviously that’s been on my mind lately, especially after the way people are acting at school.
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