by Jen Calonita
Side Effects © 2014 DreamWorks Animation Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved.
Based on “Side Effects” © 2014 Awesomeness, LLC. All rights reserved.
Created and produced by Running Press Kids, an imprint of Running Press Book Publishers, Philadelphia, PA 19103
ISBN 978-1941341-50-6
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without written permission from the publisher. For information, address AwesomenessINK, 1000 Flower Street, Glendale, California 91201.
Lyrics for “Sweet Little Pill” courtesy of Allison Schroeder, Ryan Shore, and Chester See
(Awesomeness Music Partners, LLC).
Lyrics for “Bad Day” courtesy of Allison Schroeder, Ryan Shore, and Chester See
(Awesomeness Music Partners, LLC).
Lyrics for “Boom Boom” courtesy of Allison Schroeder, Michael Corcoran, Eric Goldman, Zachary Hexum, and Niki Watkins (Awesomeness Music Partners, LLC).
Lyrics for “Pull Me Back” courtesy of Eric Goldman, Michael Corcoran, Niki Watkins, Zachary Hexum, and Allison Schroeder (Awesomeness Music Partners, LLC).
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
11. Whitney
12. Lexi
13. Keith
14. Jason
15. Whitney
11// WHITNEY
I feel like such an idiot. All this time I’ve been worrying about my own problems with the She-Bitches and the lie heard ’round the world that I forgot I’m not the only Connolly in pain here. Yes, Keith, Lexi, Jason, and I have our issues, but somehow we’ve all dropped the ball when it comes to looking after Sam. We’re all he has in this world till we figure out where Dad disappeared to. And how do we help him handle it all?
By pretty much ignoring him completely.
Yep, it’s official: we suck as a family unit.
I run down the narrow path and almost get barreled over by a guy on a bike towing a blue carriage behind it. I hear two girls squealing giddily inside as they pass. This is probably not the safest place for me to walk. I veer off the path and try to put myself in Sam’s shoes. Where would I go if I were him? He’d prefer to sit by a fountain or a park sculpture, that’s for sure, but since this place is nowhere near as nice as Griffith Park, I’m thinking the likelihood of a sculpture like the Astronomers Monument being around are slim to none. He doesn’t have his bike with him. Hmm . . . a bunch of boys in soccer uniforms kick a ball past my head and I duck to keep from getting hit.
“We just played for at least an hour,” a sweaty little boy whines. “Let’s go to the park!”
Park! I notice a swing set in the distance. Sam once fell off the monkey bars and broke his right arm, so I’m not sure the park is his favorite in the world, but when his options are a bench covered in bird poop or a swing set, I’m thinking I’ll find him on the swing set. I walk across the muddy field from last night’s rain and to the entrance of the park covered in Astro turf. The place is pretty much deserted except for the swings and the large sandbox that has ride-on diggers in it. A few mothers are pushing toddlers on baby swings, but the regular swings are empty. Except for one. I’m relieved to see Sam going back and forth slowly, the photo box and his sketchpad balanced precariously on his lap. He’s completely in a trance, staring down at his feet, which he’s dragging through the sand. I’m so happy to see him. I want to sprint to his side, but I don’t want to spook him.
I move slowly, and out of the corner of my eye, I notice the seesaws on the other end of the park. Lexi is sitting hunched over on one end of a seesaw. Behind her, I notice Zak approaching. Lexi has someone who has her back. I focus on my little brother, so I can have his back too. Almost as if sensing I’m there, Sam looks up. I expect him to be angry to see me. Instead, his oval-shaped eyes, so similar to my own, remind me of a puppy in a store window. I just want to squeeze the kid.
I sit down on the swing next to him and push off. “Want to talk about it?”
Sam shrugs. He opens the photo box and stares at the stack of pictures inside. “I don’t remember half these things we did.” He picks up one of us at Disneyland. “I was too young I guess.” He looks at me and his brow creases with concern. “All I remember is Mom and Dad fighting a lot.”
“Mom and Dad didn’t fight a lot,” I say almost accusingly and then stop myself. These are Sam’s memories, not mine. “I mean, I can’t believe that’s what you remember.”
He laughs to himself. “Great memories, huh?”
Gently, I take the box from his hands and place it on my own lap. I slow my swing to a stop and look through for something that will spark his memory in a good way. “We can do better than fights. Let’s see . . .” I pull out a picture of Mom climbing a wooden barricade. She’s wearing war paint on her cheeks and a bandana with her company name on it. Think Whitney, I tell myself. Where is this from? Oh, I know!
“Remember this?” I ask, showing Sam. “This is from that time Mom signed us all up for some family challenge on her company’s retreat. We spent the entire weekend smelly and disgusting on obstacle courses. We were terrible! Keith face-planted when he fell trying to climb up one of those rope ladders. Lexi kept tripping every time she had to run, and then Jason would swoop in and try to save her like he was her power twin or something. Dad had to carry you and me because we were the youngest. You and I loved it,” I tell him.
“We did?” Sam asks, biting his lip. I can almost see the wheels turning as he tries to unlock the door to this memory.
“Yep, and Mom was the worst of all. She just laughed herself silly every time one of us screwed up. When we finally got to the obstacle course wall, which is this picture here, suddenly you got this look in your eye. You were determined for us to finish the course, even though there was no way we could win at that point. You told us to imagine we were all Spider-Man. You were obsessed with him. You even went first over the wall.” I grab Sam’s leg as I remember the feeling of watching him scale that high platform. “You got to the top in no time and captured the flag that was up there. We were all cheering.” I pull my swing over to his and lock my left leg around his right one so we’re attached. “You were the big hero of the day. You even got a reward—”
Sam interrupts me. “A twelve-scoop banana split.”
“That’s right!” I’m excited he actually remembers. His face breaks into a huge smile. “Remember Mom had one too? Extra chocolate, marshmallows and—”
“Pineapple!” Sam finishes. I don’t remember the last time I saw him this excited. The breeze blows that mop of brown hair out of his eyes, and the two of us just stare at each other for a moment, remembering the sights and sounds of that day. “Thanks,” he says shyly. “I remember that now.”
“Good.” I look down at the sketchbook in his hands. I wonder if I should keep going with this bonding thing since it seems to be working. “So I hear your teacher selected you for the county art show next week.”
“How did you hear that?” Sam’s eyebrows go up.
I don’t tell him the truth. His art teacher, Mr. Colligan, who’s also my art teacher, stopped me the other day and asked if any of us were going to come see his show. I didn’t even know Sam was in it. “Your teacher says you’re some sort of art genius, which I find hard to believe.” He knocks his swing into mine. “But I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt till the show, at least.” I nod to his sketchpad. “Want to show me something award-worthy?”
Sam pulls his pad off his lap and hides it behind his back. “No way.”
“Come on,” I beg. I put the photo box down and start to swing again. As gre
at as that memory of our family trip was, it also makes me depressed. There will never be a family trip like that again. I try not to dwell on it, but it’s hard not to blink back tears. I don’t want my brother to see me cry. Not when I’m here trying to cheer him up. I have to focus on my breathing, like my psychiatrist says I should in situations like this. “Breathe in and out. In and out. Concentrate on something else,” I can hear him say.
“Show me where you get your inspiration from,” I suggest to Sam.
But it’s already too late. I can feel my medication kick in and the swing set does a complete 360 before righting itself and bursting into a rainbow of colors that are as comforting to me as a hot cocoa with extra marshmallows.
“I just draw things,” Sam says, starting to swing again a little. “Stuff that will take me away from this reality, you know?”
Maybe Sam and I have more in common than I realized. “Trust me, I know.” I nod to the book he has tucked under his arm as he swings. “So why don’t you show me some of your work.”
Sam stops swinging again and passes me his sketchbook. I open it slowly, afraid of what I’m going to see. What if he sucks and I have to lie to him about it?
Thankfully when I turn to the first page, I know I’m so wrong to even think that. This is no kiddie drawing. Sam’s used soft charcoal pencils to draw a meadow beneath a starry night sky and every star, every flower, every blade of grass is so vivid it nearly jumps off the page. I do a double take when I look at my brother again. How did I not notice my brother was an artist? How many times have I passed an art project in a hallway at school and never realized Sam’s signature was along the bottom?
I look down at a painting of a tiger and the song Jason was blasting in his earphones sneaks into my thoughts. Capital Cities’ “Safe and Sound” sums up exactly what Sam is trying to do when he escapes into his artwork. I know because it’s the same thing that happens when I let the hallucinations take over, like they are right now.
The tiger sprouts vines from his head in a multitude of colors. Pink palm tress and lilac mountains appear behind the swing set. Then Sam takes my hand and we jump Mary Poppins–style into his sketchbook. He uses an oversize crayon to draw a scene in the scene in a jungle for us to walk through. Bumblebees and insects fly by as I use binoculars to view the world he created up close. Green pops on the tree vines and flowers seemingly open as we pass them, bathing the jungle in reds, pinks, and whites.
Sam points to a house atop a pyramid that he’s just drawn and the two of us begin to climb it. Atop the mountain is a city that Sam draws for us to ride through on a motorcycle. I feel my hair fly behind me as we tear through the city on the bike. Sam keeps singing about how he could keep us safe and sound as he paints object after object. The two of us are laughing and all I can think about is how this feels like we’re on a tropical island somewhere in the Caribbean. I never want to go home again if this is what life is like on an island.
I grab Sam’s hand again and give it a tight squeeze. As I do, I feel myself get sucked out of his painting and back onto the swings. I want to cry out for a moment to stop reality from taking over again. That world my brother created—that I created through my hallucination—was a beautiful, happy one. But the boy behind those paintings is right here on the swing next to me and I know now I should never let him go. It’s my job to make him feel safe and sound. Not his to make me feel that way. Maybe it’s our job to help each other; we’re brother and sister after all.
I hand Sam back his sketchbook, pausing to look at a multicolored dragon he’s drawn. He places the book on top of the photo box on the ground. The two of us pump our legs at the same time and begin to soar into the cool air. Our hair lifts up and starts to fly around us. I can barely see Sam’s eyes anymore, but I know he’s looking at me and wondering what I’m thinking.
“Sam, you’re incredible! Why didn’t you ever tell us how good you were?”
Sam’s cheeks color as he climbs higher. “I knew you’d all figure it out on your own. Eventually.”
I start to laugh and he joins in. We keep pumping our legs till our swings go so high it feels like we could touch the sky.
12// LEXI
Sam may have been the first one off the field, but I struck out seconds later.
I was halfway down the bike path before I realized I had no clue where I was going.
What else was new?
It’s one thing for your twin to call you trashy. We shared a womb, so Jason can get away with trading barbs with me that other people can’t. Besides, I dish it out pretty good myself.
But when your baby brother basically calls you a clown and doesn’t realize he actually means something much worse, it gets to you.
“On your left!” I hear a bicyclist bark seconds before barreling me down. I jump backward and almost wind up in the bushes. Two more bikes zoom by right behind the first followed by a pack of rollerblading girls before I realize I need a new, safer place to sulk.
I cut through the bushes—seems smarter than staying on the maniac cyclist path—and spot a playground a few yards off. I can hear the sounds of laughter and squealing all the way from here. There’s a bunch of moms and toddlers overrunning the sandbox and the swings area, but the seesaws are pretty much deserted. I guess they’re all washed up. Just like me.
I sit down at one end and pull my compact out of my bag. The sun bounces off the mirror and makes me squint for a second before my face comes into view. My brown eyes are heavily made up in smoky shades of gray and black, both above and below my eye, which is also outlined in a thick black liner and three coats of black mascara. I barely recognize the girl I’m looking at. Maybe that was the point after Mom died. I wanted to be in anyone’s skin but my own. Sam didn’t have that luxury. It turns out he didn’t have anybody. Jason stopped playing ball. Whit’s shoulder to lean on became her therapist. God, I’ve been a crappy sister.
I rummage around my bag till I find the eye makeup remover wipes that I go through like breath mints. The sounds of the swings squeaking back and forth nearby almost lull me to sleep; I’m so exhausted. But then I hear a kid screech when his mom pushes him too high, and I jolt back awake and remember what I’m doing. Using the compact as a guide, I slowly wipe away my upper lid shadow, being careful not to smudge the liner at the same time (a girl can’t survive without at least eyeliner). Then I do the other eye. I stare into the mirror and blink a few times to make sure the face I’m looking at is really my own. I never look into the mirror at night after I wash it. Here, in the bright light of morning, on a playground seesaw, there is no escaping me.
Hi ya, old Lexi. It’s been a while.
Thump! The seesaw goes flying upward and I grab the sides to hang on, dropping my compact in the dirt in the process. I look over and see Zak sitting down on the other end. He gives me a shit-eating grin, and I consider picking my compact up and bouncing light off the mirror to blind him. Instead, I shoot him death rays.
He isn’t bothered by my glare a bit. “The little dude got to you, huh?”
I lean back and almost upend myself. “No.” I reach down and grab the compact, dusting it off instead of looking at Zak. I freaking hate how the guy can read me like a book. “The wind blew dirt in my eye. I walked off to find a bathroom so I could flush it out.” I push off with my feet and Zak allows the seesaw to glide into the air. For a few minutes, we just enjoy the ride. Up, down. Up, down. But I can’t shake the look he’s giving me. His eyes never leave my face, and I feel the heat rush into my cheeks. I wish I could make the color stop, just like I wish I could stop sneaking glances at the boy across from me. He’s looking at me like I’m a cross between someone he needs to save and someone he wants to elope with in Vegas. I’m not sure which is worse.
When Zak’s feet hit the ground again, he holds the seesaw there and I’m held prisoner in the air. My body is pulled forward and my legs dangle helplessly. There’s nothing I can do, but focus on him as he hoarsely blurts out, “Lexi, it’s j
ust me here, okay? You can tell me anything.” I glance down at the washed-out red wood on the seesaw and think about how easy it would be to get a splinter if I ran my finger along the grain. It’s impossible not to hear him when he adds, “I’m here for you. You know that, right? So tell me what you’re thinking.”
There’s a part of me that wants to spill my guts to him. Lay it all out in big, bold letters and skywriting and all that other shit. But when I look back and see Zak’s face, all I see is pity. The same pity my mom’s friends give me when they pass me in the supermarket. The same look the guidance counselor shoots me when I say college isn’t even on my radar. The exact expression Whitney’s psychiatrist flashes me when I pick up my sister from an appointment. They think I’m a total screwup just like Sam does. And they’re right.
“I thought I said to leave me alone.” My voice sounds like sandpaper. I wait for Zak to argue. Instead I feel the seesaw drop and I hold on to the bar for dear life as the seat hits the dirt and I almost bounce off it. When I look up, he’s already walking away. “Wait, what the?”
Zak turns around. The look he gives me this time is anything but pitiful. It’s angry. “You’re acting like a total bitch, Lexi, and you know what? I’m finally over it.” He disappears down the path, sidestepping two kids racing by on scooters.
I stare at his retreating frame. I should scream. Shout. Run in front of Zak and stop him with my own hands. But I don’t. This time, I’ve gone too far and I’m too ashamed to do anything about it. “God, I am a bitch,” I mumble.
I don’t know how long I sit there hating myself before I get off the seesaw, grab the compact that dropped again, and head back to the car. Keith, Whitney, and Sam are already there. I glance quickly in the car and see Jason talking quietly with Zak in the backseat. He doesn’t look up.
“So what did you find out?” Whitney asks Keith.
“The coach says there was a man fitting Dad’s description here a few months back.” Keith stares at the photo of Mom and Dad’s anniversary. “He was just sitting in the bleachers during a downpour.” Keith shakes his head. “The coach says it might have been Dad.”
