I hate when that happens. I hate when you’re relaxing on the couch, thinking a private thought, and someone suddenly jumps right in and asks you about it, because—oh yeah—she knows all your personal business.
“She’s fine,” I say.
“Fine?”
“She’s a school counselor, like you. How could she have any problems?”
It’s a joke, and it’s lame, which explains why Mrs. Ramondetta doesn’t get it. “You think because someone has a master’s degree in psychology she can’t have any problems?”
“PhD,” I say.
“Pardon?”
“My mom has a PhD in psychology, not a master’s.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Ramondetta looks surprised. “Wow.”
“She got it at Brown.”
“That’s quite a school. Ivy League.”
“Yeah. Things are really working out for her.” I help myself to another lollipop. Peach this time. I unwrap it, take a few sucks.
“Tell me more,” Mrs. Ramondetta says.
“About?”
“About how things are working out for your mom.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“Yeah. I caught your drift.”
She caught my drift. She even sounds like a teenager. I wonder if my mother ever does that—tries to sound cool just to get kids to talk. It’s a pretty flimsy technique if you ask me. More master’s than PhD.
“She has bipolar two,” I say.
“Oh?”
“Have you heard of it?”
“I have.”
“The doctor she used to go to? Dr. Amman? He thought she was just depressed. But now, I guess, there’s this whole other part to it. Mania, they call it.”
Mrs. Ramondetta nods. She helps herself to a lollipop, and as she unwraps it I tell her what Regina told me. About how my mom’s periods of “high” and “low” can be really short, with long stretches of “normal” in between, which explains why it took so long for her to get this new diagnosis.
“From what I’ve read,” Mrs. Ramondetta says, “some people may not even realize they have a mood disorder, and it’s only those closest to them who are affected.”
“Oh, she has one all right,” I say. “Believe me.”
“I believe you.”
“She’s on mood stabilizers and everything.”
“That’s good. It sounds like your mom’s on the right track.”
I shrug, suck on my lollipop, glance around the room. There’s a plant on Mrs. Ramondetta’s desk that could use some serious water. It’s all brown and crispy.
“So who’s your support system?”
“Hmm?”
“The people you talk to about your mom. The ones who get it.” She has put her lollipop down on her armrest and is leaning forward, propping her elbows on her knees.
I shrug.
“Your dad?”
I snort.
“No?”
“They’re divorced.”
“And…”
“And my mom is not exactly his favorite subject.”
“Okay … we can talk about that next time … What about grandparents?”
“I only have one grandmother. She’s in a nursing home in New Jersey. I never see her.”
“Are there other adults in your life? People you’re close to?”
“Regina, I guess.”
“Who’s Regina?”
“My mom’s best friend.”
“And you can talk openly with Regina, about how you’re feeling? How you’re coping with your mom’s depression?”
I shrug. “We don’t really talk about me.”
“What do you talk about?”
“My mom. What she’s eating. How much she’s sleeping.”
“What about friends?” Mrs. Ramondetta says. “Which friends do you talk to about your mom?”
I stare at her. “I don’t talk to my friends about my mom.”
“Why not?”
“It’s … I don’t know … embarrassing.”
“It’s embarrassing that she has a chemical imbalance in her brain?”
I shake my head. That’s not what I mean.
“Would it be embarrassing if she had cancer?”
“No.”
Mrs. Ramondetta cocks her head at me, waiting.
“What—you think I should just tell people that my mother tried to kill herself? That she got put in the mental ward?”
“Why not?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“They’re your mom’s actions, not yours.”
“Yeah, but she’s my mom.”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Ramondetta says. “She’s your mom. One of the most important people in your life. Which means that you are intimately affected by what’s happened. And you need some support.”
Oh, God. This. This is the crap I was trying to avoid. I would have told her so much more if she hadn’t suddenly made this about me. I am not the one with the problem. I am not my mother.
“Anna.” Our eyes are completely level because Mrs. Ramondetta is leaning in and I am slouching back.
I focus on a piece of lint on her left shoulder.
“You can keep holding it in. You can keep trying to deal with everything on your own. But how’s that working out for you? Think about it. Why are you here?”
By now, I have crunched the peach lollipop to shards and I am grinding the shards with my molars.
“It got me out of English,” I say, giving a little shrug. “And free lollipops.”
Mrs. Ramondetta smiles. There’s a gap between her teeth. “Humor’s a great coping mechanism, Anna. I’m glad you’re using it.”
It is so obvious what she’s doing, the whole candy and positive feedback thing, trying to show that she is “on my side”—that she “understands what I’m going through.” Too bad I can see right through it.
“I know what you’re doing,” I say.
“What am I doing?”
“You’re trying to be my buddy.”
“And that’s wrong because…”
I shrug. There’s nothing wrong with it. Mrs. Ramondetta is being perfectly nice. Too nice, maybe. She reminds me a little of Marnie, actually, except instead of feeding me rice chips she’s feeding me lollipops.
“It’s okay to lean on people, Anna,” she says. “It doesn’t make you weak.”
“I know that.”
“It doesn’t make you your mother either.”
I look up, my eyes meet Mrs. Ramondetta’s, and my throat aches a little. For a moment, I think I might cry. But I don’t. I grab another lollipop, unwrap it and start sucking. Then the bell rings.
“I have study hall,” I say.
“Come back and see me anytime, Anna,” Mrs. Ramondetta says. “My door is always open.”
* * *
After school, Marnie and Jane are baking something in the kitchen. I am in the den, watching Animal Planet, but instead of feeling happy about it, I’m bummed. There are only two people who love Animal Planet as much as I do: my mother and Dani. And they are not here. A part of me is tempted to call Dani’s house. I pick up the phone. I even start dialing the number, but then I stop myself. I imagine her saying, Why are you calling me, Anna? We’re not friends anymore, remember? She’s probably not even home right now. She’s probably off shaking her pom-poms or kissing Ethan Zane under the bleachers.
I call up Regina to see if she and my mom are watching. But the answer is no. My mother is taking a bath, Regina says. And Regina would rather stick pins under her fingernails than watch Animal Planet.
“The bath is a good sign,” Regina says.
“Yeah,” I say.
And I hang up, thinking I should feel better. But I don’t.
I wonder if Sarabeth Mueller watches Animal Planet. I think about calling her, but then I remember she has Irish step on Thursdays.
So I find the scrap of paper with Shawna Wendall’s number on it. I dial it and say, “This is Anna Collette.”
And I say, “Watching Animal Planet.”
And she says, “What’s on?”
And I say, “Sloths.”
And she says, “I am all over that.”
And somehow, we end up watching the whole thing together, from our separate couches.
“First of all,” Shawna says when the show is over, “sloths are awesome.”
“Agreed.”
“Second, I would make an excellent sloth. I could sleep twenty hours a day, easy.”
“So could my mother.” I don’t mean to say it. The words just slip out, and when they do, I panic. I try to think of something—anything—to cover it up.
“That’s really common,” Shawna says matter-of-factly. “Sleep changes are, like, the number one sign of depression. Right up there with feelings of helplessness and weight loss.”
“How do you—”
Shawna cuts me off. “Amateur psychologist, remember?”
“Right.”
“I read a lot of psych books.”
“Oh.” I hesitate. Then, “You’re not going to, you know…”
“Tell anyone about your mom?”
“Yeah.”
“Not if you don’t want me to.”
“I don’t. I mean … I’m not ashamed or anything, I just … you know…”
“I know,” Shawna says. “I get it.”
I think she might be talking about her eyebrows, but I can’t be sure. She doesn’t say anything else, and I don’t want to make her feel self-conscious by bringing up the subject. So I don’t. I just say, “Thanks.”
“No problem. It was fun slothing out with you.”
“Ditto.”
“In study hall tomorrow, we should work on getting our tongues to extend ten to twelve inches so we can pick up leaves.”
“Sounds good,” I say.
“’Bye, sloth.”
“See ya.”
CHAPTER
18
ON FRIDAY NIGHT, Sarabeth drags me and Shawna to another football game. This one is away, against William Allen, the Quaker school in Providence. Mrs. Mueller drops us off at the same time the Shelby Horner cheerleaders are exiting the bus. Dani looks surprised to see me, but this time I just turn my head like I don’t see her.
Sarabeth is in full Shelby Horner form, with stripes of blue and gold on her face. When we get to the bleachers, she offers to do mine, and I let her.
“We need to represent,” she says, smearing paint on my cheeks. “William Allen is tough. Their quarterback threw twenty-eight touchdowns last season.”
Shawna scoffs.
“I’m painting you next, Wendall,” Sarabeth says.
“No you’re not.”
“I am. You best prepare yourself.”
* * *
Everything is fine for the first half. We sit right next to the Shelby Horner band. “Band-Aids,” Shawna calls us, because at one point we start air drumming and air tuba playing and air saxophoning right along with them. We know we are dorking out, but there is something about being at another school and being in a group and wearing face paint that makes it acceptable.
At halftime, we walk to the concession stand. There are William Allen kids everywhere. I see a group of boys eyeing us. They are all hair gel and Under Armour, older looking, somehow, than Ethan Zane and his group. One of them is looking at me and I can’t help looking back. Why not? I think. He’s cute. And I’m emboldened by the fact that I will never see him again after tonight.
But then something happens. There’s a snort of laughter. A finger pointing at Shawna.
“Dude, check out those eyebrows.”
“Holy shit, it’s Morticia Addams!”
“Hey, Morticia. What are you doing at a football game? Shouldn’t you be home with Uncle Fester?”
They’re just about killing themselves laughing.
“Keep walking,” Sarabeth murmurs. “Ignore them.”
“Where ya goin’, Morticia?”
“Back to the morgue?”
Now they’re following us.
A rage builds up inside me. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but I’m turning around, facing them.
“Shut up.”
The biggest one, with thick, dark hair and a smirk on his face, looks at his friends. “Did she just tell me to shut up?”
“Yes, I did, Mr. Hair Gel, Mr. I’m So Cool I Wear Under Armour So I Can Make Fun of Anyone Who’s Not as Cool as Me. You go to a Quaker school. Isn’t it against your religion to be a jackass?”
I’m yelling, and I know I’m making a scene, but I don’t care.
For a second, the kid looks shocked. Then he mutters, “Freaks,” and motions for his buddies to walk away.
I turn to Shawna and see tears in her eyes.
“No one’s ever stuck up for me before,” she says.
“That’s what friends do,” I say. And I don’t know why, but there are tears in my eyes, too.
* * *
We miss the second half of the game. The three of us spend the next hour sitting on a patch of grass by the parking lot.
“Are you okay?” Sarabeth asks Shawna.
And Shawna tells Sarabeth what she’s already told me, about her eyebrows. “That’s why I transferred to Shelby Horner last year,” she says quietly. “Kids made fun of me all the time. It got so bad I’d pretend to be sick so I didn’t have to go to school.”
“Kids can be so mean,” Sarabeth says.
I know she is speaking from experience, but I don’t expect her to start listing all the names she’s been called. Casper the Ghost, Skim Milk, Albino, Powder, X-ray, Whitey Bulger.
I can’t believe she’s saying those things aloud. Turning her insides out. Am I supposed to remind her that I was Pubes in sixth grade? Because I won’t. I hated being Pubes.
But here we are, huddled together on the grass. Shawna’s on one side of me, Sarabeth is on the other, and our knees are touching and we’re breathing in the same air, and something about it makes me feel safe.
“My mother’s sick. She has bipolar depression and she tried to kill herself four weeks ago. She’s out of the hospital, but I don’t know if she’s ever going to get better.”
No one says anything. Are you happy, Mrs. Ramondetta?
Then I feel Shawna’s hand on my shoulder. “That kid back there was right,” she says. “We are a bunch of freaks.”
Sarabeth jumps all over her. “Shawna! What kind of comment is that? Did you hear what Anna just said? You’re supposed to be her friend!”
Shawna’s looking at me and there’s blue and gold paint smeared all over her face. I’m sort of half-laughing, half-crying, and I can feel the paint running down my face, too. I’m a mess, but strangely I don’t care.
“Everyone’s got their shit,” Shawna says, “is all I meant. It was a statement of unity.”
“Ha,” I say.
Shawna clasps my knee. “I’m here for you, Anna.”
Now Sarabeth is saying it, too. “I’m here for you, Anna. We both are.” No one says I shouldn’t worry. No one tells me my mother will be fine. No one offers stupid advice. They’re just there.
Later, when Mrs. Mueller is driving us home and we’re cleaning off our faces with tissues, Sarabeth says, “Maybe we should own it. The Freaks.”
“What do you mean own it?” Shawna says.
“For our talent show act. Maybe that’s what we should call ourselves.”
“Actually,” I say, glancing at Shawna, “I think we already have a name.”
* * *
When I get back, my father and Marnie are in the den, watching a movie. “Hey, Anna,” Marnie says when she sees me standing in the doorway.
“Hey.”
“How was the game?”
“Good.”
“Did you win?” my father says.
“Uh-huh.” I don’t actually know if we won. I spent the whole second half in the parking
lot, pouring my guts out. But they don’t need to know that.
“Want to join us?” Marnie says. “It’s The Amazing Spider-Man.”
“No, thanks.”
I go into the kitchen to get myself a drink and, strangely, my father follows.
“Are you hungry?” he says as I open the fridge and take out a can of seltzer.
“No.”
“I can make you something if you want. Peanut butter and jelly?… Eggs?”
“You gave me money for dinner, remember?”
“Right.” He nods.
It’s weird. I never got an allowance before. If I needed something, my parents would just buy it. But ever since I started staying here, my dad has been giving me money. Ten bucks here. Twenty bucks there. Tonight he gave me thirty bucks for the football game, which was way more than I needed. It’s like he’s trying to make up for something. Which maybe he should be.
“What’d you have?” he says.
“What?” I pop open the can.
“To eat.”
“Oh. A hot dog. And popcorn.”
“That’s not very much. You sure I can’t make you something?”
“Yeah, Dad.” I give him a funny look. “Since when do you care how much I eat?”
“I care.”
“Whatever,” I mutter, taking a sip of seltzer. I am done trying to have serious discussions with him. After my last attempt, I realize it’s not worth it. We’re better off keeping our conversations short and superficial.
“Enjoy the movie,” I say, turning to go.
“Anna?”
“What.”
“Can you hang out a minute? There are a few things I need to say to you.”
I turn back around, take a slow sip of seltzer. Then another.
“Anna?”
“I’m listening.”
“Okay … first, I’m glad you went to see the school counselor.”
I stop drinking. “What?”
“I’m glad you went to see the school counselor.”
“No, I heard you. I’m just … seriously? You talked to Mrs. Ramondetta?”
He shakes his head. “No. But I did speak with your principal yesterday, and—”
“You spoke with Mr. Malloy? About me going to see Mrs. Ramondetta?”
“It’s school policy, Anna, to let parents know when their child has been to the counselor.”
“Wow.” This just keeps getting better.
“Not the specifics, of course, just the fact that you’ve met with her. And I think, well…” My father clears his throat. “Given everything that’s happened … maybe it’s not such a bad idea for you to talk to someone.”
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