I pretend to read some more.
Mom says, “Can you put the book down, please?”
I keep pretend-reading.
“Put the book down.”
I put it down.
“I’d really like to know why you’re so angry at me,” Mom says.
“You know why.”
“No I don’t. Maybe I did at first, but not anymore. I’m sorry about the divorce. I’m sorry that I had an affair. But I’m not sorry about Jack.”
“Can you not say his name?”
Then something changes. Mom’s face gets all tight. Obviously, I took it too far. Instead of just leaving the way she normally does, Mom’s not going anywhere.
“Do you think I wanted things to be like this?” she yells. “Do you think this is how I wanted my life to be?”
I don’t say anything. I don’t know what she wanted.
“When is it my turn, Marisa? When you and your sister leave for college? I can’t wait that long! Why should I have to put everything on hold?”
I have never heard Mom yell like that. I didn’t know she could get that angry. That she could get that anything.
“I love Jack. And he loves me and we want to be together. And I’m really sorry things have to change, but that’s how it is.”
Mom stomps out and slams my door.
Adrenaline is shooting through me. I’m shaking and scared. I’ve never seen her even remotely close to this angry. She’s completely freaking me out.
It’s all too much. Breaking up with Derek because he likes someone else. Being in a fight with Sterling. Nash not having time for me anymore. Dad bailing on our plans. And now this.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to kill myself. Or more like, what would happen after I died. Would anyone miss me? Would they even notice I’m gone? What would people say about me?
Would being dead be better than being like this?
I’m not actually suicidal. There’s a difference between really wanting to kill yourself and just thinking about it. But I can’t help these thoughts. If I were going to kill myself, how would I do it? Slitting my wrists would be too obvious. Everyone does that. Pills would be the easiest way and probably the least painful, but how would I get them? And which ones would I get? I definitely wouldn’t do something stupid like trying to hang myself or shoot myself in the head. Extreme plans like those could backfire and then where would I be? A living, breathing vegetable with an even worse life.
There are people in the world who are tortured every day. People are raped and murdered and live in horrible conditions and we don’t even think about them. I could have been one of those people. I could be living in some war zone right now, with no running water and one leg. I should be grateful for what I have.
But somehow, knowing that stuff doesn’t make me feel any better. Which makes me feel even worse.
There is a way out.
I drag my laptop over to my bed and start writing to him. I know he can help me if he wants to. I’m just not sure if he will.
How weird is it that I feel so connected to a boy I don’t even know?
The whole rest of the day, I’m a nervous wreck. What if he doesn’t read my e-mail? What if he doesn’t realize how much I need him?
Finally, it’s eleven o’clock and his show comes on.
“Okay, kids, there’s someone out there who needs our help. If anyone has any advice to share, go ahead and send that in. I’m here twenty-four-seven for your listening needs.”
He’s going to read mine. I can feel it.
“‘Hi, Dirk. I really need your advice. I was seriously depressed last year and there were days when I didn’t want to be alive. Things got better for a while, but now I’m back there again. Everything sucks and I need to feel better. I listen to you every night and I know you can help me. So please help me.’”
My heart is banging out these alarmingly erratic beats and there’s this scary buzzing in my ears. I hope no one can tell that the e-mail he just read was from me.
“It’s from Helplessly Hoping,” Dirk says. “This one isn’t easy, friends. My opinion? You’ve hit rock bottom. Most of us have been there. But the good news is that life can only get better from here. And it will.
“I used to think that if someone hadn’t been through whatever was going on with me, they could never understand, and trying to explain it to them would be useless. But it’s not really like that. Your friends can always help you in some way. Even if they just listen, that helps.
“Here’s an IM for Helplessly Hoping: ‘Please don’t hurt yourself. You’d be hurting a lot more people than just you.’ And I have some hotline numbers I want to throw out there for all of you in Listening Land.”
I write down the numbers Dirk says, but I’m not convinced that talking to some stranger would help. It would be like being back in therapy, except with worse advice.
“Helplessly Hoping,” Dirk goes, “means you’re still hoping. Which means you don’t want to give up. So don’t. And you’re not helpless. You can fight this thing. Be strong. You were strong once and got over this; you can survive it again. And if you think you’re going to hurt yourself, promise me you’ll call one of those numbers.
“Man. This is one of those times when I wish I wasn’t anonymous. I’m just this voice you’re hearing. But who am I? I’m not an expert on any of this. I feel the same things all of you guys do. So just remember that we’re all in this together. If you hurt yourself, you’re hurting me and every single one of us.”
That’s when it all clicks for me. It really is like we’re all in this together. All of us listening right now, at home in our rooms, waiting for our real lives to start. The way Dirk puts it, it’s like we’re all bonded in this larger way, even though we might not know one another. It’s like we’re part of a real family. Except this family can’t be broken.
I’m not in this alone. I don’t have to solve everything by myself. When the show is over, I creep past Mom’s door. I have to make things right with her soon. I really want to, but there’s all this rage still in the way. If I let the rage destroy me, I’ll never be the person I want to be. All Mom’s really saying is that she wants to live in the Now, just like I do. Is that so wrong?
I sneak out and run across the dark grass to Nash’s house. It’s after midnight, so I can’t knock. I pick up some pieces of gravel from his driveway and stand under his window. When I aim a piece of gravel at his window, it hits a tree and ricochets into the night. I try again. And again. This always looks so much easier in movies.
One piece of gravel finally hits his window. I wait for him to come over. His light was on when I got here, so I know he’s up. I throw a bigger piece. The gravel hits his window with a resounding crack!
Nash pokes two slats of his blinds apart and sees me. There are lights along the dock, so he can tell it’s me. He makes these frantic hand gestures that I can’t read. Then he disappears. I wait.
He comes out to the yard all like, “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“I will be.”
We walk out to the dock and I tell Nash everything. I tell him about my anxiety and going through therapy. I tell him how I was depressed last year and now I’m depressed again. All of these things that I’ve been waiting to tell someone, just waiting for the right person to hear them, everything just comes out of me. And Nash listens. He’s the only person I want to tell. So I tell him everything and he’s there for me, just the way I’ve always wanted him to be.
49
When Sterling opens her door, I know everything will be okay. She looks relieved to see me.
She goes, “Hey.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
And then she hugs me and it’s this whirlwind where we’re both crying and saying we’re sorry and getting tissues and I’m just so happy it’s over. Then we go up to her room and it’s like we were never in a fight. It’s like everything’s back to normal.
“I really miss
ed you,” she says.
“Same here.”
“It’s just . . . after you started going out with Derek, I felt like I never saw you anymore. I got so tired of you bailing on me.”
Of course she’s right. I was a dumbass.
She’s like, “But the annoying thing? Is that I could relate. I mean, not relate, but like if I were in your situation? I could totally see me acting the same way.”
“That’s no excuse, though. I shouldn’t have spent so much time with him.”
“No, of course you should have. But I felt really left out.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“And I felt like . . . I was happy for you, but I was also jealous. So it was this gross conflict and I didn’t know how to handle it.”
“That’s okay.”
“It just felt like you were getting this whole new life and leaving me behind.”
“But you have tons of other friends!”
“You’re the only one who matters,” Sterling says. “I don’t connect with those guys the way I connect with you. You’re my best friend.”
There were two things I was afraid of before I came over. One, that Sterling wouldn’t want to make up with me. And two, that she’d think I came over just because I broke up with Derek. I have to make sure she gets why I’m really here.
“Just so you know,” I say, “I’m not here because I broke up with Derek.”
“I know. I heard . . . um, I guess I saw you guys outside that day. When you broke up?”
“Yeah.” I remember Sterling standing by the door, watching us. I’ve always wondered what she was thinking, if she knew that was the end.
Sterling goes, “Was it . . . because of Sierra?”
“Yeah.”
“That sucks.”
“Seriously. But I’d rather be with someone who really wants to be with me. I mean, it sucks that we broke up, but it sucked more being together and knowing that he’d rather be with her.”
“You deserve way better than him.”
I know she’s right. I’m just so tired of waiting. When does the waiting end and the living begin?
“I hate being lonely,” I say.
“You?”
“Me what?”
“You’re lonely.”
“Yeah.”
“Why would you be lonely? You have good friends and a real family.”
“All that stuff doesn’t matter.”
“That’s so weird,” Sterling says. “I’d give anything to have your life.”
“My life?”
“You have all these awesome things and you don’t even see them. You have things I feel like I’m never going to have.”
“That’s how I feel about your life.”
“Word?”
“Totally. You don’t have to deal with the parental unit. You don’t have brothers or sisters. It’s just you, so you can do whatever you want.”
“That’s exactly why it’s so lonely.”
“Clarity” comes on. This is my favorite John Mayer song. It’s about how it feels to wake up on the best day of your life, when all of your anxiety is gone because you’re not worried about things you can’t control anymore. The thing is, the song also says how that good feeling can’t last. I wonder if he’s right. Do good feelings always have to end?
It’s awesome out today, so I go, “Let’s walk on the beach.”
“Perfect.” We’re the same way about the beach. Except instead of stones, she likes to collect sea glass.
“Here’s one!” Sterling picks a transparent piece of blue sea glass out of the sand. She holds it up to the sky. Sunlight filters through, tinting her cheek blue.
It’s amazing how little things can make a person so happy, when they were just feeling so sad. I’m trying to pay more attention to the little things that matter to me here in the Now. It helps to have these bits of magic to protect me when I’m depressed. Reminders that things can always get better.
I try to remember this when we go back inside. Because Sterling’s talking about going to New York to meet Chris. At first I thought she was just joking because, a) he doesn’t even live here so what’s the point of meeting him, and b) why would she want to do something so stupid? But she’s serious. At least, she sounds serious.
“It doesn’t matter if Mom won’t let me go,” Sterling tells me from the stove. She’s making pasta with pesto sauce. Emotional exhaustion always makes us hungry. “I’m going anyway.”
“But what if she finds out?”
“So what? What’s she going to do, ground me? She’s never here.”
“But what if—”
“You’re giving me a headache. Just be happy for me!”
I can already tell there’s no way I’m convincing Sterling to not meet Chris. She’s determined to do it. And when Sterling’s determined to do something, look out. Because if you’re in the way, she will run you over.
“Just promise me you’ll be careful,” I say.
“Aw. You’re worried. How cute is that?”
“I’m serious.”
“Yes, it’s very serious.” Sterling adjusts her face to look all serious.
I watch her cook and try to think of what to say next. Except I can’t think of anything, and now she’s ranting about how some people don’t know how to make a decent pesto.
“You can’t put in parsley,” she seethes. “That’s like someone saying they’re a vegetarian and then they go and eat fish or chicken. Since when are fish and chicken not animals?”
“Yeah, not really making the connection.”
“It’s just wrong, is what it is. You can’t put in parsley! That’s insulting!”
“So, it’s just basil, or . . . ?”
“Of course not. Well, it’s mainly basil and olive oil. But there are other essential ingredients. Like pine nuts and garlic.”
How can I tell her not to meet Chris in a way where she won’t get mad at me? No matter what I say, she’ll still go. So I say, “Maybe I could go with you? You know, when you meet him?”
“Oh, yeah. Like that wouldn’t look too ridiculous.”
“Why?”
“You don’t show up for a date with your best friend. Who does that?”
“People who put parsley in their pesto?”
“Exactly.”
“And if someone was doing something crazy like putting in parsley, you would tell them, right?”
“Immediately if not sooner.”
“You wouldn’t just . . . like . . . know it’s wrong and not do anything about it.”
Sterling bangs a pot down on the stove.
“Right?” I go.
She’s not answering me. She knows what I’m really asking. And she won’t even dignify it with a response.
50
When Sandra sits down at the kitchen table with this weird blended drink, I completely lose my appetite.
“What is that?” I go.
“It’s my new breakfast regimen,” Sandra says in this tone like, Duh, how can you not know that?
“Yeah . . . what’s in it?”
“Beets, carrots, spinach, echinacea . . . ” Sandra takes a sip.
So that would explain the grinding noise that woke me up inhumanely early.
I pinch my lips together, repulsed. “Is it good?”
Sandra turns a page of the newspaper. This would be the newspaper that she probably picked up from our lawn at the crack of dawn, after she came home from running six miles. She’s so efficient it makes me sick.
“It’s okay,” she tells me. “You want some?”
“I’m good.” Her drink looks like mold and smells worse.
“Suit yourself,” she says. Lately she’s been saying things like “suit yourself” that totally don’t match her age.
I go, “So . . . what’s the point of your drink?”
“The point?”
“Yeah, like . . . why are you drinking it?”
“As opposed to what? That processed crap
you’re eating?”
I look down at my bowl of Frosted Flakes. As if I need more sugar. Every time I think about how much sugar I ingest every week just in my coffee, I can’t figure out how my body keeps working. I started drinking coffee in an attempt to wake up from my perpetual half-asleep state and join the living. The problem is, I think I’ve developed an addiction.
Sandra’s right again. She’s right and I’m wrong.
I can’t even win with cereal.
“You’re going to be late,” Mom warns. She’s flipping through mail and pouring juice. Some juice spills on the mail.
“Do we have any paper cups?” I ask. “With like, lids?”
“What, you mean like coffee cups?” Mom says.
“Yeah, or travel mugs?”
“For what?”
“To take my coffee to school?”
Mom blots an envelope with the dish towel. “Don’t you think you’re drinking too much coffee?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure yet.”
“I’m not working late today,” she says. “Maybe we can go shopping for a new bathing suit after school?”
“Why do I need a new bathing suit now? It’s only May.”
“If we wait too long, the best ones will be sold out.”
“I can’t today,” I say. “I have a ton of homework.”
“How do you know?” Sandra butts in. “We haven’t even gone to school yet.”
“I know I’m getting a ton tonight. Plus, I’m making stuff up, remember?” Mom came to school last week for a meeting. It was me, Mr. Wilson, and the guidance counselor. Everyone agreed that if I make up the work I didn’t do, my final grades for the semester can still be saved. My grades will obviously suck for this marking period, but at least I’ll pass all my classes.
Sandra stares at me. She sips her drink.
“What?” I go.
“Why are you still so mad at Mom? Over half of all marriages experience separation or divorce. It’s a fact of life.”
Mom has a coughing fit. She tries to drink some juice.
After listening to Dirk that night, I totally understood that I need to forgive Mom. I made a pact with myself to be nicer to her, which I thought I was doing. So I’m shocked that Sandra can tell some of the rage is still there. I’m trying, it’s just that I’m not there yet. Forgiving her can’t be forced if it’s going to mean something. It just has to happen when the time is right.
Waiting for You Page 19
