Amends: A Love Story
by E.J. Swenson writing as Shanda Fisch
Copyright © 2014 by E.J. Swenson
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Prologue
Love is a familiar. Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love.
–William Shakespeare
From Laird's Sent Items, marked unread
Subject line: Please don't delete this email
Dear Amity,
I've stopped texting you like you asked. And I'll never see you again, if that's what you want. I'm writing this email to explain what I did, not to justify it. If you can understand why I did it, maybe you'll be able to forgive me. Or, at least, know me for the flawed human I am, and not some cruel, heartless beast.
When I found you here at Adams, all I wanted was to make amends. To do something, anything, to make up for what I'd done. You see, I had a plan. I was going to study you, discover your most cherished dreams, and make them all come true. Then I was going to forget you and try to live my life with a somewhat lighter burden of guilt. (Of course, I will always feel immense sorrow for what I did to your mother. To your entire family. Nothing can change that.)
What I didn't count on was how I was going to feel when I first saw your pale blue eyes brimming with sweetness and compassion. Remember when we first met at the cemetery? And then another lifetime later on Registration Day? You thought you were hiding behind your long, lovely hair, but I saw you. You didn't just touch my guilty conscience, you touched my heart. I wanted to wrap you in my arms right there. To make sure that nothing else bad would ever happen to you. To protect you from the world and from me. When you opened your mouth and I heard your careworn angel's voice, I was hooked. Irretrievably, irreversibly hooked.
At first, I thought my feelings for you would be part of my long-overdue penance. I would follow my plan and keep my feelings to myself. Knowing I could never have you seemed like a fitting punishment. In a sick way, I was happy about it. I'd daydream about how badly I'd hurt and for how long. I knew it wouldn't truly balance the scales—nothing will—but I craved the sacrifice.
Then I got to know you, and things got really fucked up. I couldn't stay away. Every day I told myself I would confess. Tell you who I really was and what I'd done. And every day I failed, because I knew that would mean losing you. I just couldn't give you up. There was no way you would have stayed with me if I'd told you everything. I knew that then, and I know it now for sure.
Bottom line? I was stupid and selfish, every inch the criminally entitled piece of shit you think I am.
And Ember? She hasn't been my girlfriend for years. It's just that the twisted guilt and regret between us were so intense that I could never quite cut her off. We had a strange, bewitching bond grounded in fear and self loathing. If you were the Heaven I didn't deserve, she was the Hell where I belonged.
Enough excuses. Ember and I are done. For good.
Why am I writing? Mostly to say I'm sorry. Always and forever. I know you can't forgive me. For any of it. But if you ever need anything, all you have to do is text me, and I'll be there. No questions asked. Even if the thought of hearing from me makes you sick, I hope you'll save my number, just in case.
Yours in love, sorrow, and regret.
Laird Conroy
p.s., I will think of you with every breath until I die.
Book 1: The accident
Even death has a heart.
–Markus Zusak, The Book Thief
Chapter 1: Amity
I walk the gauntlet every day.
"Amityville Horror," whispers a tiny girl with violently red hair. She's popular, takes Honors English, and is convinced that she's terribly witty. I disagree. My name is Amity. Everyone has called me the Amityville Horror since I was the only girl in first grade to wear white orthopedic shoes. The doctor said they would correct my gait. All they really did was mark me as an outcast.
"Calamity Jane," snickers the captain of the debate team. He claims my stammer lost us the county championship and not his inability to distinguish between correlation and causation.
"Spaz-spaz-spaz," chants a tall boy with floppy platinum blond hair. His girlfriend, Sistine, is one of my teammates on the cross country squad. I remind myself she's never beaten me yet, no matter how awkward I look when I run.
I'm almost to homeroom when something soft hits my face and drops to the floor. I'm just grateful it was no way wet or slimy. I keep walking without changing my pace or looking down.
"It's a sandwich, Calamity," says one of the cheerleaders, obviously concerned for my health. "You should think about eating it."
As I make my way into the classroom, I remind myself that I only have to endure another six months at this school. I've applied for early admission to five colleges. I'm hoping I'll get into at least one. If I do, it will almost make the past four years of daily insults and petty cruelties worth it. My torments have become raw material for a moving personal essay about surviving high school with mild cerebral palsy. No admissions officer will be able to resist. At least, that's what I'm hoping.
How did I end up with minor factory defects? When I was born, the umbilical cord somehow got wrapped around my neck, cutting off the oxygen to my brain for a minute or so. Apparently, those first sixty seconds of suffocated life were enough to give leave me with an unpredictable stammer and an odd, rolling gait. These glitches haven't stopped me from taking Advanced Placement classes or joining the debate team or making the cross country team. I'm smart, argumentative, and fast. But I'm also an easy scapegoat—and maybe just a little bit bitter and defensive.
I take a seat in the far back row, so I don't have to worry about anyone sticking Post Its on my back or gum in my hair.
I put my bag on the floor and notice a box on my desk labeled EAT ME in pink marker. I open it and discover what appears to be a small batch of genuine, homemade chocolate chip cookies. Despite my better judgment, I'm tempted. I haven't eaten breakfast, and I love cookies. But I don't dare touch them. They could contain anything from laxatives to concentrated THC that could get me kicked off the cross country team for a dirty blood test.
My phone chirps softly. A new text. It's Maggie, my best friend. She's strong, brave, and doesn't care what people think. She's also acquired an undeserved reputation as the school slut by virtue of her daring, less-is-more approach to fashion and the fact the she takes poetry classes at the University Extension in Jasper Heights. Her Facebook page is littered with somewhat older friend-boys from the Extension, but they treat her like a pesky kid sister, even when she wishes otherwise. Nope, there's nothing even remotely slut-worthy about Maggie's life right now.
How was the gauntlet? she writes.
Same old same old. I have possibly poisoned cookies for your dining pleasure.
Any word?
I sigh. She wants to know if I've received any replies from the many colleges I've applied to.
Nope, got to go.
I tuck my phone into my bag before Mrs. Carnegie starts taking attendance. I feel bad about lying to Maggie. My Inbox is filled with emails from all six of my colleges, but I'm too much of a wuss to read any of them and learn my fate.
/////////////////////////<
br />
It's lunchtime, and I'm alone with a slice of pizza, a Coke, and a bag of M&Ms. As always. I have no idea how some of my classmates have gotten the idea that I have anorexia. Sure, I'm tall and skinny like my mom, but I eat unholy quantities of garbage food. If they really wanted to tag me with a plausible eating disorder, why not bulimia?
"Um, excuse me? Is anyone sitting here?"
I swivel my head around to see who's crept up behind me. He's a tall, well-built guy who looks vaguely familiar. Probably a senior, although I'm not sure. The only members of my class I know on sight are my fellow brains from the Advanced Placement classes. And, yes, they're just as mean to me as everybody else. More so, really, because their facility with words means their cruelties are infinitely more clever and memorable.
I stare at him goggle-eyed as I try to figure out what he wants. I wonder if he's a new kid and doesn't know any better than to sit with the Amityville Horror. Or maybe the popular kids have given him a test, a task to prove his mettle and utter lack of compassion. If he mocks or humiliates me in some novel way, then perhaps he will advance one level in the social hierarchy at Triple Marsh High School. I narrow my eyes and allow my long hair to hang into my face a bit for added protection. My hair is a deep chocolate brown and falls to my waist in shiny, citrus-scented waves. It's by far my best feature.
His face creases with gentle confusion because I'm still gaping at him. "It doesn't look like anyone's sitting here. Do you mind if I sit down?"
He smiles, and his wholesome, handsome face looks as open and harmless as a daisy. He's wearing a thin gold chain with a tiny golden cross around his neck, which, to me, means nothing. Plenty of bullies think they're good Christians.
I shrug. "Go ahead."
He sets his tray down, and I notice it's a model of healthy food selection. A carton of milk. An orange. A big California salad piled high with chicken strips and grilled veggies.
"I'm Chris, it's nice to meet you," he says, smiling again. God, he's ridiculously good looking. It has to be some kind of a trap, waiting to spring shut on Amity the Calamity. Maybe he'll ask me out and then stand me up. Or try to coax me into sending him a topless cam photo or declaring my love for him on Facebook. I steel myself against his friendly, toothy smile. This is the kind of shit that might have actually worked on me freshman year. But not now. Absolutely not now. I'm going to smash the trap and throw it back in Chris' deceptively cute face.
"I'm Amity," I say. He looks expectant. I waver for a second—his eyes seem so sweet and honest—but I refuse to be fooled. "Look, I don't know if you're new here, or playing dumb, or what. But everyone here calls me the Amityville Horror. Or Calamity. Or Spamity. Or just plain ole Spaz. Now you can go tell whoever sent you to mess with me to go fuck themselves, okay?"
I gather up my tray and my bag and prepare to flee the cafeteria—my stomach's churning too much for me to consider eating any more. Chris' face has turned red, and he seems to be choking on his two-percent milk.
"Sorry," he sputters. "I wasn't trying to mess with you. I just moved here a week ago. I thought you looked like a nice person."
"My mistake," he mutters as I turn to walk away.
Fuck yeah, I think, and try to ignore the weird stinging sensation in my eyes.
/////////////////////////
I'm walking through the parking lot, lumbering under a heavy load of books. I try to keep my pace steady and even, so my limp isn't as noticeable. A car pulls up alongside me. It's a black pickup truck decorated in high Gothic style. Red roses grow from cracked white skulls.
"Hey bitch," growls the driver, "want a fucking ride?"
"Fuck yeah," I yell, smiling for the first time all day. The driver is Maggie, and her freshly bleached hair has been sculptured into myriad spiky peaks. She unlocks the door, and I clamber into the cab, dropping my bag into the back seat.
Once inside, I take a quick glance today's fashion statement. This time it's a red velvet bustier the same dusky red as the roses inked onto her wrists. It's beautiful, and I feel a small, unworthy stab of envy. I am, as usual, drab in an oversized gray sweatshirt and BigMart jeans.
"How's it hangin', girlfriend?" she asks with a wild grin.
"Floppy, deflated, and confused," I reply. I tell her about the Chris incident as she pulls onto Flamingo Drive. "Do you think he could have been, you know, just a regular guy who wanted to talk to me?"
Maggie takes an audible breath. "Ams," she says, "I know you've been through a lot. That you go through a lot every day. But not everybody is so bad. Sometimes you have to take a risk."
I sigh. Of course, she's right, but I'd really rather not say so. "Yeah, I know. I'm turning into a bitter, defensive old hag, and I'm not even eighteen."
"Well, you old hag, you better stop fucking lying to me right now." Her voice is rough and growly with mock anger, and I know I've been busted.
"We applied to some of the same schools," she continues. "I got into NYU, although God knows how I'm going to afford it, and I was waitlisted by Barnard and Oberlin. There's no way you haven't heard by now."
"You got me," I confess. "I have an inbox full of emails from college admissions officers. But I'm too much of a coward to open them."
Maggie makes a series of clucking sounds as she passes a truck full of watermelons. "We've got to do something about all this fear you have." She pauses, pretending to think about something she's probably had in mind for days.
"I know!" she exclaims, as if she's just won the lottery. "You can come with me and Damon to the Swamp Bowl. Then we can all get stoned and read your acceptance letters together."
I groan. This plan combines two things that I hate into one evening of frog-marched fun. First, the Swamp Bowl is a post-season, pre-Christmas exhibition game between the Triple Marsh Gators and their arch rivals, the Jasper Heights Eagles. Jasper Heights is our rich sister city that sits on a manmade hill overlooking the nice part of Lake Everclear. It's known for lush, green golf courses and rich, entitled assholes. Anyway, the Swamp Bowl almost inevitably ends in a drunken brawl.
And then there's Damon. He's one of Maggie's friend-boys from the Extension. He's tall, scrawny, and covered in ink, just the way Maggie likes 'em. He also plays the drums in a local band called Invasive Species and treats Maggie like she's a for-real dumb blonde and not the Marilyn Monroe devotee that she is. It makes me slightly nauseated to see them together.
"C'mon," wheedles Maggie, sensing my reluctance. "It'll be fun."
"I don't think so. I have a calculus test on Friday. I need to actually study for it."
Maggie snorts. "Yeah, I know, tagging along for Bowl night with Damon just isn't your thing. Well, I'm not giving up. I will totally text-stalk you until you read those letters."
I'm smiling—Maggie is awesome—when we pull up alongside my house, a beige stucco ranch surrounded by a lovely garden that thrives on neglect. When I notice my mom's white Ford Escape in the driveway, I instantly know exactly what I'm going to do with all those terrifying emails.
/////////////////////////
My mom has long, dark hair, ice blue eyes, and a totally impenetrable poker face. She's been reading the admissions emails on my phone, one after another. She looks down at me with her usual placid expression. Because she works as a pediatric nurse at the Jasper Heights Community Hospital, she's used to giving bad news in a way that's both kind and free from extraneous bullshit.
"So?" I ask. "What's the damage?"
Her face is a soft mask, and her voice is a gentle monotone. "It looks like you got into Barnard, NYU, the honors program at the University Extension, and the University of Pennsylvania."
"What about Adams? Did I get into Adams?" Adams is my dream school. I've wanted to go there since I figured out that going to college was my only way out of Triple Marsh.
My mom's face remains stoic for another moment, and then it blooms into a rare, spectacular smile. "You got into Adams, too, honey."
My mind doesn't quite take it al
l in, but my body goes wild. First, I'm chilly. Then I'm hot, sweaty, and dizzy. Partly from excitement and partly because my dad still hasn't fixed the air conditioner.
I take a deep breath of air so humid I can taste it. I can hardly believe it. Me. Going to Adams College. An intellectual city on the hill with crisp falls and bracing winters entirely unlike Florida's smothering humidity. A place where even a misfit like me might actually be accepted—or, at least, tolerated.
My mom, still grinning, pulls me into a long, tight hug. She smells like sandalwood and smoke. I know she has a secret cigarette every now and then. I've never caught her, but the smell sometimes lingers in the back of the garage or on the front porch. I don't say anything. Her modest little vice is nothing compared to Dad's drinking.
I'm basically blackout giddy for about thirty seconds when reality crashes back into my skull. How the fuck am I going to pay the tuition and all the other fees I remember from the financial aid application? Even if I get financial aid, which isn't guaranteed, the school still demands a pound of flesh and a quart of blood from each student's parents.
I wiggle out of Mom's embrace. Her wide smile has softened into a warm, happy glow. My face must have fallen fast, because she asks me what's wrong.
"Adams is pretty expensive," I say.
"I know, honey, I helped you fill out the financial forms."
"Can we really afford it?" I ask, thinking of Dad's job detailing cars at the Mercedes dealership in Jasper Heights. He used to be a mechanic, practically a genius with cars, but he had trouble getting to work on time and staying conscious when he got there.
Mom puts her hands on my shoulders and squints her big blue eyes. It's her determined look. "We'll find a way. I'm going to start working double shifts. There might even be one tonight."
Amends: A Love Story Page 1
