by Donna Cooner
“Probably,” I say. The coverage is guaranteed to be extensive. They would probably link to my videos. It will be touching and inspiring. A perfect comeback. I’ll just have to be ready with a really cool vlog to post right afterward, when all the traffic peaks. My mind zooms in and out of the conversation with Raylene.
Then Raylene asks a question that smothers my enthusiasm.
“What are you going to say? You know. About your sister.” Raylene pulls into a gravel parking lot full of late-model cars and pickup trucks.
The question rattles around in my brain unanswered. What would I say about my sister? It’s strange how two people can live in the same house with the same parents, yet be so different.
“I’ll have to think about it,” I say, and just like that the past rewinds.
There are things that wait in the dark outside the boundaries of glimmer and shine. They slither around quietly in the shadows and breathe slowly just outside the limits of what others believe. When Miranda was six, she saw them.
I was ten, and oblivious.
Mom and Dad redecorated Miranda’s room. It was mainly so she’d stay in it at night. She picked out everything from the bright yellow paint to the monkey decals dancing all over the walls. Bunk beds so she’d have a choice of where to sleep. There were green, leafy pillows and even a rope-swing chair in the corner. It was the most cheerful room on the planet. A place where any respectable monster would be embarrassed to hang out. A definite no-nightmare zone.
None of it mattered. The first morning after the big makeover, I found her curled up in a ball sleeping on the floor beside my bed. And it kept happening. Every single night. The routine was always the same. Mom would visit each bedroom, kiss us both good night, and whisper her signature tagline into our ears, “Love you to the moon.” Every night we both answered, “And back again.” Then one hour later, like clockwork, I’d hear the quiet knock on my door.
“Go to bed, Miranda,” I hissed, trying not to wake up anybody else.
The door creaked open anyway. She stood there in the hallway, the darkness of the sleeping house behind her, her big blue eyes full of unshed tears.
“I’m scared,” she’d say.
“Of what?” We had this conversation hundreds of times. Maybe thousands.
“I don’t know,” she’d say.
“There’s nothing to be scared of,” I’d say, and I believed it. Then.
“I’ll just lie out here in the hall.” She dropped to the carpet and curled into a ball, tucking her hands under her head for a pillow, her eyes open and watching me.
“Go back to bed, Miranda.”
But she was stubborn, and eventually I’d give up. “Okay,” I’d say, and she’d bound into my room.
“Thank you, Torrey,” she whispered fervently, as if I’d just granted her asylum from some horrible fate. She climbed over me and wedged herself into the spot below the window against the wall, snuggling into the covers and blankets with a big sigh of satisfaction.
“Promise me you’ll stay here all night,” she murmured, blinking up at me, her eyes just like my own. It was the only physical trait we shared. Otherwise, people wouldn’t even know we were sisters.
“Go to sleep,” I muttered back. “It’s just for this one night. Tomorrow you go back to your bed.”
But she didn’t. So finally, after the bajillionth time, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Even at ten years old, I was already an expert in manipulating Miranda. After all, I‘d spent most of my life figuring out ways to get her to leave my stuff alone. When she was two and I was six, an enticing trail of stuffed animals placed along the hall would lead her right away from my room. When she was four and I was eight, I would leave open picture books strategically placed on the couch to keep her from interrupting my favorite television show.
It only took a little research and a silver bracelet I never wore. The salesclerk at Claire’s said the tiny gray-colored stone that dangled from the silver chain was called a moonstone. It wasn‘t my style, because even then I knew what I liked, but it was 75 percent off and the name of the stone was catchy. Moonstone. So I spent my allowance and brought it home to put in my ballerina jewelry box.
When Miranda showed up at my bedroom door like clockwork that night, I didn‘t argue, but let her climb right into the bed beside me. Once she was settled into her spot, I pulled up the shades. The bright full moon lit up my bedroom like the light was turned on. I couldn’t have planned it better.
“Next year you‘re going to second grade, right?”
She nodded, looking across the bed at me.
“Second graders,” I said solemnly, “are very grown up. They aren’t afraid to sleep in their own rooms.”
Her bottom lip stuck out and began to quiver. She knew where this was going.
“Do you want to sleep in your own room?”
“Yes.” But she didn’t sound so sure.
“Then I’m going to help you,” I said. “I’m going to give you some magic words. You can say them to yourself at night and it will keep you from being afraid. You’d like that, right?”
She nodded again.
“So here’s the secret. You say these words every night.” I put my hand over my heart and recited the words I‘d made up earlier. “When the moon shines bright …”
“When the moon shines bright,” she whispered after me.
“Your fears will be few.”
“Your fears will be few,” she said.
“And only sweet dreams,” I said, “will come to you.”
Miranda repeated it faithfully, her big blue eyes unblinking. It was a piece of cake.
“Now you say it,” I said. “From the beginning.”
“When the moon shines bright, your fears will be few.” Her voice was quiet, but steady. “And only sweet dreams will come to you.”
“Good.” I smiled at her.
“But what if the moon isn’t shining? Because sometimes it doesn’t.”
I slid my hand under my pillow. She sat up in the bed, her head tilted to one side. I pulled the bracelet out and held it up so she could see the sparkle of the tiny gray stone dangling in the moonlight.
“Ohh …” It made a great first impression.
“This is a moonstone,” I said. “Some people say these special jewels are really rays of the moon captured in the rock.”
Miranda reached out a tiny finger to touch it and the movement caused the light pouring in from the window to scatter across the wall.
“So I’m going to give you this very special bracelet. When you put it on, and say those magic words, you won’t be afraid to sleep in your own room anymore. Because you’ll always have the moon with you.”
Her eyes got even wider.
“You understand?”
She nodded. I fastened the bracelet around her tiny wrist. She grinned up at me in excitement, twisting her arm from side to side and watching the stone shimmer.
“When the moon shines bright, your fears will be few,” she chanted softly, “and only sweet dreams will come to you.”
It worked just like I knew it would. I was, after all, the get-rid-of-Miranda expert. She never spent another night in my room.
“Listen to your fans and understand you can get even better with constructive criticism. After all, beauty gurus share to help everyone.” —Torrey Grey, Beautystarz15
Raylene turns off the car and I get my first look at Huntsville High School. Massive square brick columns frame the entrance to the building. The bike racks on either side of the wide front sidewalk are half full and the concrete steps leading up to the glass front doors are crowded with kids laughing and jostling for position.
“Are you scared?” Raylene asks me.
“Of what?” My mind is still on the moonstone bracelet. On the monsters that used to haunt my sister’s bedroom.
“New school. New friends. I would be.”
“I’m not you,” I say, which is obvious.
For just a m
oment I feel bad, like I’m being too mean, but Raylene doesn’t even seem to notice. I feel buzzy and light-headed. Walking into that school is the last thing I want to do.
Back in Colorado, school never made me nervous. Everyone knew who I was. Beautystarz15. If they were lucky, I might even tag one of them in a best-friend vlog, but the competition for that was fierce.
Now I don’t know how to be the new kid.
The new kid with a past.
“Then I’ll just be scared for you,” Raylene says. After the brief moment of silence, she reaches across me to tug open the glove compartment and fumbles around inside. “I need a Snickers.”
She comes up with a trick-or-treat-sized bar, which she unwraps quickly and pops into her mouth. Silently, she chews for a minute, with one hand held out dramatically to hold the conversation — except I’m not saying anything. Finally, she swallows.
“Okay. I’m ready.”
“Great,” I say under my breath. Searching through my purse for lip gloss, I try to ignore the fact that my hands are shaking a bit when I apply it. Raylene gets out, slamming the door behind her, and waits by the front fender.
You can do this.
Lights. Camera. Action. Showtime.
I’m grateful for my usual shield of hair products and lipstick as I get out of the car. Then I follow Raylene’s cowboy boots toward the building.
There are plenty of curious stares when we walk by, but I can’t tell if anyone actually recognizes me or not. It’s weird. When I look around at all these new faces, I can’t separate the computer world from the real world anymore. Everyone is a stranger now.
Or not.
Does the short-haired girl with the cat eyeliner standing over by the water fountain KNOW me? Does she know I wash my face with Neutrogena Fresh Foaming Cleanser every night before bed? What about her giggling friend with the volleyball under one arm? Has she seen the ruffled pink pillows on my bed? Or the girls texting over by the lockers: Did they retweet that link about my favorite deals and steals in July?
Do they know about Miranda?
I realize it’s just a matter of time before everyone at my new school knows, and then it will be like it was before I left Colorado. Once it is out in the open, they will avoid my eyes and say things like so sorry or thinking of you. If they say anything at all. Awkward. Embarrassing. Tragic.
But at least then I will know where I stand.
Raylene shows me the administrative office and gives me another one of her big hugs before leaving me on my own.
I spend a long half hour with a lot of blahblahblah from a worried school counselor who looks a lot like Abraham Lincoln and keeps tapping his fingers on his desk.
“I talked to your dad last week on the phone and he told me that you’ve been going through a tough time. I’m sorry to hear about your sister.”
“Thank you.” I now know that’s what you are supposed to say.
“Your dad also said there was some negative publicity. I want you to know we don’t tolerate cyberbullying of any kind here. Just tell me who’s bothering you and we’ll put a quick stop to it.” He stops tapping his fingers, places both hands flat on the desktop, and leans across the desk toward me.
I blink at him. He thinks he can keep thousands of people from all over the world from posting comments about me? Obviously, he’s clueless about the scope here. “Thanks,” I say again.
“Now, you’re going to have to catch up a bit on your schoolwork, Victoria.” He clears his throat.
“My name isn’t Victoria. It’s Torrey,” I say.
He wrinkles his forehead, trying to make the connection.
I spell out my name for him, letter by letter. “Torreys Peak is a fourteener in Colorado,” I explain. “A mountain that‘s at least fourteen thousand feet high?”
He still looks oblivious.
“My parents climbed Torreys before I was born. My dad proposed to my mom on the summit, so they thought it’d be cool to name their first child in honor of that day.”
He doesn’t care.
“Never mind,” I say. Mountains. Summits. Fourteeners. It’s like talking in a different language in this flat, hot place.
“Okay, so let’s get you to class,” he says. He squints over the top of his reading glasses at his computer screen and types in something. Over his shoulder, the blinds of his office window are open, with a view of the crowded hallway. I watch the steady stream of kids walking past. Nobody is dressed to my standards. No big surprise.
“I know this is difficult, but we all want” — the counselor clasps his long fingers together — “to help you fit in here.”
I’m not sure I want to fit in. But I don’t really want to stand out, either.
After some concluding “blahblahblahblahblahblah … besureandaskifyouneedhelp … blahblah,” the counselor issues me a stack of textbooks and finally lets me out of his office.
My English class is at the end of a long hallway. I’m hoping all the noise coming from behind the door means the teacher hasn’t started yet. Taking one long breath of air, in through my nose and out through my mouth, I raise my chin and turn the knob.
The first thing I see is a wildly waving Raylene in the front row.
“I didn’t know you were in this class! Sit with me,” she calls out.
I flinch and glance around quickly to see who’s watching, but everyone seems more concerned with getting into a chair before the bell rings. Thankfully, all the vacant chairs around Raylene are quickly occupied.
“Sorry,” I tell her with a shrug.
I slide the “New Admit” sheet across the teacher’s desk, not really looking at the woman behind it, and head toward an empty desk near the back wall. There are a couple of curious glances my way, but no outright stares. Not like it was every day of my last two weeks in Colorado. No shoulder punches, either. Or pointing. Or whispering behind hands. Or videotaping with phones hidden under desktops. None that I can see anyway.
I take a seat. Across the aisle from me is a greasy-haired boy with an open copy of Lord of the Flies in front of him. I give him a quick nod. One side of his mouth goes up slightly, and I take that to be a smile, but he doesn’t actually look at me. The guy next to him on the other side, however, is looking directly at me. He’s hard to miss, with muscular arms that stretch out the short sleeves of his plain blue T-shirt, and dark brown eyes that are openly checking me out. Great hair, perfectly black and perfectly straight. He doesn’t smile.
“Good morning, class,” the teacher calls out cheerfully. Her voice sounds like Minnie Mouse. She’s round and thirtyish, with thick dark bangs. “Looks like the morning pep rally has us all running a little late on the schedule. Let’s see who all we have here today.”
When I look back at the brown-eyed boy, he is no longer staring at me.
The teacher starts the roll call.
“Ross Adams?”
A blond boy wearing a red plaid shirt answers. “Here.”
I study him briefly. He has a tall, lanky build that reminds me a bit of my boyfriend, Cody. Ex-boyfriend, I remind myself.
“Raylene Anderson?”
Raylene waves with a jangle of silver bracelets. “Here.”
“Blair Cunningham?”
Silence.
“Blair?” The teacher slides her pink-flowered reading glasses off her nose and scans the room. She puts them back on and makes a mark on the paper in front of her.
As she works her way down the alphabet, getting closer to the Gs, I tense up. I wonder how she’ll introduce me and if there will be any obvious name recognition. My stomach clinches in anticipation.
“Torrey Grey?”
“Here,” I say quickly. I sit up taller. Here it comes. The teacher is going to say something to the class about me.
But before even a single head can turn my direction, there’s a stir at the door and three giggling girls enter. Everything pauses. Even the teacher stops to look and I’m released from the impending glare of the spotlig
ht.
The girl in the center is obviously the princess, and she’s wearing a Cavalli print dress that must have cost at least five hundred dollars. It’s clear the other two are mere attendants to her highness. One of them, a tiny girl with a blond braid down her back, is wearing a cheerleading outfit with a big green hornet on her chest. The other one is a tall redhead with a permanent-looking sneer on her face. Both perfectly complement the dark-haired, dark-skinned girl in the expensive dress. I narrow my eyes and focus in on the object of everyone’s attention, feeling the envy crawl up into my head. In another world, I was her.
And you can be again.
“We have excuses from the counselor, Mrs. Vardeman. Promise.” The princess is at least a size twelve, with a voice just as big. She projects like she’s speaking from a stage, and the audience responds with a perfectly timed round of appreciative laughter.
“Take your seat, Miss Cunningham,” the teacher says.
The girls descend on three empty chairs in the row beside me and instantly, as if a wand is waved over the class, everything goes back to the way it was before their entry. In spite of myself, I’m impressed.
The teacher continues to call out names and I try to relax.
“Luis Rivera?”
“Here.” It’s the dark-eyed boy across the room. The princess, Blair, gives a disgusted groan and rolls her eyes.
Why?
“Mia Rogers?”
The blond cheerleader stops whispering to her friends long enough to quickly answer. The redheaded girl with the curls to die for responds to the name “Emily Sanderson.”
I notice that the dark-haired girl, Blair, is watching me. I flip my braid back over my shoulder, trying to look confident. It’s the first rule of being in front of the camera. Never appear nervous.
“You’re new,” she says, looking me up and down. She doesn’t even whisper.
I stare back at her. It isn’t a question, so it doesn’t deserve an answer. But I smile.
Trust your instincts. You know how to do this.
“I like your jacket,” she says. She faces me. Turned sideways in the desk and leaning forward across the aisle, she ignores the talking teacher at the front of the room.
