Amber nudged me. “Who’s Ellie?”
“My sister. It’s my sister.”
She rolled onto her belly, the blanket covering her from the waist down. I traced the outline of her ribs with my index finger. She looked at me, possessively. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”
Ellie’s voice deepened an octave, which is how she always sounded when she became defensive. “Who’s that? Are you there with someone? Jake? I want to talk to you alone. Why don’t you ever fucking know how to be alone?”
I said to Amber, “Hey, can you give me a second?”
She narrowed her eyes. I nudged her with my foot. Just a second, I mouthed, and finally she moved, taking the outline of her ribs with her. In the bathroom, she propped open the window and lit up. She perched on the toilet seat cover, balancing effortlessly, like a bird on a wire.
“Is she gone?” Ellie asked.
“Yeah.”
“Good.” Ellie paused. “Jake, I just want to come live with you now. You don’t know what it’s like for me. How hard it can be . . . Everything is . . .”
Amber coughed. I turned to look at her. She smiled, slipped a hand down her breast and rib cage, and rested it flat across her pelvis, the fingertips pointed downward, just barely brushing her—
“Jake?” Ellie said.
Often when Ellie was drunk or high or popped too many of our mother’s prescription pills, she sounded paranoid. “Hey, when was the last time you slept?”
“Jake, come on, please don’t do that.” Her voice rose. “This is serious. I need to talk to you . . . in person.” She started to cry then, a deep shuddering cry filled with wild breaths and hiccups.
“Hey. Hey, now, tell me. Why can’t you tell me now?”
Ellie was crying too hard to answer. I glanced at Amber, struggling to keep my distance from my sister’s drama, from the request I knew was coming.
“I just can’t,” she said finally. “Not over the phone. You said if I needed you, Jake, you’d come. So come home.”
I sighed, remembering my promise. My thoughts moved to the amount of time it would take to drive home to Ohio and what I would need to do: pack, send e-mails to teachers, rent a car. I thought about the slick roads and the snowbanks piled high from an early-November storm. Again, I thought about my mom and Sarah.
“Jake, you promised.”
“Yeah, I promised.”
“You’ll come?”
“Yeah, as soon as I can.”
“Okay, that’s good.” She stayed silent for a few minutes. Her breaths evened out, settling into a quieter rise and fall. Then the phone went silent, and I knew she was gone.
For a few minutes I sat with my cell cradled in my palm. Then I went to the closet, grabbed a few shirts and an extra pair of jeans to throw into my duffel bag. I added underwear, socks, and shoes. In the bathroom I grabbed my toothbrush. All the while, Amber watched. Still perched on the toilet. Still naked. Still smoking, her eyes glassed over.
She said, “Hey . . .”
“Hey . . .” I touched her nipple, fascinated by its walnut-like color. She smiled and took a hit from her pipe. Her other hand stroked my leg.
She said, “You gotta go? Already?”
“Yeah, I should.”
She said, “Now? Tonight?”
“Yeah, I really should. It’s a long drive, about eleven hours to Ohio, and I have to rent a car . . .”
Her hand stroked higher.
“Tonight? Really? It’s too late to drive tonight.”
“Yeah, but I should go.”
She put her pipe down and said, “Not tonight. There’s too much ice on the roads.” And then she stopped talking, her breath suddenly warm against my thigh. Her glossy black hair swung back and forth like a curtain ruffled by a fan. “Besides, you’ll never find a rental place open this late. No,” she repeated, “not tonight.”
A few seconds later her breath was still warm against my thigh, and I said, “It’d be crazy to drive in the dark.” And then, a few more seconds after that, “I’ll leave tomorrow, after classes.”
She turned her head upward, running her tongue across her lips. Her dark brown eyes reminded me of Sarah’s, but I chased those thoughts away. I didn’t want to think about Sarah or Tommy or going back there. I just wanted to get lost in Amber and the moment. She said, “Tomorrow night is best.”
She was right. The roads were icy. And what good would I be to Ellie if I got into a car wreck? And I told myself, Ellie is tough. Ellie can make it one more day. Sarah and Tommy will watch over her. She’ll be okay.
And then I said, “Yeah, tomorrow night.”
She led the way back to bed, her glossy black hair skimming her olive-colored butt. She reached for the light, but I pushed her hand away. I wanted to see everything. She smiled at me. I thought, One more day won’t matter. She’ll be fine.
Amber climbed on top of me, and when she did, I didn’t think about Ellie anymore.
6.
In the bathroom, with my hair still dripping wet, I’d devise a plan. First, toweldry quickly. Second, put on underwear and declare that place safe. Next, tank top, socks, then pj’s. Declare those places safe too. And then tiptoe to the bedroom, lock the door behind me, declare my room safe.
In the morning, try not to remember why.
Jessie
AFTER. JANUARY.
After Lola leaves, I sit on my bed and stare at the wall until I notice the tiniest sliver of paint flaking off. It’s the smallest imperfection, but for some reason it breaks my heart.
We painted this room five years ago, just a few short months after moving to Smith. Sarah picked midnight blue for the walls. I picked silver for the door. Mom did most of the painting, her hips swaying to some old music by some old lady.
Later that night, the smell of paint lingered in the air. Sarah rolled onto her side, pulled her brown hair into a ponytail, and said, with serious eyes, “Mom was so weird today, but in, like, a good way. Like all that dancing? She seemed almost . . .” She didn’t say “happy” or “relaxed”—although either of those words would have been right—because back then we didn’t think about our parents’ inner lives. But when their behavior was unusual, we noticed.
“What kind of necklace was she was wearing?” I thought back to the bright blue stone resting against her collarbone, a recent gift from my dad. The color was nearly the same as her eyes, and it made them appear even brighter.
“Turquoise,” Sarah murmured. And then, because she had a habit of repeating words she liked, she said it again, only with less force. I followed her lead, repeating the word twice, the second time a perfect imitation of her.
“Do you want to play glamour dolls tomorrow?” Sarah asked. Before she met Ellie and became popular, Sarah spent hours hiding behind her bed, building a glamour-doll city. I preferred daydreaming or reading books that were a bit too advanced for me, like Forever by Judy Blume. I’d found a worn copy in Mom’s memory chest, read it as fast as I could, and felt sad for weeks after because it taught me that boys were gross and first love didn’t last forever.
“I don’t know.” I pretended to consider the question, enjoying her having to ask me for something for a change.
“Please. It’s fun.”
And sometimes it was, but sometimes it felt oddly routine. The story lines were always about some popular girl struck by tragedy. Her father disappears. Sister gets kidnapped. Mom up and runs away. There were rarely happy endings.
I told Ellie about this a month before she died. It was October. The fireflies had already burrowed their blinking bodies away for a long winter, but inside Ellie’s bedroom it was nice and warm. “Makes sense to me,” she said. “Where’d her real dad go, anyways?”
Maybe this connection should have been obvious to me. I was always looking for connections, always searching for answers, always wondering why.
Like, why do fireflies have lights that blink on and off?
Answer: They’re trying to attract a mate.
&
nbsp; But just as I had never questioned my mother’s happiness, I had never thought to question Sarah’s place in our family or wonder if that somehow made her feel different.
I didn’t want us to be anything less than we were, but the truth of what Ellie said was hard to ignore. Sarah’s brown eyes and olive skin were a sharp contrast to our blue eyes and milky complexions. Sarah could effortlessly reach the upper shelves in the kitchen, while the rest of us, Dad excluded, needed to climb onto the counters. The dividing lines, which had always existed, were suddenly filled in. She was my half sister, but I didn’t want her to be that. I didn’t want her to be anything but whole.
* * *
At school Lola grips my arm tightly and guides me slowly through the crowded halls. When we pass a shy alternative girl with green streaks in her hair, Lola says loudly, “That is so not a good look for you.” Then turns to me and adds, “Oh my God. Did you see that? That girl’s a freak show.”
Ever since Lola’s parents split last February, she’s been getting worse. That’s when her mom started saying things like, How many times do I have to tell you to turn off the lights? God, Lola, is anyone home in there? And her dad stopped coming around. And her older brother had moved out because he couldn’t take their parents fighting. And now Lola is a lot meaner to everybody. Like right now, when I actually bump into something, she snaps, “How many times do I have to tell you? Nobody’s staring at you!”
We stop at our lockers. I undo my combination lock and peel off my layers. I keep my scarf wrapped around my neck because it’s so cold in the hallways. Even my long sleeves and thick sweater don’t keep me warm.
“Oh, please, Jess, you’re not wearing that. You look like you have no neck.” Lola snatches my scarf and tosses it into her locker. “There.” She leans against the metal. “That’s better . . . Oh, look.” Her eyes narrow. She points across the hall.
It’s Tommy, his arm casually draped across some blond freshman with jagged gray eyeliner and matching skintight jeans. Lola sighs loudly. “What does he see in her?”
“Don’t know,” I say, even though her slightness, pale skin, and light hair instantly remind me of Ellie.
“Isn’t he still seeing your sister?” Lola’s tone is sour.
“No clue.” I haven’t liked Tommy since he called me annoying at Sarah’s twelfth birthday party and continued to be mean to me until I grew boobs. That’s when he started playing nice, and I realized he was one of those guys who is never kind unless he wants something from you.
Lola must realize Tommy’s fascination with boobs; she arches her back against her locker, her breasts protruding like ready-to-launch rockets. “Hey, Tommy.”
“Hey, Lola.” Tommy smiles, whispers something into the blond girl’s ear, and just like that she disappears. She’s barely gone before he turns to stare at Lola’s sweater. “Come on,” he says, then walks away. He doesn’t look back to see if she’s following, but Lola is unfazed. She smiles triumphantly at me, tosses her bag into her locker, and slams the door shut.
“Lola,” I say, “he’s walking in the wrong direction. Mrs. Medina’s class is this way.” But Lola either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care, because she’s half skipping, half running after him.
Now I am alone in the hallway. I undo Lola’s combination lock, grab my scarf, and wrap it protectively around my neck. Then I stand there, feeling slightly paralyzed. This panic is always worse in the morning. It’s something about all these people shoving and pushing, their backpacks full and eyes half open as they rush to first-period classes, that makes me feel like there’s less oxygen here.
Still, I have to get to class, so I start walking slowly, my eyes glued to the linoleum floor.
Somewhere near the classroom, a warm hand touches my arm. At first I think it’s Lola, but the hand is too gentle. I raise my eyes. Clara Lee, our sophomore-class president, is standing beside me. We’re not really friends, but I’ve known her since middle school. She smiles. I try to smile back, but it doesn’t work, so I shrug my shoulders, and say, “Hey . . .”
“Hey!” she says. “Going to Mrs. Medina’s class?”
I nod, and she slips her arm through mine. “If we don’t hustle, we’re going to be late!” she says. And then we’re moving briskly through the halls. The final bell rings as we cross the classroom’s threshold. Clara releases my arm and says, “That was close!”
I sit down at my desk. Behind me, Lola’s seat is empty. Mrs. Medina writes on the dry-erase board. Her fingers are quick and hypnotic. Watching her makes me tired. I put my head down, twirl my pen, and think about the things that change us. Maybe the divorce and what Tommy did to Lola last summer changed her? Maybe what happened between Ellie and me changed me, too?
The second tardy bell rings. Mrs. Medina takes attendance. When she asks why Lola isn’t in class, I pretend I don’t hear.
7.
This emptiness . . .
Sarah
FIVE YEARS BEFORE.
Our worlds collided on my twelfth birthday. One minute I was running home from middle school, backpack banging furiously against my shoulders, and the next I was lying in a heap on Mr. Lumpnick’s yard, textbooks and papers scattered around me. By the time I looked up, she was already standing above me, pulling leaves out of her blond hair.
“What the fuck?” she said, and kicked me lightly with her shoe. “Seriously? Why the eff don’t you watch where you’re going?”
She was just a scrawny girl with stringy blond hair and orblike blue eyes, and it took a few seconds for me to accept that I had hit her and not something much larger, like a car or a tree.
“I’m s-sorry,” I stuttered, pulling myself to my knees. “I didn’t see you.” This was true. When I’d cut the corner of our block, I had been too busy thinking about other things—my birthday party’s to-do list, that new outfit I’d wear, my elaborate fantasy of how this party would change my very unpopular life—to notice insignificant details like who was standing in the middle of the normally empty sidewalk.
“Well, you should watch where you’re going,” she repeated.
Well, you should watch where you’re standing, I thought, but didn’t dare say that out loud. Politeness was a big deal in my family. But obviously not in hers, from the way she stared at me as I gathered my things.
I zipped up my bag, only then realizing my left hand was empty. The birthday balloons my mom had had delivered to the school—the ones that had made the mean-girl patrol stare at me with envy—were gone. I sank back onto the grass, feeling mostly defeated.
“It’s your birthday?” she asked.
I lifted my head. “How’d you know?”
She pointed mysteriously to the sky, where the balloons hovered above us, caught in a bright explosion of golden leaves. She jumped up, catching the tiniest thread of ribbon between her fingers. She gave a firm tug, and the balloons shot downward, popping with a sudden hiss on the tree’s sharp branches.
“Here.” She handed me the deflated corpses. “It’s my birthday too. Well, tomorrow.” She tossed blond hairs out of her eyes.
“Oh,” I said, my eyes moving between her and the dead balloons.
“Yeah, weird, huh?” She kicked me again with her shoe. “Are you just going to sit there all day?”
I stood, pulled my bag onto my shoulders, and tried to brush the mud and grass off my jeans. I began to walk toward home, the dead balloons dragging behind me. She followed.
“So, are you having a party?”
“Yep” was all I said, until she nudged me with her elbow. Then I added, “At six. You?”
“No.” She picked a blade of grass from my hair and handed it to me. “My mom’s going through this thing. This bad divorce thing, so I think she forgot or something.” She shrugged her shoulders like it wasn’t a big deal, but I could tell it was. My mom never forgot birthdays. Right then she was probably in our yellow kitchen, cooking my favorite birthday dinner—pot roast and twice-baked potatoes.
“
That sucks, but, listen . . .” I pointed toward my house. “I gotta, you know . . .” I started up my walkway, but it wasn’t long before I heard the sound of crushed leaves behind me. Seconds later, she stood once again in my path.
“Hey, can I come to your party?”
“Huh?” I avoided eye contact, hoping she’d get the hint, but when I finally looked back at her, she was still waiting expectantly. I coughed and said, “I mean, I would, but . . .”
She looked away then, her shoulders rising up and down the way Jessie’s did when she was embarrassed. “Oh, yeah. I totally get it. I’ve just been gone all summer with this thing between my mom and stepdad, but my brother told me about your family moving in and, you know, he said you were cool. . . . And I just thought since we, like, live right there . . .” She pointed across the street toward a green ranch-style home, where a boy with a pitch-black faux hawk sat, smoking a cigarette.
“Wait. That’s where you live? That’s your brother?” Even if Mom called him a punk, he was still the most sought-after boy in the neighborhood. That was probably because he was seriously beautiful, with the darkest blue eyes I’d ever seen.
She eyed me warily. “Yeah.”
I placed a hand to my lower belly, where an unfamiliar tingling sensation had begun.
“Why are you smiling?”
I straightened my lips. “I’m—I’m not. I—I was just thinking that you should come.”
“Yeah?” Her blue eyes lit up.
“Yeah, and . . .” I shifted nervously. “Why don’t you bring your brother, too?”
She smiled as if she’d almost expected this. “What about Tommy? He lives in our pool house with his mom. I go to the same private school with him this year. His mom’s a secretary there, you know, but next year I’m going back to public school, just like you.” She sighed, like she hated having to explain herself. “I mean, Tommy and me both, probably.”
“Um, yeah. Okay.” I was too busy thinking about her brother calling me cool to care about any of these details. “Just bring anybody you’d like.”
34 Pieces of You Page 4
