Saving Zoe

by Alyson Noel

  How did she talk her stepmom into buying those jeans? How?"

  "Hey, you guys," Jenay says, leaning in to give each of us a hug.

  But Abby's strictly business, determined to gather the facts. "I need details," she says. "How did you get those?

  What did you do? And will it work on my mom too?" she asks, slowly circling Jenay, her eyes coming to rest on those

  telltale designer back pockets, the ones with the gold embroidery that makes the whole $220 price tag seem worth it.

  "Well, if you promise to get straight As, babysit my little brother every Saturday night for the rest of your life,

  and remain a virgin until you're old and gray, then maybe she'll get you a pair too." Jenay laughs.

  "Call me when you've got that whole potty training thing handled. The last thing I need is another squirt in the

  eye," Abby says, maneuvering herself into the center, looping her arms through ours, and leading us toward school.

  Since Abby, Jenay, and I don't share any classes, this is the last time we'll see each other until the ten-minute break

  between second and third periods. Which, even though technically it's only two hours away, I have to admit that right

  now it feels like forever.

  "Okay, so everyone remembers where to go, right?" Abby asks, having deemed herself our group leader

  sometime back in early elementary school, when Jenay and I were too oblivious to argue or engage in any kind of

  power struggle.

  I nod and gaze nervously around campus, as Jenay laughs. "Yes, Mom." She smiles.

  "Okay, and remember, you can totally text me if you need anything. Because I'm leaving my cell on vibrate,"

  Abby adds.

  And even though I'm gazing across campus at Marc—who up until last week I hadn't seen for nearly a

  year—I'm fully aware of Abby's stare and how that last part was meant for me.

  If you were going to categorize us, and let's face it, most people just naturally do, you could say that Jenay is the

  clumsy, funny, pretty one (even though most of the time she doesn't know it), Abby's the super-organized, bossy one

  (and yeah, most of the time she does know it), and I'm the completely tragic one. Though before last year, most

  people probably wouldVe said that I'm the cynical, brainy one. But that doesn't mean that Jenay's not smart, or that

  Abby's not pretty, or that I can't be hopeful. Those are just the things that people usually notice first. But since Abby

  and Jenay have been my best friends for as long as I can remember, I guess I don't really see them that way. When

  I look at them I just see two people who are always there for me, who can always make me laugh, and who can sometimes even help me forget.

  Clutching my schedule, I recheck my room number, even though it's practically tattooed on my brain, ever

  since the "dry run" Abby subjected us to a little over a week ago, so we wouldn't look like "your typical clueless

  freshmen" (even though we were) on our very first day.

  "They're here. The schedules. Check your mailbox and meet me on the corner in five," she'd said, as I slipped

  on some flip-flops and fled out the door, thankful that my mom was out running errands, which spared me the usual

  detailed explanations.

  When I got to the corner, Jenay was already waiting, her long blond hair flowing loose around her shoulders,

  as her fingers picked at the hems of her layered blue and white tank tops.

  "Hey," she said, gazing up and smiling, her blue eyes squinting against the sun. "Abby forgot her cell so she

  ran back to get it."

  "Why?" I asked.

  But Jenay just shrugged. "You know Abby," she said, reaching for my schedule. "Damn. Once again, no

  classes together. Well that's what you get for being so smart." She laughed, returning the yellow slip of paper and

  getting back to her double frayed hems.

  I just stood there, not saying a word, since I never really know what to say when she gets all self-effacing like

  that. But then Abby ran up, waving her phone, as evidence of her mission accomplished, and led us on the

  three-and-a-half-block trek to our future home away from home for the next four years—Bella Vista High. Go

  Bobcats.

  Having grown up in this town, it's not like I hadn't already been there like a zillion times before, not to mention

  how it's the same school Zoë went to right up until the first month of her junior year. But still, every time I approached

  that concrete slab of a campus I couldn't help but wonder just exactly what those founders were thinking when they

  named it Bella Vista. Because as far as beautiful views went, well, there weren't any.

  We navigated our way around, located our lockers (which thankfully weren't all that far apart), and decided

  where we'd meet on our ten-minute break (Abby's locker), and then again at lunch (Abby's locker—until we secured

  a more solid place). And after we'd memorized all of our room numbers and their corresponding locations, we

  headed back home, with Jenay doing an impersonation of Ashlee Simpson that had me bent over laughing the entire

  way.

  Well, until I saw Marc.

  I stopped midstride, just stood there and stared. Noticing how his shoulders slumped low, how his dark eyes

  stayed guarded, and how each drag of his cigarette seemed filled with intent, like he was meant to be sitting on the

  hood of his car, just outside the Circle K, at precisely that moment. But just as he lifted his head and his eyes fixed

  on mine, Abby and Jenay each grabbed an arm, pulling me away from him and closer to the safety of home. But now, having just seen him again, I realize this will probably become like a daily occurrence. And I can't believe I

  didn't grasp that before. I mean, even though I don't share the same opinion of him as most people in this town,

  having to go to the same school with him just totally sucks. Because now it's like there's no safe place, nowhere I

  can just be me without the constant shadow of Zoë. No place where I can start fresh and try to move on.

  Four

  Even though it probably seems like Abby would've been the one to secure the good lunch table, it was Jenay who

  succeeded. Because in the world of cafeteria real estate, long blond hair, big blue eyes, a great smile, and a nicely

  filled out snug white T-shirt trumps the best laid plans of a future life coach every single time.

  "It must be the jeans. They're magic, that's why they cost so damn much," Abby says, sliding in next to Jenay

  and gawking at Chess Williams and the almost equally cute Parker Hendricks, who are sitting just mere inches away.

  But Jenay just shakes her head and laughs. "Don't forget that they've just been demoted to lowly freshmen in a

  sea of hot seniors. So technically, they're lucky to be sitting by us" she whispers, smiling triumphantly.

  I slide onto the end of the bench and unzip my lunch pack, curious to see what's inside, and hoping it's not the

  dreaded leftover meatloaf sandwich that only my mom could view as a logical choice. I mean, for someone with an

  I.Q. ranked firmly among genius, who makes her living as an academic (aka professional smart person), she just

  can't seem to grasp the fact that some leftovers were never meant for cafeteria consumption or any other lunchtime

  scenario that doesn't entail complete privacy, a bib, and the luxury of eating over a sink. But as I unzip the top and

  peek inside, I'm relieved to see the unmistakable tubelike shape of my favorite deli wrap sandwich and not a white

  bread monstrosity dripping with meat juice on my very first day.

  I tear open my chips and fish one out, pretending not to notice how just about every single Bella V
ista student

  sitting within a two-mile radius is totally staring at me. I mean, if I thought things were a little rough this morning in

  Honors English, American History, Geometry, and French, well, most of my fellow classmates went to school with

  me last year too, which means they've pretty much gotten an eyeful ever since it all began. But now, being

  surrounded by all of these people who used to know Zoë, who were friends with Zoë, or who, now that she's gone,

  like to pretend they were friends with Zoë, makes me feel completely naked and exposed. Like a regretful "life art"

  model being stared at and scrutinized as everyone takes it all in, draws it all down, and interprets everything they see

  in their own biased way.

  And even though I kind of expected this, that doesn't mean I can actually handle it. And there's just no way I

  can finish my lunch with everyone whispering, pointing, and gawking.

  So just as Jenay starts talking to Chess, so casually and easily you'd think she'd been at it for years, and Abby

  scoots even closer to Parker—who she's secretly crushed on forever—I rise from the table and move for the door,

  hoping I can make it safely inside the bathroom before I start hurling.

  It's weird how you can hire a bodyguard to protect you from physical harm, yet there's no one who can keep you

  from emotional harm. And as great as my friends have been, doing their best to shield me from everything they can,

  there's just no way they can defend me from all of the prying eyes, pointed fingers, and loudly whispered, "Omigod!

  That's her! You know, the little sister/'that follows me wherever I go.

  I push into the empty bathroom, dump the contents of my lunch pack into the big green trash can against the

  far wall, then run cold water over my hands until the nausea passes. Then I smooth my hair, straighten my shirt, and

  head right back outside, and straight into Marc.

  "Echo," he says, his dark brown eyes peering into mine, as his pale slim hands clasp nervously at his sides.

  Up close, he seems thinner, and his hair looks darker, hanging long and loose around his angular face. But he's still

  amazing, only different. Less contrived, more authentic, yet also kind of lost.

  I just stand there, smelling the nicotine wafting off of him, remembering how it was Zoë who got him started.

  And just as he opens his mouth to speak, Abby runs up and grabs hold of my shirt. "Echo! Hey! Let's go," she

  says, tugging on my sleeve and pulling me away.

  Five

  Every day gets a little easier. But not because the whispering stops, or the staring ceases, or the teachers stop

  giving me that "Oh, you poor sad thing" look. Nope, all of that remains as blatant as ever. The reason things are

  getting easier is because every day I get a little better at ignoring it. It's like, if no one else is willing to change, then I'll

  be the one who does. So, I've simply stopped reacting. I mean, now, when people whisper as I pass in the hall, I

  refuse to hear it. And when my English teacher gives me that look, I avert my eyes. And when I walk through the

  cafeteria and everyone stops eating and talking so they can point and stare, I absolutely refuse to care. I just focus

  on eating my sandwich, drinking my Snapple, and watching Jenay flirt with Chess.

  "Omigod, do you think he'll ask you to homecoming?" Abby asks, just seconds after the lunch bell rings and

  Chess and Parker head for class.

  But Jenay just gazes down at the ground, blushing and shrugging like she hasn't even considered it.

  "Homecoming? Jeez, I haven't even thought about going," I say, walking alongside them and gazing at Jenay,

  knowing that in a race between the three of us, she's definitely the best bet. I mean, the odds are pretty much

  against a trifecta, at least with me in the race, and since Abby's also like me, and has no idea how to flirt, I'm placing

  my wager on Jenay, for win, place, and show.

  "He likes you, anyone can tell," Abby says, smiling when she sees her blush.

  But Jenay just shrugs. "Well, I guess we'll just see what happens next weekend then, won't we?" she says,

  waving over her shoulder and heading toward class.

  "What's going on next weekend?" I ask, searching Abby's face, wondering what they could possibly be keeping

  from me.

  But she just shrugs. "You know Jenay." She laughs, bringing her finger to her temple and making the universal

  sign for looney toons. "See you after school?"

  "Not today," I say, watching her go and wondering if she heard me.

  After school I have an appointment with a shrink. Though I guess when most people are seeing someone like that

  they usually say "my shrink." As in, "after school I have an appointment with MY shrink." But I don't like to think of him

  like that. I mean, I can barely stand the guy, so I certainly don't want to think of him as mine.

  Besides, it's not like I see him all that often anymore. And it's not like he actually ever helped me when I did. I

  mean, okay, so this completely horrible thing happened to my family. I still can't see how sitting in his office and

  sobbing my eyes out to the tune of $150 for a fifty-minute hour is ever going to benefit anyone other than him.

  But my parents, being intellectually minded, called on their most sought-after colleague, who, according to my

  mom, actually gets away with charging twice that amount, and who "out of kindness, compassion, and as a huge

  favor to our family has decided to give us a deeply discounted rate."

  So because of all that, I was pretty much forced to spend every Tuesday after school, for almost my entire

  eighth grade year, sitting on that brown leather couch, with a beige floral Kleenex box placed squarely before me, as

  the Dr. Phil wannabe tried to trick me into saying the actual words, to verbalize and not euphemize what really

  happened to Zoë.

  But even though I like to read and write, and even though I really do believe that words do hold the power to

  harm or heal, this was just one of those cases where words didn't seem all that important. And no way was I giving in,

  just so he could feel all smug and accomplished and like he just might actually know what he's doing.

  But since I haven't been to see him since the beginning of last summer, today is supposed to serve as some

  sort of checkup or progress report or something. I guess since it also happens to be the one-year anniversary of

  Zoë's disappearance, my parents figured it was a good idea to have me stop by and pay the good doctor a little

  fifty-minute visit.

  "Echo, come in. How've you been?" he asks, as I slide onto the familiar brown couch, eyeing the strategically

  placed tissues.

  "I'm okay." I shrug, gazing around the room, noticing how some of the artwork has changed but knowing better

  than to mention it. I mean, these people analyze everything you do, from the moment you arrive to the moment you

  leave, so extreme caution is advised.

  "How's school?" he asks, gazing at me through the upper part of his glasses, like he thinks wearing them down

  around the tip of his nose makes him look smarter or something.

  "Fine." I cross my legs and fold my hands in my lap, but then I immediately undo it since I don't want him to think

  I'm feeling anything other than totally relaxed, happy-go-lucky, and free.

  "How are your classes, your teachers?"

  "Good, and good," I say, cracking a smile so he'll know just how light and breezy I'm feeling today.

  "And your friends? Still hanging around with those two girls?"

  "Yup, pretty much since the beginn
ing of time," I tell him, gazing at his bald head and pathetic goatee, and

  wondering why he can't see the oh so obvious symbolism in that

  "Any boyfriends?" He smiles gently.

  But I refuse to answer. He's always pushing me to talk about boys and sex and stuff. But instead, I just give

  him a baleful look.

  "Zoë always had lots of friends and boyfriends." He says that like he used to hang out with her or something.

  Like he knew her really well, better than me.

  "Yeah? Well, I'm not Zoë, am I?" I fold my arms across my chest, even though I know full well that he's only

  trying to bait me. "And even though she may have had a lot of friends, she only had one boyfriend," I say, wondering

  just how crazy you have to be to pay three hundred dollars for fifty minutes of this.

  "Are you still angry with Zoë?" He leans back in his chair and crosses his legs, causing me to catch an

  unfortunate glimpse of his brown argyle socks and flaky white shin that is almost as bald as his head.

  "Why would I be angry with Zoë? She was my friend, and my sister, and I loved her." I roll my eyes, shake my

  head, and focus hard on my watch.

  He sits there, watching me carefully, not saying a word. But I'm not buying it. This is just another one of his

  traps. I mean, I watch enough TV crime dramas, and I've read enough thrillers to know that cops, journalists,

  shrinks—they all rely on the same lame tricks. They all worship the power of the long penetrating stare and lingering

  silence that practically never fails in getting their suspect to divulge all of the personal, private information they never

  intended to spill.

  But unlike most people, I'm not afraid of silence. And I couldn't care less about being stared at. In fact, I've

  grown so used to it that it doesn't even faze me.

  So we sit. Him staring at me. Me staring at my watch. Seeing the second hand go round and round, knowing

  that each silent minute is costing my parents another three bucks.

  And when our time is finally up, he looks at me and says, "Echo, are you ready to talk about Zoë?"

  But I just grab my backpack and head out the door. "Zoë's gone," I tell him, closing it firmly behind me.