by Amy Huntley
her mother doesn't want her to. She says she just can't, not
when her mother needs her so much.
Two days ago, when Sandra invited me to her house for
a birthday sleepover, I was crazy excited. It's been ages since
we've spent the night together.
I should have known better. Mrs. Simpson is a mastermind
at ruining my time with Sandra, and I should have
expected her to pull it off tonight, too. Except I guess I
thought that, this being a birthday, her mother would go
out of her way to make it a nice night for Sandra.
No such luck.
Five minutes ago, Sandra's mom knocked on the bedroom
door, stuck her head inside, and said, "I'm so sorry,
girls, but I have a migraine coming on. I'm afraid that Madison
is going to have to go home."
"Please, Mom," Sandra begged. "We'll be quiet. I promise.
We haven't had a sleepover in ages."
Mrs. Simpson started crying. "I'm so sorry, darling. I
wanted so badlv for this to be a perfect night for the two
of you. Maybe Daddy can take me to a motel so I can have
enough quiet to recover. I'd just be so lonely there all bv
myself. Your dad would have to come back here to check on
you. And I get so scared when I'm so sick. I can't get up by
myself if I need to. But I'll call Madison's mom and tell her
not to come get her if your father says—"
"No, Mom," Sandra said. "We understand. We'll do it
again some other time."
Except / definitely don't understand. I want to cry. I'm
feeling ripped apart inside. My best friend isn't really my
S<
best friend. My best friend wouldn't let her mother do this
to her. How can Sandra not see this is all an act on her
mother's part? That her mother wants to ruin our time
together?
Sandra's mother leaves the room, and I look at the devastated
expression on Sandra's face. Her brownish-green
eyes are wide and glittering. She's holding her own arms
like she's hugging herself. Even her normally bouncing,
curly hair seems to drag along the side of her face. Guilt
washes over me.
None of this is Sandra's fault.
The doorbell rings. My mother is here. I still haven't
found my socks. I don't want to leave Sandra here by herself
wearing that desperate expression . . . on her birthday of all
days. But now I can hear my mother's voice in the entryway.
She's asking for me. Forget the socks. I know it's a bizarre
idea, but I figure that they can stay here and keep Sandra
company for the night.
I give Sandra a hug. A sob starts to wrack her body,
but as her mother walks back into the room, she chokes it
down.
"Bye," I whisper, letting go and rushing from the
room.
oge 16
I pull some books from my locker, and a pen slides out. I
try to catch it, but my hands are full. It lands on the floor
and makes a rolling escape toward Sandra, who's standing
right next to me at her locker. She yanks hard on the handle
of the locker's jammed door. It suddenly gives up its fight
to protect her books from the odious duty of accompanying
her to class. But lockers are not above simple revenge.
Books, notebooks, even a pencil case, slide off the top shelf.
She jumps back to avoid the avalanche.
I'm laughing at the bizarre look on her face when I hear
a voice behind me say, " H e y . . . "
Obmygod. Go away, I think. Thankfully, I have the presence
of mind not to let the idea slip out of my mouth. Nausea
rises in my stomach at the sound of Gabe's voice. Must be
the memory of Kristen's wedding.
That and the rumor I heard earlier today that he's planning
to ask me out.
By the time I turn around, he's helping Sandra pick up
the mess on the floor.
"Thanks," she says as he hands her a pile of papers that's
fallen out of a book. I'm such an idiot. Why am I standing
here instead of helping them?
Useless now. They're done.
Gabe turns toward me. As his eyes meet mine, my stomach
lurches craztly.
Gabe says, "So, I hear Kristen and John get back from
the honeymoon in a few days."
I should be able to handle a few sentences of small talk,
right?
My eyes skitter away from his, and I look to Sandra for
help, but she's kneeling in front of her locker, going through
papers on the locker floor. She hasn't bothered to clean anything
in there all year. She's obviously trying to eavesdrop.
She's also obviously not going to bail me out.
"Yeah," I say. I'm such a brilliant conversationalist. I
scour my brain for things to add to this exchange.
"Hawaii... wow, what a great honeymoon."
"Yeah."
"I hat's an encouraging streak," he says.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"A couple of 'yeahs' rio;ht in a row. Shall I go for another
one?"
Dread descends. I know what he's going to ask.
"So there's a party this Friday at Allan Redford's house.
Want to go with me?"
Yeah, I do. Only I can't say that because I also don't
want to go.
Sandra's behind Gabe's back making go-fbr-it-girl gestures
at me.
"Well, actually, I can't. My family has plans and my
mother really expects me to be there. . . . " I can tell from
his face that he's not buying it.
"Oh, well, then. Maybe another time?"
I swallow and this time manage, "Yeah." But then feel
compelled to add, "Maybe."
Gabe doesn't waste any time getting away from me
"Later, then," he says, and walks away.
I turn to face Sandra The look she's giving me is even
worse than the look my mother gave me when I got caught
cheating on a test in seventh grade . "For God's sake, why'd
you do that? Are you crazy? You've had a crush on Gabe
since, what, like, sixth grade?"
"Sixth," I mumbled.
"Which just makes it worse! What are you thinking?"
"It's just, well . . . it's—I'm not so sure. . . . Well, you
know how when you've bsen eating something right before
you get the flu and then every time you even think about
that kind of food—for, like, the next year—you think you're
i^oing to be sick again?"
Sandra looks at me as if I'm crazy. It takes her a minute
to put the pieces together. "Wait. Are you trying to tell me
that Gabe makes you feel nauseated}"
"Uhmm . . . yeah? Well, not exactly him. Just the memory
of him at the wedding."
"Oh, for God's sake, Maddy. Take some Pepto-Bismol
SB
or something. But get over it. That's the stupidest thing I've
ever heard." Sandra slams her locker and glares at me.
I can't quite explain everything to her. She wouldn't
understand that Pepto-Bismol might help with the nausea,
but it's not going to help with all the other things ihat are
roiling inside me.
Like total embarrassment over falling out of my dress
in f
ront of Gabe.
Or fear of picking up a rebound boyfriend and losing
him within days—the way I did in eighth grade. Two weeks
of going with me was enough to drive Paul back to a girl
who'd only been his girlfriend for a couple of months. What
chance do I have of keeping a hot guy like Gabe, who's had
the same girlfriend for two years? And, okay, so she's one of
the witchiest girls I've ever met. Still, she must have some
redeeming qualities if Gabe stayed with her that long.
And then there's that awful kiss I shared with Paul back
in eighth grade. I've kissed a few boys since then, but no one
that I actually liked. They were just guys at a party looking
for someone to make ouc with. What if I kiss Gabe and be
laughs at me because I'm doing it wrong?
I'd rather be lonely every Friday night for the rest of my
life.
Sandra begins to walk away. "Wait! Where are you
going?" I ask. We always walk to class together.
She gives me an "oh, phase" look. "You know exactly
59
where I'm going," she says. Then she turns and starts walking
again.
She's right. I do know where she's going. She'll catch up
with Gabe and tell him not to give up, that he should ask
me out again.
Trying to stop her wil I be useless. I'm both terrified and
relieved by the realization.
I close my locker, noticing that my pen is still on the
ground. I reach for—
age 7
"Kitty, no!" I shout, just as her little irincer paws land in my
carefully sorted piles of beads. Purple, pink, and turquoise
beads scatter across the tabletop before pattering onto the
floor.
At first, our new kitty is startled by the noise. She jumps
backward on the table, bumping into a bowl of fruit. But as
the beads continue bouncing across rhe floor, her ears prick
up and fascination gleams in her eyes.
She pounces.
More beads roll across the table and plunge to the floor,
followed by the soft plunk of a four-pound kitten chasing
them.
"No, no!" I shout again, frantically trying to gather the
beads back together. I'm only halfway through the necklace
' -C
Mom grabs a hanger from the closet next to the kitchen
and starts sweeping it bslow the stove. A rainbow of beads
emerges, and Mom moves on to sweep the area under the
refrigerator.
"I hope I've got then all," Mom says, but I'm not really
paying attention to her anymore. Kristen is setting the kitty
in my arms.
And the kitty is purring. For me. She likes me. Her little,
soft padded paws bat at my cheek. She begins to play
with mv hair.
"Look at that," Mom says in amazement.
The kitty snuggles her head between my neck and
shoulder, settling in for a little rest.
"She looks cozy there, doesn't she?" Dad says.
"Can we name her that?" I ask. I want her to be cozy
with me forever.
"Sure," Mom agrees "That can be her everyday name."
"Everyday name?" Kristen asks. "What's that supposed
to mean?"
"Well, according to T. S. Eliot—"
"Ugh," Kristen groans. Mom loves poetry, but Kristen
can't stand it when Mom starts talking about her favorite
poets.
Mom ignores Kristen. "According to T S. Eliot, a cat
needs three names. One's an everyday name, like Cozy. But
then he says a cat needs a more dignified name. Something
I'm making and if I lose these beads, I won't have enough.
Ine new kitty is batting at the beads, chasing them
around the kitchen. Several roll under the refrigerator.
More travel under the stove.
"Stop it, kitty," I moan.
Mom puts her arm around my shoulder. "It's all right,
Madison," she tells me. "We'll get them out somehow."
"But what if I don't have enough to finish my necklace?"
Kristen and Dad are now intentionally kicking the beads
around the floor, laughing as the cat chases them.
"This is all part of having this cat you've been asking for
for months now."
It's true. I've been asking for a cat for a long time. And
I was so happy a half hour ago. Tiny, furry, blue-eyed . . .
my dreams came true when Mom walked through the door
with her.
But now . . . now I'm thinking this might be a bad idea.
Sure, "hard work" and "responsibility" were mentioned, But
no one thought to tell me a kitten would ruin my necklace.
Kristen picks up the kitty, who starts to purr immediately.
I'm jealous. She hasn't purred for me yet. "Let me
have her," I say.
"In a minute," Kristen says.
"Help me get your beads," Mom says before I can wrestle
the cat from Kristen.
01
that allows it to keep its tail straight up and proud. Something
so unique, no other cat in the world will have it.
Cozycorium is a name I think Eliot would approve of."
The cat's purring vibrates against my chest. It almost
feels like I'm purring, too. "But we can still call her Cozy
for short, right?" 1 say.
"Right," Mom says.
"Wait," Dad says. "You mentioned three names. What's
the third name?"
"Oh, well, Eliot says a cat will have a secret nime that
only it knows. It's a name that we'll never figure out. But
whenever we see that she's deep in thought, she'll be thinking
about her secret name."
"No," I say. "She's not allowed."
"Not allowed to what?" Dad asks.
"Have secrets from us. She can't have a third name."
Kristen laughs at me. "You can't stop her," she tells me.
"Cats pretty much do what they want."
"I can too stop her," I insist. "I'm going to take her
upstairs and show her my room now." I'm already halfway
to the stairs.
"Madison," Mom calls after me, "what about .ill these
be—"
: • . ' b)
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HKKH£&!MQs£wbfefisn
IT SEEMS TO BE a pinecone. It has edges like one, and its
round shape tapers toward the top the way pinecones do.
But I can't figure out how to make this thing work. The
other items that have taken me places have been easv. I've
tried imagining what it was like to hold them. To hand them
to someone, to drop them, to put them on.
Something always works.
But not with this pinecone.
Maybe it's the Lniverse's idea of a joke. Let's put ibis object
with ber that sbt can't quite figure out bow to use, it's thinking.
See bow long it takes ber to go crazy.
Uh-huh. Not long. A person who's dead and conscious
M
and revisiting her life at every opportunity must already be
crazy.
Still. . . it's almost as big a mystery as this whole howdid-I-even-die-any way thing. How many different things
can you do with a pinecone?
Maybe that's not even what it is.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT f OR SALE
htanw.!£M(ns £ub$$SHS<
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beyond the boundaries
o| any one l i fe
Age 17
Ohmvgod, if I don't find that assignment rigbt now, my
English grade is going down the toilet!
I scurry frantically, pulling things out of my book bag
for the third time this morning. I look everywhere. Everywhere.
I glance at the c l o c k . . . . Twenty minutes until Gabriel
gets here to pick me up for school. I worked so hard on that
paper, and now I can't find it. I did it last night at Gabe's
house and emailed it to myself. I'll have to reprint it.
I switch on the computer quickly, and while I am waiting
66
for everything to boot up, I scramble to the bathroom for
my toothbrush.
When I return, I log into my email account and open
the message I sent from Gabe's house last night.
Ohmygod. Unbelievable. There's no attachment. How
could I have sent an email to myself with the sole purpose of
attaching that paper—then have forgotten to do it?
I grab my cell phone to call Gabe.
No answer.
My eyes smart as they fill with tears. Gan I remember
any of that paper? I'll have to try to rewrite it in fifteen
minutes. I flip open my English textbook. There are the
two poems by Emily Dickinson that I'm supposed to hand
in an analysis of—first hour:
664
Of all the Souls that stand create—
/ have elected— One—
IVben Sense from Spirit— -files away—
And Subterfuge— is done—
When that which is— and that which was—
Apart— intrinsic— stand—
And this brief Tragedy of Flesh—
Is shifted— like a Sand—
When Figures show tbeir royal Front—
And Mists— are carved away,
IS
Behold the Atom— I preferred—
To all the lists of Clay!
1732
My Life closed twice before its close—
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me
So huge, so hopeless to conceive
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
Reading these two poems this morning causes me to
shiver in a way that I never have before, and I've read rhem,
well, probably a hundred times. Perhaps I'm anticipating
my own exit from this world into the next when my parents
see my English grade—minus this one-hundred-point
assignment.
No time to think about it now. Must write down whatever
I can remember about my original paper.
