by Amy Huntley
The pain of that realization slices through my obsession
with Gabriel and helps me concentrate on how important
this really is.
"I don't want you to leave, Sandra. / want you to stay
here with your mom, but your mom's . . . well, not quite
her alone will kill her.
"But how can I go off with Dad right now and leave her
by herself? It's like she'd die. Maybe even kill herself."
Too late—obviously. Mrs. Simpson has already convinced
Sandra she's responsible for the life and death of her
mother.
Still, Sandra's comment shows progress—sort of. Sandra's
never admitted before that her mom is this kind of
unstable.
But a response to the comment is also tricky. I'm not
sure exactly how to approach this subject, so I sound totally
stupid as I talk in slow motion. "At least. . . if you go . . .
now . . . you'll have, well, your dad . . . he'll help vou get up
the .. . courage . . . to do it. You'll have him . . . reassuring
you t h a t . . . well, that you need . . . a life, too. And if you . . .
leave with him . . . won't your grandma . . . I mean . . . can't
your mom . . . live with her parents? If you weren't here . . .
maybe she'd . . . maybe she'd move back South . . . with
them."
"She says she won't. She's going to stay right here, and
she wants me to stay with her."
Great. Just great. It's like Airs. Simpson has already
anticipated all mv moves and put her game pieces in place
to defend against them. She's not a woman I ever want to
plav chess with.
Yet that seems to be exactly what I'm doing.
right. You know that. How could you stand to live with her
without your dad there to help you manage her?"
There ought to be a law that says parents can't get
divorced during their kids' senior year of high school. They
ought to have to stick it out until the kids are gone so they
don't disrupt the most important year of our lives.
"But if I stayed," Sandra argues, "it'd only be for the
rest of this year, right? I mean, in eight months I'll be going
away to college."
"Sandra . . . It's hard to figure out how to tell her this.
She's always been so touchy when it comes to talking about
her mother. There's a lot about her mom that she just won't
admit to herself . . . like that her mother's a really sick
woman—and I'm not talking physically. "I'm not sure that
you'll go to college if you stav here with your mom."
"I'm going to college. There's no way I'm not!" she protests.
"Oh, I know you'll take college classes. But, well, I don't
think you'll go away to college. I think your mom will manage
to convince you to stay at home and go to community
college. Or maybe she'll convince you to go part-time so
you can commute to a university. B u t . . . " I kick the pinecone
a little too hard, and it skitters off the path into the
grass. I track it down but have to kick it a couple times to get
it back onto the path. "Can you see your mom living alone?"
I just know Airs. Simpson will convince Sandra that leaving
In frustration, I kick the pinecone too hard again, but
I'm so focused on Sandra that I don't pay much attention to
where it's going. " See? That's what I mean. She'll do that to
you again next year when it's time for you to go to college.
Convince you that she'll be all alone if you leave." I want to
tell her that her mother is seriously crazy, but my credibility
in the judging-people's-sanity category has plunged to an
all-time low. Even Sandra thinks it was nuts that I accused
Dana of killing my cat and trying to kill me. Better that I
not mention anything related to, well, mental health.
We're both silent for a moment as I look for the pinecone
off the path. I don't find it. Sighing, I sit down on
the grass. Sandra's still standing, and as I gaze up at her, I
notice that in the past few months she's gained weight. I'm
surprised. How could I not have noticed until this moment
that she's put on about fifteen pounds? Have I been that
absorbed in my own life? She's lost that birdlike fragility
I've always thought of her as having, and I mourn its loss—
not because she's less pretty than she used to be, but because
the difference in her shows me how much everything has
been changing lately.
"She thinks you'll try to get me to stay, you know."
"What do you mean?" I ask, patting the ground next to
me, encouraging her to sit.
She does. "Whenever we have this conversation at home,
she tells me to ask vou what to do. She thinks you'll try to
m 191
gel me to stay here with you."
I can just imagine those scenes. No doubt Sandra's mom
is crying and pleading. She'll use tuny dirty tactic she can
to keep Sandra tied to her. I'm glad I've managed to think
about Sandra's best interests instead of my own for once.
I know I'm selfish sometimes, but selfish enough to try to
keep Sandra under the spell of her mother?
No. Not that selfish. I'd rather lose my best friend and
have her get the chance to lead a somewhat healthy life than
keep her near me if it means living with her mother.
"Don't get me wrong, Sandra. I wish you could stay. I
wish your dad wouldn't leave. Couldln't he get a job around
here?"
She shakes her head sadly. "He says he has to get away
from her, too. And he wants me to go with him. He thinks,
like you do, that it'll be bad for me to stay here with Mom.
But I don't see how he can just walk away from her like that.
She needs us. She's defenseless without us."
"Or she wants you to think she is. She doesn't have to
be." I don't add that her mother is anything but defenseless,
She's one of the strongest women I know. She uses the
appearance of weakness to get people to do what she wants
them to. "Much as I want you to stay here—and I definitely
do, Sandra—I want even more for you to be happy. And
you'd never be happy here alone in that house with your
mom. You know that, don't you?"
19i
go away. I only kind of got what she was hinting at, but I got
it enough to know I was scared and had to go home."
There's a moment of silence between us. "How often?"
I finally ask.
"How often what?"
"How often does she threaten to kill herself?"
"Oh, I don't know. Sometimes she'll go a couple years
without ever threatening to kill herself. Then suddenly she'll
be threatening her life every day for a couple weeks. Do you
know how many different ways there are to kill yourself? I
do. I think my mom's said she was going to use every one.
The whole thing has always scared me, but not as much as
it does right now. It's somehow different."
I doubt it. "How? How is it different?"
Sandra shakes her head. "I don't know. I can't explain it.
It just is."
I put my arm around her and hug her. There's nothing
strength I don't think I have to help support her through
this. Her latest confessions have only made me more convinced
that she has to go live with her dad in Oregon.
"C'mon," I say. "Let's go swing."
She glances over at a row of swings where we used to
play together when we were little. "Okay," she says.
We get up slowly and take off toward the swings.
"Yeah, I do," she admits. "It's just so hard to do what
I should. I'm terrified that—" She pauses for a moment,
unsure. Then she plunges ahead. "She's been threatening to
kill herself. I think she might really . . . this time . . . I mean
now . . . How do I tell you all this? There's stuff I probably
should have let you know before."
There's wore?! I suddenly feel betrayed. I guess J
shouldn't have assumed I knew everything about Sandra,
even if she is my best friend, but still I don't like hearint;
that she's been keeping secrets from me. Especially about
her mom.
When Sandra doesn't pick up the thread of her thoughts,
I prompt her by using my knee to nudge hers.
"Well, it seems like my whole life she's been threatening
to kill herself. The first time I remember it, I was in, like,
first grade, I think. She started waving around a butcher
knife while she was having some fight with Dad. Told him
she'd kill herself."
It's not hard to figure out who won that fight, but I keep
my mouth shut about it.
"When I went to camp during fourth grade, remember
how I had to suddenly go home?"
"Yeah. Your mom got sick."
"Well, sort of. She called and told me she had this bottle
of pills that made her feel better while I was gone, but she
thought she'd need to take a lot of them to make all the pain
IV!
UNCORREC r£D E-PROOf—NOt FOR SAlE
physics
age 17
It's a beautiful fall day. Perfect for sitting outside the school
to eat lunch. The leaves are all golden and orange, and a
breeze is teasing them out of their branches so they fall
swirling around my feet under the picnic table.
Too bad I can't enjoy the day's beauty. I'm miserable.
Miserable because I'm feeling lonely without Gabe. We
still haven't said anything to each other since the fight about
my car accident.
Miserable because Sandra didn't even come to school
today. She must be that overwhelmed by the choice she has
US
to make.
Miserable because I didn't manage to finish my physics
homework and it's due in twenty minutes.
Miserable because my sister went into labor this morning,
but my parents wouldn't let me go to the hospital with
her. They insisted I should go to school, since first babies
take such a long time to enter the world.
Can't say I blame babies for that. Who'd really want to
enter this messed-up experience called life?
I'm so intent on all this that I don't realize at first that
I've been playing with my necklace . . . the one that Gabe
gave me last summer. It's silver, and in the center, it has
seven different charms that spell out FOREVKR.
Yeah. So much for that. We aren't even talking right
now.
Tears blur my eyes. Then I'm startled by a soft touch on
my shoulder. I jump and whirl around, gasping.
Gabe.
He holds up his hands in a classic "I'm innocent" gesture.
"Didn't mean to startle you," he says.
"You didn't," I say, so desperate to be nice to him that it
takes me a second to realize how obviously that's not true. "I
mean," I stutter, "I mean, you did, but I'm glad you did."
We just gaze at each other for the longest time. T hen
he finally says, "Did you get number eleven?" He nods his
head toward my physics homework. "I worked on that one
to move forward with you, but I don't want to give up my
past. And even though I know Dana can be a complete pain
sometimes, I can't believe that I'd spend two years going out
with someone who's the kind of monster you keep trying to
convince me Dana is."
I look down at my physics homework. The wind is catching
the edge of it, flipping up the bottom half of it. Only
my cardboard container of uneaten french fries is holding it
down. At the moment, it's easier to look at that paper than it
is to meet Gabe's gaze. I feel so much . . . shame. Everything
he's saying makes sense. But I don't know how to respond to
it, because I stil 1 feel an intense fear of something, but I don't
know what is. I'm not imagining bogeymen here. There's a
real monster out there somewhere, and it's as likely to be
Dana as anyone else.
And yet what if she is just a nonnal girl? What if she
didn't purposefully cause that accident? Then who killed
my cat?
"I'm not sure what to say, Gabe. I love you, too. I've
been miserable without you the last week. I don't want to
put you in a bad spot."
He puts his index finger under my chin and lifts it up.
Then he kisses the corner of my mouth. It's a soft kiss, like
the fluttering of a butterfly's wings, and I want more. I turn
to face him and, putting my arms around him, lean in for
a real kiss. Something greater than either of us seems to
m
for about a half hour last night and never did get it to come
out right."
Great. Just great. And I have, what, twenty minutes to
finish the whole assignment? But physics homework isn't
what I want to be thinking about.
"I'm sorry. I mean, about that whole . . . fight. I shouldn't
have thrown that ring at you. I guess I was way shook up by
that accident." Okay, I don't think that's actually why I did it,
but hey, I'll use just about any fair excuse right now.
"I know," he says. "I should have been cooler about the
whole thing, too. AH my frustration with the thing between
you and Dana just hit crisis point."
He straddles the bench next to me, dumping his backpack
onto the picnic table. "I've been trying for a week now
to figure out what to say to you."
"Me too."
"It's just that . . . Maddy, I love you. I do. And I don't
understand why you don't know it."
"Well, it's just that—"
"Don't," he interrupts. He holds a finger against my lips.
His touch is so gentle, so cherishing that I know, somehow,
that everything will be all right. "I know it would be easier
for you if I just didn't have anything to do with Dana. But
can't you understand she was a major part of my life for
two years? I feel like you're asking me to throw away those
years of my life . . . completely. To write them off. I want
infuse that kiss with power.
"I'm sorry, Gabe," I say when we finish kissing. I'm
being deliberately vague because the truth is, I actually don't
know what I'm sorrv for. Maybe everything. And nothing.
At the same ti
me.
He leans his forehead against mine . 1 like the feel of
his skin.
"I hope we don't ever fight again," I sav.
He smiles wickedly. "The making-up part is pretty
nice."
I grin.
He kisses me again.
Don't ask me why, but I remember the whole physics
thing right then. Not that Gabe isn't the kind of kisser who
can drive mundane thoughts of physics assignments right
out of my head . . . because he is. But I'm prettv wound
up today . . . everything from Kristen's baby to Sandra's
problems are pounding at my consciousness. And for some
bizarre reason, it's the physics assignment that wins the
anxiety war.
"I don't suppose you want to help me with my physics,"
I say.
Another wicked grin. "I thought I was helping you with
physics."
"Different form of physics. That one doesn't help my
grade any in Mr. Martin's class."
•'VI
He sighs. "Okay." He opens up his backpack and starts
to pull out his book.
"Want to come with me after school today to check on
Sandra?" I ask. I fill him in on how she's been struggling
the last week to make this important decision. "Her lather
wants to move by early next week, so she's really stressed
about what she's going to do."
Gabe whistles in commiseration. "Sure, I'll go over
there with you."
"Oh, and Kristen went into labor this morning," I tell
him.
"Hey, well, at least that's good news. Any word?"
"Not yet. I called my mom at the beginning of lunch,
and she said the hospital sent Kristen home to wait it out a
bit more. I heard that some first babies can take more than
twenty-four hours to arrive, so I guess that means she'll give
birth in the middle of the night or something."
"Hmm . . . October thirtieth seems like a good birthday
to me."
"Yeah. Or the thirty-first if it's after midnight. Both are
pretty good."
"Halloween baby."
I laugh. "Don't say that. It makes my niece—or nephew—
sound like Satan's spawn."
"The ancient Celts believed that during this time of
year the boundaries between the worlds of the living and
,u:
the dead thinned so that spirits could enter our world. Kind
of a cool time to be born, actually."
"Hey," I protest, "you're poaching! Samhain and ancient
Celtic legend and folklore . . . that's all stuff we cover in AP
English. That's my area." Okay, so I hadn't actually remembered
