“Right.” I shove my feet into my shoes as I cram my ballet things into my bag. “See you guys later.” I pull my hair out of the bun, giving it a shake.
“Sorry about Amanda,” Faith says as I head for the door.
“It’s okay; I understand.” And I do understand. Amanda wants to dance the lead. She’s made it clear. And maybe she’ll get to. I just don’t want to hand it to her on a silver platter. I’d rather let her sweat a little.
I’m just coming out of the stairwell when I spot Daniel standing over by the door. “Hey,” I call to him. “Did I keep you waiting?”
“No, it’s okay.” He comes over to me. “In fact, I hope you don’t mind that I snuck upstairs and peeked at you girls while you were dancing.”
“Seriously?”
He looks embarrassed. “Is that okay?”
I shrug. “There’s no rule against it. A lot of the moms stick around and watch. Not in our class so much, although my mom used to like to watch. She would pretend to knit or read a magazine sometimes, but she was always watching.”
“Did that make today hard?” He opens the door for me. “Being there without her?”
I just nod as we go out onto the sidewalk. Swallowing hard and willing myself not to cry, I desperately long for a pill right now.
. . . [CHAPTER 12] . . . . . . . . . . . .
Daniel points to The Coffee Station, a small coffeehouse just down the street. “Is that okay for coffee?”
“Sure.” And just like that, we’re walking down the sidewalk together. Is this really happening, or am I daydreaming or delusional? I cannot believe I’m with Daniel right now. It is seriously surreal, and I’m tempted to do something really lame like pinch myself.
As he opens the door, a bell jingles and the smell of fresh-roasted coffee and the loud roar of the espresso machine confirm that this is indeed real.
I listen as Daniel places his order and, partly out of nerves and partly because it sounds good, tell the girl I’ll have the same. Before long we’re seated at a marble-topped table where we make nervous small talk until the girl calls out Daniel’s name, and he returns with two black mugs of steaming mocha.
“You’re a very good dancer.” Daniel smiles as he sets a frothy-topped mug in front of me.
I blink. “You really think so?”
“Absolutely.” He nods eagerly. “I mean, I’m no expert and I’m guessing your heart wasn’t totally into it, but I could tell you’re good.” “Thanks.” I explain to him what Madame Reginald told me about finding my inner ballerina.
“That makes sense. Sports can be like that, too. You go to the hard place, and you come back stronger.”
“Maybe...”
“I really admire you, Cleo.”
“Why?”
“You’ve been through so much, but you do it with... with...”—he pauses as if searching for the right word—”maybe it’s grace. Yeah, you do it with grace. That’s really admirable. And cool.” He smiles.
I look down at my mocha. If he had any idea... if he knew what role I played in my own mother’s death, what a horrible daughter, what a spoiled brat I really am... well, he probably wouldn’t even want to talk to me. And who could blame him?
“So I was determined not to bring you down,” he tells me. “And it looks like I’ve already done that.”
I look up at him, longing not to blow this moment, wishing I were someone else or that this were a few weeks earlier. “No, you’re not bringing me down. I’m just already there. I’m sorry. I guess I’m not very good company.”
“No, you’re fine, Cleo.” He begins talking about other things, telling me about his plan to work at his dad’s radio station this summer.
“Will you be a DJ?”
He chuckles. “I wish. No, I’ll be more like a gopher. I work there every summer, and I’ve only been on the air a few times. But that would be cool.”
“You’d probably be good at it. You have a nice voice.”
“Thanks.” He actually does some little DJ narrative, which is really pretty good.
“Sounds like you’ve been practicing.”
“I keep trying to talk Dad into giving me a chance. You never know.”
We continue to talk about nothing and everything, and finally he tells me it’s after six o’clock. “Do you need to get home?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Do you?”
“Kind of.”
I reach for my bag. “Yeah, my aunt will probably start wondering.” Then I tell him about how protective my mom was of me. “And since my aunt is her sister, I suspect she’ll pick up where my mom left off.”
“That must be nice.”
“Nice?” I stare at him in wonder as we both stand. “Are you kidding?”
“My parents got divorced a few years ago.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
“It’s not big news. Anyway, my mom remarried a guy I don’t get along with, so I asked to live with my dad and my mom didn’t protest.” He opens the door for me.
“Oh...” I try to wrap my head around this as we go out. “Do you miss her?”
“Sometimes.” He presses his lips together with a frown. “And sometimes I just get really angry at her.”
“Angry?”
“You know, for leaving my dad, finding someone else.”
“Oh... yeah.”
“Like maybe it would’ve been easier if she’d died instead.”
I feel slightly stunned by this statement.
“I know, it sounds horrible.” We’re walking back toward the ballet academy now, and I’m guessing he’s parked there. “It’s not something I’m proud of or go around saying ever. But it’s the truth.”
“I think I can understand that.” But the truth is, I don’t really get this. I would much rather have my mom leave my dad and be alive than the way things are. Still, I’m not going to say that.
“Here we are,” he says as we come to a small blue pickup. “My wheels.”
“Nice,” I say as he opens the passenger door for me. I’m surprised he’s such a gentleman, but I appreciate it.
“Not that nice,” he says with a grin. “But as my dad tells me, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” He laughs. “Whatever that means.”
“I asked my dad if I could have my mom’s car,” I admit as Daniel turns his key in the ignition. “Now I wonder if that’s a mistake.”
“Why would it be a mistake?”
“It was... you know... the last place she was... before the murder.”
“Oh.” He nods with a slight frown. “That could be kind of hard, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I’m kind of rethinking it now. I just thought it’d be good to have my own car.”
“Well, if you need a ride, I’m around.”
I glance at him, wondering why he’s being so nice to me. Is it just pity? His Christian duty? To change the subject, I give him directions to my house. Then we both sit there quietly for a while.
“Am I coming on too strong, Cleo?”
“Too strong?”
“I don’t want to scare you away.”
“What do you mean? Scare me away?”
“I mean, I like you, Cleo.”
“Oh.” I look straight ahead now. I think I get what he’s saying, and a part of me is blown away to hear it. But another part of me is worried, unsure of how to handle this. Is he saying he wants to go out with me? Be my boyfriend? I’ve never had a serious boyfriend before. But now here I am, with the guy of my dreams—and he’s telling me he likes me.
“I am coming on too strong, aren’t I?”
“No, I’m just trying to take all this in.”
“Unless the rumors were true,” he says quietly. “But I never believed them.”
“What rumors?” Now I feel nervous. What have people been saying about me?
“Well, a while back, some of the girls—you know how they can be, probably just jealous or something—insinuated that you and Lola were more
than just friends.”
“What?” I turn to look at him. “What are you saying?”
“I never said it,” he says defensively. “And I never believed it either. I’m just saying there was some silly gossip before. And you have to admit that you and Lola have always been really close friends.”
“And that’s all we ever were, too. Lola was my best friend. And I really miss her.”
He laughs. “I figured it was just dumb gossip.”
“Well, it’s pretty aggravating to hear. I can’t believe what some people say about others. And some girls can be so mean.”
“I know. It gets old, too. Fortunately I think a lot of them have outgrown it.”
“Hopefully.”
“So... what do you think, Cleo?”
“Think?”
“About what I said. I like you. I’d like to get to know you better. I know you’re still getting over the loss of your mom, but do you think you’d want to go out with me... sometime?”
I feel seriously dizzy now. I’m not sure if it’s low blood sugar, like Aunt Kellie would say, a need for a pain pill, or something much sweeter. “Sure,” I tell Daniel, making what I hope is a smile. “I’d like that. But you have to understand that I’m... well, I’m not at my best these days. You know?”
He’s pulled in front of my house, and I’m slightly surprised that he listened so well to my directions. “I do understand, Cleo.” He reaches over and takes my hand, giving it a squeeze. “I’m actually a pretty understanding guy.”
Okay, now I’m feeling faint, but I can’t imagine how embarrassing it would be to faint right here in his pickup. “That’s cool.” I reach for the door handle. But before I can even get out of the door, he’s dashed around and is helping me.
“My dad taught me to be a gentleman,” he says apologetically. “I hope you don’t mind.
“Not at all.”
He walks me all the way to the front door, and I’m not sure what to do. Do I ask him in? Let him kiss me? What?
“Okay then,” he says. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay.” I nod.
“And maybe you’d like a ride to school?”
“Sure. That’d be great.”
“I know you used to ride with Lola all the time.”
“That’s right... I did.”
“Yeah, I know more about you than you thought, huh?” He grins a bit sheepishly. “But really, I’m not a stalker.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
“I’ve just been waiting for the right moment. So I’ll be here a little before eight.” He goes down the steps from the porch. “Okay?”
“Perfect.” I wave now, then turn and go into the house, where I drop my bag with a thud and let out a squeal of delight.
“What’s going on?” Aunt Kellie emerges from the kitchen wearing oven mitts and a worried expression. “What’s wrong?”
“Sorry. I was actually just happy.”
“Oh?” She looks so startled by this statement that I suddenly feel very guilty. Like who do I think I am to feel this happy? But instead of attempting to explain, I tell her I need to use the bathroom. And she tells me that dinner is ready. I go to the bathroom, but while I’m in there, my mind is occupied with one thing.
I want a pill. And yet I am determined not to give in. I am done with that.
I go to the kitchen, where my aunt is removing a big pan of something yellow from the oven.
“I thought we’d eat in the kitchen tonight,” she tells me. “I know your mother liked the dining room, but your dad’s working late tonight, and it feels too big for just the two of us, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” I nod. “Absolutely.”
Soon we are seated at the island, and Aunt Kellie bows her head and says a blessing, and I pretend to pray along with her. Then she spoons a big glob of some kind of macaroni casserole onto my plate. “Dig in. This is my famous triple-cheese macaroni-and-cheese dish.”
“Oh.” I timidly dip my fork into the gooey-looking pasta. My aunt definitely does not get the concept of low carbs and low fat. Something it took me a couple of years to train my mother to understand. But tonight I decide I don’t care about it so much. In fact, I surprise myself and her by indulging in a second helping.
“I’m glad you like it,” she says happily. “I’ve been worried that you’re not eating enough. You don’t look well.”
I just ignore this comment. It’s something I’ve heard a lot from her in the past few days.
“How was ballet?” she asks in an obvious attempt to create a conversation.
And, really, I don’t know why I’m so hard on her. Well, other than the fact that I’m almost eighteen and do not feel the need to have a babysitter like her twenty-four/seven.
“Okay.”
“So... you’re glad you went?”
“I guess so.” I finish off my last bite, pushing my plate away.
She smiles triumphantly. But then she begins to inquire about Daniel, and I tell her I want to go downstairs to practice ballet.
“Oh, that’s wonderful, Cleo.” She stands and starts clearing the dishes. “I’ve been worried that you weren’t practicing enough. In fact, if you go down and get to work on it, I’ll clean this up.”
That comment makes me wonder if she expected me to clean up after dinner. But I don’t ask. As I go downstairs, I remember how Lola was always surprised when she ate at our house. She couldn’t believe my mother never expected me to help in the kitchen, or anywhere else, for that matter. Lola often told me I was spoiled. And I suppose she was right, but being spoiled by my mother came with its own price. Not that I want to think about that.
I’m tempted to call Lola right now. I’d so like to tell her all about Daniel and the things he said to me today. But at the same time I’m worried she’ll mention my mother and want to talk about that. So I decide that instead of calling, I’ll shoot her an e-mail before I go to bed. That’s been our main form of communication lately. And, for me, it’s simpler... safer.
I flip on the overhead fluorescent lights in the basement. Then I just stand there, staring at my starkly lit image in the mirror. But all I can see is a ghostlike girl and a blank, empty face with two dark holes where my eyes should be. It’s like my soul is gone. Like all I can see is wickedness, hypocrisy, deceit. This is not me. And I don’t want to be this girl. I want to erase her and start over.
I turn away and change into ballet shoes, then attempt to do some stretches, warming up, doing the normal things. But I feel like the life and energy have been sucked out of me. Like there is nothing left. And all I can think of is my mother and how she is gone and never coming back, and how much I miss her, and how it’s my fault she’s gone. How I have ruined everything—not only for me but for my dad and my aunt and who knows how many others. I feel like I’m the most worthless person on the planet, like I do not deserve to be alive. I feel like I’m being suffocated by all these heavy layers of guilt.
Trying to shut out this pain, I do a series of plies, focusing on perfection, feet turned out, knees turned out, slow and graceful... demi... grand... but as I go into an arabesque, all I can think about is my mother, how she created this room, how she hand laid each board of this wooden floor, and all I want is to run upstairs and get a pill.
I hold the arabesque, balancing on one leg, the other leg at a right angle, shoulders squared, stretching the line of my body from the tips of my fingers to the pointed toe of my extended leg. I do not want to take any more pills. I must quit. I know I must quit. Taking pills like that is not who I am. It’s not who I want to be. It’s not what others expect of someone like me.
I switch legs and do another arabesque, this time reminding myself of this new relationship with Daniel. For that reason alone, I know I must quit the pills. He wouldn’t understand my need for something like that. I want to be free of that habit. I need to live my life without that kind of a crutch. But my balance is off, and I stumble to keep from falli
ng. Then I just stand there, feeling like a complete loser. Like I can’t do anything right. I’m a failure as a daughter, as a ballerina—I will be a failure as a girlfriend. And although I keep telling myself that I will quit the pills, I know I will fail at that as well.
Because something deep within me is whispering dark tales. I try not to listen, but the voice grows more intense... louder... until this evil inner demon is screaming at me that I’m going to give in, that I’m going to take the easy route. I’m going to use everything and anything I can to block this pain.
As I turn off the lights, all I can think about is my shrinking stash hidden in the tampon box. All I can think about is how good it will feel when this pain is gone.
. . . [CHAPTER 13] . . . . . . . . . . . .
By Friday morning, only one week since my mother’s death, I know that the only way to survive my life will be with help. And the help I need comes in the form of medication. And really, I rationalize as I wash down a pill with lukewarm tap water, that is what people do to treat pain—take pills. Whether it’s physical pain or emotional pain, there is always a pill to help with it. And that is simply what I’m doing. Yes, it’s a crutch, but if a person can’t walk on her own two legs, sometimes a crutch is needed.
Somehow accepting this as a fact feels liberating. As I carefully dress for school, taking time with my hair and a bit of makeup, I feel like I finally have some control over my life. And I feel confident that I can control my use of self-medication. My only problem is that I have one Vicodin pill left. But I also have the phone number of a guy named T. J. And I’ve already left him a message, mentioning that Drew gave me his number.
As promised, Daniel picks me up for school in his blue pickup. And feeling like an actor in a movie, I smile at him, act like I’m a normal girl, and manage to make some small talk as he drives us to school.
Then as we go into the building together and he walks me to my locker, I can feel eyes on me and I can hear some comments about Daniel being with me. But as far as I can tell, no one is mean or catty. My only explanation for their surprisingly good manners is that I’m still getting a sympathy pass.
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