by Wendy Mills
This one’s for you, Mom
Contents
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Part Two
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Part Three
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Part Four
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Part One
Chapter One
Three reasons you don’t want a crystal ball:
1. They’re a pain to dust.
2. To look into one you really should dress like a medium. Enough said.
3. Sometimes it’s better not to know.
Because once you know something, you can never not know it. Your life becomes before and after. The mountains you thought were important become barely noticeable pebbles, and things you hadn’t even known existed become the Himalayas of your soul.
The next time someone tries to read your future in a crystal ball, just say no.
I wish I had.
It is an ordinary Tuesday morning. I was late to school because Trina had trouble with her garter belt (don’t ask), Ms. Garrison is hopped up on an energy drink (as usual), and I had so far managed to go the entire day without saying a word in class (par for the course).
“We did well on this paper, but I think we can do better,” Ms. Garrison says, leaning her cushy hip against the side of her desk and tapping her foot to the rhythm of her caffeine buzz. “I know we can!”
Ms. Garrison sometimes speaks in the royal “we,” as if there are a couple of personalities in her head and she is speaking for all of them. I think it is her way of connecting with us, to let us know she is one of us, that we are all in this together.
I begin doodling around my notes on Amy Tan, making the A in Amy a diamond and shading it in. I’m thinking about my physics test tomorrow, wondering if I should study some more tonight or go do a photo shoot with Trina.
“Erin? Erin Bailey?”
I look up. Ms. Garrison is smiling at me. Everyone else is packing up.
“I said, Erin, would you stay after class for a minute?”
“Absolutely,” I say, and someone makes kissy-kissy noises. It isn’t mean-spirited, just Herbert Wallace trying to be funny, but it still makes me blush.
After everybody clears out, Ms. Garrison comes around to the front of her desk. She looks me in the eye, all serious. She used to be a professor at Columbia or Harvard, but decided to give up the big city so she could come mold young minds in the sticks. She takes her job seriously, and I have to admit she’s one of the best teachers I’ve ever had.
“Your writing is impressive, Erin.” She stares at me expectantly like I’m going to clap like a seal or something. I restrain the urge.
“Ah … ,” I say. “Thank you?” When my sophomore English teacher suggested I take advanced English this year, I was less than thrilled. Especially when I found out it would be heavy on writing. I’ve always loved words and the way they make sense, and make you feel, make you understand things, but I just never saw myself as the person writing those words.
“The whole essay about parents needing to take ginkgo biloba so they can remember what it was like to be a kid … It made me laugh. Your paper was hands-down the best in the class.”
I tilt my head to the side so my hair sweeps over my flaming cheeks.
“You know I’m the teacher adviser for the school e-zine, correct?” she says. “We think you would make a great addition to our little crew. I wanted to talk to Faith about this before she left— Oh! There she is. Perfect. Faith, can I talk to you a moment?”
I turn and see Faith Hiller, her shiny black hair cut in bangs across her forehead, her eyes a startling blue. She’s smart and pretty, president of everything from the debate club to the student council, and editor of the school e-zine. I’m pretty sure she works on world peace in her free time. She is going places and makes sure everybody knows it.
I get the distinct feeling she’s maybe been standing outside the door listening.
“You know Erin, right?” Ms. Garrison puts her hand on my back and I wonder if I’m supposed to curtsy.
Faith walks slowly toward us, and I can feel her cool gaze slide over my dark, jumbled curls, my decidedly-not-designer jeans and gray T-shirt, down to my rotten old tennis shoes. I wish I’d worn the new ones, but they hurt my feet. Faith is tiny and perfect in cute red-and-white-checkered capris and a white peasant blouse that sets off her olive skin.
“Erin?” Faith says, and it’s a question.
“I sat behind you in history last year,” I say quickly, and wish I hadn’t. When all else fails, keep your mouth shut, Rinnie, my memaw used to say. Good in theory, damn near impossible to implement. At least I didn’t say, And we were in homeroom together our freshman year and you asked to borrow a pen and didn’t give it back. Or, even better, Remember in the cafeteria last month when you asked your friend if that girl bothered to look in the mirror before she left the house? That girl was me.
Faith cocks her head at me, her sleek, black hair swinging. “Oh. Sure. Hiii, Erin.” She smiles all bright and big, like a shiny white balloon filled with nothing but air. She’s saying, I have absolutely NO idea who you are, nor do I care. We both know that, right? But let’s play nice-nice for Ms. Garrison, shall we?
Ms. Garrison, bless her Ivy League little heart, is completely clueless.
“Good! We were talking about what a marvelous writer Erin is. What do you think about having her join the e-zine? We need another reporter now that Trina’s left us. What do you think, Faith?”
I try to look all Trina? Trina who?, hoping they don’t realize Trina is my best friend. It’s not that Trina doesn’t feel bad when she abandons clubs, plans, and projects midstream—she’s even bailed in the middle of a haircut because I texted her a picture of a killer rainbow—it’s just hard to explain to other people.
“Oh …” Faith smiles that empty smile again. “Well …” She manages to sound charming and embarrassed at the same time. She’s neither. She doesn’t want me. Now I know she heard what Ms. Garrison said about my paper being the best in the class, better than Faith’s. She may not have known who I was before, but she knows now.
; “Erin’s really a very talented writer …” Ms. Garrison is puzzled by Faith’s yawning interest in her idea. Yes, Faith is actually yawning, cute and kitteny, showing a lot of teeth.
“Really, it’s okay,” I say. “I’ve got a lot going on—” Lie, lie, lie …
“Please think about it, dear, we’d be thrilled to have you,” Ms. Garrison says, shooting Faith a questioning look.
I flee for the door, feeling Faith’s gaze like two sharp knives in my back.
I leave Ms. Garrison’s room and Trina grabs my arm in the chaos of the hallways between classes.
“What’s up, bee-aaatch,” she says, falling in step beside me. Today she’s got some sort of Pippi Longstocking thing going on, with a short orange dress, striped leggings, and a cape. And, of course, the purple garter belt.
“I honestly don’t know,” I say. “I feel like I just left the Twilight Zone, where Ms. Garrison thinks I’m some sort of prizewinning journalist and Faith Hiller wants to decapitate me slowly and painfully.” I explain what happened.
“Don’t let her get to you. Faith thinks she’s all that and a bag of chips,” Trina says, patting my arm sympathetically. “Her mom is some corporate hotshot, and Faith thinks that makes her Ms. Thing. When I was on the e-zine staff, she acted like I was some sort of servant girl who was supposed to kiss her feet. One day, I even dressed like Nelly Dean, the maid from Wuthering Heights. She didn’t get it—and she’s supposed to be smart—but at least I got an excuse to wear that cute lace bonnet.” People either love Trina or hate her. She doesn’t seem to care either way. “Anywho, I’ve got NEWS. Chaz, adorable, smart, going-to-be-Mark-Zuckerberg Chaz …”
I try not to smile. Chaz the Spaz. That’s what we were calling him yesterday.
“He asked me out. Can you believe it?”
“Of course I can believe it,” I say loyally, because I catch her thin edge of uncertainty. Boys don’t ask Trina out. Boys don’t ask her out because she has a bumpy mole on her cheek, crooked teeth, and an impossibly large nose. Once you get to know her, all you notice is Trina, her big personality and even bigger heart. I’ve known her since I was six, so I don’t even notice how she looks anymore, but other people do. I know they do, because we both hear what they say.
“He says he’s got some cool place he wants to show me Saturday night. I told him you and I were doing a movie night—”
“Oh, Trina, we can do that some other—”
“No. It’s all good. So he says, ‘Why don’t you bring her?’ The more the merrier, right? He’s going to bring somebody too.”
“I don’t think—”
Trying to get a word in is like holding back waves with a knife. Trina just washes right over you.
“Seriously. You have to come. I’m nervous enough as it is. If you come, I won’t feel so weird. You’ll have a blast, I promise.”
“Uh-huh.” Like the time she thought I would have a blast when she tried to talk me into bungee jumping. Or the time she thought it would be a blast to go toilet paper evil Mr. James’s house. I’ve seen Chaz the Spaz’s friends. I’m not at the pinnacle of high school hierarchy, far from it, but those geeky guys make me look like Queen Victoria. It won’t be a blast. I’m certain of it.
“Please? Pretty, pretty please?” She stops in the middle of the hall and throws herself down on her knees in front of me, confusing a herd of freshman who go all wide-eyed and nervous. I shrug at them as Trina looks up at me with her trademark this-is-me-beseeching-you look.
“Look, she’s proposing,” someone snickers.
“Okay, okay! Get up. Please.”
She jumps to her feet like nothing’s happened.
“You’re going to have a blast,” she says.
I smile and keep my mouth shut.
Chapter Two
Trina’s newest interest, her fashion blog, requires a lot of work. By me. I’m used to Trina’s overwhelming short-lived passions, and I know she’ll soon move on to something else. As long as it’s not skydiving again.
“Okay, how does that look?” Trina poses in the orange dress, cape, and garter belt in front of her old green tank of a Saab (code-named “Retro”). She’s got one hand on the hood, and she’s staring down at the ground, all pensive. I frame her in my camera and snap a couple of shots, the green-fuzzed March trees in the background.
“Are you going to tell me, or do I have to wait to read it on the blog?” I ask, as she hops up on the hood and does a pinup girl pose. “I got Pippi Longstocking and what? Victoria’s Secret model? Wonder Woman?”
Trina’s outfits often have a theme. Valentine’s Day last year she was Juliet complete with a bloody dagger sticking out of her chest, and another day she was Violet Baudelaire from Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events.
“What? A girl can’t wear a garter belt and a cape if she feels like it?”
Okay, and sometimes she has no theme whatsoever, just a random assortment of clothing.
Trina is super-skinny, though she eats like a horse. It’s because she’s always in motion, like a hummingbird that can’t stop buzzing around or it will fall out of the sky. Her best feature is her buttery-fine hair the color of daffodils, but as often as not, she dyes it magenta or violet or neon blue. Today it’s blond, but she has it clipped with clothespins into two short little pigtails at the base of her neck.
Her phone buzzes and she whips it out. Usually she’s adamant we turn off our phones while we’re “working,” so I’m surprised.
“Chaz is just so cute,” she says. “He texted, ‘I’m thinking about you while I cut the grass.’ Isn’t that adorable?”
Really? I smile though, because it’s nice to see Trina happy like this. I’ve been asked to a couple of dances—I never went—just guys I knew who didn’t have a date either. I’ve even had a boyfriend, pudgy, sweet Ted Hanson, when I was in ninth grade. After two months, he said he needed his freedom and I was heartbroken for about two seconds, and that was that. Trina, on the other hand, has had no dates, no dances. Zilch.
“So are you going to do the e-zine thing?” she asks after texting Chaz back something (equally adorable I have no doubt) and slipping her phone in her pocket.
“No …”
“Why not? It sounds right up your alley. But I know what you’re going to say. No. No, Trina, I don’t want to do Reading Olympics even though I read for like hours every night. No, Trina, I don’t think we should try out for football. No, no, no. One of these days you’re going to have to say yes to something.”
“I know, I’m so unreasonable. I’m sure we would have made great quarterbacks.”
“It was the principle. Anyway, don’t get me off on a tangent. You. Writing. You’re always writing in your journal, so you must like it. What if you’re really good at journalism? You like taking pictures. You like writing. It’s a no-brainer. Wouldn’t it be fun to try it out and see?”
I wince. “Trina, I know you’re on a mission to try everything until you find your true passion, but I’m not. I have to be sure.”
“Oh pooh. There’s so much out there to do, why limit yourself ? Though I’m pretty sure I’ve found my thing. I’m going to be a fashion reporter for Vogue or Cosmopolitan. Won’t that be killer?”
I say nothing as Trina starts doing jumping jacks and gestures at me to take pictures. No point in telling Trina I doubt this fashion blog will last more than a month. She is always so happy when she first starts a project, why pop her bubble? I wish I could find something like that, something I was so excited about I wanted to do it every minute of the day. Even if it was only for a week, or a month.
“You can’t go to some hoity-toity fashion school, though,” I say. “We’re talking Emory, or GSU, right?”
“I would never leave my bestie behind,” she says, throwing her arms around me. “We promised we’d go to the same college no matter what, right? Oh, oh! I have an idea! We’ll go to the same school as Chaz. Yes!” She pumps her small fist.
I hug her
back. “Crazy girl. So tell me about Chaz, already.”
She hops onto the hood of the car and sits with her elbow resting on her knee. “Ooh, Erin, he is so cute, don’t you think? We’ve been talking in Visual Arts, but, you know, just kinda ‘Hi’ and, ‘Nice painting of that flower vase.’ And then yesterday, out of the blue, he said he had a place he thought I’d like to see. Wait a minute!” She jumps off the car and grabs my arm. “It’s a date, right? Maybe he meant as friends? Oh, I’m such an idiot. Of course he meant as friends.” She starts pulling at her hair and I put my hand out to stop her.
“Trina. Either way, he asked you out, right? See where it goes.”
“Well, as long as you go, it’ll be okay,” she says. “Dorkster Twins activate, right?” We bump fists and pack up.
She’s bummed though, and we don’t say much else.
It’s almost six o’clock and Mom’s still not home. Laptop and books are spread across my desk as I try to work on physics. It’s not my favorite subject. Actually, if Newton were still alive, and I ever met him, my hope would be that it would be on a dark road, with me in a speeding car. How’s that for testing speed and velocity, Mr. Newton?
After a while, I even turn off Netflix so I can concentrate, but I find myself staring at the picture of my dad on the wall above my desk. He’s standing beside the red plane, the one I remember from when I was a kid. The wind must have been blowing pretty hard, because the dark, curly scraps of his hair are standing on end. How long before he died was that picture taken? I have no idea. Mom and I rarely talk about Dad. The only clear memories I have of him are the times he took me up in his plane, which I adored. I was fearless at six.
I hear the front door open and abandon physics to go meet Mom.
She’s forgotten to take off her lab coat at work again, and there is a big green patch of spilled who-knows-what down her left boob. She’s a marine biologist, and is currently working on algae that eat waste, i.e., poop.
