by Anne Dayton
“I still believe God is out there.” Ben leans forward and points up at the night sky. “I’m just not so sure he’s in there.” He tilts his head back toward the youth room again. “I’ve never felt more judged anywhere than I have these past few months in ‘God’s family.’ ”
I rest my hand on the wall and rub my finger along the grooves in the cracked shingle. It feels solid and natural.
“Come on.” I reach out and grab Ben’s arm. I start to pull on his arm, but his feet don’t budge. “We can’t let them do this. Let’s go in there for Asha. We’ll do it together.”
He rolls his eyes and digs his shoe into the soft muck of the earth. “They don’t want me in there anyway. Me or Asha. No one from our messy family.”
I sigh and peer through the window again. A couple of freshmen girls in the back row are giggling at something on their phones while Fritz is talking. A group of guys is sprawled out on the couches near the front of the room. I have no doubt that Ben is right, actually. These people don’t want ugliness or messiness traipsing into the middle of their church and ruining an otherwise perfect evening. But then off to the right, near the front, I catch a glimpse of red hair. Zoe. She’s looking toward the door, biting her lip, and I know, in a way I could never explain, that she’s looking for me. Waiting for me to walk in. Worried that something happened to me.
“My friends and I want you in there. You’re welcome with us.” I pull his arm again and take a step toward the door. “And after everything we’ve been through this year, I want to be here for you.”
“I forgave you, Riley. I really did. But you chose him, remember?” He takes a deep breath. “I’ll figure this out on my own.”
I watch Zoe for a second more. She turns back around and leans in to whisper something to Christine, who sits up straight and starts to look around the room.
“I hope we can be friends again someday.” I take a few steps to the door and hold the handle, listening for a moment, praying that he’ll follow me, but he doesn’t. I hear him walk away and turn to see him climb into his car.
I contemplate giving up and going home too. Almost nothing sounds better than pulling the covers over my head and trying to forget about everything, but Michael’s already in there. Plus, if there’s some way to help Ben, I’m going to need the Miracle Girls. And I’m going to need one more thing too. I pull on the handle. Who knows, maybe I’ll finally get through to God at church of all places.
39
I sigh and push my duvet back. Obviously I’m not getting to sleep anytime soon. I stumble across the cold hardwood floor, bleary-eyed, and move my mouse. My screen comes to life. I type Mom’s password into her e-mail account and shut my eyes while it loads. “Please, please, please.”
I synced Mom’s e-mail account to my phone, and I’ve been watching her inbox like a hawk all day, but doctors keep weird hours, and he could have written me back tonight. Good thing Mom has the computer skills of a grandma or this plan would never work. Her inbox finally loads, and I scan her new messages quickly. Nothing from Dr. Matt.
I close her e-mail account and open up Gmail. I delete a few junk-mail messages, get rid of a gazillion Facebook updates, and then my eyes catch an e-mail from Ana. My stomach drops. I haven’t heard from her in days.
My Miracles,
By now you’ve probably figured out that Maria has passed away. I meant to take a few moments right away to tell you it had happened and that I was doing okay, but the words wouldn’t come. I hope it’s better late than never.
On Tuesday, Maria was feverish and hallucinating. It was hard to watch her fight against the disease. Her cough was scary and chilling—and I probably should have known then that she was passing away.
At noon, she woke up suddenly and asked for a glass of water. After a few ice cubes and a little soup, she laid back, shut her eyes, and took my hand.
“Anita,” she said. “Talk to me about home.”
I started telling her things, stupid little things to help her relax. I told her about my writing class and how the teacher really encouraged me. I told her all about Mom’s hideous attempt at redecorating our house and how Papá’s law practice is booming. I talked about you guys, and I mentioned all the pressure we’re under and how it feels more important than ever to stick together. And we talked about Dave, how long ago all that seems now and how excited I am about next year, being on my own and trying out my wings. I even told her about my secret dreams for the future, some half-formed ideas I’ve been having lately, things I haven’t been able to tell anyone yet. Yes, even you guys.
Around dusk she called for Graciella and the rest of her family to gather around. We all grabbed a hand or a foot or an arm or a leg, and the priest began to pray. It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. The sun spilling across her bed, the whispered prayers in Spanish, the heads bowed and hands lifted over this mighty woman. And with all of us around her, she slipped away.
It’s been hard for me to let go, but her family has basically adopted me, and having them near me right now is exactly what I need. But I miss my Miracle Girls family too. I’ll be home in a few days, and I have so much to tell you guys. There are big changes afoot for me, but I want to discuss them in person. Please know for now that I am okay, that Maria is finally better, and that I love you. (Is that stupid to say? I’m not sure I ever had the guts to say it out loud, but suddenly, now, it feels important.)
Ana
I grab the box of tissues and blot the rivers of tears running down my cheeks. I was hanging on her every word without realizing it. Somehow she brought the whole scene to life, and I could almost feel the moment of Maria’s passing.
And then, slowly, so gradually I almost don’t notice it at first, I begin to pray. I beg God to hold up a lamp in the darkness and cast a little light down my path. I mumble my words in the silence of the still house, and for the first time in a long time this feels right. Someone or something out there seems to be listening.
40
Dear Mrs. McGee,
I was distressed to get your e-mail and would love to schedule an assessment of Michael ASAP. I’m afraid I’m traveling at the moment. Would next weekend work? I have an opening at 11:30 on Saturday. Let me know at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely,
Dr. Matthew Nguyen
My heart races, and I hit reply. Technically I told Mom I’d be working on my calculus homework when I left the dinner table, but I had to check to see if there was anything from Dr. Matt. I hate to do this to Mom and Dad, but I’ve got to figure out how to help Michael. They saw Dr. Matt’s recommendation, and they still brought Michael home. They heard Ms. Moore’s advice and didn’t listen to it. What I need right now is access to someone who understands the situation, someone who isn’t afraid to tell me the truth and help me help Michael.
I type out a reply, trying to write in Mom’s formal Realtor tone as I assure Dr. Matt that next Saturday is perfect. I’ll tell Mom and Dad that I’m taking Michael to the Academy of Sciences in San Francisco. He’s been dying to go. And once Dr. Matt sees Michael, he’ll have to go through with the assessment. That kid has an angelic face that could melt the hardest of hearts. I scan my message and decide to add a sentence about how the whole family appreciates his quick attention to the matter. I smile. That end part is brilliant. Mom loves to thank people for their “quick attention” to matters.
I click send and then erase the message from her sent folder. I doubt she even knows that she has a sent folder, but you can never be too careful. I log out of her account and tap my fingers on the keyboard.
What did Zoe say it was called? A gap year? I type that into Google and click on the first link. The site has all kinds of information about programs I can do all over the world. Kids like me are taking time off before college to build houses in Ecuador and learn Italian in Florence and work with elephants in the Congo. That could be cool. I click on a few links and try to imagine what it would be like to work with a
marine biologist in the Galápagos Islands. I like the water. But then I notice a tiny little number at the bottom of the screen, and my heart sinks. Well, not a tiny number. A giant number. These programs all cost thousands upon thousands of dollars. A few weeks ago I suggested a backpacking trip through Europe to Mom and Dad, and they made it pretty clear that their sponsorship of me ends the day I graduate from high school.
The image of Ana holding Maria’s hand flashes in front of my eyes.
Well, so what if they’re not going to financially support me. I can get a job and find an apartment and still do something meaningful with my year. I could help sick people. I could save up and hike to the top of Kilimanjaro. I could dig wells in developing nations. I could . . . do this thing with elephants.
No. No elephants.
I keep researching, and with each click of my mouse, I feel better and better. Click, click. Yes, the sound seems to say. Click, click. This is what you’re supposed to do. Take charge of your own future. Grow up, get over yourself, and use your talents. I lean back in my desk chair. See. Maybe I’m not going to college right away, but I’m going to do something better. Instead of burying my nose in a book, I’m going to use my time to make the world a better place.
I sit forward again, open Facebook, and start typing an update. Let’s see. What should I say? Finally figured it out. No, that’s not really right. On my way. Well, yes, but that doesn’t exactly convey the excitement I feel. Hmm. I’ll think about it.
I click over and approve a few new friends, not really looking at who they are, and then click over to my wall. Emma is updating her status every few minutes as she watches Gossip Girl, Ana is apparently eating calculus for dinner, tons of people have uploaded photos from an epic party on Saturday, and Ashley . . . What?
I lean in close to the screen and blink my eyes. Ashley’s message on my wall says, “Heard about what happened with T. I’m so sorry. Call me night or day if you need to talk.”
Need to talk? What on earth is she talking about now? I see that she’s online and IM her.
Riley
What’s up with the graffiti?
Ashley
Are you embarrassed? I’m sorry. I’ll take it down. Should have thought of that. Just wanted to say I was sorry.
Riley
WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?
Ashley
Oh.
Riley
Very close to pummeling you right now.
Ashley
I thought you knew.
Riley
KNEW WHAT?
I hold my breath, waiting for her to answer. Somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind, my brain keeps tossing up an answer, but I block it out, push it down so deep that I can’t really hear it.
Riley
I’m serious, Ash. You’ve got me scared. Please tell me what you’re talking about.
Ashley
Please, call Tom. This can’t come from me.
I close the Facebook tab, then click back to my e-mail to write the girls and ask if they’ve heard any fishy rumors about me. My heart races, my head jumping from one horrible scenario to another, skipping away from me. After a few lines my typing gets harder and harder until I’m banging on the keyboard and my message becomes an angry jumble of letters.
“Augrhe!”
I stand up suddenly, knocking my plastic IKEA chair onto the hardwood floor with a loud thwack. I dig through my jeans pockets looking for my car keys. It’s a school night, but who really cares anymore? I’m keeping my grades up without even trying.
I grab my purse off the bed and take a few steps toward the hall, then dash back into the bathroom to make sure I look at least somewhat sane. If I’m going to really do this, then I’m going to do it looking good. I brush my hair until it shines, slick on some lip gloss, and dab a little powder on my shiny forehead.
I walk down the hall and hear muffled angry voices coming from Mom and Dad’s room. Oh well, I’ll leave them a note. I grab the notepad Mom keeps on the kitchen counter and scrawl:
Back by 11 p.m., I promise.
—Supergirl
***
I park the car, slam the door shut, and begin marching toward Velo Rouge Cafe. I swing the door open, and my eyes immediately go to the small barista bar, but I don’t see him. Spinning slowly on my heels, I look from red booth to red booth until finally I spot the back of his head at a booth in the rear of the café.
As I storm back there, I have a moment of recognition about how stupid I’m about to look, like some silly high school girl, but there’s no turning back now. If one of his little “friends” wants to have a good laugh at my expense, let her.
“Can I talk to you?” My voice is high and thin. I angle my body away from the girl at the table, pretending she is nothing more than a speck of dust to me.
“Riley?”
“Now!” I cross my arms over my chest and dig my fingernails into my arms.
“I can’t right now.” He gestures at the curly-haired girl he’s sitting with, and now that I’m closer to her, I see that it’s Jen. On the table in front of her is a clipboard with the words Staff Schedule at the top. My face begins to burn red. “My break is in—”
“It’s okay, Tom.” Jen tucks a pen under the clipboard’s clasp and smiles at me. “Take your break early, and we’ll do this later.” I try to make eye contact with her to show her how much this means to me, but she’s checking something off her list. “But please, do this outside.”
“Thanks, Jen,” he calls after her. She walks away and inspects the condiments station. Tom turns back to me and starts to say something, then shuts his mouth firmly and walks to the front.
I follow after him, checking to see if anyone noticed, but everyone is too wrapped up in their own lives to care. Why doesn’t Tom seem surprised to see me here on a Wednesday night? Why isn’t he shocked at how mad I am?
Tom shoves his hands into his pockets and walks around the side of the building, past the cluttered bike rack. At the end, a lonely tire is locked to the metal, rusted and weather-beaten, the chain hanging onto something that doesn’t matter anymore. Tom leans back against the wall and drags his hands over his face.
I join him in the shadows and wait.
A car turns down the street, and for a moment Tom’s face is lit by the warm yellow beams. Even now he is insanely beautiful to me, so I turn away.
“Really? You’re not going to say something?” I almost don’t recognize my own voice.
“It seemed like you should start things off.” He’s angry, and that makes my pulse quicken. I take a step toward him.
“Me?” It dawns on me what he’s trying to do here. “So I guess you’re not sure exactly what I’ve heard.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Tom runs his fingers through his hair and scratches a few times. “What I know is that you showed up at my job tonight and annoyed my manager.”
“No.” I try to make eye contact, but he’s staring across the dark street at nothing. How long has it been going on? Was it only one girl? Or were there many? “I think you know more than that. You know it’d take something pretty big to make me do something like this.” Does everyone know? Have they been laughing behind my back all this time? How do I get him to admit it?
I drop my head, letting my hair hide my face, and hold my sides. “Tom.” I need to get him to let his guard down. “I know you’ve been cheating on me.” After I utter these words out loud, the weight of them hits me, and my head begins to spin.
“Rye.” He reaches out and touches my hair. I flinch like he’s hit me and take a step back. “I don’t know what you know or what you think you know, but it was only that one time.”
It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would to hear him admit it. I suppose I already knew on some level.
“It was a total mistake.” His voice cracks at the end.
And suddenly it dawns on me what that slight waver in his voice is—the one I used to think was
an endearing sign that he still got nervous around me. He’s lying. His voice wavers when he lies. He’s probably been lying the entire time we’ve been together.
I hold my head and stagger toward the sidewalk, stopping to press my face to the cool brick. The way he canceled on my homecoming; Jen’s smirk when I met him here last time; all those nights he missed his call with me; the over-the-top dates and gestures. Everything begins to fall into place, and I feel nauseated.
“Riley.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and nuzzles his face into my neck. He smells good, like freshly ground coffee beans and soap. I allow myself one last intoxicating breath of him. “I’m so sorry.”
It would be stupid to think I won’t miss this. In so many ways he’s the perfect guy for me: sexy, smart, kind. He’s the first guy I ever loved.
“I’m begging you to forgive me. I’ll do anything.” He massages my shoulder and keeps whispering reassurances in my ear.
But I know better. Tom is, well, it’s like Ana said: He’s my Kryptonite. But that doesn’t mean I have to keep letting him hurt me. I say a prayer for strength and feel emboldened with every silent word.
“Stop.” I shirk loose of Tom’s hand and turn to face him. “I want this to end, now.”
Tom’s eyes water in an almost-convincing way. “That’s crazy. We have something other people don’t. You’re going to throw it all away for one mistake?”
I hold up a finger. “It’s not once. I can see that as plain as day—just like I can see that you’re going to do it again.” I wait as a red-haired guy unlocks his bike and pops it off the rack, clearly hurrying to get away from the fighting couple. I take a few steps away from the café, toward the beckoning darkness of the sidewalk. “So in case it wasn’t already obvious, we’re done.” I head toward my car. Now that I’ve said what I came here to say, I just want to go home and climb into bed.
