by Elly Swartz
Hannah nods.
I snap a few photos of her outside her house holding the Color Me Bracelets sign I made for her with my stencil kit. The wind’s blowing, and her bangs fly in the breeze. We move inside to her dad’s office. Hannah tapes the poster to the wall behind her dad’s black vinyl chair, and then sits at his desk looking very businesslike while I take a few more pictures.
Her smile drops on the last click. She’s looking down at the desk.
“Doesn’t E. B. have some rule against frowning?”
She holds up a letter addressed to her dad. It’s another job rejection.
“I don’t want to move.”
I think about Canada and Mom and how perfect doesn’t travel well.
“I know,” is all I can think to say. Then I show her my favorite photo of her from today. The first one of her sitting in the leather chair at the big wooden desk. Her braces are hidden, her hair is tame, and the sign is straight.
I close the office door when we leave. Hannah attaches the pic to the application file and answers the rest of the questions. She dumps her ziplock baggie on the bed and we realize she still doesn’t have enough money for the contest entrance fee.
“I gave you all the money I have from babysitting,” I say, counting the number of boxes on her wallpaper even though I know there are one hundred forty-six.
“What if I use Mrs. Melvin’s fifty for the contest fee and write her an IOU?” Hannah doesn’t wait for me to say something. “It’s not like I’d be stealing or anything. I mean, she gave me the money.”
“She gave you some of the money for sure, but maybe not all of the money.”
“But maybe she did.”
“Maybe. So just ask her,” I say like a take-charge kind of girl who knows how to fix a problem. A girl nothing like the real me.
30
the kiss
WHEN HANNAH AND I get to Mac’s house, his mom’s standing at the door of the basement with an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips. “Trying to quit,” she says as we pass.
I hold my breath and pray the basement is clean.
As I step down the stairs, the numbers find me again. 4, 8, 12, 16. It’s hard to count and act and smile and talk.
Nate’s already here. Bridgett pulls me to the side of the room as soon as I’m downstairs and whispers, “That Nate kid is totally cute. Will you introduce me?”
20, 24.
“He was at our lunch table the other day,” I say.
“Everyone was at our lunch table.”
“Okay, I get it.”
I walk over to Nate. He does look good. Green tee. Green eyes. Dimple. “Nate, this is Bridgett, Bridgett—Nate.”
When I turn around, I see Jared over by the chips and Hannah on the other side of the room. I happily stand alone with my numbers—28, 32, 36, 40—until I hear, “Grape or cream soda?”
I grab the cream soda from Hannah and notice the wallpaper on the far right corner of the wall is peeling. 44, 48, 52, 56.
“Jared’s here,” I tell her, pointing over by the chips. “You should go talk to him.”
She shrugs. Hannah and I go through two sodas each before Greg comes over. He wants to know if we think the Red Sox will win the World Series this year.
“Of course,” I say.
“No way,” Ryan says. He grew up in New York. Last year, he did his Person in History report on Derek Jeter.
We debate the pitching and batting rotation. Greg and I are in agreement that this is the year the Sox will win it all.
“What do you think?” I ask Hannah. She’s a huge Sox fan, but has said nothing for most of the conversation.
“Um, yeah. Sox will win it all.” Fake smile.
I give her a what’s-going-on? look, but she ignores it.
Ryan grabs the bowl of chips, and we all move to the couch. It’s clean and empty. Until Tim Conway and “The Beef” plunk down next to me. The floral couch fits four kids or two linemen comfortably. But not four kids and two linemen. 60, 64, 68, 72.
When I get up, I can see Nate and Bridgett talking outside through the screen door. One of my favorite songs comes on. I’m about to see if Hannah wants to dance when Mac comes over and just stands next to me. Says nothing. The numbers dash in my brain. 76, 80, 84, 88, 92, 96. Count and smile. Count and smile. I scratch hard at a cut on my ankle. 100, 104. Kind of wish he’d say something. Anything.
“I’ve got to go ask Hannah something,” I finally say.
Half true. I can tell Hannah wants to leave; she keeps twirling her hair and twisting her ring around her finger.
Before I can get to her, Bridgett comes back inside. And she’s smiling. I barely recognize her. B doesn’t really do happy.
“You may need to write my obituary,” she says, smile still firmly planted on her face.
“I don’t want to state the obvious, but you seem to be breathing.” 108, 112.
“I might die from kissing him,” she says.
“You kissed Nate?”
“More than once.”
Hannah interrupts. “We need to talk.”
“Right now?” I ask. 116, 120.
She nods. I leave Grinning Bridgett and follow Hannah into the bathroom. Coconut air freshener with a rust-stained rim. Streaked-mirrored medicine cabinet. Lip of the linoleum flooring peeling. I gag back the overwhelming need to puke and decide to toss out the idea of a mouthwash search. The numbers tumble and I have to begin again. 4, 8.
“We need to talk in here?” I ask. “Can’t we do this somewhere else? Anywhere else?”
“No.” Hannah locks the door behind us. She closes the lid of the toilet and sits down. I stand. No sense trying to figure out what’s clean in here. 12, 16.
My phone sings the blues—twenty-seven days until Mom’s original-now-maybe return.
“What’s that?” Hannah asks.
“Nothing,” I say as I tuck my phone back into my pocket. “What do you need to talk about that we have to do it right now in the bathroom?” I ask.
“I can’t believe you.”
I look around. “What did I do?” 20, 24.
“You introduced Nate and Bridgett.”
“Well, actually they sort of met at school. I just reintroduced them. What’s the big deal?”
Hannah looks annoyed. Then I realize the problem. She likes Nate.
“Wait a minute. I thought you liked Jared.” 28, 32, 36, 40.
“I did, but not anymore,” Hannah confesses as she picks up the who-knows-how-many-people-have-used-it brush.
I swallow my desire to grab the brush and flush it down the toilet. “You should’ve told me about Nate.”
“Does she like him?” Hannah asks.
I see B’s grin seared in my mind. “Don’t know for sure.” Not exactly true, but I don’t want to hurt Hannah. I tighten my hair clip. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you liked him. I’ll talk to Bridgett.” I wait for her to seem relieved or at least less annoyed, but she doesn’t. “Can we leave the bathroom now?” I ask. It’s getting harder to count and talk. 44, 48, 52, 56.
“No.”
“Look, I didn’t know,” I repeat.
“It’s not that. Well, not just that.” She looks at me like she’s trying to unravel the Caesar cipher encryption. “What’s going on with you?”
31
the postings of lynx lomain
THERE’S A LOUD KNOCK on the door. Ryan needs the bathroom. Something about three grape sodas in need of an exit plan.
Hannah stares at me, waiting for my answer, but gives up when Ryan’s knocking turns into a continuous banging.
After that, we leave the bathroom and the party. The car ride’s quiet; Hannah’s mad is wedged between us. When I get home, I dial Mom. No answer. I dial three more times, just to be sure I dialed right. Still no answer. I wish she was here. Maybe she would know what’s wrong with me. The numbers find me. 4, 8. I spray Mom’s perfume and open the door of her closet. Kate’s already sitting on the floor. Crying. Surro
unded by crumpled tissues. The last time I saw Kate’s sadness leak out was when she was in fourth grade and broke her leg skiing. We stare at each other like a game of chicken.
“What do you want?” she asks, blowing her nose.
“Nothing.” 12, 16. I want to be normal.
Technically, we’re still fighting about the necklaces, but I can’t leave her like this. I sit down next to her and she moves in closer to me. The mad slips behind the leaky sadness.
“What’s wrong?” I can’t imagine what could bring her to a twenty-tissue count. 20, 24.
“Kevin broke up with me.” Her mascara trails down her cheeks. She grabs another tissue and thankfully drags the pile of dirty ones to her other side.
“I’m really sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. I’ve never had a real boyfriend. Matt in fifth grade doesn’t count. It lasted two weeks and I ended it when he came in smelling like old cheese. “He’s an idiot.” 28, 32.
A smile escapes under a newly drenched tissue. “Thanks.”
She braids my hair and I tell her the long list of stuff that annoys me about Kevin. 36, 40.
We sit like that for a while, then she says, “I’m sorry I yelled about the necklaces.”
“I’m sorry I yelled, too, and called you all sorts of terrible names.”
“You did?”
Then I smile and she laughs.
“But I don’t get why you took them from Mom.” I need to understand this. None of it makes sense to me. “We made them together. For her.”
“We did. But, Mol, I didn’t take them from her. She left them here.”
The air drains out of my lungs.
Kate holds my hand. “I found them in the back of the closet the first time I came in here after she left. They were on the floor. I didn’t want you to find them. I knew her leaving them would make you sad. So I took them and put them away in my room.”
After a while, Kevin’s signature ringtone blasts in the closet. Immediately, I know I’m going to regret telling Kate all those things about Kevin. I leave Kate in the closet and go to my room.
How could Mom have left the necklaces behind? Everything feels upside down. Nothing makes sense. I log on to Facebook as Lynx. I take off my blue bracelet and lay it on my nightstand. Be brave. Write something.
LYNX: New here. Can’t stop counting. Or organizing. Or worrying that my little brother is going to die. It’s getting harder to hide. Help.
I hold my breath. Not sure what I even want to happen.
PARKER RAY: Hi newbie. Yeah I do that. Count by 11s.
LYNX: Hate disorder. Hate dirt. Hate odd numbers. Hate that all that matters. So tired of hating.
Maria F. joins in.
MARIA F: Hey there. I hate germs. And germs. And germs. And that I hate germs.
This goes on with Parker Ray and Maria F. and me until Dad walks in. I slam my computer shut. Facebook is strictly off-limits. Another tip he got from those parenting magazines.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s late. I’m heading to sleep. You need to do the same.”
I nod. As if that can happen before I straighten my figurines, my socks, my everything.
When the door closes, I text and call Hannah, but she ignores both. I know she’s mad about the Bridgett-Nate thing and my unconvincing rendition of everything is fine. But it’s not my fault. I didn’t even know she liked Nate. As for the other thing, Fake Molly obviously needs to sharpen her acting skills.
I check on Ian in his room. He’s breathing and sleeping, despite Spider scurrying around his cage, building a huge shavings pile in the right corner. I leave and finally fall into a fitful night’s sleep.
When I wake on Sunday, my dreams slip fast from my thoughts. I check my phone. Still nothing from Hannah. I know she’s upset about Nate. So I grab a protein bar and walk over to Hannah’s to apologize again. In person. When I get there, her dad’s in the kitchen baking an apple crisp. The kitchen smells like my own kitchen used to a long time ago.
“Hannah’s working on the business in the garage.”
“Thanks, Mr. Levine. Smells great.” He tells me it’ll be ready in thirty minutes, so I should stick around.
I open the door to the garage. Hannah’s sitting on the floor, her back to me. She doesn’t move.
“Hi.” I walk in, the real me tucked safely away under layers of lies. My stomach flips.
Hannah says nothing.
The smell of week-old trash smacks me in the face. Still don’t understand why Hannah set her business up in the garage.
“Look, I didn’t know you liked Nate.” I slowly move around to see her face. I want to know if she has her angry eyebrows on. “Your dad said you were—”
I stop talking. My eyes widen.
Hannah’s sitting on the cement floor with Lynx Lomain’s Facebook page open.
All. My. Posts. Totally. Visible.
My breath catches somewhere deep in my throat and hives dance all over my neck.
The numbers pour out. 4, 8, 12, 16.
She looks up at me. A tear rolls off her chin and lands on her lap.
My world tumbles. Fast. I feel like the last victim in Masked Horror Night when she realizes it was actually her best friend who’s killed everyone. “What. Are. You. Doing?” It comes out low and garbled and through gritted teeth. The anger bursting from the place Gerry the Yogi tells us to find our Zen. My worry ticks. 20, 24, 28, 32. Is Ian really okay? Maybe I should call Dad.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I knew there was something wrong no matter how many times you told me everything was fine. I remembered Lynx and thought maybe you’d post something as her. You know, like what’s going on with you.”
I stare at her. No one knew I was Lynx except Hannah. No one knew my password. Not even Hannah. But she knows me. Too well.
I can’t believe she’s still talking. “It took me a few tries to get the password: lemonadeonlaurellane. But it was so easy, I figured you actually wanted me to know. I thought this was your way of telling me.”
She’s smiling. So proud of herself. She stands up and reaches for my hands. “Please talk to me.”
My whole body is in shock. I yank my hands away from hers and scream DON’T with my eyes. I text Dad—
—hit Send, and stuff my hands into my pockets. 36, 40.
She moves closer to me.
I step back.
Keep.
Your.
Distance.
“Who’s Parker Ray? What’s the matter with Ian? And what are you counting? I mean, I’m with you all the time and don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s going on?”
My thoughts jumble. I say nothing. 44, 48, 52, 56.
She continues in a soft voice, “I just want to help.”
My anger grips my entire body. “This is how you help me? You hack into my account? Sneak around my life? Read my private stuff?”
I stare at my phone. No reply from Dad.
“Only because I was, I mean, am, um, worried about you. Please talk to me.”
“Talk to you! Not now. Not ever. You are not my friend. Friends don’t do what you did.” 60, 64, 68, 72. I focus on the pegboard and count the holes.
My phone buzzes. It’s from Dad. Ian’s spiked a fever.
32
longest stretch of mad
I HAVEN’T SPOKEN TO Hannah in twenty-eight hours. This is our longest stretch of mad. There’s no school today because of a teacher workshop, so I’m at Bridgett’s. Hiding. With her my stuff is well hidden. She doesn’t see me. The real me. I can’t face Hannah. She sees me and I’m not ready to be seen.
My phone buzzes. New message.
I don’t.
“So what did Hannah want when she yanked you away from me at Mac’s?” This is the third time Bridgett has asked.
“Nothing important.” Same answer.
Bridgett raises her right eyebrow. “You sure? Maybe she wanted to kiss Nate.”
She’s fishing for information. But
I won’t do that to Hannah. Even if I’m mad at her.
“You always say how great she is and that she’d do anything for you, but I don’t see it.”
I continue to flat iron my already straight hair.
“You’ve kind of been acting weird today. I mean, if you flat iron that one piece of hair again it’s going to fall out.” The numbers begin to tumble into my head.
She’s not supposed to notice me. That’s why I’m here. “I’m fine.” Fake smile.
“Okay.” Everything goes back into hiding.
There’s the Bridgett I know. Totally unseeing.
She tells me again everything that happened with Nate at Mac’s party. Then she says, “Mrs. Zelda Zane, died at the age of seventy-five, leaving a husband of fifty years, three children, five grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren. Zelda and her husband, Greer, worked together in the film production company they started forty years ago. They were known for their films about tormented souls.”
She keeps reading, but I stop listening. I think about the movie Zelda and Greer could make about my life. How would it end?
“The Holocaust, the Great Depression, and world hunger were the backdrops for a number of their films.” Bridgett looks up from the article. “You see, we need to be someone to have people remember us when we die.”
“Why?” I’m tired, and tired of hearing about dead people. Not sure I want anyone to remember the real me. I glance over at the pumpkin muffin crumbs on the counter. “Why do you care so much about dead people and their obituaries?” I’ve asked this question before and have never really gotten an answer.
But today’s different. Bridgett folds the newspaper obit of Mrs. Zelda Zane so that it’s face-up. “My dad.”
Huh? She’s never talked about him. “What about him?”
“He died,” she whispers.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” I knew her dad left them, and I knew she and her mom moved here from New Jersey, but I didn’t know anything else.
“It was a long time ago. He left my mom and me and moved to Florida about five years ago. I was sort of okay with it. I mean, they fought all the time anyway, so I figured at least the fighting would stop and I’d get to go to Disney for all of my school vacations.”
