by Lisa Tucker
“I just meant that you’ve never been the mother of a teenager.” Her mother’s voice sounded whiny. “I can say that, can’t I?”
“I’m feeling very tired,” Courtney said. “I’m sorry.” She opened the screen door and walked out on the front porch. It was almost dark, just a whisper of pink and orange was visible behind the trees. She looked up and down her block, but everything seemed slightly off, like she no longer belonged here, though she’d lived in the same house for years. This time of day always had that effect, and her mother’s presence certainly didn’t help.
Liz joined Courtney on the porch. “Fine, I’ll leave. I didn’t mean to upset you.” She kissed her lightly on the cheek. “You might want to think about whether you’re being too sensitive. You let yourself get upset about the most trivial things, darling. I wish you would get in touch with your inner warrior.”
“I’ll think about it,” Courtney said, and then she said good-bye and went back inside, shut the door behind her, and bolted the lock.
NINETEEN
May 9
Dear Mother,
Nicole is getting married. That’s the big news from Summerland, Missouri, USA, Universe, Mind of God. You wouldn’t believe how happy my stepmother is about this. As my dad told her, she seems happier than Nicole does, but he took it back when she frowned and said he didn’t understand because he wasn’t a mother. I’m not in the wedding, because Nicole already has Natalie and four good friends to be bridesmaids and because, honestly, no one knows if I’d be able to do it. I’m glad I don’t have to try. Standing up for that long in the hot church sounds exhausting. I don’t have to go to my graduation, either, which I’m very glad about. Principal Yager didn’t seem to care when I handed back my invitation, but he and I haven’t gotten along so well since that whole scratch-the-homophobe-and-get-suspended thing.
The second news here is about you. About a month ago, I started searching for you on the web. I’m not going to talk about what I’ve found yet—I don’t want to jinx it—but I really think I’m getting somewhere. At least I can open my laptop and find something other than invitations to join groups on Facebook like “High School Students for Tax Reform” and “Christians Who Date But Wait.”
Which reminds me, I have to tell you that I’m not a virgin anymore. Last December, I slept with some junior I barely knew in the parking lot of Burger King. It was after I hurt myself, when I was in what my shrink calls my “breakdown phase.” I hope you’re not a super Christian like my stepmother, because she would be very disappointed if she knew—disappointed for my future husband, that is, assuming I have one. Good men like to marry virgins, she always says, ignoring the fact that when my dad married her, she had two kids. I would be shocked if either of her daughters is a virgin, but hey, they’d probably be shocked to know I’m not. I’ve still never had a boyfriend, but I don’t think anybody expects me to now that I don’t even have any friends.
I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m having a good old pity party here, because I’m really not. Today was a beautiful day in Summerland. I snuck out to the field by the woods after church and discovered the purple prairie clover was blooming and the two dogwood trees were bursting with white flowers. When I came home, I sat in the kitchen and ate a few bites of the most delicious banana frozen custard while I worked on a crossword puzzle. My dad and stepmother were over at Nicole and Natalie’s apartment, having dinner and talking about the upcoming wedding. They didn’t say one word about me refusing to go. It was an excellent day.
So, why ruin it by telling you the rest of the story of my seventeenth birthday? Because I figured something out this week that’s important. Now that I actually have some hope for the future because of my search for you, I really don’t want to die. I say that because I’m starting to worry I might die, like the doctor said. Not my psych doc, who continues to believe in me, though it’s been months, but the other doc who stitched up my little finger after I cut it on the top of a tuna can. “It would have stopped bleeding on its own if you weren’t sick,” he said. Then the death threat, and a mean look, and a question: “Do you realize what you’re doing, young lady?”
Well, no, of course I don’t. I mean, I’m only seventeen and I’m pretty messed up. Why’d you become a doctor if you hate sick people? Are you trying to be the world’s most craptacular asshole?
Sorry about the cursing. I hardly ever curse, but I just can’t imagine saying something like that to a sick teenager. And like I said, I no longer have the stories so I can’t say the poor doc just found out that his wife is sleeping with her trainer, or his mother has cancer, or his son has autism. I don’t know the man at all. I no longer pretend to know anything other than what happened. The impulse to know why is gone, leaving a gaping hole in my understanding of life.
And it all happened on September 14. So finally, I’m just going to blurt it out and be done with it. Sorry it’s taken so long. That is, I will be sorry, if you end up reading this, which I really hope you do.
I went to Ian’s party. When I walked in, the music was cranked up so loud it felt like Lil Wayne’s voice was vibrating in my head. There were dozens of people there, which surprised me, but I’d never been to one of these popular kid parties before. Many of the guys were in the kitchen. I was so nervous when I caught a glimpse of Ian standing by the refrigerator that I walked the other way, down the hall. I was wishing I’d asked Renee if I could come with her. It was weird being alone when everybody else was talking to someone.
I walked past a few bedrooms and a bathroom before I got to a large den, probably Ian’s father’s office. His dad worked at home doing some kind of stock market thing. My stepmother was always asking me if they’d lost a lot of money when the market crashed. How would I know? All of the furniture had been pushed against the wall, but the floor lamps had been adjusted so the center of the room was flooded with light. Four or five people had their cell phones out and two kids had expensive-looking digital cameras. They were all taking pictures of the girl standing in the center.
It was Marcella Alvarez, a junior, who was relatively new in town—meaning she’d lived here for a few years, rather than all her life like the rest of us. She was smiling and striking poses, pursing her lips, letting her T-shirt fall down to expose her shoulders, hiking up her shorts to expose her thighs. It reminded me of those fashion shoots in movies, except that Marcella was on her crutches, as always, and it took her longer to change positions.
I wanted to walk the other way, but I just stood there, staring at this bizarre scene. The very same kids who were taking pictures of Marcella now had called her a moron all last year. She is actually smarter than most of them, but she has cerebral palsy. I couldn’t imagine what had happened over the summer to change her into a popular girl. If that’s what she was. She certainly seemed comfortable letting them do this to her. She was laughing at everything. It didn’t occur to me that she might have been drinking. I was so stupidly innocent that I’d never even seen a drunk person except on TV. And Marcella’s family went to the same church my family did. She was in youth group with me. She’d signed the same “no alcohol, no drugs, no sex” pledge I had.
One of the people using a digital camera was Jon Rubitch, whose face, according to Kevin, should be the icon for stupidity. He was whistling and egging on Marcella, but so was everybody else, including Devon Wheeler, the other person with a fancy digital camera, who was like the queen of the popular girls. A lot of the geek/dork population found Devon scary, but she sounded so friendly: “Oh my god, Marcella, you look really pretty. Hold it just like that, k?”
The thing is, Marcella is pretty. I’ve always thought so, I just didn’t think people like Jon Rubitch and Devon Wheeler could see past her disability. But it wasn’t their fault—according to me, anyway. A long time ago, I had made up stories that explained why they were mean: Jon must have accidentally killed someone, a little brother or a
little sister most likely, and Devon had been raped by her Uncle Timmy. She liked to brag about Uncle Timmy because he drove her around in his BMW. Why would a grown-up call himself Timmy unless he was some kind of perv?
I was still in the doorway when Renee came up behind me. “What are you doing here?”
I turned around and there was my former best friend. She looked amazing, as always. She was wearing a white tube top and jeans, and her long black hair was so shiny it twinkled. “Um, you invited me?”
“I told you to come at 10:30. It’s not even 10:15!”
“I’m sorry.” She was right. I was so excited I’d forgotten what time she said as soon as I hung up. “Oh well. Everyone else seems to have come early, you know?”
She pushed past me and went over to Devon. They whispered back and forth for a minute. Then Devon turned to Marcella, “Time to go home now.”
“But you said—”
“Even Cinderella had to leave at midnight,” Devon said. All of the people in the room laughed hysterically. I was totally confused.
Marcella started to walk out of the room. When she came up to me, I asked her if she was all right.
“Yeah.” Her eyes were looking down at her crutches. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”
She smelled like alcohol, but I said, “It’s not your fault.” I was sure of that, even though I didn’t understand what was going on.
She disappeared down the hall. I don’t know what happened to her after that. I guess she left the party.
I was still thinking about Marcella when Devon came over to me, took my hand, and pulled me into the room. I’d never even spoken to her before. I was surprised how soft her hand felt, like the skin of a baby.
The lights were too bright. I wanted to get away from her, but she asked me if I wanted some water, and before I could say yes or no, she handed me a plastic cup of what was definitely not water. I took one sip and spit it out. Of course everyone thought that was hilarious. I could feel my cheeks get hot.
“It’s your turn to be our model,” Devon said, smiling. Her teeth had been capped. They were big and so white. “Are you ready?”
“I don’t want to,” I said, and turned to leave.
The next thing I knew, a sophomore girl named Angel grabbed my wrist. Jon grabbed my other arm. They pulled me into the center of the room.
For a split second, I thought of yelling for Ian to help me. Since he liked me, right? Oh the stupidity, it burns.
I was thrashing and trying to get away when Devon picked up her camera. I yelled at her to stop and told them I would have them all arrested for assault. “Holding me against my will is illegal!”
Devon looked at Renee, who laughed. “She won’t do it. She’s a total baby who cries all the time about her mommy leaving.”
It’s not true, Mother. Up until that night, I’d cried about you only a dozen or so times in my entire life. Unfortunately, a few of those times had been with Renee, who was, after all, my best friend for ten years. Even more unfortunately, I started crying then. I looked at Renee and mouthed, “Please,” but she turned her face to Devon.
Devon took pictures of my face, my shirt, my waist, and lots of pictures of my thighs. I felt sure that every inch of cellulite was being photo-documented, and I cursed the short black skirt and myself for wearing it. I thought about my stepmother saying, “Look how cute,” and wondered how she could like these slutty clothes and at the same time hold her Virgins First policy. But mostly I thought about Renee. When they finally let me go after pronouncing me “lame” and “no fun,” I moved to the doorway, but then I turned around and walked straight over to her. I had to know.
She didn’t answer. I repeated the question. My voice was becoming loud. “Why did you do this to me?”
“Shut up,” she hissed.
“Tell me why!”
When Jon and Devon decided to go to the kitchen for more alcohol, the rest of the room filed out after them. Everyone except Renee and me.
“OK, fine.” She exhaled loudly. “Devon told us each to pick someone. I picked you.”
Of course Devon had put her up to it, I already knew that. And Renee must have picked me because she knew I was the one person who wouldn’t try to retaliate against her in any way. So picking me would be safe. Mean but safe.
“I guess I understand,” I said. It sounds crazy, but I was really trying to. “It makes sense in a sad kind of way, but you’re better than that, you know?”
“Oh god, not this again!” She burst out laughing. “You’ve always been so pathetic with your make-believe reasons why everyone does everything. As if a retard like you would have any idea.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “You want to know why I did it? Because it’s fun to screw with losers. There’s your big why, moron.”
She didn’t give me a chance to speak before she left the room, but it didn’t matter. I had nothing else to say. When I got home, I told my dad that I’d left early because the party was boring. Then I waited until he and my stepmother were asleep and slipped out onto the patio. I sat on the lounge chair in my bathrobe all night, listening to the crickets and staring at the moon. The annoying yellow bug light on our neighbor’s back porch made me wonder if invisible insects were climbing up the lounge chair legs and burrowing in my skin. But I wouldn’t say I was worried about it. For the first time in my life, it was like I had no feelings.
By noon the next day, half the school had linked to the Facebook page with a total of eighty-nine photographs of Gracie, Marcella, Megan, and me. The caption was “EPIC FAIL. These losers think Ian wants THEM.”
The page was taken down when someone’s mother complained, but not before all the comments, over three hundred the one time I dared to look. Most were of the short LMAO variety, but there was a lot of really ugly stuff, too. I guess I was lucky in a way. Most of the comments didn’t single me out, and those that did weren’t nearly as horrible as what they said about the other girls:
She’s a little chunky, but I’d do her.
Vomiting a little bit in my mouth over all of ’em but not as much over the last one.
On Monday when I went back to school, several kids came up to me and whispered that I didn’t belong there. But none of the other girls belonged there, either. That’s what I kept saying. When no one would listen . . . I guess you could say I went crazy. It seems as good a word as any for what happened. I just couldn’t accept the world becoming what it had always been.
Maybe I’m still crazy, I’m not sure, but at least I’m not hopeless anymore. For the first time in a long time, I want to get up in the morning. Searching for you has given me something to do and something I really want, a goal, as the doc always says I need, though he means the usual stuff like getting into a good college. I haven’t told him what I’m up to, and not only because I have a feeling he’d disapprove. I can be really superstitious, and now that I’m getting closer, I’m afraid to do anything that might mess up my chances of being lucky enough to actually find you.
I do have one more thing I want to say. It’s not about what happened at school, but about all those stories I made up about you. I never told anybody how the stories ended, not even the doc, though I’m sure he’d think it means something that all the stories ended pretty much the same way.
You would get over your amnesia or escape from the cabin in Canada or be finished with your rehabilitation in Florida, and then you would hurry to a train station. You would get on board and sit down in a window seat, clutching your ticket in your hand. I could always see the ticket so clearly: it would be light blue and stamped in black, Summerland, Missouri. Sometimes I could see your face, at least the way I remember it from when you brought me the turtle and puzzle when I was four. Most of the time I just saw your long brown hair.
I know it sounds weird that you always took a train, when we
don’t have a train station in this town or even any track. I never really understood why I kept imagining it that way, because I knew it was impossible. But that’s how the stories always ended. That’s how you came back to me.
TWENTY
Courtney’s mother had insisted that they meet in the city. It was the second week of June, a Wednesday, and Liz had a dance class in the afternoon, but she claimed she had something very important to discuss first. Courtney tried, “Just tell me,” but her mother said it couldn’t be handled on the phone. “You won’t believe me if I don’t give you the evidence.”
A few hours later, they were settled on a bench at Washington Square Park, which was right around the corner from the dance studio. Courtney was wearing her usual baggy jeans and a T-shirt; her mother was in leggings and a white silk shirt with pearl buttons. Liz was sitting up straight, watching a group of kids throwing Frisbees, while Courtney was hunched over, staring at a death certificate her mother had forced into her hands. The woman’s name was Harmony Meers. She’d died in a car accident in California in 1996.
“Who is she?”
“The real Amy Callahan.”
“That’s impossible,” Courtney mumbled, but she was nervously twisting the ends of her hair, knowing Liz had hired a private investigator. The last time Liz had done this, when Courtney was dating a man her mother didn’t trust, it turned out that the man was not only married but also behind on his child support payments from another marriage, unemployed, and recently bankrupt. He’d told Courtney he was single, of course, but he’d also bragged about being part of a team that had created Flash Player.
“Amy Callahan changed her name when she moved to California.” Liz opened up a thin brown envelope and handed Courtney the investigator’s report. “It’s all explained here. And before you ask, he assured me that David’s wife doesn’t have any other relatives named Amy. This has to be the person your correspondent is pretending to be.”
