by S. Walden
“Move,” Clara hissed at her sister once she approached the car. “I’m riding in the back.”
“Are you mad at me?” Beatrice asked.
“No, Beatrice. I’m not mad at you,” Clara snapped, but it was a lie, and she was sure that Beatrice knew it.
She climbed into the back of the car as Beatrice sat down tentatively in the front passenger seat. Beatrice looked over at Evan who shook his head slightly, then she mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key.
“Clara, are you comfortable back there?” Evan asked. He turned to face her, a playful smile on his lips, and she replied with a grunt. “All right then,” Evan said, chuckling as he started the car.
Evan asked Beatrice a flood of questions about school as he drove the girls to YoTreats. Beatrice answered happily enough, making sure to avoid any topic related to Clara. She knew she was in trouble, and she wished she could make Clara forgive her for being so outspoken. It wasn’t her fault she tried to tell Clara again and again. God made her that way.
“Oh, is that the case?” Clara had asked her months ago after she discovered that Beatrice told her best friend that their mother wouldn’t come out of her bedroom for three days straight because she was “sad.”
“That’s exactly the case, Clara,” Beatrice replied. “Exactly.”
“You told me you didn’t believe in God,” Clara said flatly. She crossed her arms over her chest and waited for an answer. She knew Beatrice would have one.
“Well . . . perhaps I was too quick with that decision. Perhaps God does exist. He would have to if he made me like this.”
Clara wanted to wring her sister’s neck. Instead she bent down until she was eye level with her. She made sure to emphasize every word. “Stop telling Angela about our business. Do you understand me?”
Beatrice nodded slowly. She crossed herself then scrunched up her face letting out a few pitiful whimpers.
“For God’s sake, Bea. Stop trying to make yourself cry. I don’t believe your contrition for a second,” Clara snapped. “And what’s with crossing yourself? You’re not even Catholic.”
Beatrice relaxed her face and looked up at her sister. “What’s ‘contrition’?”
“Regret. Remorse,” Clara explained.
“Contrition,” Beatrice said to herself. “Very romantic. I’ll have to remember that.”
“Remember this,” Clara warned. “Stop running your mouth or you’ll be sorry.”
“I’ll try, Clare-Bear. I’ll really try.”
Clara scowled, her brain split between remembering the “contrition” episode and listening to the conversation up front.
“You certainly have some lofty academic goals this year, Bea,” Evan said pulling into a vacant spot.
“Yes I do,” Beatrice replied. “But let me tell you something, Evan. I’ll achieve every one of them.”
Evan nodded and reached over to unbuckle her seatbelt. “This gets stuck a lot,” he explained when Beatrice tried to shove his hand aside to unbuckle herself. “And I know you’ll achieve them. You’re going to be our first female president.”
Beatrice’s eyes lit up, and she grinned like a little fiend. “Now there’s something to consider,” she said.
Clara had not spoken the entire car trip, and YoTreats was twenty minutes from her house. She sat miserably in the backseat wondering why she even agreed to go. She was angry at being humiliated by her sister and teased by a boy who knew nothing about her. She felt the unspoken, unwanted transfer of power, the giving over of her control to him, and she hated it. She was at his mercy emotionally, and she wanted to cry and scream because of it. He held her with a look, trapped her with his smile, pinned her with the low rumble of his voice. She didn’t like feeling her power slip away. Perhaps she never had it in the first place, she thought.
“Clara?” Evan asked. He had opened the car door for her and was waiting for her to exit.
“Sorry,” she replied tersely and scrambled out. He caught her arm and pulled her close. He looked over at Beatrice who had already walked into the shop.
“Don’t be mad,” he said softly.
“What makes you think I’m mad?” Clara asked. She tried to sound aloof, but Evan knew better.
“You didn’t say a word on the drive over here. You’re mad at your sister for being so direct, and you’re mad at me for engaging her.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Clara said, jerking her arm out of his grasp.
“Oh, get real,” Evan replied. “I told you I liked you. You said it was fine that I said that, but clearly it’s not.” He waited for her to answer.
“I . . . I’m confused. You shouldn’t have said it. Not in front of Beatrice,” she said. She was flustered, smoothing the front of her shirt for something to do.
“Why? Is she not supposed to know?” Evan asked.
“It’s the way you did it!” Clara blurted. “It was humiliating.”
Evan sighed. He watched as Clara nervously tucked her hair behind her ear. He wanted to do it for her. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. I was just teasing you, Clara.”
“I don’t like to be teased,” she replied hotly. She turned her face away. She imagined she sounded like a bratty child.
“I’m sorry,” Evan said. “I really am.”
Clara said nothing. She wouldn’t tell Evan what she really felt. She felt left out, like a child who wasn’t invited to play with the group at recess. She envied the rapport that developed so naturally and quickly between Evan and Beatrice. She wished she could be clever around him, but she was never the sister who had the words. Beatrice always had the words, and Clara felt like the stuttering, foolish older sister whom Beatrice had to spoon feed in private.
She felt caged in her social awkwardness. She searched wildly about for the key to her escape, but there wasn’t one. All she could do was look at Beatrice from behind the bars, watch the wise and clever girl do and say all the things she would never be able to but wished she could.
“Clara?” she heard Evan ask from far away. She snapped back to the present, looked at Evan, and tried for a genuine smile.
“I’m fine,” she lied. “Are you coming?” and she started walking towards the shop door.
“Clara,” Beatrice whispered. She looked behind her quickly, but Evan was still at the yogurt machines deciding on a flavor. She turned back to her sister. “Clara, I just know I will die if I can’t have a little bit of everything.” She looked at her sister imploringly.
“Bea,” Clara whispered back. “You cannot fit every topping on your yogurt.”
“But I have to try,” Beatrice insisted. Her nose was all but pressed against the glass separator, her eyes taking in all of the colors and textures of the scrumptious toppings. Suddenly Gummie Bears and Oreo cookie crumbles simply weren’t enough.
“Bea, we discussed this,” Clara said. “I have ten dollars and—”
She quickly closed her mouth as Evan approached.
“It’s overwhelming, isn’t it?” he asked Beatrice. He noted the look of desperation on her face.
Beatrice nodded looking up at Clara. Clara narrowed her eyes.
“I can’t ever decide on just one or two toppings, so I try to pile on as many as I possibly can,” Evan continued. “Wanna see who can pile on the most?”
Clara tried to interject. “I don’t think that’s—”
“Clara told me not to be greedy,” Beatrice said sulkily. “And she’s right. I shouldn’t be so greedy. It’s the way God made me, but still . . .” Her voice trailed off to a pathetic whisper. Clara rolled her eyes.
“Well, fortunately for you, YoTreats is the one place where you can be as greedy and indulgent as you want,” Evan said. He looked at Clara and smiled.
“Fine,” she said defeated. She had no idea if she could afford what Beatrice was about to pile in her yogurt cup, but she would worry about that at the register.
Beatrice heaped on toppings: Gummie Bears and Oreo cookie
s, Snickers pieces, peanuts, M&Ms, fresh strawberries, and caramel and chocolate glaze. She wanted more but decided to restrain herself. She already knew she had it coming when the girls got home. She walked slowly to an available table, careful that no strawberries slid off her mountain of yogurt bliss.
Clara was more reserved, choosing just strawberries and chocolate morsels to top off her cheesecake-flavored yogurt. She couldn’t ignore the quickening in her heart when she got to the register. She pulled out her wallet and waited for the girl behind the counter to ring up a total she couldn’t pay.
“What are you doing?” Evan asked Clara, his tone slightly annoyed. He looked at the girl behind the register. “I’ve got these,” he said waving a hand between Clara’s yogurt and his. “And hers,” he said pointing over to Beatrice.
“I can pay for my own yogurt,” Clara said softly, her face going pink with embarrassment and flattery.
“I know you can,” Evan replied pulling out his wallet. “But I invited you.” He handed a twenty dollar bill to the girl who grinned while listening to the exchange. Clara wondered how many twenty dollar bills Evan had in his wallet. She shook her head instantly, ashamed of the thought, but she couldn’t deny his nice clothes, his nice car. She wondered what his parents did for a living. Evan seemed well off—not rich, but certainly comfortable.
“Thank you for the yogurt,” Clara said. She and Evan walked over to join Beatrice who was already halfway done with hers.
“Thank you for the yogurt, Clara,” Beatrice said sweetly. “It’s really good!”
“Don’t thank me,” Clara replied. “Thank Evan.” It was the first time she said his name out loud in front of him. He liked the way it sounded on her lips, in her mouth.
Evan sat down across from Beatrice and observed her cup. “I believe I have one extra topping,” he said. “So I guess I won.”
Beatrice leaned over and counted the toppings on his yogurt. Evan was right. She sat back and grinned.
“I let you win,” she said. “If I would have added one more, then the entire mixture of flavors would have been off. You see?”
“I see,” Evan replied. He looked over at Clara, and this time she smiled at him, a warm genuine smile.
“Thank you for my yogurt, Evan,” Beatrice said.
“Anytime, Bea.”
***
Clara lay on her bed that evening feeling the tears run down the sides of her face to pool inside her ears. She didn’t wipe at them; she didn’t care. She was no longer upset with Beatrice and felt mildly guilty for snapping at her so angrily. She knew Beatrice loved her fiercely, and in the only way her sister knew how, she saw fit to make certain Evan would love Clara just as fiercely. That was if he decided to love her. It was sisterly devotion, and Clara wished now that she could have appreciated it then. She wished, too, that she wasn’t so terribly shy and embarrassed all the time.
She never had anyone interested in her before, and she didn’t know how to act. She didn’t even know if she was allowed to like Evan or to let him like her. Why did he like her? She couldn’t understand. There was nothing special about her. She was just a quiet girl who walked the halls of school like a ghost. No one ever paid any attention to her. She was a nobody, and she didn’t mind it. It was easier to cope with her anxiety that way.
But it was more than just feeling invisible. Everything changed in the house once her mother vanished. Clara was the parent now, the breadwinner, the one responsible for keeping Beatrice fed and clothed and happy. She found herself in the precarious position of having to watch her back. She couldn’t let anyone get too close for fear of their discovery. What if Evan learned that their mother was gone? What if he notified officials and the girls were taken away? Or worse, split apart? She couldn’t imagine that scenario; it seemed ridiculous and over-the-top—like something in a TV crime drama—but it could happen.
Clara forced herself to confront the realization: She couldn’t let Evan in. She simply couldn’t, at least not now. She had to do that for Bea. She had to protect Bea. Evan would have to go away. She would reject him. She wouldn’t talk to him, wouldn’t let him invite her places. Wouldn’t let him be nice to her. She would ignore him, pretend he didn’t exist. He might be hurt, but there were plenty of girls at school who would gladly mend his broken heart. All too happy to nurse him back to emotional health with their kisses and sweet words. She thought of Brittany and scowled.
Clara rolled over and buried her face in her pillow. The despair that she tried hard to keep out found its way in, sliding through the cracks and tears of her feeble heart. Curling around her core and choking her. She let out a muffled sob, only realizing then that it was the first time she cried hard and didn’t care if Beatrice could hear.
Chapter 8
She did everything to fight it. She tried to be reasonable. He’d seen her house. He didn’t care. He took them for yogurt. He said he liked her. But the sinking. She fought and fought, but the sinking started anyway. It was a new feeling she’d never experienced. Like her heart was plunged in ice water, and she thought it would stop altogether and she would die.
She researched it at the library. She remembered what Beatrice said: “You get that from Mom, you know.” The panic ached in the middle of her chest, and she couldn’t breathe right. She took long, ragged breaths but couldn’t breathe. She read the words on the computer screen: Depression typically sets in anywhere from the ages of 15 to 35. Symptoms include but are not limited to fatigue, loss of interest, fear of the unknown, anxiety, thoughts of worthlessness, thoughts of suicide . . .
Clara logged off the computer immediately. She would not allow herself to believe it. Yes, she felt funny, but then she always felt funny. She looked down at her hands. They shook ever so slightly. They’d never done that before, not when she was alone.
And she was alone even now. The Media Center was silent that afternoon save for the pounding of her heart moving through her head and out her ears like a drum line. She sat staring at the screen saver on the computer monitor, aware that her eyes were gushing tears. She wiped at her face knowing it was streaked with rivulets of soft black mascara. She was afraid, finding herself in the throes of complete hysteria when Beatrice wasn’t around. The debt that seemed so manageable just a few short days ago now appeared impossible. She could never pay it off. She received a notice from Collections in the mail yesterday for the electric bill. A new charge. Interest that accrued for the unpaid debt. She was drowning, and she couldn’t scream.
Evan sat beside her all week in health. She tried her best to appear indifferent to his conversation. She did not want to engage him, make him think it was going anywhere. But he was relentless in a gentle way. He did not give up, and every day he would sit with her in class and reveal something new about himself in the hopes that she would return the favor. She seldom did.
She wiped her face as the tears continued to pour forth. She could not remember the last time she cried so effortlessly. She did not even force the tears, not a little. They spilled over involuntarily, even more desperately than the evening she cried into her pillow after the yogurt trip when she realized for the first time that she could not be with Evan. No, these tears were not just for Evan. They were coming from another place, a deep dark recess of her heart where depression sits like a monster, quietly waiting until the right moment to tear through the fragile chamber, rocket into the brain and explode with insanity.
“Hey Clara,” Evan said. She did not hear him come in. She whirled around to look at him, forgetting that her face was muddied with runny mascara.
She jumped from the seat and grabbed her book bag. Evan blocked her escape.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his face full of concern.
He placed his hand on her upper arm, and she lost it completely. It was a strangled sob; she tried desperately to choke it down, but it burst forth against her will. He took her in his arms. She was willing at first, never having felt the rush of a boy’s arms around her, and for
one brief, thrilling moment, she forgot the hell she was entering. Like her body was spiraling downward, but then God had a change of heart at the last minute and drew her back up towards heaven instead.
She wanted his arms around her forever. They were gentle and reassuring and protective. They convinced her for a moment that she was okay. But then she felt his cheek press against the top of her head and drew back abruptly. She hadn’t washed her hair in three days. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. She didn’t see the point and didn’t care. She wondered if it was the depression or if she was just exhausted. She was afraid her hair smelled, knowing her roots were slippery with oil, and pushed against him harder trying to escape his grasp.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. She was apologizing for her hair, but she knew he didn’t know it.
“It’s okay. Just tell me what’s wrong,” he said releasing her. His voice was low and tender.
“I . . . I have a headache,” she said. She threw her bag over her shoulder and turned to leave, evading his reaching hand as she hurried towards the exit.
“Wait!” he called. “Clara!” But she flew out of the Media Center and disappeared from sight.
***
Snap out of it, Clara. Snap out of it. Clara? Snap out of it. Clara . . . Clara . . .
SNAP OUT OF IT!
Clara sat straight up in bed, eyes wide, skin and clothes soaked with sweat despite the chill in the room. As though Mother Nature decided to mix it up, summer went directly to winter, or so it seemed. The nights grew terribly cold in the middle of October, and Clara knew she and Beatrice would have to start building fires at night in the living room fireplace.
The silent darkness of the room made Clara want to burrow under the covers and hide. But she was wet through and needed to change her clothes. She got out of the bed, drawing in her breath sharply as her feet hit the cold hardwood floor. She tiptoed to her dresser and pulled out a pair of cotton pants and a fresh T-shirt. She peeled her clothes from her body and dropped them on the floor, standing naked for a moment to see how cold she could get. She thought she deserved to feel so cold for letting Beatrice down. For failing to pay off the debt. It was punishment to stand naked and endure the chill that wrapped painfully around her body.
