Keep Holding On

by Susane Colasanti

  We help unpack the groceries. There are eight bags. Eight bags of food for three people. When mother goes grocery shopping, she usually brings home one bag.

  I lift out package after package of deli cold cuts. Three kinds of fresh bread. An entire roasted chicken. Tons of fruit and vegetables. Mother prefers to avoid fruit and vegetables. She says they’re too expensive. Clearly, Mrs. Feldman does not have the same issue. There’s more meat and fish and ice cream and lots of different drinks and chips and pretzels and cookies.

  My stomach growls.

  “How are you feeling?” Mrs. Feldman asks Sherae.

  “Better,” Sherae says. She keeps telling me she feels better, too. But I think she’s pretending.

  Mrs. Feldman doesn’t know what happened to Sherae. The next morning, Sherae told her she was sick. Then she stayed home for two days. Mrs. Feldman was here taking care of Sherae because that’s what she does. Mr. Feldman doesn’t get home until dinnertime. He’s a big-shot lawyer.

  Sherae puts some fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies (warmed up for us by her mom—how sweet is that?) on a plate while I get drinks. Then we go to her room. I’m accidentally assaulted by my reflection in the big mirror above her dresser.

  “Uuuuhhh!” I groan.

  “What?”

  “Is that what I look like?” My hair could not be any frizzier. I press it down. Sherae stands next to me so our eyes meet in the mirror, almost at the same level. She’s a little shorter.

  “You’re so lucky your hair isn’t flat,” she says. “Mine just hangs there. Yours is pretty.”

  “If by ‘pretty’ you mean ‘impossible to control,’ then yeah.”

  We’ve gone over this a million times. I complain about my hair and Sherae complains about hers. But she’s just being nice. She has superlight blonde hair that’s really fine. It’s like sunlight. Plus, she has blue eyes, so she’s got that wholesome Girl Next Door thing going on.

  I give up trying to make myself look presentable and flop onto Sherae’s lounge chair. I could seriously live in this chair. It’s a burgundy velvet chaise with a swooping back that’s high on one end and then curves down so it’s lower on the other end. It is very fancy. When I’m lounging on it, I pretend that I am also very fancy.

  The difference between Sherae’s room and my room is like the difference between Godiva and Hershey’s. Some highlights:

  Sherae’s Room

  huge

  light and airy

  cute night table

  throw rug in the shape of a poppy flower

  fancy lounge chair

  welcoming

  My Room

  microscopic

  dark and dingy

  milk crate masquerading as a night table

  grungy carpeting circa 1964

  calendar where I’m crossing off the days until the end of the year

  embarrassing

  My room is The Fortress. I’ve tried to make it comfortable despite its many flaws. The Fortress is the only place where I can totally relax. Even when I’m with Sherae, I never feel like I can completely be myself.

  There’s a cootie catcher on the side table next to the lounge chair. Sherae and I love making these. One of us will start making a new cootie catcher. Then we’ll pass it back and forth, adding numbers and colors and fortunes until it’s done.

  The warm cookies smell amazing.

  “Here.” Sherae brings me three cookies on a napkin. I bite into one. It’s slightly crispy on the outside, soft and chewy on the inside. The chocolate chips are almost melted, just the way I like them.

  “Ya-hum!” I approve. I only have two cookies left. I could eat about a hundred more.

  “Want to watch something?” Sherae asks.

  “Always.”

  Nimbus leaps up on the lounge chair. I pet her fluffy fur. She immediately starts purring. Sherae’s just sitting on her bed, staring at her wall mural.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Hmm?”

  I wish I could tell her that she doesn’t have to be strong in front of me. But I don’t really know what words to use.

  “We can just talk, if you want,” I say.

  “Nope.” Sherae gets up and goes over to her entertainment center. In addition to the enormous flatscreen, she has a cabinet filled with a massive supply of fun. “Freaks and Geeks?”

  “Awesome.” Freaks and Geeks is one of the best shows ever. Even though it was only on for one season, there’s no limit to how many times I can watch those eps. No matter how depressed I am, that show can always make me smile. I even have a poster of James Franco as Daniel Desario on my wall. And one of Nick Andopolis rocking his disco gear that says YOU’RE TOO TALL TO BE A GOOD DANCER!

  Sherae’s big wall mural is an Alan Maltz photo of the ocean framed by palm trees, taken during a spectacular sunset. The colors are intense—bold purples and blues, hot pink, and bright red and orange. The photo might have been taken in Florida, but it totally looks like California. Sherae’s obsession with California is fierce. She’s only applying to colleges in SoCal. She ultimately wants to have a house right on the beach. Which is perfect because she already looks like she’s from there.

  I can’t wait to move far away, but I don’t really get why Sherae wants to. I mean, we’re both frustrated by the confines of suburban nonliving. But Sherae has the perfect life right where she is. Her parents basically buy her whatever she wants. She even has her own credit card.

  Right after I turned sixteen last year, I got a job. Mother told me I had to start saving for college. But I wanted to work. It was understood that she wouldn’t be helping me pay for college or anything else.

  At the end of last summer, I went to the bank to take out some money for back-to-school clothes. You can’t set up your own bank account until you’re eighteen, so mother set up the account for me when I got my first paycheck. I couldn’t believe I didn’t even have to ask her to do that for me. It was the first kind thing she’d ever done.

  I followed one of the customer service people to her desk to make the withdrawal because I didn’t have a bank card. All of the desks looked the same. No one had any pictures or toys or anything. It seemed like a pretty depressing place to work.

  The customer service rep tapped her keyboard.

  She said, “There are no funds in that account.”

  “What?”

  “The account has a balance of zero.”

  “But that’s my savings account.”

  She tapped her keyboard some more.

  “When was the last time you made a withdrawal?” she asked.

  “I’ve never made a withdrawal.” My heart was pounding. My throat was tight. It was getting hard to breathe. “I’ve been saving for college.”

  “Let’s see … it looks like your mother set up this account for you as a minor, correct?”

  I nodded.

  “She’s been withdrawing funds bi-weekly since your first deposit.”

  There were times when I’d been furious with mother before. Her neglect was disgusting. But this was a whole new level of furious.

  When I got home, mother was drinking a glass of red wine on the couch, staring at nothing.

  “Why did you steal my money?” I said.

  Mother didn’t even bother to look up at me when she said, “It’s not your money.” She drank more wine.

  “Of course it is! It’s from my job!”

  “Handing people hot pretzels at the mall isn’t a real job.”

  “Um, I get paid? So that’s a real job.”

  “Well, I’m the one paying rent around here. Do you have any idea how expensive that is?”

  “What does the rent have to do with saving for college?”

  “College?” mother scoffed. “That was rent money.”

  Blood pounded in my head. I was shaking all over.

  “What kind of a freak are you?” I yelled. “It’s not my responsibility to pay the rent! I’m only sixteen! You’re the mother! You
’re supposed to take care of me!”

  “How dare you talk to me that way,” mother calmly told the wall.

  “I want my money back.”

  “Too late. It’s gone.”

  “I can’t believe you stole my money! You’re insane!” I stormed off to The Fortress and slammed my door. Then I opened it and slammed it again even harder, just like mother did that night she scared me so hard I couldn’t go back to sleep.

  But the slamming wasn’t loud enough to wake her up.

  The knife is sharp. I’m using a new one tonight.

  This is the best way I know how to get lost when I need to escape.

  I stick the tip of the X-Acto knife in. I place my index finger on top of the blade and press down hard.

  The cardboard pops, then crunches. All I know is that I want this shape to be some sort of squiggle. I’ll let the knife take me where it wants to go. The squiggle will be the newest addition to my standing mobile. My neighbors were throwing out this little yellow chair last week. I saw it by their garbage when I was coming home. That night after it got dark, I snuck out and snatched the chair. Now it’s the base for all these shapes extending from the chair, suspended by wire.

  Calder did these eclectic standing mobiles I adore. I have a thing for simple, modern designs. I’m fascinated by how he combined art and science to create these perfectly balanced objects of beauty. His mobiles have totally inspired mine. I mostly make hanging ones. Since I can’t hang my mobiles from the ceiling, I have them hanging all around my room on hooks.

  Something about talking to Julian and seeing his finished mural really inspired me. This exciting creative energy has been building up all day. I couldn’t wait to get home and work on my mobile. It’s cool how Julian’s artwork is inspiring my own. I wonder if I’ll ever have the courage to tell him about it.

  four

  wednesday, april 13

  (47 days left)

  I had a dream that there was this new section of the SATs where you had to fall backward out of a plane. A bungee cord was supposed to pull you back up. Except sometimes the bungee cord didn’t work.

  I wonder what it means.

  Here’s a secret about me:

  I’m a vampire.

  Just kidding.

  Here’s the real secret:

  I still ride the bus.

  Technically, it’s not a secret. If you’re like every other junior or senior at my school driving your shiny new car that your mommy and daddy bought you for your seventeenth birthday and you get stuck behind the school bus, you might see me when you finally get impatient enough to pass the bus even though you’re not supposed to. You won’t find me in the back. That’s where the sophomores sit. And the freshmen who make fun of everyone else and throw things at us. No, I sit in the front. Usually next to Jasmine. Who is in sixth grade.

  That’s right. I ride the bus with sixth graders. We’re dropped off at the high school first. Then the bus drives to the middle school, which is even farther away and starts later.

  I am the oldest kid riding the bus.

  If Sherae didn’t have a car, I’d be totally trapped. She would give me rides to school if she didn’t live in the opposite direction. But at least we can go wherever we want after school.

  My bus stop is right down the street in front of the realty office. The office doesn’t open until nine. When the bus drops me off after school, I usually notice one or two people who’ve come to look at houses. There’s a whole new development way back in the woods. Apparently, some people actually want to live in Middle of Nowhere. I don’t get it. I mean, yeah, there’s lots of space and woods and it’s super quiet. So raising kids here might sound like a good idea. But as one of those kids, I could assure them that this town takes boring to a whole other level.

  One of the middle school boys comes running down the street just as the bus is pulling up. He’s always late. I can’t ever be late. If I miss the bus, I have to take the train to school. Which means I end up missing first period because I have to walk to the train station and wait for the next train and then walk to school from that station. Missing physics is a drag. If you miss one day, you’re totally lost.

  Everyone piles on the bus. I take my usual seat next to Jasmine. Her bag is way nicer than mine.

  Carly is waiting for me when I get off the bus.

  I don’t know why she’s so obsessed with bullying me. We used to have the same bus stop. That was the worst. Every morning would be a new adventure in mortification. One time Carly grabbed me by the front of my shirt and pulled her fist back like she was going to punch me. I forget why. She was probably just extra bored that day. A car drove by the bus stop as we were posed like that, Carly threatening to punch me, me frozen like a deer in the headlights. I could see the woman who was driving look at us. She was your typical mom type. She totally saw us. But she drove right by.

  “Good morning, Rotten Egg,” Carly trills when she sees me. It’s her typical greeting.

  I brush past Carly, ignoring her. There’s no way I could intimidate her. If you put Carly next to a monster truck, the resemblance would be remarkable. She hangs out with the other kids no one wants to mess with. I’ve heard rumors that she beats up her little brothers. They say that if you ignore a bully, she’ll move on to harass someone else. I’ve been ignoring Carly for three years. She hasn’t moved on yet.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Carly yells after me. “I said good morning!”

  I keep on walking.

  “Rotten Egg should really learn some manners!” she yells.

  People sneak looks at Carly. This one girl makes a nasty face at me. Her friends laugh.

  I’m sure all this ignoring Carly will start to work any day now.

  The way Carly torments me is bad. But it’s nothing compared to the way she torments Ali Walsh. Ali is sweet and quiet and will always let you borrow a pencil. But this is high school. Where it’s not about who you are. It’s how you look. Ali has really bad skin. And short, frizzy hair. Her wardrobe appears to be visiting from 1993, back when style was really bad. These are the things that define Ali to everyone else. These are the things that convinced Carly she’s entitled to pick on Ali anytime she wants.

  I saw them in the student parking lot the other day. Sherae and I were going to her car and I noticed Carly way down by the end of the lot. Carly had Ali pinned against the hood of a car, as if Carly were security and Ali needed frisking. I wanted to run over, pull Carly off Ali, and demand that she leave her alone. But I knew if I did that, Carly would torment me even harder. And I can barely get through the day as it is.

  So I didn’t do anything. I didn’t go over. I didn’t save Ali.

  I hate that I’m so afraid.

  When I meet up with Sherae at her locker, she’s staring at a note.

  “Another one?” I ask.

  “It was in my locker.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Same as before. He misses me. He’s sorry. Which is hilarious, considering he has no idea what he did.” Sherae’s eyes fill with tears. “Clueless meathead.”

  I search my bag for a tissue.

  “I’m okay,” she insists. “I just don’t get how someone could do something like that and not even know how wrong it is.”

  I wish I had an answer for Sherae. But I’ve been wondering how people can be so clueless for years.

  Ms. Scofield keeps saying how everything is connected. She even has a thing about how science is connected to all other subjects. That’s why we had to write optics haikus for homework last week. Before she hands them back, she holds one up.

  “This one by Noelle really struck a chord with me,” she tells everyone. Then she reads my haiku.

  SEEING BELIEVING

  what’s in front of you

  is not necessarily

  the entire story

  After class, Simon Bruckner comes up to me. We don’t really talk or anything, but he’s always been nice to me. I secretly admire Simon. He’s
kind of an outsider by choice. If he wore ultra-preppy sweaters, pretentious tees, and jeans that cost a fortune but are pretending they don’t, he could totally fit in. His parents are supposed to be from one of the wealthiest families around. But Simon doesn’t want to be like everyone else. He just wants to be himself. I don’t know anyone else who wears trendy ties, fitted vests, and limited edition sneakers. I love his hipster chic style. Today he’s wearing a skinny violet knit tie, a polished black dress shirt, black suspenders with violet stripes, distressed dark jeans, and black Converse.

  “Hey,” Simon says. “I like your haiku.”

  “Thanks. I like your suspenders.”

  “I knew you were the type to appreciate style.”

  That’s just Simon being nice. My style is clearly nonexistent.

  “Have you read the Spectrum?” Simon asks.

  The Spectrum is the literary magazine. It comes out at the end of the year, right before yearbook. It’s a collection of poetry and short stories with some artwork thrown in. I flipped through Sherae’s copy last year. Imagine my surprise to discover that I don’t have much interest in the thoughts and feelings of privileged snobs.

  “Not really,” I say.

  “I think you should join.”

  “Me?”

  “You.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re talented. Teachers always put your writing up. And I need a coeditor. Our last one just quit and I’m already behind.”

  “Can’t someone already on the Spectrum be coeditor?”

  “In an ideal world, yeah. But none of them wants to work that hard.”

  “Oh.” So Simon just wants me to join because he’s desperate? And he knows I have free time because I have no life? I don’t want to say no to Simon right away, though. He’s one of the few people who treat me like a human being. “Can I think about it?”