Jane took a box of imported Italian cookies out of the pantry; tea with a cookie was more comforting than tea without one. She wondered now if Rosie had told Meg about the cutting. Maybe Rosie hadn’t yet told her but was planning on it. What if Meg repeated her original crime and told those horrible girls Rosie’s latest secret? That kind of a betrayal could be disastrous.
Jane glanced at her daughter. She wondered if she should suggest that Rosie not mention the cutting to Meg. But maybe her saying nothing at all about the issue was best. She didn’t want to put ideas in her daughter’s head, certainly not bad ones. And for the past few months, she thought, so many of her ideas had been bad ones.
The teakettle began to whistle and Jane poured the boiling water into her cup.
“I was thinking about making omelettes for dinner,” she said then. “I bought some nice fresh goat cheese and I’ve got a big bunch of tarragon from the farmers’ market. What do you think?”
Rosie nodded and closed the magazine. “It sounds good.”
Jane smiled and watched Rosie leave the kitchen. If spending time with Meg was going to revive her daughter’s appetite, it couldn’t be an entirely bad thing.
Jane went to the fridge and began to gather ingredients for dinner. Whether she wanted it to happen or not, it seemed that progress was being made toward restoring some degree of emotional closeness between the Patterson and Giroux families. Jane brought the container of goat cheese and the bunch of tarragon to the butcher-block cutting board. She thought again of Mike and of how he wanted to be there for Petey. She supposed it couldn’t hurt to talk to her husband again, especially in light of the development between Rosie and Meg, especially in the aftermath of their own dreadful fight. She really did want to make amends. Mike would be glad that she was trying to be more open and generous. He was a lot more courageous a person than she was, that was for sure. It was one of the primary reasons she had married him, his strength of character. Jane had always felt that she needed more protection from the world than most people. Mike provided that protection. She didn’t know what she would do without him.
Jane took a bite of the cookie—hazelnut—and a sip of tea. Yes, she would tell Mike that she was okay with his spending time with Petey. She pretty much had to. But that didn’t mean she wanted anything to do with his mother. Not yet. Maybe never.
Time would have to tell.
21
March 2012
Dear Diary,
A lot of girls are still ignoring me, but Laura Burdett said hi to me in the hall today. I was expecting her to walk right past me again, like she’s been doing for weeks now, but she didn’t. She actually stopped and said hi. She seemed kind of nervous, like maybe she was expecting me to be mad and yell at her or something for the way she’s been treating me. But I just said hi back and continued to walk to my locker. She didn’t actually apologize, but I think that’s what she meant by stopping when she said hello.
I suppose I should care or be grateful that she said hello, but I feel too dead to feel anything. That doesn’t make sense. I am too dead to feel anything. Anything besides despair. But if you’re really dead, if your lungs aren’t breathing and your heart isn’t pumping, you’re beyond despair. You’re beyond happiness, too, but I’m already beyond happiness. So what’s the big deal about death?
I was wondering. Maybe Mackenzie isn’t behind all the bad stuff that has been happening to me. Or maybe she was, but now there’s someone else who hates me just as much as she does. It seems entirely possible that someone else hates me.
Meg is acting odd around me, too. She hardly looks at me when we’re together and at lunch she eats in about a minute and then says she forgot something in her locker or needs to finish homework and goes off to the library or wherever it is she really goes.
I think she’s afraid that if she hangs out with me too much, Mackenzie and the rest are going to start tormenting her, too. Part of me can’t blame her, I guess. I’m such a loser. I don’t know why Meg ever wanted to be my friend in the first place. I wouldn’t be surprised if she dumped me.
Social contagion. That term just popped into my head. I don’t remember where I heard it, but I think it means when being around a certain person makes other people consider you the same as that person. Maybe that’s not really the definition, but that’s what Meg’s probably afraid of, being considered a loser like me. I am socially contagious, like the lepers in the Bible. I don’t know much about the Bible, but I know about the lepers. Everybody does.
I got another A in history and an A+ in English. Ms. Brown says I’m the best student she’s ever had. At least I can handle schoolwork without being a failure. And as long as I keep getting good grades, Mom and Dad won’t bother me with questions about how I’m feeling. I’m fine! I can say. I’m getting all As! What could possibly be wrong?
I really, really don’t want to play the piano anymore, but I know if I tell that to Mom and Dad they’ll both be sad, especially Dad, who always says he wished someone had given him piano lessons when he was a kid. I guess his family didn’t have any money to spare. Mom had a doctor’s appointment this afternoon and I told her I practiced while she was out. I feel bad about lying to her, but I don’t know what else to do. I just couldn’t bring myself to play a single note.
How did everything get so bad? I feel like everything is totally out of my control. Except for when I cut and then, for about a minute, I feel almost okay. But then the minute passes and everything is chaos again. I wonder if I’m addicted to cutting. I don’t know if you can be addicted to it. But it can be so hard not to do it.
I am so sad all the time, every single moment of the day. I can’t even cry. I want to but I can’t.
Sometimes, I just want to go to sleep and not wake up. Beyond despair.
March 2012
Dear Diary,
Something really stupid happened. I mean, I did something really stupid.
It was an accident, I swear, I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I was nowhere near a vein. I don’t think I was. My hand just—I don’t know, I pressed harder than usual, I guess. I don’t really know how it happened, but it did. There was blood everywhere. It got all over my jeans and there was a big splash on one of the towels.
I almost passed out. I’ve always been squeamish. When I got my ears pierced when I was twelve I couldn’t bear to change my earrings for almost a year. Mom had to do it. Anyway, luckily both Mom and Dad were out—Dad was already at his office and Mom had a dentist appointment—because I was in the bathroom for almost twenty minutes and if either of them had been home they might have found out about everything. I got the bleeding to stop and smeared antibiotic cream all over the cut and put a big bandage over it. I hope no one sees the outline of it through my sleeve. I’ll have to wear my loosest blouses for a while.
I packed the stained washcloths and the towel and the bandage wrappers into a plastic bag and stuffed the bag in my backpack. I threw the plastic bag into a Dumpster a few blocks from school. (I had to make up an excuse not to walk or take the bus to school with Meg. I don’t even remember what I told her, and it was only this morning. Maybe I’m losing my mind. Anyway, she didn’t seem to care about walking or taking the bus alone.)
I don’t know what will happen when Mom notices that the washcloths and the towel are gone. Maybe she won’t notice. If she does I’ll have to tell another lie and say that I don’t know what happened to them. It will really bother her that stuff just disappeared from the bathroom and she’ll search everywhere and drive herself crazy. I feel bad about that, but I just can’t tell her the truth.
All day long I thought about what I would have said if someone had caught me. How would I have explained what I was doing? There is no way I could ever explain why I do what I do. My parents would be so horribly embarrassed I would have to run away or do something even more desperate. I still can’t stop thinking about being caught. I should but I can’t.
But I am going to make a declaration. That
was the last time I’m ever cutting. Ever. I got so scared when I saw all the blood. I almost threw up, too. I will never, ever do this again. I can’t. Please, don’t let me! Please, if there is a god like Mrs. Giroux says there is, then maybe you can help me.
I think I’m going crazy. Is my life always going to be this way? Is it always going to be so bad? Because if it is, I just don’t know how I can survive. I’m not brave or strong like other people. I’m just not.
I’m going to go to bed now. I know I won’t sleep but I am so, so tired.
22
“My mom knows you were over at my house,” Rosie said.
Meg winced. The girls were on the sidewalk out front of their homes. Rosie, who had wheeled her bike out of the Pattersons’ garage, now got on it. It was newer than Meg’s and in better condition. Mr. Patterson saw to that.
“How did she know?” Meg asked. “Did you tell her?”
Rosie grinned. “No. Not until after she asked. She’s like Miss Marple.”
“Who?”
“I forgot you don’t read mysteries. Miss Marple is a detective in novels by this English writer named Agatha Christie. Anyway, my mom saw the two glasses we used in the dishwasher and asked me about them.”
“Yikes. Was she mad?”
Rosie shrugged. “Not really. I mean, if she was mad she didn’t show it.”
“That’s good. I mean, about her not being mad.”
“I think,” Rosie said, “that maybe she’s scared. You know, that something will go wrong between us again.”
“Nothing will go wrong, Rosie,” Meg said seriously. “I swear.”
Rosie half smiled. “So,” she asked, “do you want to go to the park?”
Meg nodded and, taking their bikes into the street, they headed off in the direction of Yorktide Memorial Park. As they pedaled down Pond View Road Meg tried to ignore the fact that Rosie hadn’t said, “I know nothing will go wrong.”
But it was impossible to ignore. Meg felt of twinge of intense sadness. Rosie also hadn’t wished her a happy birthday. Meg had celebrated her fifteenth birthday the day before with just her tired, distracted mother and her little brother. Her mother had picked up a small ice cream cake at Hannaford. There were no candles as her mother had mistakenly thought there were some left over from Petey’s birthday in March. Petey had sung “Happy Birthday” in his high, piping voice, which had, for some reason, made Meg want to cry and go running to her room. She had fought back the tears and cut the cake to her mother’s distracted applause. After they had eaten, and the rest of the cake was stowed in the freezer, she had escaped to her room where indeed she did cry tears of self-pity and of something else. Loneliness?
She still felt a bit raw after that sad little birthday party, yet she was happy that Rosie wanted to spend time with her today. Rosie didn’t seem to want to punish her, either, which was something that Meg had worried about. Maybe she deserved more punishment for what she had done, but that didn’t mean she was eager to suffer it. She wasn’t a masochist.
They came to where the road narrowed for a stretch and, falling into an old habit, Rosie pulled ahead. Though her eyes were on the lookout for the occasional passing cars and rough road, Meg couldn’t avoid noticing the short little ponytail sticking out from under Rosie’s helmet. Meg still wondered about that. She had never entirely believed that Rosie had cut her own hair, but especially after all that had happened since then, she wasn’t going to bring up such a potentially painful subject. Rosie would tell her what and when she wanted to tell her.
Look at her, Meg thought with a rush of affection. With her slim neck and skinny arms and legs, she looks so vulnerable—so in need of my protection. But that was nothing new. Meg had always considered herself the stronger of the two, ever since they were little kids. But, Meg told herself now, it would be a mistake to think of Rosie as inherently weak. Maybe she had acted fearfully over the past few months, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t become more courageous than she had been in the past.
Suddenly, as if the small rock under her tire had jolted the memory into consciousness, Meg remembered how she had come to feel that Rosie was being pathetic in her response to the bullying. She remembered how a sort of contempt had prompted her to tell Rosie’s secret to Mackenzie and her tribe. A feeling of shame threatened to engulf Meg as she pedaled along behind her friend. She wondered if the shame would ever entirely go away, or if every time she thought about what she had done she would feel bad and embarrassed. Life might be kind of awful if that were the case.
Anyway, those thoughts, about Rosie having been pathetic in how she handled the bullying, those were thoughts Meg could never admit to anyone ever, especially not to Rosie. She hadn’t even told Sister Pauline, though maybe she should have. According to some rule of the Catholic Church, a nun didn’t have the power to offer absolution like a priest could, which was too bad and didn’t make any sense, but Sister Pauline would probably know the right words to say to ease a sense of guilt. And she would probably have some good ideas about how to perform a penance that would really mean something. Meg had never understood how saying a bunch of prayers, like ten Hail Marys or fifteen Acts of Contrition, accomplished much of anything. But then again, there was a lot about the Catholic religion she didn’t understand. Maybe someday she would ask Sister Pauline to fill her in. Not that she was going to become a religious fanatic or anything, but she was kind of curious. Curiosity went along with being smart.
Twenty minutes later, riding side by side again, the girls cycled into Yorktide Memorial Park. They got off their bikes next to an old-fashioned wooden bench with elaborate black iron arms at either end. The park was pretty big for a fairly small town. Besides large sections of grass where people could picnic or sunbathe, there was a playground with a jungle gym, a slide, a sandbox, and swings. Right now the playground was crowded with mothers and small children. Meg couldn’t help but smile at the gleeful shrieks of the kids as they chased each other around the jungle gym or shot down the slide. A few of the kids were sitting more quietly in the sandbox, transferring sand from one plastic pail to another. Meg remembered how she used to love playing in the sand as a kid, especially on the beach. Maybe it was a universal thing, she thought now, kids and sand, like dogs and dirt and cats and mice. Or maybe, cats and string.
Beyond the playground there was a man-made pond in the center of which was a big fountain and in the middle of it, a little wooden structure, which, as far as Meg knew, had no particular use, unless maybe it housed the mechanics for the fountain. In spring and summer the pond was home to paddling ducks and bobbing seagulls. In winter, it often froze hard enough to allow people to ice-skate on it. Not Meg. She preferred Duckworth Pond out by Wilson Farm. That was where the boys on the high school hockey team hung out, and some of them were really cute. Once, when she had fallen, one of the guys had helped her up. That had been awesome. Not that he’d stuck around to talk or anything, but still.
At the far edge of the playground there were a few other kids around Meg and Rosie’s age. Some had their bikes with them and one boy had a skateboard, which made a loud smacking sound every time he let the front hit the concrete ground, which was, like, every other minute. Meg didn’t recognize any of them, which was good; they probably went to another school. Nobody was going to come over to ask Rosie any embarrassing questions about why she had missed those last weeks of school. Meg had no idea how Rosie would handle something like that, but Meg was pretty sure that she herself would freak out in some way. And if she did something stupid like burst out crying, then her embarrassment would be so huge she would be forced to run away. Far, far away, like to California, where her mother’s sister lived. She had never met her aunt Kathleen, but maybe they would like each other and Meg could live with her and ...
Whoa, Meg told herself. Don’t be a drama queen! If her mother had been able to read the direction her thoughts had just taken, boy, would there be trouble!
Not far from the wooden bench on w
hich the girls were sitting there were raised beds of flowers and ornamental grasses. They weren’t as elaborate as the ones in the Public Garden in Boston, but they were still beautiful. Meg remembered the Public Garden so clearly, though the last time she had been in Boston was when she was nine and she and her mother and Rosie and her mother had driven down for the day. Actually, she remembered the whole day clearly, not only the gardens. They had had a lot of fun, mostly at the aquarium and on the Swan Boats, especially when a seagull had landed on the boat right by Meg’s feet. Mrs. Patterson had shrieked, but Meg and Rosie and Mrs. Giroux had thought it was pretty funny. Meg’s mom had given the bird the rest of the soft pretzel she had been eating and the bird had flown off, satisfied. Mrs. Patterson had gone on a rant about rabies. Some man on the boat had laughed and then his wife had shushed him.
Anyway, here, in Yorktide Memorial Park, there were literally walls of rhododendron, with their dark, glossy green leaves and bright pink flowers. The super old lilac trees were no longer in bloom but the black-eyed Susans were, as well as a big mass of some tall purple flower Meg couldn’t identify. That wasn’t unusual. She didn’t exactly have a green thumb. In fact, she never could understand why people got so excited about growing their own flowers when you could buy them at the grocery store or, if you had the money, at a florist.
Meg became aware that she and Rosie were sitting close enough for their arms to touch if one of them moved even just a little bit. Just like old times, sort of. Meg had a feeling that if her arm accidentally touched Rosie’s arm, Rosie would yank hers away.
But maybe she wouldn’t yank her arm away. In some ways, Meg realized, they had become strangers to each other. They hadn’t really talked in months, not like they used to talk. She felt a bit nervous now, sitting there side by side. She wondered if the relationship would still be there, the real relationship, not just a chatty, polite thing conducted over the backyard fence. “Hi, how was your day?” “It was okay. How was yours?” “Okay. Gotta go!”
Last Summer Page 15
