by Stacie Ramey
My head stays down the rest of the way to class. I hear pieces of conversation, current and memories. Old and new mixing together as if in a blender. Like the one they had at the party. The night she did it. Where was I when she was thinking about dying? Drinking with her friends. Bile rises in my throat.
“It’s a strawberry daiquiri. You’ll like it,” Jason saying as he handed me one. Leah looking at me like she approved. Jason was one of the football players. Sean’s friend.
Max today saying “Be good” and then kissing me.
Emery saying “It’s called Bang-Bang Red. You like?”
Vanessa at the party. “Ask your sister why she’s not on the team anymore. Ask her.”
The words ask her reverberate in my head, making me dizzy. What I wouldn’t give to ask her now. The dance team. The rumors. Even if half of them were true, does that add up to killing yourself?
The headache ramps up to full force by the time I make it to class, but more than that, my body feels like it’s been hit by a truck. Smacked and slapped and stung with all the memories and the murmurs. I should have packed a little something. Maybe a Benadryl or two to get through today. Not NyQuil or Robitussin or anything major. Just a little numb. And I know how wrong that is, how stupid it is to rely on chemicals to get through the day, but it sucks being back without her. Leah used to own this school. Now she’s gone, and they’ve moved in to fill in the space she used to occupy. If that’s not depressing, I don’t know what is.
“Hey, Allie,” a voice breaks me out of my haze. Nick. “You have Lafrance too?” he asks, his head tilting toward the door.
“Yeah.”
“Let’s get in before all the back-of-the-room seats are taken. Or are you one of those front-of-the-room suck-ups?”
“Hardly.” I laugh.
“Come on.” He grabs my arm.
I let him lead me to the back of the room, and I wonder when I became like this—so easily led. Or was I always? I look at Nick and think maybe he’d be rusts and greens. But not just because of his copper-colored hair. It’s more than that. It seems like maybe those are the colors of his laughs, quiet but honest. And his energy—crisp and clean like fresh-cut grass. Seeing his colors, or at least feeling them, is like a gift. If Nick Larsons, part-artist, part–first baseman is making me think about art, that’s a good thing. For the first time today, I’ve found a little Happy. Legit.
Miss Lafrance walks to the front of the class. She holds up a copy of The Alchemist. I groan. We read it last year in AP Language and Composition. But maybe that helps me? Maybe I can coast through this class and give my brain a rest. Obviously it needs one.
Chapter 5
The day’s finally over, and I can’t wait to get home. Emery’s staying after for drama club, and only freshmen and sophomores take the bus. So, iPod in my ears, I walk. I pass the little market that Em and I used to walk to when we were trying to be grown-up and independent. I stop in front of it. Maybe I’ll go in, look at the cards, the funny little hamsters that play “Kung Fu Fighting” if you press the button on their paws. Leah used to do that—press all their buttons and we’d laugh and clap as they sang just out of sync, moving their little nunchucks the whole time. That memory warms me. I decide I’m going in. The bell on the door rings, and the old lady working the counter looks up at me, a small smile on her face as she does.
But now that I’m here, I feel sort of disoriented. Leah’s not here, not even in my mind. Emery’s got drama. Max has swimming. I’m here all alone.
I walk past the cards. Past the hamster toys. Past the summer clearance aisle, the doughnuts, the wine bottles, the cheeses, the apples and bananas, the desserts—to the cold medicine aisle, where I grab a bottle of NyQuil without even thinking. As my hand closes around it, as I march up to the counter, I tell myself, Just because I am buying this, doesn’t mean I have to take it. It’s just a backup in case I need one. I’m just being prepared.
“Is that all, honey?” the woman at the counter asks.
“Yes.” I force myself to look at her. “Mom’s pretty sick.”
“That’s nice you’re getting this for her then.”
I walk out of the store, bag in my backpack, feeling like a total idiot because I just lied to this stranger. And because I’m stockpiling meds now for no apparent reason. Everything is so confusing in my head, and I need some clarity. I need to remember what happened. Not just that night. Right before. Volcanoes don’t just erupt out of nowhere. The fire and the heat and the pain build. The same is true for me.
I take out my phone and toggle to the notes section, where I’ve saved the texts Max sent me last spring.
I think we should try.
I want us to.
You know how I feel about you.
I pass the library and the post office. I cut through the golf course and climb down the hill, taking me to the back of my yard, pushing back the Max scab I’ve picked at now. I was so stupid to believe him. So stupid.
I walk through the thin trees at the back of our property and past my studio. I don’t have the key with me because I stopped carrying it, but my hand goes into my pocket as if expecting to find it.
I stop and look in the window. It’s dark, and I can’t see much—just my paintings covered in sheets. My paintings.
And then it happens. I see her. Leah’s in my studio, warming up as if she’s getting ready for dance class. I bang on the window. She doesn’t look up, just keeps going. First position, arm straight. Second position, leaning over. She’s dressed in a black leotard with ballerina-pink tights and a black see-through skirt. I push my face against the window so I can listen to the sound her ballet shoes make as they slide across the concrete, but I can’t make them out. My head starts throbbing. I steady myself against the wall.
I close my eyes for just a second, and when I open them again, she’s gone. Like she was never there. Was it just in my cracked mind? I almost bang on the window, but I know she won’t be there—I do. But knowing something and accepting it are two totally different animals. Like with Max last spring. I knew. But I still wanted him.
The sadness that descends on me makes it hard to climb up the stairs, through the mudroom, and into the kitchen, where Sophie is there waiting for me, her tail wagging like crazy.
I bend down and let her climb on me. Then I pick her up and let her kiss my face. “I missed you too, puppy.”
Sophie was Leah’s baby. Now I guess she’s mine. We got her three years ago for Leah’s birthday.
“But she’s both of ours,” Leah had told me as we drove home from the breeder. “Our dog, right?”
Sophie had climbed into my lap and kissed my face, her puppy breath filling my nose.
“You’re such a freak!” Leah had said, but her eyes crinkled and her voice was happy. “Come back to Mommy.” She’d lifted Sophie off my lap and onto hers.
I’d thought it was nice of her to share with me. Of course, she also meant ours to walk, ours to bathe, ours to clean up after. That never mattered to me, even though I ended up doing most of the disgusting work. I still thought it was a nice gesture. Always starstruck, that’s me. Leah didn’t mind as long as it was her star I was following.
Mom slides into the kitchen. Her movements seem careful, calculated, which annoys me. “How was your day?”
I push past her, go to the refrigerator, and grab a bottle of cold water. Without thinking, I push the tips of my fingers into my temple.
“Headache again?”
I can almost hear her watching me. Her stare feels thick and heavy, like the slurring of her words. Did I really expect her to change? Stupid. Leah always said I was stupid about people.
“I’ll get you a pill,” she offers.
Mom goes to the cabinet and opens the one that has my rescue medication in it. Her hands shake as she pops out one of my pills, then drops it.
&nbs
p; My head throbs as I stare at her clumsy attempt to medicate me. Mom finds the pill and cups it in her hands, reaching out toward me. I don’t see the pill. I only see her shaking hands. She notices me staring. She tries to still her trembling fingers, but it’s too late. I already saw. I know I should give Mom a break. I realize that. Leah was always so mad at Mom, but I always took her side. Now I don’t even feel like doing that.
“I have to go out for a bit,” Mom says. “You want something special for dinner?”
“No.” I go upstairs, Sophie on my heels, glad to have space but not sure why it matters when Mom’s gone most of the time in one way or another. Then I feel bad. So I call down to her, “Pizza would be good.”
“Great,” she says. “Pizza and maybe a salad.”
“Fine.” When I get to the top of the steps, I stand at Leah’s door. I’m not supposed to go in there, but it’s like I’m being summoned.
Sitting in her chair, I play the game I’ve played since I was little. I pretend I’m her. I open her top drawer and trail my fingers over her nail polish bottles, lined up in a neat row. Leah’s colors: I’m a Pisa Work, Beach Party, and Silver Shatter. Not me, but perfect. And it hits me. There’s no mess. Her desk drawer is perfectly organized, even more than usual. Like she cleaned it. Before. I get chills and wonder again why she didn’t tell me. I knew about her little pill habit and about our arsenal, but I really never thought she’d use it. Not without me.
I turn on her computer. Her password: notsocommonwhitebitch. Her screen saver is a montage of her favorite pictures. I scan them, like when you get your yearbook and you look to make sure that there are pictures of you in there. There aren’t any of me on Leah’s slide show. I know. I’ve looked a hundred times. Each time I wish it were different. But it’s not. And with her gone, it never will be. The proof is right in front of me. I wasn’t that important to her. I was more background than forefront. I sucked. Which must be why she left me behind.
“I’m sorry.” Leah’s voice comes to me. At first I think I’m imagining her, but I hear her. It’s as if my head clears and just her voice is piped in.
I start to cry because I know this can’t be real and I can’t be sane. But I still want her with me.
“I’m here. You’re not imagining it.” She’s still just voice and no body.
My head throbs, and I close my eyes. White lights flash and my migraine kicks up a notch. My stomach feels queasy. I go to our bathroom, the one we used to share, and open the medicine cabinet. Phenergan is the only thing that keeps me from puking. I put the pill in my mouth, cup my hand, and turn on the water. A memory of Leah standing in front of this mirror flashes in my mind.
We were getting ready to go out to the movies for one of the forced family outings Mom thought would help save the marriage.
“This is sooo lame,” Leah moaned. “I was supposed to go out with Sean.”
“I know,” I said even though I was happy to be spending time with her, but I didn’t want to sound like her dorky little sister. “It totally sucks.”
Leah stood in front of her full-length mirror, her face tight, holding a prescription bottle.
“These pills are making me fat.” She threw the bottle across the room and missed her trash can by an inch.
“Don’t you need them?” I reached down to pick them up for her, the name Dr. Gates written on the label. Her psychiatrist. Mom wanted her to see a counselor, but Dad insisted on a psychiatrist because whatever Leah had was that bad. I had overheard him say “Crazy runs in families.” He was talking about Mom’s side. Of course.
Leah’s face turned dark. She brushed back her hair with both hands. “Nah, I’m good. Hey, wanna grab my Chap?” she asked.
I reached into her drawer, pulled out her tube, and found the pills. Three of them in a plastic bag, all rolled up.
“What’s this for?”
Leah blushed pink, then came across the room and grabbed it out of my hand. “Just a little pick-me-up. These are the best. I can go for days without eating on these little babies.” She grabbed one and threw it into the back of her throat, chasing it down with a chug of sugar-free Rockstar. She winked at me.
I wanted to ask her where she got them, but I knew she wouldn’t tell me. I wanted to tell her she was doing exactly what Mom does, but that would make her furious. Instead, I just sat on her bed, quietly agreeing with whatever stupid thing she chose to do.
“It’s no big,” she said. “I’m gonna need something to get through tonight with Mom and Dad anyway, and I told you, I’m getting fat. I won’t get the lead in Fame if I’m a cow.”
I snap out of the memory and flop on her bed. My eyes close, and I’m asleep almost immediately.
“Allie?”
Mom’s voice startles me.
I hear her on the stairs. I don’t want her to find me in Leah’s room. She and Dad are a little weird on that subject. I push myself up, my head still fuzzy from the Phenergan. Leah’s comforter is wrinkled. I have to fix that.
“Allie?”
Mom’s made it to my room. Not good.
I lean over to turn off her computer and realize I don’t have enough time. So I just switch off the monitor.
When Mom rounds the corner and appears in Leah’s doorway, her face registers disappointment.
“I brought you your next pill.”
“I don’t need it.”
Mom looks at me, standing over Leah’s computer, the one they searched afterward for answers. Like Leah would leave some secret suicide file on her desktop. Like she wouldn’t cover her tracks. It was part of the plan we’d made. Make everything look clean because Leah didn’t want people to know why she did it. She wanted to stay perfect in everyone’s eyes. She wanted to dance off stage as a tragic and mysterious heroine. Cue the curtain.
“I thought your father and I said we didn’t want you spending so much time in here,” Mom says.
“I was just looking for a book.” Lie. Stupid one.
“Emery and Max are here to see you. Are you up to seeing them?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll tell them to meet you in your room.” She retreats out of the doorway and walks unsteadily down the hall. I hear her steps, small, reticent. And I get as mad at her as Leah used to.
I walk out of Leah’s room, turning the light off as I go, hoping that’ll prove to Mom that I have no intention of coming back. Emery and Max bound up the stairs and rush through my door.
“You okay?” Emery asks. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“I just didn’t know you guys were coming together.”
“Met up downstairs. How are you doing?” Max asks.
“Okay,” I lie.
Max throws himself on my bed, making it bend under his weight—one hundred and eighty pounds, all muscle. He tells me all the time. Like I couldn’t tell on my own. My mind goes over those texts.
I think we should try.
I want us to.
You know how I feel about you.
The meds have turned me floaty and loose, and I pretend it didn’t end badly that time. I let them fill me with heat and hope, like they did when he sent them, instead of how stupid I felt after it all went down.
“Coach was hyper today, a total idiot. I’m beat.” Max stretches his arms over his head, showing his guns like he likes to. I try not to smile, but he’s so obvious.
Emery sits at my computer, eating some kind of PowerBar and drinking the special tea that’s supposed to cleanse her body but really just has a ton of caffeine, already surfing.
I sit on my window seat. My phone vibrates.
hi
“Who’s that?” Max asks.
“Have no idea.” It seems like such a good question that I type Who is this? and push Send.
The phone nearly jumps out of my hand.
Nic
k
“Whoever it is, they’re lightning fast,” Emery calls.
“It’s Nick.” I aim my words at Emery but hope they hit Max, hard.
“Nick Larsons?” Max asks.
“Yeah.”
“Baseball player Nick? Again? What’s with that guy?” he asks.
I stay quiet, enjoying Max’s jealousy.
“He’s okay, if you like baseball players. If that’s your thing.” Max thinks swimmers are the only real athletes.
I ignore Max and type back. Hi Nick.
U busy?
Max gets off the bed and comes over to me. He kneels down and moves the hair away from my eyes. “You okay, really? You look tired.”
Sometimes I wonder what Max’s thinking when he looks at me like that. Sometimes I think that he still wants to be more than friends—like last spring when we tried. We met at the park, both of us shy with each other at first. Then came shots of gin he’d stolen from his parents. Followed by Gatorade chasers. The swings. Then the merry-go-round. We’d laughed. We’d drunk. We’d kissed. His lips on mine, soft and sweet.
“Headache,” I say.
“You wouldn’t be holding out on me, would you?” Max’s beautiful eyes take me in. I swear he wants to kiss me like that night. His fingers trace my face.
“I…”
Max’s eyes shoot to the phone in my hand. “He asked you out in a text? Wow.”
I look down.
I mean Friday night. You want to go out?
“Just be careful, okay? Guys suck. Just saying.” Max gets up and crosses the room.
And just like that, he shuts me out like the week after our park hookup. After I froze up and couldn’t give him what he wanted. I remember his hands on me in ways I never thought could feel so good. But then I hesitated and then he stopped. And the next day we were both sober and embarrassed. He could barely look at me as he said the things I’ll never forget. The words I don’t have to save in my phone, because they are written on my heart. We’re better as friends. I can’t lose you. Maybe when we’re older and less stupid. Despite his excuses, I knew it was because I couldn’t grow up.
