Sister Pact

by Stacie Ramey

  “Not too late,” she says as she leaves my room.

  Lying in my bed, looking out the window, I try not to think about Max. It shouldn’t be about him anymore. But there’s no escaping him. He’s been in my life and my heart for so long, it’s hard to flush him out completely. I would if I could, because just the mention of his name makes me feel as if I’m falling. I pull out my phone, go through a series of buttons, and unblock Max.

  My phone vibrates.

  I hope it’s not Max. Lie.

  Hi Nick.

  I’m grateful. Lie. It’s better this way. Lie. I don’t want to see him again. Lie.

  Hi Urself I type back.

  My phone vibrates again. Then again. Then again. I see the backload of Max messages waiting for me. My finger hesitates over them. I could just click and see what he said. I could let his words take care of me. I could let Max take care of me. Instead, I surprise the shit out of myself and shift my attention to the new text that Nick just sent.

  How r U?

  Ok. Nervous about coming back.

  I bet. But I’ll be there for you. Piper will.

  I pray he doesn’t mention Emery or Max. Then, of all the timing, there’s a knock at my window, and I know it’s Max. My heart beats faster. I want him. I still want him. And he’s there, perched on the roof under my window. All remorseful. Maybe I could have him now. Maybe I should let him in. He’d be mine at least for the moment. Would that be enough?

  “Allie…” Max’s voice cracks. Even his crackly voice makes me want him. Even if he’s not good for me. Even if he breaks my heart.

  My phone vibrates. Nick.

  Srsly. Don’t b nervous. U can do this. Piece of cake. Or cupcakes. Hey we could do cupcakes!

  Max knocks on the window again. “Please…” I need to tune him out and walk away. Nick. He wants me. I’m not sure I want him, but he wants me. Me. I scroll through my Max messages. The ones I had blocked because I knew I wasn’t strong enough to stand up to him. He loves me. He’s sorry. He’ll change. He wants me. Except I know none of these words change anything.

  Max doesn’t leave. He waits for me on the ledge outside my window. He thinks I’ll give in to him like I always do. I want to. He’s my warrior when he’s not off chasing some other girl. Should one night, one mistake, make that much of a difference?

  “Just let me talk to you…” he pleads. “You won’t answer my calls or texts. Don’t send me away now.”

  I look at Max and wonder why I can’t let him go. Why Nick can’t be enough for me.

  “Allie…”

  I put my hands on the window. I see the pain in his eyes. But I can’t stop it. I can’t save him.

  “Just open up, Allie. Let me see you for a minute. Please.”

  I wish I could help him, but how do I save Max without losing myself?

  “Good-bye, Max. I can’t be friends with you. It’s killing me, and I’m not doing that anymore.” True.

  I walk straight into my bathroom and shut the door, open the medicine cabinet. Nothing. I drop to my knees and open the doors under the sink, reach to the back of the cabinet. My hand finds the back roll of the toilet paper stash. My heart races as I reach into the center of the rolls and my fingers find the bottle. I stand, bottle in hand, and turn from the mirror as I open the cough medicine, bringing the mouth of the bottle to my lips.

  I close my eyes and drop the bottle in the sink. I don’t want to do this anymore. My legs get rubbery, and I slide to the floor.

  My phone vibrates.

  Can’t wait to see u tomorrow. Nick. I’m bringing some of my pictures to paint from. U want to also?

  I nod my head, even though he can’t see. Yeah. Pictures. He’s right. I push off the floor and go back into my room. There’s a small filing cabinet at the back of my closet with my pictures. All the ones I’ve taken over the years. I pull out the thick files and pour them on the floor in front of me until I’m buried in them. But being buried in my art feels pretty good.

  I swear I almost hear Leah in my mind, laughing, saying “Good one, Al.” But I know it’s just my memory of her.

  The first pictures are of our vacation at Cape Cod. I was twelve. She was thirteen going on fourteen. Almost all the poses are of her trying to show off her new boobs. I can hear her laughing.

  “Don’t be jealous of me because I’m beautiful,” she said.

  “You’re messed up.”

  She sucked in her stomach and twirled. “This year’s going to be the best!”

  I remember thinking she was right. I had started to get good at painting. Dad built my studio. I took pictures of the rocks on the beach, the cedar shingles on the houses, the different colored flowers, huge and beautiful. In two months, they’d be gone. But the summer was theirs.

  “You’re such a dork! Take pictures of me. People are going to want to know one day what I was like. I need a record. You can keep me real.”

  That was the last time I remember us all being happy together. That vacation in Cape Cod. More snapshots. A piece of Leah’s skirt as she twirls, the green-gray-blue cedar plank with parts of it chipped away and other parts weathered dark gray. One of the rocks on the beach, the water spraying up between them. A close-up of a huge hydrangea. The most optimistic flowers ever. And I know. This is the picture I’m going to paint in class tomorrow. The Cape Cod colors. The color of easy laughs and belief. The color of on the brink. And new paths. The color of hope. I curl up on my bed.

  My cell rings.

  Im sorry. Max.

  I know he is. But just because he’s sorry doesn’t mean I have to let him get in the way of me and my art. I turn my phone off. And go to sleep.

  “Good one, Al.” Leah’s voice is the last thing I hear as I drift off, making me smile.

  Chapter 24

  We pull up to Dr. Applegate’s office.

  I start to get ridiculously nervous. I start to sweat. I’m scared to see her. Like I’m all open and raw, and she’ll be able to see through me. All the way through. And I have no idea what I’m going to do with that.

  This time I catch the receptionist, iPod earbuds in, jamming out. I wonder what she’s listening to. I almost ask her, but I don’t. Just like I don’t ask anything I really want to know.

  “Simple Plan,” she offers.

  “Oh, cool.”

  “I know it’s so old school, it’s lame. But I like it.”

  “Me too.”

  She smiles at me. And for once I don’t think judgy thoughts about her. Who knows why she keeps herself small? She might have her reasons.

  “She’ll be with you in a sec.”

  “Thanks.”

  Mom comes in from parking the car. “You want me to go in with you?”

  “No.”

  “What are those pictures for?”

  “Something for art class. I was just thinking of what to do with them.”

  “May I?”

  I don’t want to. When she didn’t tell me about her paintings, she built a wall. Why should I be the one to scale it? She holds out her hand. It’s like when she held my hand in the car. Maybe this could be like that. I give her my pictures and hold my breath.

  “I remember these,” she says. “Cape Cod. What are you going to do with these?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to put them all together somehow.” I reach out so we are holding the pictures together. “I was thinking I’d take some of the hydrangea, here, and put it with the cedar and the rocks. And Leah.” I layer the pictures sort of how I see it in my head.

  “That’s going to be beautiful. Have you thought about the colors?”

  Of course I have. It’s all I’ve been thinking about. If I can find them. If they’ll come back to me. Right now, all I’ve got are the ones in the pictures. I hope that’s enough to help me find the colors underneath it
all—the ones about the feelings.

  “Dr. Applegate is ready for you,” the receptionist says.

  I walk in, my legs a little steadier, although I feel like it’s a little surreal talking about my art with Mom, knowing she really gets what I’m trying to do.

  “Hello, Allie.” Dr. Applegate is wearing all black today. Pants with a cashmere sweater. There’s a white rose pin on her sweater. The stark white reminds me of her manly art. But on her, it’s pretty. And I start to feel better about trusting her.

  “I spoke with Dr. Ziggler.”

  “I figured.”

  “You had a rough weekend?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He recommended you go on medication.”

  “I know.”

  “The same meds I want you to take. How do you feel about that?”

  I start chewing on my nail. Should I tell her I don’t want to take the medicine? I don’t want to lie to her. I don’t know. I’m stuck. I notice she’s brought a light-blue lamp in. It sits on her desk. A smile sneaks onto my face.

  “You like my lamp?” she asks.

  “It’s perfect. Just the right color.”

  “High praise from you. Now let’s work on you. Tell me what you want.”

  I want my sister back. I want my art back. I want me back.

  “Let’s talk about the pills. Pros and cons.”

  I try to listen to her. Really listen. She thinks I should. Maybe she’s right. I let her words wash over me like the colors used to. As I do, I picture Leah. What would she think? What would she do? And I realize, it doesn’t matter what she would do. This is my life. My choice.

  When she’s done talking, I tell her, “No pills. Not yet. I want to try this without them.”

  “You realize that the best treatment for depression is a combination of medication and counseling?”

  “I’m not depressed.”

  “I’ve got to keep recommending the medication for you, Allie. I think it’s best.”

  I think about arguing, but it won’t change anything. “Can we just do the relaxation exercises? They really help.”

  “Okay, Allie.”

  I close my eyes and listen to her voice, but truthfully, I’m already there. I almost expect to see Leah, but I don’t. Surprisingly, I’m a little grateful. It’s nice to be alone and quiet. I’m in the ocean. I look up and see a bright-blue sky with puffy, white clouds. I can almost feel the water, cool and silky on my skin. I feel the waves nudging my legs and holding me up. I’m floating and free.

  Dr. Applegate’s voice caresses my body like a massage. “Look around. I want you to remember what it looks like. I want you to remember what it feels like where you are now.”

  I go even deeper in my mind to that totally safe place where I’m in the water, the sun beating down on me, the sounds of the lazy waves filling my ears. I remember being here the last time I felt completely safe. And then I hear her. Just her laughter at first. From that day. The day we took the pictures. Swimming with Leah.

  “Told you I’d help you find your colors,” her voice comes to me. I hear her like she’s right in front of me. Because she is. Her hair fans out in the water, like a lily pad floating there.

  “So this is it. All that’s left of me,” Leah says. “Look how deep you have to go to find me.”

  “No pills,” I say. “I can’t. They almost killed me.”

  She turns and walks away. I watch her fade into the light. I feel bad. I should want to bring her back. Shouldn’t I?

  But this is my life.

  My life doesn’t have to be about military strategy, doesn’t have to be about taking pills and bringing Leah back. It could be about finding my art and connecting to Mom. And forgiving Leah.

  For killing herself.

  • • •

  Mom stays silent on the way to school. We pull up front. I unhook my seat belt.

  “No. It’s okay,” I say. “I don’t need you to walk me in.”

  She hesitates, then shakes her head. She pulls out and drives around to the visitor parking spaces. “I’m going to anyway.”

  As I go to get out of the car, she puts her hand on my arm. “You sure about going back already?” she asks.

  “I have to keep going.” I pull the handle and open the door.

  “Okay.”

  Mom puts her hand on my backpack and guides me to Student Services. Mrs. Williams, the secretary at the desk, nods at me. “Allie, so glad to see you.”

  “Hi,” I say. It’s hard to go back to school, where everyone knows how stupid I am.

  “I have a note somewhere…” Mom rummages in her purse, which, as usual, is a huge mess.

  She produces the hospital discharge papers. Mrs. Williams smiles at Mom, a small, understanding sort of smile. I am grateful to her for that. Mom could use a little understanding. She never got any from Dad. Or Leah. Or me. Mrs. Williams switches to her computer screen and adds E to all my absences: Excused. She returns the papers to Mom and fills out a yellow excused-absence slip for me to take to my teachers.

  “We’re in second period now, Allie, almost third,” she says.

  Mom hands me a Coke and a package of cheese peanut butter crackers, the kind she never lets us eat because she says it’s junk food.

  “Okay, thanks. Bye, Mom.”

  I make sure Mom’s left the building before detouring. I’ve got no intentions of going to second. That’s one lie I can live with. I shouldn’t have to do everything hard, especially not U.S. history hard.

  Chapter 25

  I spend the rest of second period in the bathroom. I think I see John Strickland once on the way to art, but he doesn’t seem to see me, and he disappears into the crowd. When I get to third period, Nick is there, waiting for me. He gives me a half-smile, as if he’s checking the temperature of my mood and adjusting to it. Maybe I underestimated first basemen.

  “Hi.” I make my way across the room.

  “You okay?” he asks as he wipes mascara from under my eye. Tiny flecks of black cling to his skin. I’m changing his colors. I don’t want to be responsible for his when I can’t even find mine.

  “I’m a mess,” I say.

  “That’s okay.”

  Nick’s arm slung around my shoulder, I check out the setup of the room.

  “So today, we paint?”

  “Guess so.” I fan out my pictures on the table. He reaches into his backpack and hands his to me. Then he picks mine up and looks at them, one at a time. The room starts to feel smaller, and I start to sweat. Will he think I’m stupid? That I picked something stupid to paint?

  I flip through his two at a time. Baseball fields; diamonds; bases, battered and worn. Up-close pitchers’ mounds. I wonder where he’s going with this. I drop two of his pictures and reach down to get them, worried I’ll have them out of order when I hand them back. Order matters to him.

  “Sorry.” I give them back.

  “It’s fine.” He flashes me a smile and then jogs to the cabinet, grabbing paints for his palette.

  “Okay, let’s get started,” Mr. Kispert says as he walks in the room, making all the talking around us grind to a halt.

  Piper bounces in, late but confident. She gives me an understanding look that feels nice coming from her. “Glad to have you back, Allie. Painting with Nick makes me feel like I’m painting in the guys’ locker room.”

  Nick protests, but I laugh.

  “The important thing…” Mr. Kispert walks to the back of the room and starts pacing like he’s a general sending his freshman and sophomore troops into battle. “Is that you really throw yourself into this project. No pressure.”

  There’s nervous laughter from the front of the room as the drawing and painting kids sketch.

  “Little suck-ups,” Nick grunts.

  “Seriously.” Pip
er starts sketching.

  The next few minutes crawl by. I grab paints and try to assemble my palette, but nothing comes. I see flashes of colors, but I know they’re straight from the pictures. Not from me. I figure it’s a good enough place to start. I mix a reasonable iris blue. Then a periwinkle. And a cerulean. Mix in some snow white, whitewash, and three different shades of gray: argent, charcoal, and cedar grove. Leah’s hair and her skirt are the same color: chocolate brown with fuchsia highlights. And black-blue lowlights. It’s a representation of that day, the three pictures combined. But nothing about the emotions. Technique-wise, I’m fine. Emotionally, I’m screwed. I try not to panic. Maybe I can’t do this clean?

  My eyes slide to Nick, who is painting with work-shirt blue and baseball-mitt brown, field green, and rust. He’s got one paintbrush in his teeth and another in his hand. He’s leaning forward, his fingers clutching a slim brush. One spot of whitewash has made it on his face. He must feel my stare, because he looks at me.

  He lifts his eyebrows like he’s asking if I’m okay. I nod. I’m not okay. Not even close. I’m lost. And alone. And done.

  “Time to wash up,” Mr. Kispert announces.

  Nick finishes his last few strokes and comes over, carrying his brushes. “You look upset.” He looks at my painting. I wish he’d stop. Having him see my mess makes me feel like puking.

  I point to my canvas. “It sucks.”

  “It doesn’t suck. You’re just starting. You’ll get it.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s just… I mean, obviously…”

  Mr. Kispert comes over. “You guys working through lunch? No problem if you want to.”

  “Yeah. She is. Thanks,” Nick says for me. “You just need to slow down and let it come to you. You’ve got the perspective right. Now you just have to work on the rest of—”

  “The colors are wrong.”

  Piper steps in. “They’re not wrong. They’re just not all there. It’s like I’m not sure how this painting is supposed to make me feel yet.”