Becoming Sarah

chapter THREE


She stared at me in disgust. “What are you, some kind of nut?”

I caught the door before she could slam it in my face. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s me, Jamie. I’ll prove it.” I took a deep breath. “Your middle name is Theresa. You have a crush on Jimmy Betz in chemistry class, even though right now he’s going out with Alice Leung. In seventh grade we practiced kissing on our arms and gave ourselves big purple hickeys. You like your hotdogs with pickle relish but not mustard. You still have the red and blue friendship bracelet I gave you three years ago, and you keep it in the wooden box you got in Mexico. How else would I know these things, if I weren’t Jamie?”

The color had drained out of her cheeks. She stood looking at me, slowly shaking her head. “You’re sick, you know that? Sick.”

“No, it’s me.” My lips trembled. “You have to believe me, Maria. It’s true. I know – I know everything. Things you never told anyone but me. I know about how last year you got caught stealing tampons at Walgreens because you were too embarrassed to buy them, but you cried and the security guard let you go with a warning. I know that – that after he has a few beers your dad sometimes hits your brothers, but he never touches you, and you almost wish he would because then you wouldn’t feel so guilty standing there and not doing anything to make him stop.”

Maria let out a little gasp, and I wished I could take back those last words. This was a secret she’d told me only late one night when she slept over, a secret spoken only softly and under the cover of darkness. Now I’d spit it out crudely; I’d used her deepest confidence only in desperation, but still I’d cheapened it.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but don’t you see? You must know I’m Jamie. If you don’t believe me, no one will. You know what my mom's like, she'll go all to pieces. . . "

Maria blinked, and a single tear trickled down her cheek. “All I know is that my best friend was raped and murdered last night. Do you have any idea how it was, to get called out of class this morning? To have the police asking me questions like did she have a boyfriend, did she sleep around, stuff like that because they don't have a clue who did this? To have all the counselors throw me a pity party, handing me Kleenexes and asking if I wanted to ‘talk about it’ when I still didn’t even believe it was real?” Her voice rose to just below a screech. Her nose was running, and she swiped at it angrily with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “And now, and now, I have to find out the person I loved best is not only dead but she’s been telling my secrets to some wacko. Well, no thanks. I don’t need this. I want you out of here. Right now.”

“Maria, wait. Please, listen to me.”

“No! No! No! Can’t you just leave me alone?” She was yelling now, and I took a step back.

“Maria? Quien es?” Her mother came out of the kitchen to glare at me. “Is this lady bothering you?”

“Please, Maria,” I said.

“Get out,” she answered, her expression icy cold.

“And don’t come back or we’ll call the police on you.” Mrs. Rodriquez put an arm around Maria's shoulders and pulled her back into the apartment. One or the other of them closed the door, but I didn’t see who. I was already running – down the hall, down the stairs, and out onto the street. Tears blinded me. I stumbled on a curb and nearly fell. My head spun. I leaned up against a wall. My throat hurt. My stomach hurt. I thought I might throw up, but when I retched, nothing came.

“Hey, girlie.” A wino staggered toward me. He reached to grab my arm, and I saw Ricky’s face, his leer. For a moment I couldn’t breathe, and then I screamed and lurched away into the street. A car honked and swerved to avoid me as I crossed against the light.

I made it as far as the bus shelter and collapsed on the bench, where I let my face fall into my hands. People nearby edged away, as if my grief might be contagious, but I didn't care. I began to cry in earnest, a great flood of heartbroken tears.

I cried for Maria, and how I’d hurt her just now. I cried for my mother, at home grieving my death. Who would take care of her? How would she manage without me? Last but not least, I cried for myself -- whoever I was now.

What had happened to me the night before wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. Ricky had hurt and violated me. He'd murdered me; that I hadn't died was a fluke. Maybe I should go to the police, but why should they believe me when even Maria didn’t?

Ricky Jones had stolen my life and there was nothing I could do about it.

Nothing.

Because I didn’t know what else to do, I dragged myself back to Sarah’s place. On the stairs, my head down, eyes on the carpet, I almost collided with a guy in his early 20s.

“Sarah,” he said, as he took my arm to steady me, “are you okay?”

I must have stared at him with a blank expression. “Matt,” he said. ”Matt McCormick. You know, I l-live right under you?”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“No problem.” A wry chuckle. “I’ve only been your neighbor for, like, t-two years now.”

A wistful note in his voice made me look closer. Curly brown hair, mild blue eyes, a little chunky. Sweet but awkward. A slight stutter. The kind of guy who’d probably played chess, not football, in high school. From the way he was looking at me I had a feeling he was half in love with Sarah, and that she’d never given him the time of day. But I didn’t have the time or the patience to deal with his crush.

“Look, um, Matt, I’ve got to --”

“Oh, yeah, sorry to keep you. Y-you probably have a million things going on right now. Okay, sure. But if you're upset about something and you ever want to, you know, talk or anything. . . .well, I’m here.”

“Thanks.” I forced a smile. “Really, thanks.”

I let myself into the apartment. Sarah’s phone was wringing again. I turned it off. God, I felt wretched. My eyes felt dry and itchy from all the crying I’d done. My throat was still sore, my stomach muscles strained, and I was dizzy with hunger.

In Sarah’s refrigerator I found a few cartons of yogurt, an apple, a case of Evian, an unopened bottle of champagne, and a takeout carton of Thai food – chicken with basil – that didn’t smell too bad. I threw the chicken in the microwave, then ate it straight from the carton, scraping out the last of the sauce with my fingers.

When I’d eaten, I dragged myself to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed. I kicked off my shoes, but fell asleep even before I could wriggle out of my jeans.