My birthday was a week away. Adrian had started picking me up in his truck because the roads were too icy for the Harley, and even if they weren’t, the wind chill made it miserable. We’d sit there in silence, sometimes with his phone plugged in playing music, but otherwise in silence. I honestly didn’t know why he kept showing up—it certainly wasn’t for my witty banter. I was low on banter.
Any day, the snow would start. I was waiting. Waiting for the weather to change, waiting for my birthday, waiting for it to stop hurting every time I opened my eyes and remembered that my mom was gone and I would never, ever, ever see her again. I knew it was possible to make new friends, to build a family from scratch, to “start over”—but I didn’t want to. It was much easier to want nothing than it was to want something, and I was scoring major points as a beginner nihilist.
School dragged on. I dozed off in all of Mr. Warren’s classes; I refused to sing in choir. I simply wouldn’t turn in homework for anything but art, and study hall was just an extra forty-five minutes to sleep. I could tell all my teachers were upset, but I didn’t care. Well, I didn’t care until they called my aunt.
“Caitlin, can I talk to you for a minute?”
I’d just gotten home from school and Rachel was sitting at the kitchen table with her stacks of papers and her coffee. A second mug was already sitting next to her. It was much lighter, so I could tell it had been made for me. Warily, or perhaps just wearily, I sat down, sliding my backpack to the floor. I automatically curled my fingers around the mug, but didn’t drink anything.
“Your principal called.” She looked at me and waited.
“How is he?”
She frowned at me oddly. “Uh—good. Actually, he called about you.”
I took a sip of coffee. Still hot.
“He said that your teachers have been concerned about your performance. That you’ve been sleeping in class and not turning in homework.”
I took another sip of coffee. I liked coffee.
“Well?” she asked.
“Good coffee,” I said.
“Caitlin.”
“Nice creamer-to-coffee ratio.”
“What is going on?”
I looked at her blankly. Had she not been present when I yelled at her the week before?
“What’s wrong?” she said, reaching for my hand, which I yanked away. She looked hurt and I didn’t care. “Why are you doing this? Why are you punishing us?”
I just stared at her, amazed that she still didn’t understand. “My mom’s dead,” I said slowly. “You know that, right? She died. She’s gone. So please, Rachel, please sit there with your very-alive husband and your very-alive daughter and explain to me, since I clearly don’t understand—explain why I should care about something as trivial as school.”
Before she could answer, I stood up, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and shuffled upstairs.
Just as I reached my room, Norah came in behind me and slammed the door.
“What is wrong with you?”
I looked at her blankly.
“You don’t have to be an asshole; you choose to be an asshole.”
I could hear the emotion in her voice, I could see she was on the verge of crying in that angry sort of way you cry when you don’t want to cry but you can’t stop yourself, but I couldn’t really register it all in that moment.
“Yeah,” I admitted. She wasn’t wrong.
But Norah was looking for a fight. “Stop making everyone miserable. Your mom died. It sucks. I’m sorry. But there are other people in the world besides you, and shit happens to them too, and they move on.”
“Norah,” I said, very quietly. “Get out.”
She might’ve said more, but I took a quick half step toward her and she flinched.
Would I have slapped her? Maybe. I don’t know. If she kept talking, I might have. But she didn’t, just threw me a disgusted look, turned around, and walked out, slamming the door behind her. In the resounding silence, I sat on my bed and stared at the wall. Gravity won and I sagged back against the covers and stared at the ceiling instead.
A few hours later, Joe knocked on my door. I must have fallen asleep, because the sound startled me.
“Yeah?” I called, not really awake.
Joe poked his head in the door. “Can I come in?”
I shrugged.
He left the door open as he took a seat at my desk. I could feel the anger seeping back in, the adrenaline pooling in my stomach, preparing for another fight. If he was there to make me apologize to Rachel, it wasn’t going to happen.
“I didn’t know your mother all that well,” he began. I rolled my eyes. Great. You didn’t know her, but you’re going to talk about her as if you did. “But I do know why your mom and your aunt stopped speaking.”