Reasons to Be Happy

It felt so good to tell my dad about my battle won. For the first time, I felt like we might be on the verge of understanding each other. I told him about the lost-wax bird, of missing Mom, of all the things I’d done to try to divert…and of the giving in.

As I typed, it struck me that I hadn’t really conquered Bulimia myself; I’d been interrupted by Modesta…but I knew if I’d still really wanted to purge, I would have. Modesta gave me the perfect excuse: that the meat had upset my stomach. Poor fragile little American pansy? Who wouldn’t have bought that story? I didn’t know if Dad would get it, but I knew that, by the point Modesta left me, I hadn’t needed to purge. That’s what made it a real victory.

• • •

When an email arrived from Jasper, my heart fluttered just looking at his name. Why hadn’t I recognized my attraction to Jasper immediately?

I thought about Jasper, picturing him at the piano at school. School. Oh, that was why: Because I didn’t recognize myself at school. Because I’d let my true self get hijacked.

School. I looked around the little schoolroom, at the open-air windows, the rudimentary chairs and desks. I pictured the B-Squad here. That was funny…except I would hate to subject the good people of Tafi Atome to those girls. Brooke here? No mirrors, no flush toilets, heck, no toilet paper (unless you’d brought your own, as we had). Goats under your bed. No screens. Monkeys who stole things from you. (The day before, I’d had to scramble to take an unopened tampon back from a monkey who’d spied it in my bag. Tampons were treasure here! I’d wrestle a monkey to keep it if I had to.)

My period was back, for the first time in over a year.

What if a monkey stole Brooke’s tampon? How long before she was reduced to tears?

I never had been. Wow. I thought back—all the craziness, that scary first night, the goat. I’d never cried. The only thing that had reduced me to tears was the memory of my mother.

• • •

I’d told Jasper everything about Tafi Atome and the wonderful people who lived here. I’d sent him pictures of everything too—my room, my aunt, “my” goat, the water pump, the school. I took pictures inside the school, showing him the computer I used, and the plastic Tupperware box that went over it when it was not in use.

He commented on that photo. What’s on the shelves behind the computer? It looks almost empty, but what are those books?

I hadn’t even paid attention. Three books stood on the shelf: a battered hardback of Little Women, a paperback of Tom Sawyer—the pages soft as flannel—and Runaway Bunny.

Modesta told me, “That is our library. Every person in Tafi Atome has read these books.”

I’d brought some books with me to read on the plane. I’d already finished two. I gave them to her, saying she could read them first, but then I’d love for them to go to the library. She acted as if I’d given her a million-dollar grant.

I told Aunt Izzy and the crew, and they all dug through their own luggage to produce seven books, a National Geographic, and three Newsweeks. We’d brought the library from three titles to thirteen books and three periodicals.

It’s a good thing I took a photo of the “complete collection” when I did, since the library shelves were scooped bare at the first whisper of the new books.

I relayed all this to Jasper in my next email, thanking him for being so observant because his one question had made a huge difference in this little village.

He emailed back: Wow. I can’t imagine a life without books. Trying to feels like having an arm amputated. You know what? I haven’t been able to figure out my Make a Difference Project. I think this decides it. I’m going to do a book drive for your village library. Could you send an address?

Wow. What a good idea.

Imagining a life without books feels like having an arm amputated.

I thought of my own ignorant wish to be disfigured.

Englebert said Modesta was like the mother rabbit in Runaway Bunny.

Modesta smiled and said she wanted to write a book like Jo in Little Women about her adventures as a doctor. That book had made her want to do something with her life to be proud of.

What did I want?

I’d wasted too many years of my life wanting to be skinny.

• • •

Dad’s next email was great. “Congratulations, Hannah, on a successful battle with your demon. I’m so proud of you.”

Chills shimmied down my back, even though I sat in the oven of a room, no breeze to speak of. When had my dad last said that to me? I’d felt like all I’d done was disappoint and embarrass him with my ugliness, my weight, my stealing, my inability to get myself together.

I’m so proud of you.

That was weight loss; reading those words, I felt one hundred pounds lighter. Like I might float away.

He wrote more: I’ve won some battles too. Some just barely. Remember: you don’t have to do it on your own. You can ask for help. That’s not a sign of weakness, but a sign of strength.

Turns out Dad was still in the vampire movie! I won’t always get second chances like this, he wrote, so I can’t blow it. Because of his court orders, there were lots of stipulations and limitations, but the producers had agreed to all of them—Dad could only film in L.A., he had to be available for random sobriety tests, and he had to be free when I got off school. The court didn’t demand that one. I did. Not that you need babysitting, but I want to be there for you. I’m sorry for not getting it right, for not understanding your bulimia. I knew you were in trouble and I didn’t know how to help you. It was easier to just numb myself out, to feel nothing rather than to feel that pain of failing you. There’s nowhere more important for me to be than with you.

We’d be back together in the same house, but without Mom. That would be hard.

Back together, though, and able to tell the truth to each other. That would be new. My bulimia would be out there, not a secret stinking away under the rug. Now that the truth was out, I had nothing to hide behind. I’d have to be pretty damn brave.

• • •

Jasper emailed to tell me how things were going with his Make a Difference Project: All I had to do was send some emails and make one announcement at school. I already have more books than I know what to do with! The real issue is going to be shipping them. I had no idea how expensive it would be to ship books (which are heavy…duh) to Africa. I had a day of thinking I couldn’t do it. I told DeTello I’d made a mistake, but she gave me a ton of ideas for help. Do you think that woman has ever given up on anything?

I thought about that. Nope. Nope, I couldn’t picture her ever saying, “I can’t do this.”

She was the sort who “jumped in with both feet,” as Aunt Izzy said.

Hey, wait a minute…Izzy and my mom used to say that of me!

What do you think you’re going to do? Jasper asked me. People’s ideas say a lot about them, I think. Kelly’s raising money for something called Project HOPE. They provide school tuition, uniforms, and books to kids from Sierra Leone who are now orphaned. Did you know $100 will pay tuition and expenses for one kid there for a whole year? Don’t you wish our tuition was that cheap?

I’d never thought about what our tuition cost. I thought about Kelly with her vintage dress and high-tops; what a cool idea she’d come up with.

Brooke is petitioning to install mini-lockers in the bathrooms so girls don’t have to carry all their ‘beauty products’ around.

I laughed out loud, frightening away a monkey who’d crept into the window sill. Beauty products? Other than shampoo, soap, and some sunscreen, I had no beauty products here. I’d asked Modesta if she had a mirror the other day and she’d snorted as if I’d asked her if she had a big-screen TV.

Brittany is raising money to buy the school lounge chairs so we can tan comfortably during lunch. I’ve already heard Brittany say her mom is just going to buy the lounge chairs because she doesn’t want to deal with a bake sale or something! The whole point is we’re supposed to raise the money ourselves, by giving something of ourselves, right? DeTello doesn’t want us to just write a check, but to learn to “be the change we want to see.” Oh, Kevin is petitioning to start a school surf team. What do you think about that? There are some who “get it,” like Kelly. Amy is raising money for the Chinese orphanage she was adopted from, some kids have organized teams for beach cleanup, Sam is starting a recycling program at school (can you believe we don’t have one?), and Laurie is doing a way cool project: she’s organizing an urban garden in some empty lots near the school to raise produce for local food pantries.

I felt a twinge at the way he wrote about Laurie’s “way cool” project. I recognized it with surprise. Jealousy. I wanted Jasper to see me as way cool. I shook my head. What did I expect?

Did he tell me the Kevin project on purpose? To paint Kevin in a bad light? Ha, like any painting was needed! There was no light worse than what Kevin had already cast himself in. But did Jasper wonder if I still liked Kevin? Had Jasper ever heard any of those gross lies of Kevin’s from the pool party?

I decided not to say anything about Kevin, one way or the other, even though I wanted to say, “Who gives a monkey’s butt what Kevin does for his project or anything else?” That day in the art room still made a weight settle on my chest.

Instead I wrote, So, when did you realize there was a world beyond your own? What was the moment Jasper Jones recognized he was part of a bigger world than his own experience? I know the exact moment when I realized it. I think I was six.

I would’ve written him the story then and there, but I’d already been at the computer for an hour. I didn’t want to be the self-absorbed American hog.

I thought about my story for Jasper as I helped Aunt Izzy and the crew that afternoon.

I thought about my story for Jasper as I helped Modesta prepare dinner for the children.

I caught myself at one point doodling Jasper’s eye, drawing that lighter, golden slice.

• • •

We were winding down to only a few days left in Tafi Atome, so I got busy. I gathered all my beads, shells, and trinkets, some of Philomel’s coal clay, and some beer and Fanta cans. A whole day went by as I worked on a wooden table behind the Children’s House, sweat dripping into my eyes and beading on my top lip. Monkeys jeered at me from the trees above. Twice I was so engrossed that a monkey was able to swipe items off my table; one was just a beer can that he tossed back from a tree later, but the other was a pretty cool shell. Ah, well. I tried to stay vigilant and shoo them away after that.

I built a miniature African market on a 16x20 piece of cardboard Modesta managed to wheedle for me from the village’s only café (nothing got thrown away here; everything was of value and could be used). This was the smallest project I’d ever done, but I knew I didn’t have much time. I made four rows of market stalls from clay, then augmented some of their walls with colorful tin cut from the cans—orange, green, brown, and purple. Other stalls were augmented with sticks, and some with small pebbles. Inside each stall I arranged items for sale: a pyramid of yellow and green beads for lemons and limes, seashells, bottle caps filled with painted rice to be plates of red-red, tiny sacks (cut from an old T-shirt of mine) stuffed with dirt, tiny bundles of dried grass and twigs. I framed one door of a stall with chicken bones to represent a voodoo market. I chopped up a chicken feather to glue a pile of miniature feathers there, and used the feather stem to make a pile of bones. Some stalls sold heaps of my most colorful tiny beads, and some stacks of fabric (folded piles of every scrap I could find, many of them trimmed from hems of my own clothing). I salvaged everything usable from my duffel and trash. To finish it off, I put five of Philomel’s brass people in the aisles. It was a rush job, but when I wiped my sweaty face and stood back, it looked pretty darn cool, if I did say so myself.

I rolled my shoulders, wincing at the sunburn on the back of my neck, then carried the board—the city on top of it like some insane cake—to where Philomel chopped firewood near the water pump.

His eyes widened when I presented it to him. He peered at it, moving himself all around to look down one aisle and then another. He examined it from every angle and I knew the craftsman in him admired it. “Hah-nah, you made a little world here. This is good. This is a good gift. I thank you.”

I then bought every last one of his brass people and a handful of brass animals as well—the two cloth bags I carried away were heavy.

But I felt light.

The real Hannah had broken free.





The next morning, at the end of my run, I came upon Aunt Izzy sitting on a log. I thought she was crying, with her head in her hands, but when she heard my footsteps she lifted her head and I saw she had just been deep in concentration.

“You okay?” I asked, panting before her.

She nodded. “Just thinking about what’s next.”

“In the documentary?”

She made a face then nodded again.

“I thought you were really happy about how it was going and the footage you got this time.”

“I am,” she said, scooting over so I could use the end of the log to stretch. “I feel good. Hopeful. But…every time we come back from shooting, there’s this horrible, frantic period of editing, more writing, raising money. I believe in this project so much, but every time we get home I have this fear that I can’t pull it off.”

I’d never heard someone grown-up admit something like this before.

“So how do you keep going?”

A monkey swooped down to snatch my sunglasses, but I clamped my hands down on them in time. We laughed.

Aunt Izzy looked up. The morning sun shone pink through the leaves. The monkey screeched at us. I’m sure he was cussing me out in monkey language.

“If I sit outside,” Aunt Izzy said, “somewhere green in nature, there’s this inner voice I hear. That voice believes in the project. When I listen to her, I keep the faith.”

I pulled my right foot up behind me in a quad stretch. “I hear that voice when I run.”

Izzy smiled. “Good. Keep listening to her.”

When had I first heard that voice? That voice had been around long before I ran.

I thought about that voice as I “showered” behind the outhouse. That was the voice I’d had in childhood—curious, hungry to know everything about the world. The voice of an explorer. A bold adventurer. The very first time I remember hearing her was the story I wanted to tell Jasper.

I dressed, then went to the school to email him. I was surprised—and more disappointed than I cared to admit—that there wasn’t an email waiting from him. I wrote him anyway. Still thinking of your answer? Here’s mine: I was five or six when I first thought about a bigger world. Some construction was going on in our neighborhood and they were tearing up the street. I was fascinated watching the big machines rip up the blacktop. I was even more fascinated by what was underneath: these big rocks and small pebbles. Who knew that all this stuff had been under there all the time, with me walking and riding my bike and coloring with chalk on top of it? But then I saw one of the bulldozers drop an ordinary rock, very plain on the outside and about the size of a watermelon. When that rock hit the ground, it cracked open…and inside that plain old potato-looking rock were jewels. The inside of that rock was sparkling pink, with glittering black flecks all through it. That’s when a little voice told me that if there were mysteries, surprises, and discoveries under my own street and inside every rock, then they could be every single place I looked.

I’d held back for so long—not sharing my cities, not joining track, not using the school’s climbing wall—that it felt like coming home to reveal my true self.

Jasper wasn’t like anyone else I’d ever met. The way he said he couldn’t tell the B-Squad apart? That’s how I felt about all the other boys at my school now. Jasper was the only one who seemed unique, who seemed to be his own person.

What would happen when I returned to L.A.?

Half of me wanted to be there already, and the other half wanted that day to never come.

• • •

Philomel returned from the market and told me that tourists had loved my miniature version. He made big, animated gestures as he told me, “They all wanted to buy it, but I said no, it was a gift. They wanted to know if I would ever have more. They love it, Hah-nah.”

I grinned. “Really?” I tried to make my mouth stop smiling but couldn’t. “That’s so cool.”

“No, not so cool,” he said, “because you are leaving and they will not get what they want. Money they would like to give me will remain in their pockets. So I have a favor to ask you. Can I make another world like you did? It is your project, you are the artist, but you will be gone, so these customers could not be your customers.”

“Are you asking if you could use my idea, like as a model?”

He nodded, looking at the ground, hands stuffed in his faded pockets.

“Of course you can, Philomel! I’d be honored. On one condition, though: you have to promise that whenever you make one, you will think of me.”

He waited as if he didn’t think I was finished, then looked perplexed. “Think of you?”

“You have to remember me.”

His eyes widened as if I’d suggested he had to picture me naked or something. “Are you crazy?” he asked. “I can never forget you. No one here can ever forget you.”

I don’t know why, but hearing those words felt like opening a gift. So much so that my eyes watered. Philomel looked wary and was probably thinking I was the biggest crybaby ever. Every time he talked to me I ended up crying over something.

• • •

I wasn’t prepared, though, for how much I would cry the day we left Tafi Atome. How could only four weeks change my life so much?

The last night, I slept in Modesta’s room. We pushed our mats close together so we could whisper without waking the smaller girls who shared this room. We lay on our backs in the sweltering heat and talked of our dreams for the future. Our wishes. Jasper and Philomel.

At some point late in the night, Modesta fell asleep. I looked at her in the moonlight that sliced through our open unscreened window. What a brave person. She’d lost so much. Life had been so unfair—why, for instance, did she have to cook and clean for the smaller ones? Who had decided that? But she never complained. She looked to the future with practical cheer.

I tried to picture Modesta being afraid to speak her mind to some of her peers here in this village. I had to put my arm over my mouth to keep from laughing aloud.

I didn’t laugh, though, when I thought of her dream. How could she possibly afford to go to medical school? That was an entirely different thing than getting a craft apprenticeship in a nearby village. The worry that she might never realize her dream kept me awake.

We rose early, and as I packed, I gave her many things: a pink bra, a T-shirt from Sprinkles Cupcakes in L.A., a pair of earrings, a notebook, several pens, a box of Band-Aids.

She handed me a small cloth bag, about the size of a pound of flour. It rattled as I took it from her hands. Inside were beads galore, all colors, all shapes, some solid, some striped. “You make another little world, like you did for Philomel. You make it and remember us.” The way she smiled, I knew Philomel had told her what I’d said.

“Are you crazy, Modesta?” I whispered. “I will never forget you.”

She hugged me, and as she pulled away, my hands touched that soft, pink cashmere. I paused, hands stroking the cuffs. She looked up at me, expectant. I knew it was the one item, of all my belongings, that she’d pick if I said she could keep one thing.

I looked down at my tanned hands on the pale pink. “This was my mother’s,” I whispered.

Modesta jumped under my hands. “Ah!” she said, beginning to wriggle out of the sweater. “Then you must take it with you.”

I put my hands around her forearms to stop her. It took me a moment to speak. “I want…” I took a deep breath. “I want you to keep it.” My eyes burned. “She would want you to keep it too.” That was so true I felt it. I looked down at the sweater, rubbing the soft fabric, afraid if I looked at Modesta, I’d cry. “You are so alike. Two of the bravest women I know.”

Modesta took my face in her hands and said, “She taught you well, then.”

You know what? That felt more and more true these days: that I could be brave. Would I be able to hold on to believing that when I got back home?

“And that is why I want to give you this,” Modesta said, pulling something from the pocket of her dress. She held one of Philomel’s lost wax figures on the palm of her hand.

I hadn’t seen this figure before. A five-sided star inside a circle, the circle itself rimmed in curled rays or spokes. “Sesa Wo Suban,” she told me, hanging the figure around my neck.

She saw the question in my eyes and shook her head as if to scold herself for forgetting I didn’t speak that dialect. “I change or transform my life,” she translated.

My breath stopped in my chest. I felt like she’d sensed what I was just thinking. I’d never even told Modesta about the B-Squad. How would I even begin to make it make sense to her?

“I love this,” I told her. “I need this.”

I carried my duffel bag toward the van on what felt like wooden legs.

There were tears, laughter, promises to return, to write, to stay in touch. I hugged everyone, all the children, beautiful Philomel, and finally Modesta.

“Sister,” I whispered in her ear, holding her close. “You have transformed my life.”

She squeezed me tighter.

“You are so, so beautiful,” I told her.

She wrinkled her nose, but then looked me in the eye and said, “Thank you. Do not forget that you are beautiful too.”

• • •

The farther we drove from Tafi Atome on those rutted, red roads, and then on the highways, the more I vowed to hang on to the ways Ghana had changed me.

The film team checked into a hotel in Accra overnight, before our flight in the morning. I set my duffel on the twin bed and headed to the bathroom. Western toilets, I remembered, looking forward to that luxury.

I stopped in my tracks. There was also a mirror. I stared at myself.

The sun had tanned my skin light caramel, but the change in my appearance was more than that. I looked…rested. My eyes were clear, no purple shadows under them. My cheeks and neck were normal, no longer bulging with that sausage-stuffed puffiness. I looked clean and real. I looked like myself again.

I touched my fingers to the figure Modesta had given me.

I might be all right after all.

But my breath constricted at the thought of returning to all I’d escaped.

Just thinking of home, school, and Jasper made my pulse race, but not in the fun, fluttery way. What would happen now? How would it feel when we were face to face, two actual people in the actual world together, surrounded by the B-Squad?

I caught myself making an inventory of foods I could shovel in for a binge.

Did I have a prayer once I got back to L.A.? Was I going to fall right back into the same disgusting habits? Was I going to lose myself again?

I looked in the mirror at the brass figure hanging around my neck. I ran the pads of my fingers over the curlicue edges.

I nicked my finger on one of the rays.

Hmm, I thought, sucking the faintly metallic taste of blood from my finger. I hoped that wasn’t a sign.





I stood in baggage claim with my dad, heart racing. Although Modesta and I emailed each other at least twice a week, I hadn’t actually seen her for two years. I felt like I might cry or dance…or both. I was already all aflutter about tonight and the nerve-wracking event ahead.

When I saw her coming around the corner with my Aunt Izzy, tears burned in my nose. She was so tall! We embraced, my hands registering the soft whisper of the new lilac cashmere sweater I’d sent her this year for Christmas.

Izzy and Dad embraced. They’d come a long way.

We all had.

Dad checked his watch. “We have time for lunch, but then we have to be back at the house.”

“Are you crazy?” Izzy asked. “I can’t eat! I’m too nervous. Aren’t you nervous?” She poked Dad’s shoulder.

Modesta cleared her throat. “I would very much like to eat something.”

We all laughed. That settled it.

Back at the house, after picking my way through a Thai salad, the stylists arrived.

“I’m glad to be a documentary filmmaker on nights like these,” Izzy joked to my dad. “No one expects me to look as glamorous as you.”

The time flew by in a blur as we got manicures, our hair styled, and our faces made up. “We don’t do this every day,” I assured Modesta, “but the Academy Awards is a really big deal.”

“This I know,” Modesta said, sounding the slightest bit offended.

My father was nominated for Best Actor for Blood Roses, and Aunt Izzy’s film A Continent of Orphans was nominated for Best Documentary. I was Dad’s date. Modesta was Izzy’s.

I wore a pale yellow silk gown that looked like a dress you’d go tango in—cut on the bias mid-shin, halter style—with some of my mother’s diamond jewelry.

Modesta looked classic and stunning in a pale pink sheath.

Aunt Izzy wore a stylish, sexy plum gown.

And Dad—he looked like a movie star in his tux, you know? The old-fashioned, honest-to-goodness stars.

Jasper called to wish us luck just as our limo arrived. “We’ll be watching,” he promised. He was hosting an Oscar party at his house. “I can’t wait to see what you’re wearing.”

“You’ll probably see it again next year at prom,” I told him, laughing.

• • •

I’d almost wrecked it with Jasper.

When I first got back to L.A., the house ambushed me. The bathroom, kitchen, and my bedroom taunted me with humiliating memories. Mom was everywhere—slipping in and out of rooms in the corner of my eye, in the shimmer of the sea glass door frame, in the scent of our lemon tree. Once Dad and I got over our excruciating silences and stuttering, peppy attempts at conversation, I’d emailed Jasper. My heart slammed against my ribs as I typed: I don’t think I can wait until Monday. I’d really love to see you, but without the B-Squad watching. Let me know and I’ll give you directions.

But when he wrote back, Thanks for the invite, but that’s okay. I’ll see you Monday, the words punched me in the stomach.

That’s okay.

Did he not want to see me? Had I just made a fool of myself? Had I misinterpreted everything? “Don’t eat the monkey, don’t eat the monkey,” I told myself.

When I stepped into the front school hallway on noodle legs, the piano music ran over me like warm water. I clutched my books, working up the courage to walk into the piano lounge, but when I did, Jasper didn’t even stand up. He said, “Welcome back,” but he kept right on playing. The B-Squad showed up—Brooke greeted me with, “You’re not so tubby, but did you forget how to dress?”—and Jasper took his sheet music and left.

He may as well have slapped me. Why wouldn’t he talk to me?

I ignored Brooke and tried to follow him, but got stopped in the hall by Kevin Sampson.

“You’re back,” he said, glee in his voice. “I missed you.” He licked his lips.

I jerked my arm, but he wouldn’t let go of me.

Itch. Itch. Itch. I shuddered from the bugs on my skin. Why did you think anything would change you, stupid, ugly girl? You know what you’ll have to do to make these feelings go away.

“Shut up and leave me alone!” I said too loudly. Heads turned.

“Suit yourself.” Kevin held up his hands as if in surrender.

The tardy bell rang. I rushed to Jasper’s homeroom in time for the door to close in my face.

That sensation occurred about a hundred times before lunch.

Everywhere I turned, Kevin leered at me.

The B-Squad taunted me.

Jasper ignored me.

What? Did you think he was your boyfriend? Fat chance. What made you think any normal, nice boy would want you? Jasper doesn’t want to be seen talking to you, you idiot.

“Don’t eat the monkey,” I vowed. “Don’t you dare eat that monkey.”

In DeTello’s class, I found Jasper sitting at a table talking to Laurie.

My cheeks heated up. I stood there, paralyzed. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. I wanted to fly back to Tafi Atome and never return. I knew how to be myself there. Being myself just backfired here.

May as well fire up the cook stove because that monkey was getting barbecued.

As my crappy luck would have it, DeTello made us form groups for something. Group work should be outlawed. It’s nothing but torture.

I ignored the hissed, “Hannah! Back here!” from Brooke and looked to Jasper. He walked to Laurie’s table. Roland joined them. They needed a fourth. I took a tentative step…but Kelly got there first.

I got stuck in the B-Squad.

After class, I stalked into the cafeteria on autopilot. When Jasper caught up with me, I shot him a look.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

Like he really didn’t know.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Was he serious? I shredded lettuce. Shredding was fitting. Shredding felt satisfying.

“Oh,” he said, “so now you won’t even talk to me when it’s just us?”

I gaped. “Talk to y—? I’ve been trying to talk to you all morning!”

His face shifted. “I really thought things would be different,” he said.

Before I could say, “So did I,” Pam stepped in and told us to speed things up.

I didn’t say another word to Jasper. At the end of lunch, he threw his plastic apron in the trash and walked out.

I stood there a moment, facing a pile of tomato slices. I should put these in a plastic container for tomorrow and get to class.

But you’re not going straight to class, are you? Don’t you have a little stop to make first?

No. Don’t do it. It’s been over a month. Don’t do it.

You’ll feel better. You’ll feel nothing.

Call Dad. Call Dad instead.

I picked up a tomato slice. I took a bite.

That’s it. That’s a start.

I ate the slice, then picked up another.

I ate a third slice, knowing I’d eat the whole pile. Then I took a giant jar of apple sauce off the shelf above me. First I used a serving spoon to shovel it out of the jar, but then I lifted the jar to my mouth and drank it. While I chugged, I looked around. There were hamburger buns. And a whole tray of cookies. There was cheese and—

“Hannah!”

I dropped the apple juice jar and it broke at my feet with a muffled, wet whump.

“Why do you do this?” Jasper stepped toward me. “Please,” he begged. “Don’t.”

When his hands touched the bare skin of my arm, I bolted. I slid in the applesauce and almost fell, but regained my footing and fled for the restroom.

“Hannah!” he yelled after me. “I know where you’re going!”

So what? Unless he was going to come in and physically stop me, I didn’t care. I shut myself in a stall and leaned over.

After I threw up, I stood up, panting. I didn’t feel a rush.

I didn’t feel any tingles.

But I didn’t feel nothing. I still felt anger and sorrow and betrayal.

I tried again, but not very much came up.

I tried again but couldn’t breathe. Everything stuck for a minute. A minute? I don’t know.

A long time.

Black spots burned in my eyes. Panic welled in my choked-close throat.

What should I do? Should I go out to the hall? Find someone to do the Heimlich? Call 9-1-1?

You need to breathe.

I could do the Heimlich on myself! I’d done it before.

For real. You need to breathe.

I fumbled with the lock on the stall door, but the black dots burned wider. I could only see on the edges of the circles.

You’re going to die here. You’re going to die in a toilet!

I gave up on the door, locked both fists together and slammed them into my own belly.

Nothing.

I did it again.

And again.

My throat exploded.

That’s what it felt like. I projectile vomited across the stall, splattering myself.

You are filthy, vile, sickening.

I sucked in a honking breath, then swallowed wrong, the acid burning in my windpipe.

Something tickled my chin, dripping.

I wiped my chin, but it dripped again.

Oh God. I tried to look through the dots, at the edges. Red. Dark, burgundy red.

My nose was bleeding.

I groped for the toilet paper dispenser with slick hands.

The spattering sound on the tile floor made my heart race. My nose was really gushing.

“Hannah?” DeTello’s voice. Concerned. Out of breath. Underwater? “Are you in here?”

“Yeah.” I brought a giant wad of toilet tissue to my nose. It took a long time. The film had changed to slow motion.

The stall door rattled. “Open up. Are you all right?” DeTello’s voice seemed far away.

I wanted to say I’m fine, but my mouth wouldn’t work. I moved my head sideways to try to find the lock on the edges of the dots, but the edges were wavery and sparkly.

From deep down in a well, I heard DeTello say, “Hannah? Please, sweetie. Talk to me.”

I tried. I tried to move my lips, but the sparkles got brighter and then I—

• • •

Getting to the nurse’s office was a blur. Blurred by relief. I wasn’t dead. I wasn’t blind.

DeTello and the nurse cleaned me up. They dressed me in a stranger’s sweatpants and a turtleneck from the lost and found. They made me drink Gatorade and eat two cookies.

I woke up forty minutes later on the nurse’s cot, with my dad leaning over me, kissing my forehead. “Hannah Banana,” he whispered. “Rough day?”

I nodded, a tear burning down my cheek. My throat felt shredded.

The nurse slipped out and closed the door, giving us some privacy.

“I wish I’d called you,” I said. “I even thought about it, but…but I think I waited too long. To, you know, ask for help. It was too late.”

He smoothed my hair. “I’ve been there. You’ll do better next time. You’ll be stronger.”

Next time? Oh God, I didn’t want there to be a next time.

I thought about my horrible day. Okay…there might be a next time. But the binge that day had been the first in a long time. Maybe the next one—if it happened at all—would be a longer time still. I’d learn each time, get stronger, get new strategies.

“What made the day so hard?” Dad asked. “Do you know what triggered the binge?”

Once I started, with the B-squad and Kevin and Jasper, I couldn’t stop. Talk about a purge! I talked on and on, filling him in on the start at the new school and everything in between.

A few times Dad bristled and his eyes blazed, but he never interrupted me. When I finally came to a halt, and said, “I really liked Jasper. I thought he liked me too. I thought that he was different, but maybe he’s as big a jerk as Kevin. Just in a different way.”

Dad exhaled and said, “This Kevin you talk about, do I know him? Kevin who?”

“Yeah, you know him,” I said, barely hearing my own voice. “You work with him.”

“Kevin Sampson?! I’ll kill him. Why didn’t you tell me this?”

It was too hard to explain. Would it hurt Dad too much to know that I honestly thought he’d believe Kevin, not me? I sighed. “I wasn’t really thinking very rationally you know.”

His shoulders slumped. “I do know,” he said. “I know too well.”

“You’re not really going to kill him are you?”

Dad narrowed his eyes. “No. I won’t kill him. But only because—”

I waited. When he didn’t finish, I said, “What?”

“Only because I don’t want to go back to jail,” he admitted.

I threw my head back on the ugly green cot and laughed. It felt so, so good, even on my trashed throat.

Africa had been a distraction, not a cure. It was silly of me to think the struggle was over.

But I wanted it to be.

That was a new twist on this old, boring story.

Dad smiled and stroked my hair. “We’re going to be all right, aren’t we?”

I nodded. “I think we really are.”

• • •

Although we arrived at the Academy Awards in the same limo and would be seated together, Dad and I had to part from Izzy and Modesta for the red carpet gauntlet. We answered inane questions about our clothes and about Mom. “How does it feel to be here without her?”

What kind of moronic question is that? I wanted to scream. How do you think it feels?

“She’s here in spirit,” Dad would say each time.

I’d been coached for all this, just as Dad had prepared to be asked about the competition (he was up against his best friend, Sean, which the reporters loved).

When we finally got inside, we found our seats with Izzy and Modesta, the rest of the documentary team in the row behind us.

I was so proud of my friend sitting beside me. Although I found lots of the awards ceremony pretty boring, she seemed enthralled. We probably had four hours ahead of us to go, but I already wished I was at Jasper’s house, in jeans instead of all dolled up.

• • •

Oh, that’s right. Jasper. I told you how we almost blew it, but I didn’t tell you how we fixed it. After that horrible first day back at school, after I’d relapsed, then passed out in the bathroom, Jasper showed up at my house.

I’d been out in the backyard. Dad was inside with Sean and Laila. I could’ve helped with dinner, but I felt fidgety. I dug around in the garage and unearthed a board about the size of a cookie sheet. I gathered my African supplies, found a bucket and mixed up the clay. I sat in the backyard—under the lemon tree—in dirt that was brown, not red, with no monkeys waiting to rob me. Instead of palm oil and cook fires, the air smelled of eucalyptus. I began to build another African market scene.

I got lost in it. So lost, the time slipped by again.

So lost, I didn’t hear the back gate open.

So lost, I jumped big time when Jasper said, “Hey, Hannah,” from right behind me.

“Whoa,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Your dad told me to put my bike back here.”

I scrambled to my feet after crouching too long, so dizziness slammed me for the second time that day. I put out my hands, and Jasper caught me in a sort of rescue hug. “Are you okay?”

“Um, yeah,” I said, blinking hard to bring the backyard back into sight.

The yard righted itself.

“I came to see if you were all right,” Jasper said.

We stood, holding each other’s hands as if we were about to dance.

I pulled away, confused. I found my voice, but it was thin and shaky. “I don’t get it. If you care enough to come over and see if I’m okay, why wouldn’t you talk to me this morning?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “You really hurt my feelings, Hannah,” he said.

“I hurt your feelings?” I asked. “How?”

“Oh, come on. You said you only wanted to see me when the B-Squad wasn’t around. How do you think that made me feel?”

The yard slanted. “What? When did I say that?”

“In your email on Saturday.”

I thought back. I hadn’t said that, had I? I tried to remember my wording. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, the yard slanted back to how it was supposed to be. This was fixable.

“Jasper, that’s not what I meant at all. At all. I can see how you might’ve thought that, based on what I said. I typed it so fast, and I was kind of nervous. But, really, I just didn’t want to wait until Monday. I wanted to see you as soon as I could.”

He stood there, absorbing this. He took his time, just like he did in class. He tossed his hair out of his eyes. “Why were you nervous?”

Truth just kept spilling out of my mouth. “I was nervous because I really like you, Jasper, and I didn’t want to make an idiot of myself if you didn’t like me back.”

“How could you think I didn’t like you, based on our emails?”

“That’s what I thought, but then this morning, I was so…oh my God, I was…crushed.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I am too. But how could you think I didn’t want to be seen with you based on my emails?”

He unfurled his grin. “I was nervous.”

“Why were you nervous?”

He tossed his hair out of his eyes. “Because I really like you Hannah. I was scared to believe you liked me back.”

I thought I might levitate.

He hugged me. For real this time.

The top of my head fit just under his chin. I closed my eyes. He smelled so good.

“Wow,” he said when he ended the embrace. He looked down at the miniature market I’d been making.

We pulled apart, but he kept hold of one of my hands. My cheeks blazed. I wondered if Dad, Sean, and Laila were watching.

“This is amazing,” Jasper said, real admiration in his voice.

He sat down cross-legged in the dry grass to look closer, his nose inches from the clay, beads, and aluminum. “You are so talented.”

I laughed.

“And you look so…beautiful.”

I stubbed my toe in the dirt. “Well, you know, a little visit to the third world can help you lose weight.”

He looked baffled. “I’m not talking about weight. I’m talking about your face. Your…glow.”

I didn’t know what to do with my hands. He looked at me as intently as he had the market.

“It’s the first thing I noticed this morning,” he said. “You look…transformed.”

I touched the brass figure on my breast bone. “I am transformed.”

What I loved about Jasper is that he didn’t take it as a joke. He nodded.

I sat down on the grass beside him. “I feel like the real me is back. The authentic me. I’m…happy. I haven’t been happy for a long time.” I couldn’t think of a single other person my own age that I could share this with.

“Authenticity and happiness are the best beauty products out there.”

He touched my cheek. I felt dizzy all over again. I put my hand over his and then held it. “Your emails meant so much to me,” I said. “I was having a really hard time.”

“I think that’s probably an understatement.”

That golden triangle hypnotized me.

“I don’t just mean my mom”—God, I couldn’t even say it. Would that ever get easier?—“or my dad getting arrested. I was having a hard time before that. Those things”—things seemed the wrong word. Could you call your mother dying a “thing”?—“just made it worse, but like I told you, I have some issues.”

Don’t tell him! What are you doing?

“I could kinda tell, Hannah.” His forehead scrunched up. “What happened today?”

I wanted to shrink and hide inside my miniature market. “I owe you an explanation of…”

He shook his head. “You don’t owe me anything, Hannah.”

“I want to be honest. You’re always so real and honest.”

“Well, okay,” he said. “But don’t tell me if you’re not ready. It doesn’t have to be today.”

Don’t tell him! He just gave you permission not to tell him!

I kept hold of his hand. I looked down at his hand and held it in both of mine, tracing those graceful fingers with my own. Then, I stepped off the cliff. “I have Bulimia.”

Falling,

falling,

flailing in horrible free fall. I’d shatter on the rocks below, everything disgusting and revolting splattering out of me. This sweet, nice boy would find an excuse to leave.

I looked up at Jasper’s face…and the free fall stopped. His face was still open and kind.

Not disgusted.

Not revolted.

Maybe a little sad. That’s all.

I exhaled.

He squeezed my hand. “How’d that feel?”

“Terrifying,” I admitted. I looked only at his hand when I asked, “You don’t think it’s gross?”

“Well…yeah, bulimia is pretty gross.”

I stiffened.

“But you aren’t gross, Hannah. There’s a big difference.”

He was right. Bulimia was gross. I marveled again that I’d missed how amazing he was when I’d first met him.

He took my hand and turned it palm down to rub that blister mark he’d noticed all that time ago. It was fainter, lots fainter, but still there. It had taken a while to build it up, so no doubt it would take a while to fade away.

I went inside and got Jasper his gift. I gave him the strip of kente cloth and told him all about the chief who’d taught me to bargain. “I thought maybe you could put that on your piano.”

He ran his fingers over the fabric. “Someday, when I have my own piano, I certainly will.”

“You don’t have a piano?”

He shook his head. “That’s why I practice at school all the time. Pam lets me in really early, before the school doors are unlocked. Dexter’s let me in on weekends too.”

“The more I learn about you, the more amazing you become.”

He leaned forward, his face toward mine. Was he going to kiss me?

Panic made me duck my face, and I instantly regretted it. Why? Why? You big chicken!

He stood. “Now it’s time for your gift.” He went to his backpack on the ground near his bike and pulled out a long, flat box. As he walked back to me, I saw it was a See’s Candy box. Now, See’s Candy is very, very good, but…My smile tightened. You could give your teacher candy. You could give your grandmother candy. You could give anyone candy!

When he handed the box to me, it felt unusually heavy with my disappointment. “Thanks, Jasper.” I forced my voice cheerful and perky.

He sat down beside me again. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Oh! Would you like some?”

I didn’t understand why he laughed until I opened the box.

Inside the box, in each of the little holes where a chocolate would go was a…rock.

“Take one,” he urged.

I looked at his face, wary—was he mocking me?—but his expression was kind, eager.

I picked up one rock, but it was in two pieces. I held the top half and saw that inside this plain, gray rock were purple glittery sparkles. “Oh,” I breathed.

The story. The story I’d told him, about realizing a bigger world existed. He’d remembered!

Jasper handed me the bottom half of the rock he’d picked up off the ground. In the space where the rock had been was a folded piece of paper, the size of a fortune from a cookie. I unfolded it and read the words, You are a survivor.

“You are the coolest guy alive,” I whispered.

Each of the rocks held a startling surprise inside, and each had a paper underneath. You are an incredible artist, You see the world in a unique way, I can tell you apart, You’re authentic, Your hair is the exact color of honey, You’re smart, You’re funny, You can cut onions without crying, There is nothing fake about you, and You are brave.

My very, very favorite one was the last one I unfolded. You are beautiful inside and out.

I swallowed. The lemon tree’s aroma suddenly seemed overwhelming.

He tossed his hair out of his eyes. “You thought it was just a lame box of candy, didn’t you?”

I laughed and nodded.

He leaned in again.

This time I didn’t duck.

He tasted minty and warm. My legs dissolved even though I already sat down.

I would’ve kissed Jasper all day.

I would’ve kissed Jasper forever.

But my dad came out on the deck and yelled in an odd, high-pitched voice that didn’t sound like him at all, “Hey, you guys! You want some dinner?”

• • •

129. Kissing

130. Perfect, unique, special personal gifts

131. A good run when you feel like you’re floating

132. Being in love

133. Kissing

I thought about my first kiss, and all the kisses with Jasper since, as the awards ceremony crawled on.

At long last, the documentary category rolled around.

I had to remember that they occasionally panned the audience, and they would certainly show my dad and I while Aunt Izzy was up—everyone milked our connection for all it was worth.

I smiled, but I felt sick. It took forever for the actress in pink sequins to open the envelope.

Aunt Izzy won. She held Modesta’s hand and led her up the stairs to the stage.

Izzy gave a witty, quick speech as she always did. Images from my time in Ghana flooded my brain. I swear I could even smell palm oil.

Izzy guided Modesta to the microphone where my friend spoke with poise as if she’d been doing this all her life. She thanked the glamorous crowd for caring about so many children without parents, for the attention and resources that would help these orphans be able to “lead our world into a better place.”

I sat there inspired to make up for the time I’d wasted.

Because of Modesta, I’d finally come up with a Make a Difference Project.

Jasper had shown my cities to his parents. They’d shown my cities to his Aunt Sena who had a gallery in Silver Lake. His Aunt Sena showed my cities to some clients who wanted to buy them. Buy them for ridiculous prices.

When that first one sold, I told Dad my idea. “I want to help pay for Modesta’s college.”

His face was unreadable. I told him all about the Make a Difference Project, how this would be perfect, since if Modesta became a doctor, she’d end up helping a bunch more people. “It would get the most mileage, you know? The ripple effect would be huge.”

Dad still didn’t speak. I jabbered on, over explaining, because I didn’t know what to make of his silence. “So, I could put all the money I make from selling the cities into an account for Modesta. I don’t know how all that would work yet, how to get money to her and all, but we could figure that out, right? I probably couldn’t pay for it all, but I could help. It would be nice if maybe for once she didn’t have to work so hard, you know?”

I ran out of words. Dad stared at me. Was he even listening to me? Did he think it was stupid?

“Dad?” I whispered.

“Hannah,” he choked out. “That’s beautiful. That’s so beautiful. I wish your mother were here to see this. She’d be so, so proud of you. You know what she’d say, don’t you?”

I nodded. Now I was the one unable to speak. I did know what she’d say. But what I’d never known before, though, was that pretty was also something you could feel.

But Dad had more news for me that day. My mom left a trust for me. A pretty big trust. Dad and I thought maybe we could help more than just Modesta. We could start a scholarship in Mom’s name for other girls too.

Modesta accepted our intervention on her behalf with a calm grace, but she had conditions of her own: she’d keep supplying me with Philomel’s figures for my cities, as well as beads and other trinkets from Ghana. I’d received a monthly package from her for the last two years.

As it turned out, Modesta might not need as much help from us as I’d originally worried. Her high academic scores had already earned her the promise of a scholarship in Accra.

Speaking of…my high school track coach had hinted I could probably run for a college team if I wanted. We’d see. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to keep running competitively, although I knew I’d run—for myself—until my legs couldn’t do it anymore.

Bebe’d joined the track team too. We weren’t, by any stretch of the imagination, real friends, but she was the first leg of the mile relay, and I was the last. She’d set a blistering pace, and I’d close any gaps the middle two legs allowed. Together we were unstoppable. She’d defected from the B-Squad a month or so after I did. That surprised me. I’d expected Brittany to leave, but she stuck by Brooke even now.

Leaving had been so much easier than I ever dreamed. Once I broke away, Brooke just ignored me. What had I really expected to happen? What had kept me afraid for so, so long?

• • •

Once Aunt Izzy collected her Oscar, the ceremony seemed to be moving at fast forward.

Best Supporting Actor came up.

Dad leaned over to whisper into my hair, “Remember, be polite. They might film our reaction if Kevin wins.”

Oh, yeah. Did I forget to mention that? Kevin was nominated too. I guess I was just focusing on the good parts.

Kevin hadn’t even looked at me at school for the rest of eighth grade. The first time I saw him after that nurse’s office talk with Dad, Kevin froze in his tracks. I swear the expression that crossed his face was fear. He practically fled from me. I begged my dad to tell me what he’d said to Kevin, but he always stuck to his story: “I just told him to leave you alone.”

“But how did you say it? What did you do?”

He’d sigh and laugh, then step close to my face and half-whisper like Clint Eastwood, “Leave my daughter the hell alone.”

And Kevin had done it.

Then, this past summer before we were sophomores, Kevin had caused a drunk driving accident of his own. His scandal splashed all over the tabloids and entertainment shows. His parents hustled him into rehab.

One day last fall, Dad had come into my room and said, “I know you’re no fan of Kevin. And I’m not either. But I think I might be able to help him. I’d like to go talk to him in rehab, if that’s okay with you.”

I couldn’t believe Dad was asking my permission, but I loved him for it.

I kind of understood why Dad had wanted to help Kevin too.

I’d felt the same way about Brooke.

Brooke had changed freshman year, and not for the better. I’d been forced to be her lab partner once and had seen the faint scars on her forearms as she handled the microscope. Whatever. I hadn’t lost too much sleep over it, but months later I came across her in the bathroom during a class period (I was in there, honest to God, to simply pee). She stood at the sink, shirt hiked up exposing her midriff, a paper towel pressed to her ribs. The terror on her face when she wheeled to see who it was broke my heart. “What are you staring at?” she’d asked.

I could’ve said, “I’m staring at the bloody paper towel you’re holding.”

I could’ve said, “I’m staring at the fact that you obviously hurt yourself.”

I could’ve said, “I’m staring at the fact that you have a serious problem.”

But I didn’t.

I just shut myself in a stall to pee.

When I came out, the red-splotched paper towels on top of the trash were the only evidence she’d been there.

Weeks later, I went to the counselor to explain what I knew. It was then I understood why Dad had gone to see Kevin.

Once you’ve been there yourself, once you’ve been so lost, miserable, and fumbling, and you’ve managed to crawl your way out, you can’t help but want to help others who are as buried as you once were. No matter how hideous she’d been to me, I knew what she was going through was more hideous. She’d just chosen a different way of hurting herself than I had.

At the Oscars, they showed a clip of Kevin from Blood Roses and I fell for it again, just like I had when I’d seen the full film. When I’d attended the premiere with Dad, I’d tried to resist liking Kevin’s performance at all, bracing myself to criticize it later. But the creep was very talented. I believed every word he said on screen. And those eyes—those eyes that had filled my brain with white noise—well, their affect was amplified on the big screen. It wasn’t fair. Why should someone so scummy get so much talent?

I caught myself clapping at the end of the clip in spite of myself.

Guess who won?

I rose to my feet along with Dad, smiling and clapping, even though I seethed inside. I’d wanted anyone else in that category to win besides Kevin.

As Kevin went to the podium, Modesta leaned toward me and said, “He is beautiful.”

I made a face and whispered, “Only on the outside.”

Modesta raised her magnificent eyebrows. I saw her remembering our conversation at the village pump. She tipped her head toward Kevin asking, Him?

I nodded.

Dad tapped my knee. Be polite.

Kevin at the podium wasn’t at all like the Kevin in the swimming pool…but, then again, he was an actor and very skilled at pretending to be someone else. As he thanked everyone who had helped him, he was humble and even sheepish.

“But there’s one person I need to thank above all others,” Kevin said, drawing to a close. His voice grew husky. “I don’t think I’d be alive today if it weren’t for Caleb Carlisle.”

I felt as if the breath had been punched out of my stomach.

Dad squeezed my hand. The cameras are on us, he was reminding me.

“Caleb is a survivor,” Kevin said. “An amazing man. He stepped up to the plate when I was in trouble and even though he didn’t have any reason to—and believe me, he really didn’t have any reason to”—this he delivered with a self-deprecating laugh—“he helped me. He’s a great actor and an even greater man and I will always, always be grateful to him. Thank you.”

The place went wild. Standing ovation. I knew that the ovation was for my father, not just Kevin.

When we went to commercial break, Modesta said, “That was beautiful,” of Kevin.

“Yes,” I had to agree, “it was.”

• • •

Finally, finally, as we grew terrifyingly close to the fourth hour of the ceremony, the Best Actor category was called. Third to last, with only Best Director and Best Film to go. I thought I’d felt sick over the documentary, but it was nothing compared to the I’m-so-nervous-I-can’t-breathe-or-swallow sensation that gripped me now.

They showed the clips. Oh, man, every single actor was so, so good. But please, oh, please let my dad get this!

He didn’t.

It’s so weird how everything leading up to a certain moment can be so intense, so crucial, so life-or-death—this feeling of he has to win. It’s the only thing that can happen!

Then it doesn’t.

And you know what?

Everything is okay.

When they announced that Sean had won this year’s award for Best Actor, I looked at my dad and he was genuinely happy for his best friend.

But more importantly, I looked at my dad and saw he was genuinely happy in general.

So was I.

Even better was the fact that, as we looked at each other, I knew we were thinking the same thing. We were happy. We’d survived.

We didn’t need a little bald gold man to tell us that.

• • •