Dreamland

Dreamland

Chapter 10

“Caitlin?” I blinked, opening my eyes. My English lit teacher, Mr. Lensing, was standing over me, a well-?worn copy of T. S. Eliot's collected poems in his hand. All around us the room was quiet and I could feel everyone watching me. “Yes?” “Did you hear the question?” He shifted the book to his other hand, then lifted his glasses off his head and put them on while flipping a few pages with his fingers. “I asked you about the symbolism of the mermaids in Eliot's 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.'” “Oh,” I said, looking down at my own book, which was closed, and frantically flipping through the pages, the words blurring. “I, um, think” “Page one-?eighty-?four,” Richard Spellman, class president, whispered from behind me. “Bottom of the page.” “Right,” I said, One-?fifty, one-?sixty-?two, one-?seventy-?four. Where the hell was it? “Um, the mermaids. Well” A few rows back, someone snickered. Then coughed. Mr. Lensing took his glasses off again. “Can anyone help us out here?” he asked, a tired look on his face. “Yes. Richard.” “The mermaids represent what is ultimately unattainable by the speaker,” Richard said, and the same person in back snickered again, at him. “When he says they won't sing to him, he's talking about his separateness from the rest of the world, the kind of dream-?state he is in, all by himself. He says he's underwater, with these mermaids who both accept and reject him. But it is the human elementthe real worldthat ultimately does him in, as is seen in the last line.” I had finally located the right page, my eyes quickly scanning the very end of the poem: Till human voices wake us, and we drown. “Very good,” Mr. Lensing said, clapping his book shut just as the bell rang. “Read and be ready to discussThe Waste Land tomorrow, people. And don't forget, papers are due in one week!” Everyone was talking now, books closing, backpacks zipping up, the sound of voices and shuffling in the hallway coming in through the open door. I shut my notebook and stood up, looking out the window at the parking lot and the gray, February sky above it. “Caitlin.” I looked up. Mr. Lensing, now behind his desk, was watching me. “Yes?” “Wake up,” he said. “Okay?” I nodded. “Yeah, sure. Okay.”

I walked out into the hallway, past the lockers and into the girls' bathroom, which was thick with the smell of cigarettes and hairspray. A group of girls were crowded by the mirrors, checking lipstick and gossiping, but I pushed past them and went into a stall, locking it behind me. “My point is,” one of the girls by the sinks was saying, “I just can't even think about the prom yet.” There was a hiss of hairspray, and then someone else said, “I heard Becca Plaser already bought her dress, in New York. It cost, like, five hundred dollars or something.” “Oh, please,” the first girl said. “It doesn't matter if you spend a million on your dress if you can't get a date.” I sat down on the toilet, then reached over with my right hand to carefully roll up my left sleeve. And midway up my forearm, I could see the bluish-?black edge of the bruise coming into view. “Well,” another girl said, “all that matters is that we will be beach-?bound the night of the prom. It's gonna be so cool!” “So your parents said yes?” “Yep. I mean, I was subjected to the whole Trust Talk and all that. But we are in, for sure. No worries.” I kept rolling up my sleeve until I could see the whole bruise. It was turning yellow in the center, less black than the day before. “Yes!” I heard a slapping of palms, then someone laughing. The bell announcing the next period rang, ear-?splittingly loud in the small space. I touched the center of the bruise with my finger, smoothing my fingers over its width. It still hurt, but the swelling was down. I sat there, listening as the girls left, then ducked my head to check for feet under the other stalls. Nobody. I was alone. I rolled down my sleeve, pulling it tight to the edge of my wrist. As if by silent agreement, since the night I'd told my parents how I had “slipped on the ice,” Rogerson had taken to only hitting me where I could cover it: arms, legs, shoulders. I wore only long-?sleeved shirts, big sweaters, and turtlenecks, but at least now my face was off-?limits. After that night it was okay for a little while. He seemed sorry although he never said so out loudbut I could tell. It was in the way he kept his hand on my knee, or placed his fingers in the small of my back, always keeping me close. In the Cokes and candy bars he bought me without being asked, CDs or magazines I liked dropped like offerings in my lap, surprising me. And most of all it was in the way he kissed me, his lips on my neck, or trailing down across my collarbone, as if I was beautiful or even sacred. On Christmas Eve, I went to the pool house, where Rogerson cooked me dinner. Afterward, he slid a box across the table to me: it was white, and long, tied with a red bow. Inside was a silver necklace made up of tiny, interlocking squares, so shiny it glittered as he lifted up my hair to do the clasp. I thought then, as I had so many times before, how impossible it seemed that he could ever have hurt me. That night, I slept with him for the first time. And it hurt, too, but in a different way, one I'd been expecting. And the pain didn't linger, easily overshadowed by how good it felt to lie in his arms afterward, my head on his chest. I could see my necklace shining in the moonlight that was slanting through the window, and made a wish on it that things would be better now. Each time we had sex from then on, I told myself that this was the closest you could get to another person. So close their breaths become your own. So I gave him all of me, believing I could trust him. Then, on New Year's Eve, I talked too much to a guy at a party while Rogerson did business in another room. Outside he yanked me by my hair and pushed me against a wall, where I'd clocked the back of my head against a planter, making it bleed. I saw in the New Year at Corinna's, stoned, with a warm washcloth pressed against my headRogerson explained how I'd been tipsy, too much beerwhile everyone counted down and clinked champagne glasses. Corinna gave Dave a long, sloppy kiss and said, “This is our year, baby.” “You say that every year,” he said, laughing. “No. This year, it's true. I can feel it,” she replied. “California, here we come!” “Happy New Year,” Rogerson said, and then he kissed me. But for the first time since all of this had startedthe hittings, and the sex it was different. I still felt something, but not like I had before. I was wary now. “Happy New Year,” I'd responded, like the robot I felt I was becoming. I looked down at my necklace, running my fingers over the patterned squares. Even though it had just been days earlier, Christmas Eveand those gentle hands on my neckalready seemed like another world. The next day he bought me a CD and took me to the movies, where he held my hand, his fingers locked around mine. I couldn't focus on the film, something about the apocalypse and only one man who could save all humanity. Instead I kept looking at Rogerson, the light flickering across his face, and wondering what lay ahead for us, and me. There was no pattern, no way of knowing when to expect it. After New Year's a week passed until the next time, then just a couple of days, then two weeks. Whenever he did hit me, I could count on him being sorry for at least twenty-?four hours: a safe period on which I had come to rely, like home base. Those were the good days. But once they were over, all bets were off. But no matter what we were doing, the fact that he hit me was always on my mind. When we had sex, especially, I couldn't push it out of my mind, however badly I wanted to. The Rogerson kissing me or stroking my stomach couldn't be the same one who lashed out so easily, who pushed me up against walls or smacked me. It seemed incongruous, against all logic, like a theorem you could never prove in geometry. And in the moments afterward, as we lay there together, I'd hold him so close, as if just by tangling myself with him I could keep that Rogerson with me, banishing the other forever. But no matter how hard I tried, he always managed to slip away. It got to be that sex was the only time I could count on being safe. And it never lasted long enough. Then we'd be driving, stoned, on our way somewhere, and then somewhere else after that. Before it had been exciting, new, to always be in transit. But now I felt like I was drifting, sucked down by an undertow, and too far out to swim back to the shore. I never even tried to change the station anymore, instead letting his music fill my ears and all the spaces between us, heavy and thick, like a haze. Wake up, Caitlin. Mr. Lensing wasn't the only one who'd noticed. “Caitlin?” my mother would say to me at the dinner table, as I pushed around my food, my sleeves pulled tight to my wrists even though she kept the heat cranked and there was a fire crackling and snapping right behind me. My mother was cold-?blooded. “Honey, are you okay? Aren't you hungry?” “Caitlin!” the dance coach would bark as I flubbed another cartwheel or missed a step, finishing out the clumsy death throes of my cheerleading career. “Get with it, O'Koren! What's the matter with you?” “Caitlin,” Boo would say, trying to hide the hurt in her face as i shrank back from her in photography classthe only time I ever saw her anymorewhen she tried to squeeze my arm or shoulder, saying hello in her touchy way. “I miss you.” “Caitlin?” Rina would ask in our one shared class, history, fanning her hand over my eyes as I zoned out, half-?listening to her detail another dramatic blow-?up with Jeff. “Hello?” “Caitlin,” Corinna would say. “Hand me that lighter.” “Caitlin,” Stewart had said more than once, “you look like you really, desperately, are in need of some wheat germ. Seriously.” And finally, the one voice to which I snapped to attention, every time.

“Caitlin,” Rogerson would say, and I'd listen so hard, trying to tell just by the cadence what might happen when we were alone. “Come on.” Wake up, Caitlin, Mr. Lensing had said. But what he didn't understand was that this dreamland was preferable, walking through this life half-?sleeping, everything at arm's length or farther away. I understood those mermaids. I didn't care if they sang to me. All I wanted was to block out all the human voices as they called my name again and again, pulling me upward into light, to drown.  I had known since December that punctuality could mean the best or worst of things for me with Rogerson. But now things were getting harder. Rogerson picked me up for lunch every day right at noon. This gave me exactly five minutes to get from my trigonometry class, which was on one side of campus, through the packed hallways and crowded courtyard to the small turnaround near the auto mechanics classroom where he always waited for me. But no matter how quickly I left classeven after changing my seat, so I was right by the door and could leap up the second the bell ranghe always managed to get there first. I'd round the corner, out of breath, to see the car parked there, engine idling. I'd know Roger-?son was behind those tinted windows, waiting and watching. Sometimes, it was just a little rough: a blocking bruise. Other times, a hard foul. And if things were really badfull contact. It was always easier for me to think about it this way. Sports was my father cheering Saturday morning football, Cass lifting the all-?state trophy over her head, our entire family at university basketball games, roaring with the crowd. Sports were safe, even when Roger-?son wasn't. Even the days that I skipped fourth period so I was there first, sitting under the little scrubby tree by the curb when he pulled in, it didn't seem to make him any happier. It was like he wanted to be mad, so he'd have an excuse to do what he did to me. And he was doing it more and more often, as winter headed into spring. The bruise on my arm I'd gotten courtesy of Mrs. Dennis, my trig teacher, who insisted on keeping me after class a few days earlier to discuss my lack of class participation and a failing quiz grade. I started skipping her class, because it was easier. I'd sit under that tree, my knees pulled tight against my chest and smoke cigarettes, my eyes fixed on the entrance to the turnaround. There were rules of play here, technical fouls, illegal movements. I had to be careful. I couldn't talk to anyone because if Rogerson saw me he'd assume I was (A) flirting or (B) discussing him. One day Richard Spellman, class president, tried to sit down and talk to me about some stupid group project we were doing for English. I just shook him off, edging farther and farther away: I knew I could guarantee myself full contact plus a few hard fouls if Rogerson saw us there together. But Richard just kept talking, oblivious, while I picked at grass blades, my stomach churning, and hid behind my sunglasses, pretending I was invisible. I was getting good at that. When he finally left it was only a matter of seconds before Rogerson pulled in. So close. So, so close. The only person I ever really spoke to at school anymore was Rina, and not much at that. “Let's go out tonight, just us girls,” she said to me one day, as we sat together under my tree. The bell had just rung and she'd plopped down next to me, strerching her long legs out in front of her. “I can't,” I said. “Why not?” She fumbled in her purse for her sunglassesblack with cat's-?eye- shaped frames and tiny rhinestones in the cornersand put them on, leaning her head back to look up into the mild winter sun. “I've got plans with Rogerson,” I said. “You always have plans with Rogerson,” she said. “We haven't done a girls' night in forever, Caitlin. I'm in withdrawal here.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, watching as a black carnot himsped past on the road in front of us. “But I made plans already.” “Oh, come on,” she said, popping her sunglasses up on her forehead and looking at me. “What could be so important to blow off your best friend? Again.” I sighed. Rina always made this hard for me. “I'm not trying to blow you off,” I said. “I just already told him we'd do this thing together.” “Okay, fine,” she said, flipping her hand. “How about this... we'll go out early, get a burger or something, and then you can meet him later somewhere.” “I can't,” I said again. “God, Caitlin!” she said, exasperated. She pulled her purse onto her lap and started digging for a cigarette, grabbing my lighter with her other hand. “Look, just let me talk to him, okay? I'll tell him you really need some girl time and I'll promise to have you back home at a decent hour. Let me handle it. I'll tell him” “Rina.” “I'm serious,” she said. “I know how to handle this. He'll understand. He's coming to pick you up right now, right? So I'll just talk to him now.” She just didn't understand. “It's not a good idea,” I said. “Sure it is,” she said easily, tossing back my lighter. “I can deal with Rogerson. No problem. By the time I'm done with him he'll be putty in my hands.” “Rina, I said no.” She didn't know what she could do to me. What kind of full contact I could expect at the slightest intervention. My stomach already binding tight, a burning there that seemed to grow each day. “Not another word,” she said lightly, blowing me off while exhaling a long steam of smoke. “It's taken care of.” “Rina” “Hush. I told you. It's” “No,” I snapped, louder than I meant to, and she jerked back, surprised, like I'd slapped her. “I told you, I can't. That's it.“ She cocked her head to the side, her face hurt. ”What, you're not allowed to hang out with me anymore or something? He's telling you what to do now?“ ”No,“ I said, as another black car passed by, the light glinting off it. ”He's not.“ ”That's sure what it sounds like,“ she said, an uppity tone in her voice. ”Well, it isn't,“ I said. We sat there for a few minutes, not talking. All around us people were passing by, on their way to the parking lot or their next class, voices high and laughing. I was thinking back to all those nights of driving and crying, when I listened to Rina wail as the scenery sped past. She could tell me anything, as long as we were in motion. ”What's going on, Caitlin?“ she said suddenly, moving a little closer and lowering her voice. ”Tell me.“ I look at hermy best friendwith her strawberry-?blond hair and pink Coral Ice lipstick, and for a split second I wanted to let it all spill out. About the importance of time, and the helpless feeling I got every time I saw that black BMW, not knowing what waited on the other side of the tinted windows. About hard fouls, and full contact, and those mermaids, pulling me up to drown. But I couldn't tell her. I couldn't tell anyone. As long as I didn't say it aloud, it wasn't real. So I smiled my best cheerleader smile, shook my head, and said, ”It's nothing, Rina. You worry too much.“ I concentrated on keeping my voice chipper, all pep: I've got spirit, yes I do, I've got spirit, how 'bout you? Rina cocked her head to the side, studying me. She wasn't a dumb girl; she knew something was up. But she still had faith in our friendship, forged in the war zone of junior high. She thought I'd never lie to her. ”Okay,“ she said finally, as if we'd bartered out some kind of agreement. ”But if you need me“ ”I know,” I said, cutting her off. It was right at noon: My safe time was up. The muscles in my stomach and shoulders were clenching harder as I picked up my backpack and began to move closer to the turnaround. I looked at her, sitting cross-?legged there in her sunglasses, popping her gum, with no greater concern in her life right then than me. And I envied her, quickly and quietly, in a different way than I had all those years we'd spent together. “I gotta go,” I said, and she nodded as I backed away, turning my head to look over at the parking lot entrance where Rogerson was pulling in. I was on time, but just a few feet too far out of sight. I knew she was watching me as I walked toward the car, the engine purring, low and growly, like a dog just warning you to stay back. I didn't know what to expect this time. Trash talk, a hard foul. Full contact. I took a deep breath, walked up to the car, my reflection staring back at me in those black, black windows, and stepped across the sidelines, into the game.  While I was working on being invisible, Cass was slowly coming back to us. She hadn't called on Christmas Eve, which had made my mother teary the entire time we opened gifts and had our annual pancake breakfast with Boo and Stewart the next morning. Cass did send a card, with a picture of her and Adam inside. They were standing in front of their own tree, a small scrubby pine with a few lights, one of those homemade paper chains, and a tinfoil angel on top. He had his arm around her and they were both smiling; Cass looked as happy as I'd ever seen her. My mother put the picture in a frame, immediately, and parked it on the coffee table, displacing a series of glass teddy bears and a small basket of potpourri. “I'm trying to understand what she meant about keeping her life her own, about boundaries,” I heard her say to Boo Christmas day as they cleaned up the kitchen. My father was parked in his chair, watching a game, with Stewart dozing on the couch, one hand on his stomach.

“But this is Christmas, for goodness sake.” “She's coming around,” Boo said reassuringly. “She seems to think that we controlled her somehow, that we were too involved in her life.” I could hear my mother washing dishes, the water splashing. “And now, I guess, we're not. Or something.” And she sighed, again, that low, sad Cass-?sigh I'd heard daily since the summer. Cass's gifts sat under the tree until we dismantled it. My mother, always fair, had even bought onesmall, but still therefor Adam. Then they were moved to the hall closet, still in their brightly colored paper and ribbons, and stacked behind the vacuum cleaner. When she had finally called, about a week into the New Year, I was lying in my bed, sleeping after another late night, as well as a fresh wrist-?wrenching bruise, courtesy of Rogerson. I knew it was Cass just by the way my mother's voice jumped from its normal, polite hello to a gasp of excitement I could hear clearly through my door and down the hallway. “Happy New Year to you, too!” she cried out, and I could hear her moving around, looking for my father so she could get him on the extension. This was harder for him. He'd get on the line and listen, talking to Cass only when prompted, and then in short, formal sentences, his voice low, as if she was someone he knew only formally. “How are you, honey? How was your Christmas?” I could hear her going through the kitchen to my father's study, her heels clacking across the floor. I rolled over and closed my eyes. “Oh, yes, we had a wonderful time. You missed the blueberry pancakes. But you were on our minds. It just wasn't the same without you.” A pause, and then she whispered, “Jack, it's Cassandra. Pick up that extension.” My mother made affirmative noises as Cass described her Christmas, and then I heard my father say, “Hello, Cassandra.” “Oh, it's so wonderful you called!” my mother chirped, her voice so full and happy. I pulled my pillow over my head trying to block out the sound. “How's the weather up there?” my father asked, and it was quiet as Cass responded. “Well, that's New York in January for you.” “It's been lovely here,” my mother added. “What? Oh, she's fine, so busy. Her cheerleading is just going wonderfully, and she's so caught up with school and this new boyfriend of hers, Rogerson, she's busy every night. She's just wonderful.” I reached up and examined my wrist, feeling the tenderness right by my watchband. Wonderful, I thought. .“I'm sure she'd want to talk to you,” my mother went on, and I could hear her starting down the hallway toward my room, the cordless in her hand. “I think she's still sleeping, but I can” I pulled the pillow tighter, letting my body fall slack just as she opened the door a crack, peeking in. “Caitlin?” she whispered. “Honey?” I stayed perfectly still, concentrating on breathing evenly: in, out. In, out. “Oh, my,” my mother said softly, “she's still asleep. She'll be so sorry she missed you.” I waited until I heard the soft click of the door shutting again before I opened my eyes. Her voice faded as she walked back to the kitchen, still cooing as she took in Cass's every word. The truth was, I didn't want to talk to Cass. So far everyone who had noticed something was different in me had been distracted enough by their own problemsRina with Jeff, my mother with Cass, even Corinna with Dave and her workthat they accepted my easy explanations about falling or clumsiness and didn't look too closely. The only one who acted as if she might have sensed something was Boo, but she'd never try to pry it out of me. It wasn't her style. So it was easy, in photography class or over dinner, to ignore her thoughtful glances, to sidestep her questions with the standard dinner table answers: Fine. Busy. Nothing special. I'm just tired. But my sister was different. We were too alike, and I was scared that she'd be able to tell something was wrong with one word, one sentence, instantly guessing everything. And I couldn't be found out, not by Cass. She was the strong one, the smart one. She would never have let this happen to her.

I reached under my mattress and pulled out my dream journal, flipping through a few full pages to find the first blank spot. And as my mother laughed and trilled from the kitchen, soaking up every bit of Cass she could, I talked to my sister the only way I had left. Jan 7 Dear Cass, Remember when we were kids and Mom always made us come up with one resolution for New Year's we had to keep, no matter what? Like flossing your teeth every day, or not fighting so much, or reading one book every month. It seemed like anything was possible when you had a clean slate to start with.

Well, it's New Year's now but I don't feel that way anymore. I wonder if you do either. Something's happening to me. It's like I'm shrinking smaller and smaller and I can't stop it. There's just so much wrong that I can't imagine the shame in admitting even the tiniest part of it. When you left it was like there was this huge gap to fill, but instead of spreading wide enough to do it I just fell right in, and I'm still falling.

Like I'm half-?asleep, and I can't wake up, can't wake up.... I went to Corinna's one afternoon in late February to smoke a quick bowl before practice and found the entire house dark, a bunch of candies lined up and lit on the coffee table. She was on the phone, pleading with the power company and chain-?smoking. “I understand that,” she said, handing my bowl back to me. Without the TV on, it was strangely quiet: I could hear their cat purring from across the room. She was sitting on the couch with her checkbook and a calculator, crying and trying to figure out what happened to the money that was supposed to cover the bills. “But I've always paid them before. I mean, I specifically remember giving the money to my boyfriend to deposit, so I don't see how“ I lit the bowl and breathed in deep. Corinna was listening, shaking her head. She grabbed another Kleenex out of the box on the table and wiped at her eyes impatiently. ”Yes, okay. Fine. Thank you.“ She dropped the phone on the coffee table and raised her hands to her face, covering her eyes. Her bracelets slid down her arm, clanking against the ask me about simply soup-?perb combos! button on the front of her uniform. ”I hate this,“ she said, her voice muffled. ”I'm so sorry,“ I said. She looked up at me, half-?smiled, and reached out to pick up her cigarettes. ”Did you know that today in L.A. it was seventy-?two degrees? In the middle of winter?“ She sighed. ”It's like a paradise out there.“ ”Sounds nice,“ I said. ”But I'll miss you when you go.“ She put the cigarette in her mouth. ”You'll come visit. We'll go to the beach, and find movie stars, and get a tan in the middle of February.“ ”All right,“ I told her. ”I'm there.“ ”I wish I was, right now,“ she said. ”It's like all I think about anymore. All I want, you know? Just to be there.“ I nodded, but to me California was so far away as to not be real, just like so much else these days. I was late for practice as usual, and when I walked in everyone was waiting for me. ”Caitlin,“ Chelsea Robbins said. ”Glad you could join us. Have a seat; we need to talk to you.” I blinked, hard, and started to walk over to the bleachers. Everyone except Rinawho was pretending to be preoccupied with tying her shoewas watching me. They were all in their practice clothes, shorts and T-?shirts, bright white Nikes with white socks. I was in sweats. Even when I was in uniform, I always wore tights and a sweaterI couldn't remember the last time I'd let anyone see my arms or legs bare. This would have been bad even if I hadn't been stoned. With that added element, however, it was all I could do to sit down and remain calm as all eyes stayed on me.

The cheerleading intervention, I thought, looking around me at all those perky faces, staring at me flatly as if I was a specimen about to be slapped on a slide. Here we go. “Caitlin,” Chelsea began as she sat down, folding her hands in her lap, “we thought it was time we discussed what you see as your role in the future of this squad.“ All those eyes, on me. I swallowed, and it sounded louder than God. ”My future,“ I said. ”Yes.“ Chelsea's lips were pink and glossy, and she pursed them a lot when she talked. I had not noticed this before. ”It's no secret that your participation and commitment of late has been, well, lacking. Am I right?“ There was a low murmur from the pack as everyone agreed. ”You show up late, you have no energy, you barely make ir to games,“ Chelsea continued, ticking each reason off on a slender finger. ”You don't attend squad functions. And there's been some speculation that you may ... have some kind of problem.“ More murmuring. Eliza Drake nodded her head, her ponytail bouncing. The lights in the gym were so bright and I could hear them buzzing, like a swarm of angry bees about to sting. I looked up at them, wincing in the glare. Problem, I thought. You don't know the half of it. ”Caitlin.“ Chelsea was losing patience. Beside her, Lindsay White, whose teen modeling career had been lost when I fell on her, rolled her eyes. Bitter. ”We wanted to give you a chance to respond. To make your case.“ I looked around at them, all so pretty and healthy, the best and the brightest. I saw Rina, looking sadly at me, and Eliza Drake, who had lost those nagging fifteen pounds and was ready to make top of the pyramid again. And then I thought of Corinna, crying in the dark at her house as the sun went down and it grew colder and colder. ”Caitlin,“ Chelsea said as she shook her head, her ponytail bobbing from side to side, ”don't you even care anymore?”

I didn't belong with these people. I never had. Next to my life with Rogerson and the ongoing struggle to avoid full contact, cheerleading seemed even sillier and more unimportant than ever. It was like another world, another language that I'd hardly learned and already forgotten. Don't you care anymore? Don't you? This question seemed ludicrous to me. Of course I didn't care. If I did, I wouldn't be biding a bruise on my arm and one on my back. I wouldn't be shrouding myself in long sleeves and chain-?smoking, watching myself shrink down to nothing as I tried to be invisible. Don't you care, Caitlin? They were all still watching me. “No,” I said bluntly to Chelsea Robbins and her pink, pink lips, then lifted my eyes to look across all their faces. “I don't.” I could feel them all reacting to this as I walked down the bleachers and started across that shiny gym floor, where I'd done a hundred cartwheels and climbed atop so many pyramids what seemed a million years ago. “Caitlin,” Rina called after me. “Wait.” But I was already gone, pulling my arms tight against my chest as the door slammed shut behind me. I walked out to my car, got in, and locked the door. Then I sat there, in the empty parking lot, and cried. It was the worst kind of sobbing, the kind that hurts your chest and steals your breath. No one could hear me. I couldn't believe I was upset about being kicked off the cheerleading squad, since I'd hated it right from the start. But it wasn't just that. It was that at least while I was on the squad I had some semblance of a normal life: my old life. But now, I was just a girl with a boyfriend who beat her, who smoked too much. I was drowning in broad daylight and no one could tell. I was due to meet Rogerson at my house right after practice, at six sharp, so I had time to take the long way home, following Rina's driving and crying path. When I passed Corinna's, all the windows were dark and her car was gone. I thought of her coming home that night to a pitch-?black house, holding her hand out in front of her face as she found her way to a candle and a match. The dark might not be so bad when it was everywhere, even outside. I drove out to the lake, then back into town through Rina's old neighborhood, pausing for a minute in front of her second stepfather's house to curse him, just like she did. Then I headed home, taking my time, and passed my house, driving up the street to hang a right and pull into Commons Park. I hadn't been there in years. The slide and the swing set were new, but the sandbox where Cass had reached out with a shovel and changed my face foreverwas the same. I went and sat on its edge, reaching down to scoop up a handful of the grainy, wet sand, imagining the layers beneath it, full of lost buttons and action figures and Barbie shoes, all buried and fossilized like dinosaur bones. There was something of mine here, too. I reached up with my finger and traced the scar over my eyebrow, remembering when that was the greatest hurt I'd ever known. When I closed my eyes, I pictured my mother carrying me all the way home, and my father holding my hand while the needle dipped in and out, outlining the arc of my scar. And finally, with my own memory, I saw the way Cass's expression changed whenever her eyes drifted across my face, taking it as hers as much as my own. That had been a different time, a different hurt. I couldn't even remember that pain, now. I sat at the park for a long time, running my fingers through the sand. I thought about everything: cheerleading, my bruises, Roger-?son's face in the picture I'd taken of him, my mother's chipper voice on the phone, and Corinna at Applebee's, pushing Super Sundaes and dreaming of California. But mostly I thought of Cass, and how I wished she was here to claim this hurt, too.

I was still there when Rogerson slowed down, seeing my car, and pulled in. His headlights moved across the swing and slide and monkey bars to finally find me, staying there like a spotlight. He didn't get out of the car, but just left the engine idling as he waited. I squinted as I stood up, pulling my jacket around me. Like always, I didn't know what to expect from him. I slid a handful of that sand into my pocket, wondering what relics it had once held. I rubbed the grains between my fingers, like charms, then took a deep breath and stepped into that bright, bright light.