But I didn’t hear her, couldn’t, was already gone, turning and walking out the door with the food in my hands to the parking lot before I even knew what was happening. Over the years I had perfected removing myself from situations. It was kind of like automatic pilot; I just shut down and retreated, my brain clicking off before anything that hurt could sink in.
But every once in a while, something would get through. Now I stood under that one streetlight and the fries and onion rings stank in my hands. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I wasn’t even me anymore. I was bigger, a year younger, and back in my neighborhood the night Chase Mercer and I took that walk down to the eighteenth hole.
I didn’t cry as I walked back to Mira’s house. You get to a point where you just can’t. It never stops hurting. But I was glad when I didn’t cry anymore.
I didn’t even know this girl, this Isabel with her blonde hair and pouty lips. It was like I wore a permanent “Kick Me” sign, not only at home and school but out in the rest of the world, too. It isn’t fair, I thought, but those words were as meaningless as all the rest.
Mira was sitting in front of the TV when I came in. She’d put on a pair of blue old-lady slippers and replaced the kimono with a faded plaid bathrobe.
“Colie?” she called out. “Is that you?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Did you find it okay?”
I looked at myself in the full-length mirror by the door: my black hair, my piercing, my torn-up jeans and black shirt, long-sleeved even in this summer heat. Isabel had hated me on sight, and not because I was fat. Just because she could.
“Colie?” Mira called out again.
“Yeah,” I said. “Your salad’s right here.” I took it into the back room. She opened the box immediately and popped a piece of lettuce into her mouth.
“Oh, I just love their Caesar dressing!” she said happily. “Norman sneaks some home to me every once in a while. It’s wonderful. What did you get?”
“Just a burger and fries. Here’s your change.” I put it on the coffee table, where she had two plates and two iced teas and a stack of napkins waiting.
“Oh, thank you. Now sit down and let’s eat. I’m ravenous.” Cat Norman hauled himself out from under the couch and nudged the bottom of the box with his nose.
“I’m not that hungry,” I said.
“Bad cat,” she said, pushing him back with one foot. To me she added, “But you must be starving! You’ve had such a long day, all this excitement.”
“I’m really tired,” I said. “I think I’ll just turn in.”
“Oh.” She stopped eating, glancing up at me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” This came instantly, like a reflex.
“You sure?”
I thought of Isabel, the way her eyes narrowed as she zeroed in on me. Of my mother in her purple windsuit, new shoes squeaking, waving good-bye. Of an entire summer stretching ahead. “Yes,” I said. “I’m sure.”
“Well, okay,” she said slowly as if we were striking a bargain. “You probably are worn out.”
“Yeah,” I said, starting out of the room, my cold smelly burger still in my hand. “I am.”
“Okay, well, then good night!” she called after me as I started out of the room. “And if you change your mind …”
“Okay,” I said, “thanks.” But she was already settling back in her chair, Cat Norman leaping with a bit of effort to the arm beside her. She turned up the volume on yet another wrestling match, and I could hear the crowd roar, cheering and screaming, as I climbed the stairs to my room.
“Colie!”
It wasn’t morning. The room was dark, with the moon big and yellow and hanging just where I’d left it in the corner of the window.
“Colie!”
I sat up in bed, forgetting for a second where I was. Then it came back: the train, Norman, wrestling, Isabel’s beauty tips. My face was dry and tight, my eyelashes sticky from the crying I didn’t do anymore.
“Colie?” It was Mira, her voice right outside my door. “You have company, honey.”
“Company?”
“Yes. Downstairs.” She tapped the door with her fingers before walking away. I wondered if I was dreaming.
I pulled my jeans back on and opened the door, looking down the stairs at the lighted room below. This had to be a joke. I didn’t even get company at home, much less at a place I’d been less than a day.
I started down the stairs, squinting as the light got brighter and brighter. Everything felt strange, as if I’d been sleeping forever. I was close to the bottom when I saw a set of feet, in sandals, by the door. Two more steps and there were legs, knees, and a small waist with a windbreaker knotted around it. Another two steps, and the beginnings of blonde hair, a pair of pouty lips, and then those same eyes, narrowed at me. I stopped where I was.
“Hey,” Isabel said. She had her arms crossed over her chest. “Got a second?”
I hesitated, thinking of Caroline Dawes and all the girls like her I’d left behind.
“I just want to talk to you, okay?” she snapped, as if I’d already said no. Then she took a deep breath and glanced outside. This seemed to settle her down. “Okay?”
I don’t know why, but I said, “Okay.”
She turned and went out on the front porch, leaving the screen door in half-swing for me to catch. Then she leaned against one of the posts, bit her lip, and looked out into the yard. Up close, I hated to admit, she was even prettier: a classic heart—
shaped face, big blue eyes, and pale skin without a zit in sight. Somehow that made it easier to dislike her.
Neither one of us said anything.
“Look,” she said suddenly. “I’m sorry, okay?” She said this defensively, as if I’d demanded it of her.
I just looked at her.
“What?” she said. “What else do you want?”
“Isabel.” Morgan stepped out of the shadows by the bottom of the steps. Her face was stern. “You know that is not how we discussed it.”
“It is too,” Isabel snapped.
“Do it like I told you,” Morgan said evenly. “Like you mean it.”
“I can’t—” Isabel said.
“Do it. Now.” Morgan came up to the second step and nodded toward me. “Go ahead.”
Isabel turned back to face me, smoothing her hair. “Okay,” she began, “I am sorry I said what I said. I tend to be very critical of what I don’t…” Here she paused, looking at Morgan.