Hannah had psyched herself up to take on Lisa Monroe this morning. Hannah would ring the buzzer, and if Lisa answered, Hannah would give her the practiced pitch: Ronni needs my support. My mom is willing to let me be there for my friend. You should, too. Hannah had been about to cross the street, had steeled herself to confront an angry adult, when a battered truck pulled up out front. Moments later, Lisa, looking young and pretty but really serious, had emerged from the building. Without a glance in Hannah’s direction, Lisa got in and drove off with the guy—her boyfriend, probably.
So why was Hannah still standing there, almost an hour later? As she stood rooted to the spot, she realized it was Ronni she was afraid of, not Ronni’s anger or blame, but her eye. Ronni had been back at school for a month, but Hannah still hadn’t seen it. She had seen the back of Ronni’s glossy, dark-brown head from a distance, but with Hillcrest’s population of two thousand students and Ronni’s drastically reduced class schedule, their paths hadn’t crossed. The school had a special program for kids with learning disabilities, or issues at home, or now, kids who had lost their eye at a sweet sixteen party. . . . The “specials,” Adam called them. Even before the accident, Ronni hadn’t been very academic. She was more interested in fashion and beauty, interests Hannah had assumed Ronni would segue into a career. Well . . . maybe not now.
But Ronni’s eye couldn’t be as bad as everyone said. The kids talked about her like she was a monster, a grotesque aberration, a Cyclops. . . . A lump formed in Hannah’s throat: pity and sadness. She forced herself to cross the street.
Hannah punched the code into the keypad and listened to the phone ring in Ronni’s apartment. There was no answer, but Ronni had to be there. She wasn’t at school, she wasn’t with her mom, and it’s not like she had any friends to hang out with anymore. Hannah hit the pound key to reset and tried again. Finally, a small, flat voice came through the speaker. “Hello . . .”
“Ronni, it’s Hannah. Can I come up?”
Silence. It lasted so long that Hannah thought the call had disconnected, but finally Ronni said, “Are you alone?”
“Yes . . . it’s just me, Ronni. Let me come up. . . . Please.” There was another pause, then the door buzzed loudly. Hannah jerked it open and hurried into the lobby.
In the tiny elevator, she steeled herself for the encounter. She would not react to Ronni’s altered appearance, even if it was as bad as she’d heard. Because Ronni was more than just her injury. Hannah would treat her like she was the old Ronni, the girl she had known since childhood, like she was normal . . . because she was still Ronni, she was still normal, even if everyone else had forgotten that.
To her credit, Hannah didn’t flinch when Ronni opened the door. Ronni had parted her dark hair differently, in an effort to hide the damage, but it was still evident. It wasn’t the sightless eye that was disturbing; it was the area around it. The lower lid was gone, or mostly gone, and the skin on the side was pulled tight. The impression was frightening but vaguely cartoonish—like the eye was about to pop out of its socket over a nasty surprise.
“Hey . . .” Ronni muttered.
“I wanted to see you,” Hannah said, eyes fixed on the tip of her friend’s nose. “Can I come in for a bit?”
“My mom will be home soon.”
Hannah suddenly felt completely terrified at the thought of Lisa’s arrival, but she couldn’t back out now. “I won’t stay long.”
Ronni stepped back to let Hannah enter. As she did, Ronni looked down at the floor, allowing her long hair to obscure the right side of her face. Hannah noted how pretty her friend was, how she still wore impeccable makeup, and had clearly straightened her hair. This effort contrasted with Ronni’s baggy gray sweatpants, flannel shirt, and fuzzy slippers.
“Do you want to sit?” Ronni indicated the sofa. There was a blanket and a pillow on it, like she’d just woken from a nap. Maybe that was why Ronni seemed drowsy, lackadaisical, almost sedated. . . .
“’Kay . . .” The girls sat on the couch, knees angled toward each other. Ronni was half on the blanket, half on the pillow; she hadn’t bothered to remove them. “I haven’t seen you at school,” Hannah said.
“I don’t go much anymore.”
“Lucky . . .” As soon as she said it, Hannah realized it was a stupid remark. She tried to cover. “School sucks right now.”
“Yeah?” There was a glimmer of interest.
“I broke up with Noah.”
“Really?”
“Yeah . . . Or maybe he broke up with me. Anyway, it’s over. And he hates me. He gives me dirty looks every time he sees me. And Adam and those guys are worse. They always sneer or whisper or laugh at me.”
“I wonder what that’s like?” The deadpan delivery did nothing to undercut the sarcasm.
“Sorry.”
Ronni said, “What about Lauren?”
“I haven’t really talked to her. . . .” Since the breakup with Noah, Hannah had seen Lauren only once, from a distance. The popular girl had been down the hall, near Adam’s locker, with some other guys. They were all talking and snickering, probably at someone’s expense, probably at Hannah’s. But maybe she was just being paranoid? Hannah hated to admit it, but she clung to the hope that Lauren might still deem Hannah worthy without Noah’s affections, that Lauren might side with her, eventually snubbing the boys and dissing them for their poor treatment of her friend. It was completely unrealistic—she knew that. And she kind of hated herself for wanting it.
“Lauren doesn’t come to school much lately,” Hannah said. “And when she does, she seems pretty high.”
“I haven’t heard from her,” Ronni said, tipping forward so her hair covered her face again.
Hannah knew enough to change the subject. “What have you been doing?”
“Netflix . . . Going to therapy . . . Painting.”
“I didn’t know you painted.”
“Mrs. Pittwell is making me go in the art show,” Ronni said, brushing the hair off her face before remembering and hiding behind her bangs again.
“I’m going to be in it, too,” Hannah said. “I did some black-and-white photos in photography class.”
“Mrs. Pittwell says it’s a good way for me to integrate back into the school.” She yawned. “Like I want to . . .”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be going to a better private school next year anyway,” Ronni said, “after—” She caught herself and stopped.
After your mom sues my parents for three million dollars? But Hannah wasn’t going to go there. She was a bigger person than that; she was the biggest person in this whole mess.
“Can I see your painting?”
Ronni hesitated, then shrugged. “I guess.” She stood and shuffled toward her room, her slippers scuffling along the hardwood floor like she didn’t have the energy to lift her feet. Hannah followed in her wake.