He rests his pencil. “Oh, okay.”
“I’ve just got so much to do, being out of school for so long.” Once I say it, I feel stupid—Sam has been out of school for way longer than me.
“It’s okay. I understand.” I stand and start walking back to the house. “Don’t forget this,” he says.
I turn back and he’s holding up the self-portrait. “Oh yeah. Thanks.”
Back in my room, I set the picture on my desk. Younger Sam looks up at me. What had he already been through when he drew this, in that awful place? No. Don’t think about that stuff. We’re not talking about all of that. I open the bottom drawer of my desk, where I keep old school papers and stuff. I take all of that out, put the picture on the bottom of the drawer, and then pile everything back in, and shut it.
===
Every morning, I park by the athletic fields, away from the main lot where most of the seniors and juniors park. And every morning, Chita and Darla and Ainsley wait for me at my locker, undeterred.
“How are you today?” one of them will ask. Or, “You doing okay? How’s Sam?”
And always, I say, “I’m fine.” And, “He’s okay,” as if I know. But what I want to say is, “Can we go back to a few weeks ago? Let’s talk about normal things. Please don’t make me think about my brother.” They all look at me like I might crack apart. When we separate before homeroom, they all hug me. We never used to do that.
At lunch every day that week, I sit with Grace and those girls—not with the soccer gang. It’s not what I intended to do, but each day Grace is waiting for me and takes me to the table like I’m in need of an escort. After that first day, no one really brings up Sam or New York. It’s almost like I’m part of their group. I know I’m not. But at least they don’t treat me like a fragile flower, like someone they want to heal with hugs.
On Thursday, Grace mentions a Halloween party out at someone’s lake house. “It’s anti-costume theme. No dressing up allowed. Can you come?”
A party, with these girls and their crowd—football players and meatheads—doesn’t sound like my scene. Grace sees the hesitation in my face. “Please?” she says.
I’m too caught off guard to think of an excuse. “Okay,” I say.
“It will be a blast. I promise.”
When I go to my locker at the end of the day, Chita is there.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks. Her voice sounds raw. She’s leaning against another person’s locker, like she’s exhausted.
I open my locker and unload some books. I feel so tired, right then. Tired of the concern. Tired of the attention. “Doing what?” I finally say, but I know what.
“You always hated those bitches.”
I cringe at that word. “They’re not . . . bitches,” I say. “They’re actually nice. And Grace and I go way back, actually. Did you know that? She was my best friend in middle school.”
Chita squints at me like I’ve said something crazy. “But you’ve hardly spoken to her for three years,” she says. “Or she’s hardly spoken to you.”
I look into my locker and fiddle with a few things, kind of hoping Chita will just walk away.
“Beth,” she says.
I finally turn to her. “What?” It sounds sharper than I mean it to.
“Something’s wrong,” she says. “Does it have to do with Sam being—”
“Can you just stop?” I ask. I slam my locker shut.
“Wow,” she mutters, and then walks away.
And I know I should yell at her to stop and come back.
I should, but I don’t.
===
At dinner that night, Mom asks, “How’s Chita? How are the girls?”
Shame floods through me, and I get that tired feeling again, like my arms and legs weigh a ton. I look up and force a smile. “They’re fine,” I say, and she doesn’t push me.
Sam’s sitting there, methodically eating his food, looking from Mom to Earl as they talk. Before he got back, we usually sat on the couch for dinner, in front of the TV, my plate on the coffee table, not talking.
“Can I go to a party tomorrow night?” I ask.
“A Halloween party?” Mom asks. “With the girls?”
“No. With Grace.”
“Grace Cutler?” Mom asks, sounding surprised.
“Yeah. We’re hanging out again.”
“That’s great,” Mom says, not sounding like she means it.
“Where is this party?” Earl asks.
“Somewhere across the river. One of her friend’s houses. It’s small, not many people. No costumes, thank God. Grace will pick me up.”
“As long as you’re home by eleven.”
“Okay.”
A few minutes pass as everyone keeps eating.
“We met Sam’s tutor today,” Mom says, breaking the silence. “Her name’s Lane. A nice young woman. She used to teach at Hillcrest but left to be a mom. But now that her kids are in school, she’s gone into tutoring.”
“Did you like her?” Earl asks Sam.
“Yeah, she was nice. She was pretty.”
Earl laughs and Mom smiles. I guess they think this is cute. Or maybe they’re relieved that Sam thinks a woman is pretty, just like a normal teenage boy.
“Listen, I wanted to talk to you both about something,” Mom says, changing the subject. Her tone is serious. “I’ve been speaking—” She pauses and looks over at Earl, and he nods, like he’s giving her permission. “I’ve been speaking with Hank—with your father. He wants to come see you.”
“Sam,” I say without thinking. “He wants to see Sam.”
“He wants to see you, too,” Mom says.
I just look down at my plate and eat some more even though now I’m not hungry.
“We thought maybe your father could come down for a day or two over Thanksgiving weekend, next month.”
“I don’t care,” I say. “Whatever.” I grab my plate and bring it to the kitchen. Normally Mom would yell and tell me to excuse myself first, but not tonight.
I go to my room and shut the door. I grab my phone. I type a text to Chita—Sorry about earlier—but I don’t send it. I delete it and then lay on my bed and just stare at the ceiling. When a text chimes, I grab my phone and see it’s from Donal: How are you?
I set it down. I don’t reply. Even though I want to tell him that I feel terrible. Confused. I start crying, just a little, and the tears leak out and I cup my hand over my mouth and I hope that Mom doesn’t knock because I don’t want her to see me like this. I don’t want anyone to see me like this. I’m supposed to be happy now, aren’t I? So why have I turned into such a mess?
===
Grace picks me up Friday at eight. Aimee and Margo are in the car, too. “Cute house,” Margo says from the passenger seat. Both Aimee and Margo live in big houses in Forest Lake, so I know “cute” means small.
“I hate it,” I say, which makes Aimee laugh. She has this kind of annoying laugh, like a whiny hiccup. “We might move,” I say, which is a lie. “We got some money from doing the TV interview.”
No one seems impressed by that, and I feel my face color. Relax, I think.
“What’s the address of this party again?” Grace asks, typing into her GPS.
“It’s out on Lake Tuscaloosa,” Margo says.
“I know,” Grace says. “I need the address.”
Aimee calls it out, her eyes never leaving her phone.