“Only you know when you’re ready,” Rhiannon says wisely. “Let us know how it is.” Then she follows it up with one of her hyena giggles.
I bite the straw of my juice box hard. “Hey, have any of you talked to Taylor?” I try to ask it casually, but from the way Sharon’s eyes narrow, I know I’ve done a poor job.
“Why are you asking about that weirdo?”
I shrug. “I guess because of what Billy did in bio.”
Sharon throws her head back in laughter. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I almost forgot about that.” She turns to Rhiannon and Charlotte. “Billy was, like, deep-throating a pen while Taylor was giving a presentation.”
Charlotte busts out a laugh. “Oh my God, I wish I’d seen that.”
I laugh too and then instantly feel bad about it. Why? What’s going on with me?
Sharon isn’t smiling anymore. In fact, she looks like she can read my mind.
“Don’t tell me you actually feel bad for that freak. What does it expect?”
I stand up, squishing the sandwich my mom made through its plastic bag. “I’ll see you later.” I toss the bag into the garbage at the bottom of the bleachers, miss, and walk away anyway. I can’t get away from them fast enough.
“Where are you going?” Sharon yells behind me, but I ignore her. I put the sweatshirt back on, pull the hood up over my head, and shove my hands into the front pockets. I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I want to be away from those girls.
Halfway across the park I realize there’s nowhere to go but back to school. I don’t have a car. The only friends I have with cars are talking about losing their virginity to guys—an idea that makes my skin itch. I know it’s going to have to happen at some point in my life, but the last thing I want to think about is some heavy, sweaty guy on top of me.
I enter through the side entrance to the school and am bombarded with noise and people: students slamming lockers, yelling at their friends, walking side by side so they block the entire hallway, hanging off door frames. There’s a staircase to my right that leads to the wrestling pit, and I duck down it. At the bottom, the door to the pit is locked, but extra wrestling mats are stacked in a pile in a corner. Perfect. I lie down on them, put my feet against the wall, and close my eyes.
There’s a pleasant weight on my lower abdomen. My skin tingles as my hand moves to the right pocket of my sweatshirt to pull out Adam’s phone. I shouldn’t have it, I should have left it in his room, but I like having it with me. I know it’s obsessive—odd, even—but I can’t help it.
I click off the volume, scroll to the first video, and push play. Dahlia is on top of me again. She’s swaying and speaking, and even though I can’t hear the words, I know them all by heart.
Audrey
Like every morning, we drop Clare off at school first. She’s not wearing her usual clothes today. She’s wearing Adam’s sweatshirt, the black one with the tree made of bones. She’s only a few feet up the path when Sharon and the others swarm her.
Clare in her new life without me.
My stomach tightens. Like every morning.
We drive past the diner on the way to Peak. Mom always keeps her eyes on the road and talks to me or hums when we pass it. After Adam died, she asked if we could drive a different route. She didn’t wait for my answer and just turned onto a different street. Just like that. I had a panic attack and we had to drive home and then back again with the proper route.
I’m sorry, she told me. The diner reminds me of Adam.
We have to go that way. It’s important.
Mom nodded and we didn’t talk about it anymore.
Today I wait until the diner is the size of a toy in the rearview mirror. Then I ask Mom for her and Dad’s decision.
You’ve had nine days to think about it, I tell her. (Eight hours and thirty-five minutes short of nine days, but hopefully they’re not counting.)
Not yet, sweetie, she says. It’s a big decision. She runs teeth along her bottom lip. We need to consult Dr. Jackson, and you just saw him the night before you asked to switch schools.
Why?
Why what?
Why do we have to consult Dr. Jackson? This should be a family decision.
It’s not that simple. Sometimes parents need advice. Despite what kids think, we don’t have all the answers.
We’re silent for a while. I count seven dogs during this silence. That is very good luck because seven is a good-luck number. They are the following breeds:
Wiener dog (these always make me smile)
Labradoodle (Labrador and Poodle baby)
Schnauzer (or maybe a Scottie?)
Greyhound (like on the buses)
Shiba Inu (like Menswear Dog on the internet)
Miniature poodle (mini clouds glued together)
A breed I can’t remember but it has a very big head
Dr. Jackson will say no, I tell Mom. A neon sign with the single word flashes behind my eyes.
NO. N-O.
Mom looks at me. For a long time. It’s kind of scary because she’s not looking at the road. Not necessarily, she says.
I can tell she isn’t saying the truth.
And it makes me mad.
You’re lying! You’re lying to me right now! My eyes flood with tears until the road in front of us blurs. I feel my chest tightening and expanding until I can hardly breathe. I can’t breathe at all now. The air in the car is too close, too tight. The car no longer has any oxygen! It’s full of carbon dioxide! Help! Help! I grab at the door to open the window.
Shh, sweetie. Calm down. Mom pulls over to the side of the road and turns on the hazards. She reaches across me to open the glove box, pulls out one of the brown paper bags.
Deep breaths, Audrey. Deep breaths.
I hold it to my mouth and breathe in, breathe out. A long time passes.
I take the bag from my mouth. Mom is sitting with her hands in her lap and staring straight forward. There are tears in her eyes.
I’m sorry, she says without looking at me.
I’m still upset but I tell her I’m okay so she’ll start driving again. She doesn’t say another word about Dr. Jackson.
Nous sommes arrivées. Mom comes to a stop the closest she can get, which isn’t very close. Cars and vans idle while parents and nurses help kids from cars. That was my first hint that everything was going to be different. But on my first day, I missed it. At that point I was just scared about not going to school with Clare. We’d gone to school together our whole lives. We’d always been in the same class, too.
Now it’s like going to school without the other half of my body.
Mom?
Yes?
I look down at my sweater. Pick at a loose thread. I wish I hadn’t spoken because now she’s waiting. I can’t ask why Clare doesn’t want me around. I already know the answer.
Sometimes I wish I could be Clare, I say.
Mom sighs and rubs my back. Oh, sweetie. You’re turning fifteen. It’s a tough age, but it’s also very special. You’re straddling childhood and adulthood. The only difference between you and Clare is that she’s already made the leap.
Is that it? Is that what’s wrong with me? I wonder. Maybe in a few years I’ll feel like I want to grow up. Then everything will change.