Confessions of an Almost-Girlfriend (5 page)

But I can’t. I just can’t. I have to pour some salt in the wound.
Actually, I have to pick up the saltshaker, take off the top and
dump the whole thing on her raw soul.
“
He
felt it was worth it? Or
you
did?”
The tears that have pooled in her eyes spill down her cheeks
and she stands up, pulling down the hem of her brown pencil
skirt and straightening her peach silk shirt. It’s the outfit Tracy
always compliments her on, and which she wears whenever she
needs help feeling good.
“I’m taking a break,” she says to Caron, reaching for a tissue
on the glass end table that is loaded with arty-looking books
about photography. “I’ll be back.”
If my mother weren’t a shrink, I’m pretty sure Caron wouldn’t
let her just walk out. I’d be forced to stay in the room for sure.
As the door closes behind my mother, I feel gross. Did I really
have to say that to her?
Yes, Rose, you really had to say that. Or you wouldn’t have said
it. Clearly.
Caron gives me a sad smile and makes a quick note on her
yellow legal pad. “So, school on Tuesday,” she says, after some
silence.
I nod.
“How are you feeling about that?”
I shrug.
“Are you worried about seeing Regina after the break?”
I’m surprised Caron is asking me this. She’s sort of breaking
protocol by talking about Regina during a family session when
Kathleen’s not in the room.
“Not really,” I say. Caron tilts her head to express confusion,
since last time she managed to get me to admit that I was nervous about seeing Regina. “I already sort of saw her.”
“You
sort of
saw her? What does that mean?”
“At a party.”
“You went to a party?” she asks, looking a little pleased even
as she tries to be neutral. “How was it?”
“I got pushed into the pool.”
Caron eyes me carefully, as if I might not be telling the truth.
“Did Regina push you?”
“No. Matt did. Tracy’s ex-boyfriend.”
“That must have made you angry,” she says. “Were you able
to control your response?”
The question embarrasses me. She’s asking if I was able to keep
it together at a party. I guess I can’t blame her, based on the way
I went after Regina last year at track tryouts. Despite all my efforts to the contrary, I am now one of those “crazy” teens with
emotional problems who I’ve seen going in and out of my mom’s
office my whole life. There’s just no getting around it.
“Did you want to hit him?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Caron cracks a smile. “But you didn’t?”
“I would have loved to punch him—for so, so, so many
reasons—but there was other stuff going on.”
She nods like she’s impressed. I’m not sure if she should be.
“More important things?”
“The swim thugs were trying to kill someone.”
“Is that an exaggeration?” There’s genuine concern on her face.
I shake my head. “They were literally trying to drown a freshman swimmer.”
“And why is that?”
“Because they’re psychotic,” I say.
“Who exactly are the
swim thugs?
” she asks.
Something about this conversation is starting to feel like a trap.
“All the guys on the team,” I answer, reluctant to name names.
It’s not that I want to protect those jerks, but I’m done whistleblowing—that’s what I’ve promised myself. No more running
to the adults.
So how is it that I keep ending up in the position where the
adults come to
me
for information?
My mother chooses that moment to return to the room. Her
puffy eyes say something totally different than the fake smile
plastered on her face. I can tell she attempted to fix her makeup
and then gave up because she was just making things worse.
That’s the problem with skin like ours—if you so much as look
at it the wrong way, it gets red and blotchy.
“Kathleen, we were talking about how things have been going
for Rose with regard to controlling her temper.” My mother looks
from me to Caron and back again, seeming to sense that she
missed something. “So have you had any panic or rage attacks
recently, Rose?”
“The new problem is insomnia,” my mother says.
I don’t like it when she answers for me. Plus, she’s wrong. The
problem isn’t insomnia, it’s the horrifying and freaky things that
I can’t stop imagining while I’m having the insomnia.
I have trouble shutting off my brain.
My dad always used to say that when I’d ask him why he
looked so tired in the morning. “I have trouble shutting off my
brain when I’m trying to sleep. It keeps going, even when I want
it to be quiet.” “You have insomnia?” I’d ask. And he’d say, as
he scanned the headlines of the local paper, “More accurately,
insomnia has me.”
I never knew what he meant until recently. Now I spend half
the night staring at the ceiling, trying to shut out the violent
images that come into my head. But instead of telling Caron
that, I stare at the espadrilles Tracy made me get for summer.
I’d much rather contemplate my espadrilles than talk about my
crazy imagination.
“The insomnia was a minor problem last year, but it got worse
after the anniversary,” my mother continues. “Before that, she
was making a lot of progress.”
I didn’t realize I was being monitored for
progress.
But of course
I am. If your mother is a shrink, aren’t you constantly being
monitored for progress?
“Rose, we have a few minutes left. Can you tell us what goes
on in your head while you’re not sleeping?”
“Just…stuff.” I can feel my mother bristle. She hates vague
answers.
“Can you clarify
stuff?
” Caron asks this without sounding condescending, but I still don’t want to answer her. I don’t know
how those images got there, or what’s causing them. I’ll be thinking about something normal that happened during the day, like
walking across the street to the drugstore. Suddenly, a huge truck
will appear, and it’ll smash right into me. Blood and guts and
body parts everywhere.
But if I bring that up, I’ll be coming to this office daily until
I leave for college.
“Can she answer the question
I
asked before she left the room?”
I say.
With what looks like a tiny bit of reluctance, Caron turns to
my mother. “Kathleen? Can you answer Rose’s question?”
Without any fanfare, she does.
“Your father made the decision.” I can see on her face that it
costs her to tell me this—she feels like she’s betraying him.
That’s how I know she’s telling the truth.
“Dad
promised
that he was coming home after six months. He
said he’d be back before I had to start high school.”
My mother looks down at her ring and twists it again. When
she looks up, the sorrow on her face makes my breath catch in
my throat.
“Your father told me if he signed on for another six months,
he would get a huge bonus. He asked what I thought, and I told
him it was up to him. He said he wanted to stay for the good of
the family.” I watch her nervous hands as she slides her ring off
and on without realizing it. “I think, up until that point, he’d
felt…fairly safe there.”
That’s it for me. My brain refuses to take this in, and I am officially done with therapy for the day. I take my phone out of my
pocket, pretending to check it so I don’t have to have a reaction
to what my mother just said.
“We can talk more about Alfonso’s decision next time, Rose,”
I barely hear Caron say. I sense that they are waiting for me but
I can’t look at them. I just can’t.
My mother reaches down to grab her bag and stands. “Thanks,
Caron,” she says. Usually when she thanks Caron, it sounds like
she just had the best time ever and she is thrilled with everything we accomplished together. But today she sounds defeated
and exhausted. Real.
“How’s Peter doing?” Caron asks quietly, as if I suddenly can’t
hear just because I’m looking at a touch screen. Out of the corner
of my eye, I see my mother glance to see if I’m paying attention,
and then offer Caron a quick shake of her head.
Caron opens the door for us, and Mom and I walk out of the
office without looking at each other.
When we get in the car, my mother just stares at the key in
her hand for a minute.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She looks at me, and I see my eyes. I never noticed before that
our eyes are exactly the same. Cornflower-blue, my dad used to
say about mine, with little white flowers in them. I wonder if he
said it to her, too.
“He wanted to tell you himself. After he was gone, I didn’t see
any reason to bring it up because it didn’t matter anymore. But
I’m sorry if you feel I lied to you.”
It’s okay,
I want to say. Sometimes I’m surprised by how hard it
is to say things that should be easy to say. I don’t really feel mad
at her right now, but somehow, I still can’t let her off the hook.
I don’t like that about myself.
“Look, Rose, to change the subject for a minute, I don’t want
to put you in the middle, but have you heard from your brother?”
I shake my head. “No. But he hasn’t been gone that long,
Mom.”
She thinks about this and then puts the key in the ignition. I
wish that I were lying to her, but I’m getting nothing from Peter.
Nothing at all.
A year and a half ago, we were a family of four. Now, it feels
like Mom and I are the only ones left—a pack of two that is so
twisted up in knots, we have to go to therapy in order to figure
out how to untangle things.
As if she can read my thoughts, she gives my hand a squeeze
and says, “We’re all going to be okay, Rose.”
She sounds about as certain as I feel.

potential
(noun):
the possibility of developing
into something good
(see also:
the first day of sophomore year
)

WHEN I WAS LITTLE, THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL WAS
kind of great. Everything was new. You got to start fresh with
new clothes, new pens and pencils, clean notebooks with no writing in them, teachers you’d never met—everything was about to
happen, but nothing had yet.

This morning, as I get ready, I feel that buzzing excitement.
It’s clean-slate time, time for reinvention. Rose Zarelli is shedding her skin and everyone will see a beautiful new butterfly
emerge—a butterfly who mixes her metaphors, but a butterfly nonetheless. Out with the semishy weird girl who mopes
around carrying a French horn with running shoes tied to the
case’s handle; in with the unpredictable but exciting girl with
the gorgeous singing voice who has all sorts of cool friends—
and maybe a boyfriend who’s a senior—and gets the lead in the
musical. Yeah, maybe she’s not the greatest dresser but her best
friend is the most fashionable girl in all of Union High, so there
has to be something cool about her. And yeah, maybe she did
get into that really trashy fight with Regina Deladdo last year
over Jamie Forta, but her dad died in Iraq, so people should just
be nice to her because of that.

But wait, isn’t she the girl who ended up in the pool at Mike
Darren’s party?
I almost laugh. Even while I’m daydreaming about what people say about me, I can’t stay positive. I mean, who does that?
Why bother having a daydream if it’s not going to stay good?
I head down to the kitchen where my mother, who is already in her office with a client, has left me a note and a piece
of toast with peanut butter.
Have a great first day!
the note says.
When my mother still packed my lunch in elementary school,
she used to put stickers on my napkins and write me notes. I
would force myself to wait until lunch to read her message and
check out what kind of sticker she’d chosen for me. It was my
favorite part of the day.
Tracy honks outside, and I feel a little thrill of excitement.
No more walking to school—my best friend has her own car.
I sling my new suede bag over my shoulder—Tracy made me
promise never to use a backpack again—and the way it nestles
under my arm makes me feel older as I make my way to her car.
Tracy gives me the once-over and nods in approval at the outfit
we discussed last night. So far, sophomore year is off to a pretty
good start.
Five minutes later, at the traffic light right in front of school,
that feeling starts to slip away. The massive building looms over
us, no longer looking as harmless as it did whenever I passed it
on my way to the Gap this summer. It now looks big, and kind
of mean, if that’s even possible.
Redirect your thoughts,
I tell myself, using a technique that Caron taught me for managing panic.
Focus on something simple and good.
There’s an old Patty Griffin song that I’ve been practicing
lately. It’s called “Moses,” and it’s the first song on her first album.
I think it’s the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard. I was singing it last night, even though I should have been practicing for
my
Anything Goes
audition. I don’t sound like Patty at all when I
sing it, and that bugs me, so instead I make up harmonies and
sing along with her. It’s weird how easy it is for me to sing harmony. I hear it in my head and it comes out of my mouth. And
it sounds good.
When I sing, I totally lose track of time—an hour could go
by and I’ll think it was five minutes.
I love that.
The light turns green and Tracy goes right and then left, pulling into the lot that the school shares with the mall, where students are allowed to park. I’m wondering what teachers I’m going
to have this year when I realize that the redirection technique
worked. I’m not being besieged by dark thoughts in my head.
Note to self.
We drive around looking for a space—it’s about 10 minutes
before the first bell and the parking lot is practically full. Since I
always used to walk to school, I’ve never been in this lot before
the first bell. I didn’t know it was such a scene.
No one is going in yet. Apparently everyone waits until the
last second. There’s lots of hair brushing, makeup applying, outfit comparing and texting on the part of the girls as they pretend
not to check out the guys. The guys are either eating or throwing around a ball—or something that they took from someone
to use as a ball—and they are pretending not to check out the
girls. They obviously don’t care that their faces are dripping with
sweat and they’ve pitted out their shirts before they’ve even made
it to homeroom. They still think they look hot.
It must be nice to be a guy—they don’t seem to be as selfconscious as girls. Like, the other night, Jamie didn’t seem even
slightly embarrassed that he got turned on when we were kissing.
I turn my head so Tracy won’t see me blushing.
I have to admit that one of the best things about starting the
school year is that I’ll probably see Jamie at least once a day.
Maybe more, depending on what happens when we have dinner together.
When we have our
date.
It’s not a date, I remind myself. No one said
date.
As Tracy pulls into what seems like the last available spot and
I step out of the car into the most perfect September day ever, I
feel another glimmer of possibility—good things could happen
this year. Standing in this parking lot with Radiohead blasting
out of a stereo and the sun reflecting off car roofs so intensely that
everyone seems to be vibrating in time to the music in their own
personal bubble of silver light, I feel like maybe—just maybe—I
could actually make something of myself this year.
Rose 2.0.
“Trace! Rosie! Hey, y’all!”
Stephanie’s squeal cuts clear through the parking-lot noise.
Tracy and I haven’t seen Stephanie all summer—she had to spend
three months on her dad’s farm in southern Illinois because of
homecoming. At the time, her mother was feeling so guilty over
the divorce that she hardly punished Stephanie at all for drinking to the point of passing out and ending up in the hospital.
But when the summer rolled around, she packed Stephanie up
and shipped her off to spend some quality time with pigs and
cows. Stephanie was totally freaked out about going back there,
claiming that there was nothing to do and no one to do it with.
Well, all it takes is one look at Stephanie Trainer to know exactly what she
did
do all summer: grow up, out and pretty. Way
pretty.
Tracy is as dumbstruck as I am, but she at least squeals right
back in delight at seeing our friend after what feels like months
and months. I just stand there with my jaw on the ground, thinking about how yet another one of my friends is so much prettier
than me that it’s a small miracle she even wants to be seen talking
to me in the parking lot on the first day of school. I should just
fade into the background right now and not acknowledge that
she’s trying to get my attention. I’d be doing both of us a favor.
“Oh, my god! Hi-hi-hi!” She grabs Tracy and me, and pulls us
into a group hug. My head seems to barely come up to Stephanie’s chin. “I missed you girls so much!”
“Steph! Look at you! You look amazing,” Tracy says, taking a
step back so she can get a better view of the confident Glamazon that has replaced our once petite, once painfully shy friend.
“What did your dad make you eat out there? You’re, like, modeltall!”
“Oh, it’s just the heels,” she says, twisting around and lifting
up one foot behind her to show us the crazy-high shoes she’s
wearing. “I’m not really this tall.” When she turns back around,
she immediately makes herself shorter by slouching. That’s the
kind of girl she is—she will actually make herself physically uncomfortable so someone else doesn’t feel bad.
“Where did you get those wedges? They make your legs look
ten feet long!” Tracy is now walking around Stephanie in a circle, as if Stephanie had been on a makeover show and this was
her big reveal.
“Oh, shut up,” Stephanie says, blushing so hard that her face
matches her bright red hair.
“Canvas wedges are perfect this time of year. Are they designer?” As Tracy is talking, she takes her iPhone out of her bag
and snaps pictures of Stephanie’s shoes. Stephanie looks a little puzzled, but when she glances my way for an explanation,
I just shrug and try not to regret wearing ballet flats that make
my feet look like mini doublewide trailers. I’m also wearing jeggings, which don’t do a lot for a short girl with runner’s thighs.
It occurs to me that Tracy might have chosen an outfit for me
that
she
would look good in, forgetting to take into account our
very different bodies.
“Steph, how did you get out of the house in those things?” I
ask. “I mean, if I even had those in my closet, my mother would
freak out.”
“Moms has a new job. She leaves before me and gets home after
me, so I can pretty much wear whatever I want! In fact, these are
her
shoes—she’d kill me if she knew I was wearing them. But
we’re the same size now! It’s awesome! Y’all should come over
sometime and we’ll go through her closet.”
Tracy goes practically green with envy. Stephanie’s mom is
one of the few whose closet would actually be worth raiding,
according to her.
The warning bell rings inside the school and we all start moving herdlike toward the main entrance, dragged forward by the
gravitational pull of yet another school year. School is kind of
like a conveyer belt in a slasher movie, I decide. You’re strapped
to it, and no matter how you struggle, you just keep moving toward the buzz saw that’s ready to slice you into pieces.
See? Five minutes ago, the parking lot was an oasis of excitement and potential and possibility. Now I’m seeing homicidal
buzz saws. Again, what the hell happened?
“So? What’s up, girls? You both look so pretty and skinny and
tan. Did you go to the beach, like, all summer long? I’m so jealous. There’s nowhere fun to go swimming near the farm—there’s
nowhere fun near the farm, period! There are some swimming
holes, but, you know, no ocean or anything like that. And the
guys—oh, my god. You would not believe the guys out there.
They smell like hay no matter how many times they shower or
what cologne they pour on themselves. But you know what?
Southern Illinois sure does grow ’em big!”
Stephanie giggles and does a perfect hair flip that gets the
envious attention of a nearby cheerleader. I can see her sizing
Stephanie up, trying to decide if she should ask her to go to tryouts after school today. Wouldn’t that just be perfect? As soon
as I think Tracy might bail on cheerleading, cheerleading sinks
its claws into Stephanie.
“Rosie, how’s your mom? And how’s Peter?”
I’m trying to compose a simple answer to those complicated
questions when Mike Darren and Matt Hallis get out of what
seems to be Matt’s brand-new, white sports car. They’re both
looking as cocky as usual until Mike does a double take when
he sees Stephanie and then trips over his own feet. He catches
himself on the open car door and gapes at her before he pulls
it together.
Stephanie looks panicked, immediately grabbing a section of
her long red hair and twirling it around her finger. This gesture
is practically the only thing I recognize about the person standing in front of me—the Stephanie I knew just a few months ago
is long, long gone.
“Yo, Trainer, what’s up? Haven’t seen you in a few,” he says, trying to cover his surprise and embarrassment. “How was Iowa?”
“Um, Illinois. It was fine. Did you have a good summer?”
“Oh, yeah, it was awesome. You missed an awesome party
the other night,” he says, as if the swim-team party and Conrad’s near-drowning were the highlights of his summer. I don’t
understand how Stephanie went out with Mike any more than
I understand how Tracy went out with Matt.
“Yeah, it was killer. Rose had the best time of all,” Matt says,
his eyes plastered on Stephanie’s bare, mile-long legs. Tracy lets
out an annoyed sigh next to me. “You just love a good time in
the water, don’t you, Rose?”
“Did you go swimming, Rosie?” Stephanie asks.
When Matt practically falls down with laughter, Stephanie
turns to me with apology in her eyes, knowing that she just
took the bait but not understanding exactly how. Mike looks
totally confused about whether he should laugh with Matt or
take Stephanie’s side.
I’m pulling Stephanie away to tell her what happened at Mike’s
party when I see Jamie’s car. He slides into a space close to school
that we somehow missed—it could have a reserved sign on it for
all I know—and then Jamie, Regina and Conrad all get out of the
car. Conrad slings a messenger bag crossways over his chest and
gets away from them as fast as he can, walking toward school by
himself. I feel bad, thinking of how much it would suck to have
to walk into school on the first day of freshman year by yourself,
especially after what happened to him on Friday night. But the
pang passes when I remember all the stuff he said in Tracy’s car.
I watch to see if Regina goes to catch up with Conrad, but she
stays right by Jamie’s side. She might as well be holding his hand,
that’s how close they are as they walk toward the school together.
I remind myself that I’m the one with a date with Jamie on
Saturday night.
But maybe she’s got a date with Jamie on Friday night.
As if he can feel eyes on his back, Jamie glances over his shoulder and scans the lot. When his gaze lands on me, he lifts his
chin and gives me a half smile. I’m not sure whether to say hi or
wave or what, and I miss my chance to do anything—he turns
back around before I can decide.
Where is 2.0 when I need her?
“Jesus, Rose, are you still hung up on that asshole?” Matt says.
“Wasn’t he supposed to graduate last year?”
“Can you wait to start being a dick until lunch? Let’s go,” Tracy
says to us. We follow her past Matt and Mike.
“Hey, Steph, thanks for all those emails and texts this summer,” Mike yells after her.
Stephanie’s ears turn red, but she calls back to him, “Yeah,
Mike, right back at ya. You sure do know how to make a girl feel
special.” Then she executes a magnificent, conversation-ending
hair flip, and Tracy and I struggle to keep up as she stalks away
in her crazy heels.
“So what did I miss this summer?” Stephanie says with a grin.
“Y’all have to catch me up before the bell.”
I was busy imagining horrific events late into the night, pining after
Jamie Forta and struggling to maintain my barely average attractiveness level,
I don’t say out loud. Tracy launches into her summer
recap. We are swept toward the entrance of the building in the
sea of high school humanity, whether we like it or not.