The Lonely Ones (8 page)

The house is like a castle,

all bricks and light and life.

I wear a mask of pretty makeup

perfect hair

seamless clothes.

After a moment,

I take a breath

go up the stairs

through the door.

The music

is so loud

that it pulses in my veins.

People gape

stare

whisper.

Their attention

makes me smile,

gives me courage.

I crane my neck,

try to find Matthew,

wonder if Anna will

be here, too.

I haven't seen her

since Halloween night.

There are so many people

dancing and shouting and eating

it feels like we're trapped in a snow globe

that someone has shaken

hard and fast.

It's a good thing

I've always loved the snow.

Lights flash,

the floor pounds,

my palms sweat,

courage fades.

I can't find

the boy from New Orleans,

see no sign of

the girl next door.

The snow

has become a blizzard,

howling and blinding.

Then

Mary's voice

sounds in my ear,

asks if I want some lemonade.

Before I can answer,

she pushes a red plastic cup

into my hand.

Her eyes are wide

and bright

as she drinks,

so I do, too.

It's fruity,

like the hard candies

Peter got on Halloween.

I notice some girls whispering,

pointing to an unlocked cabinet

at the far end of the room.

Then somehow the cup is empty

and another is pushed at me.

I gulp and gulp and gulp,

swallowing my nerves

with each one.

My classmates are laughing,

and everything is so funny and fuzzy,

it's hard to remember

what I was worried about in the first place.

I am tingling,

I want to dance.

Suddenly

I love the world so much,

and I hate it, too.

Why is it so hard

to figure out where

and how to belong?

But here and now

among my peers,

I am strong

I am visible

I am welcome.

Then

I am puking.

It's not over.

All my feelings

rush up inside me,

a thick, burning river.

A hand holds my hair

and I see there's a mess on the carpet.

“Bathroom,” I manage.

“She's going to hurl again!” someone shrieks.

They step back

as if I'm a bomb

about to explode.

Someone helps me

up the stairs.

I throw open the first door I find,

stumble into the darkness,

turn on the light.

Instead of a toilet

I see the boy from New Orleans

pressed up against the wall

and the lips of Mary Mosley.

She steps back,

annoyed at the interruption,

their mouths pink

from stolen kisses.

Matthew stares at me,

his hair ruffled and adorable.

Suddenly I need to throw up

for a completely different reason.

I turn and run.

“Fain, wait!” he says.

There's an angry exclamation from Mary,

the sound of Matthew's pursuit.

I rush past Anna,

realize she's the one

who held my hair

and helped me up the stairs.

I move too fast

to stop or speak.

Even without a destination

or escape plan,

only one thought,

steady as a drum,

beats through me:

away.

I wonder how anyone

ever thought the

world was flat;

I feel it spin beneath me

as I totter off balance.

Stumble into the kitchen,

reach for the doorknob

that leads to the backyard.

A hand catches hold of my arm,

stops me.

“Fain, wait!” Matthew says again.

I slowly turn to face him,

a joke with my puke-covered shirt

and throbbing heart.

“Sorry you had to see that . . . Mary gets intense sometimes . . .”

Clumsily

he weaves together

an explanation.

“Intense?”

I am a parrot or a canyon,

only capable of echoes.

Something in my face

must make Matthew realize.

“You thought . . .”

His words stop short,

too hard for him to say,

harder still for me to hear.

He swallows,

eyes dimming

before they dart away.

“We're friends, Fain,” he says.

But no.

He is not my friend.

My friends arrive with the stars.

I walk away,

and for the first time

I don't turn around

when he calls my name.

I wake on the grass,

my skin made of ice,

everything else numb.

I have a vague memory

of holding a phone in my hand.

Now something is happening all around,

voices and shadows arguing.

Tyler is here,

his words sharper

than all the knives in Mom's cupboard.

Arms wrap around me

help me

guide me.

I tell the blurry faces

how much I wish I had their arms

before all this.

They put me in the car,

whisper soothingly,

bring me home.

They tuck me into bed,

put a bowl by my head,

say they'll see me in the morning,

retreat until only one shadow is left.

A distant part of me

recognizes my sister,

as though I'm standing on an opposite shore

peering through the fog.

“What happened?” she whispers,

draping a blanket over me.

“Nothing.”

“You can tell me the truth,” she says.

But the truth

has been trapped inside me

so long

that to let it out

would be like vomiting again.

So instead I say,

“I hate how loud you snore.”

Dana blinks in surprise,

and before she can respond

I turn over,

succumb to the dark.

The sun is my enemy.

I focus on the pain

in my head

so that nothing else

can make its way in.

No memories of yesterday,

no thoughts of today,

no worries of tomorrow.

I sense that I am not alone,

roll onto my side.

Dana gazes at me

from across the room,

without a trace of

disappointment or judgment

in her eyes.

She looks at me differently,

as if she's really seeing me

for the first time.

After a minute she says, “I'll get some nasal strips.”

It's so unexpected,

it takes me a while to respond.

“That would be good,” I finally say.

Without another word,

Dana gets up

and shuts the curtains

to block out the morning light.

There is a hole

in my chest

where my heart

has been ripped out.

I don't know why

people call it heartbreak

when there's nothing left

to crack.

I stay in bed all day,

replaying the scene with

Matthew and Mary

over and over

in my mind.

At dusk

a time of yellowness

and tears

someone fills the doorway.

My heart becomes a star,

soaring bright with hope.

Maybe Matthew has realized

his true feelings

for me.

When I see it's only Tyler,

my heart falls,

crashes to the Earth

in a blend of dirt and fire.

He shoves his hands

in his pockets

looks at his feet

clears his throat.

I hug my pillow,

wait for his
I told you so
,

but my older brother has never

been a boy of many words.

Instead

Tyler sits on the bed,

stays with me

even when the sun is gone.

Voices drift down the hallway;

I hear my name.

My mind is consumed

by ugly truths,

painful memories of

sickly sweet drinks

swollen lips

averting gazes.

Ignoring my family,

I lie in bed,

face turned

to the window.

I hear her enter softly,

close my eyes,

pretend to sleep.

Dana kneels,

touches my hand.

When I don't answer,

she makes another promise.

This time she vows

to be a better sister.

I almost open my eyes,

tell her I never wanted

a better sister.

I just wanted her.

Monday morning,

a familiar head of hair appears

at the far end of the hall.

I wave,

want to thank her for helping

me at Mary's party,

but she avoids my gaze,

rushes past.

There's something

in the hunch of her shoulders,

the lines around her mouth

that I have never seen before.

I think about it in class

at the quarry

on the walk home.

It isn't until the sun sinks

that I comprehend

the look on her face,

but it's one I don't understand.

Guilt.

When I get home from school,

the carpet

is covered in snowflakes.

There is something familiar about them,

but I don't realize what it is

until I see my brother on the couch,

scissors in his hand.

He has

folded and sliced

my stories

into winter.

“No, Peter!” I cry,

yank the scissors

from his grasp.

He yells at me

and I yell back.

Mom soon appears,

demanding silence

so she can sleep

before her shift.

I scoop up scraps of paper,

flee.

Snowflakes trail behind me,

flutter to the floor,

realer than the threat of winter,

and I feel my lip tremble.

The words

are cut up beyond repair,

no hope

of putting them back.

I place my hand

against the frost-covered window,

ask the monsters

to come back to me.

Then I crawl

into bed.

Claws scrape

against my windowsill.

Then, a voice,

raspy, childlike, familiar.

By the time I reach the window,

grateful tears

stream down my face,

make everything hazy.

They know

about Matthew.

“We'll eat his flesh!”

“Suck the marrow from his bones!”

“Carve out his eyes!”

Smiling,

I just shake my head.

Then,

as if no time at all has passed,

we go outside,

have grand adventures

on the stars.

Their laughter is loud,

wind and magic endless,

the moon beautifully bright.

I try to enjoy

our night in the sky,

but I can't stop myself

from thinking about

what and who

I've left behind.

The moon watches

as I return to my bed,

curling beneath the blankets,

hugging my pillow.

There's a crumpling sound,

a gentle touch

against my cheek.

When I open my eyes

I see Peter holding

snowflakes,

taped together

into the shape of my stories.

It's a truce

an apology

a gift.

I hug him so tightly

it must hurt,

but my brother

doesn't complain.

In the morning

I open my eyes,

and this time

I keep them open.

The world out there

is so vast and unknown,

but also smaller

than I ever imagined.

There is still a hole in my chest

still a need to squint in the light

still an instinct to bury myself under the covers.

But I swing my legs

to the side,

stand anyway.

It is the last week of school

before Thanksgiving break.

I sit in class,

studiously avoiding

the stares and whispers

that haven't stopped

since the night of the party.

I can't bring myself

to look at Matthew or Mary;

Anna's still avoiding me.

Halfway through the hour

someone puts a drawing

down in front of me.

I look at Carl,

who looks back

with honest eyes.

I turn my gaze

to the lines of his pen,

see what he's created.

He's drawn a picture of me,

a version of myself

I have never known:

his Fain is not lonely

or timid.

She is a warrior

with a flashing sword,

streaming hair,

expression fierce.

I know

she can do anything.

I lift my head

to thank Carl

but he is already drawing again,

putting his own truths to paper

where anyone

who cares to look

can see them.