Waiting for You (25 page)

50

When Sandra sits down at the kitchen table with this weird blended drink, I completely lose my appetite.

“What
is
that?” I go.

“It’s my new breakfast regimen,” Sandra says in this tone like,
Duh, how can you not know that?

“Yeah . . . what’s in it?”

“Beets, carrots, spinach, echinacea . . . ” Sandra takes a sip.

So that would explain the grinding noise that woke me up inhumanely early.

I pinch my lips together, repulsed. “Is it good?”

Sandra turns a page of the newspaper. This would be the newspaper that she probably picked up from our lawn at the crack of dawn, after she came home from running six miles. She’s so efficient it makes me sick.

“It’s okay,” she tells me. “You want some?”

“I’m good.” Her drink looks like mold and smells worse.

“Suit yourself,” she says. Lately she’s been saying things like “suit yourself” that totally don’t match her age.

I go, “So . . . what’s the point of your drink?”

“The
point
?”

“Yeah, like . . . why are you drinking it?”

“As opposed to what? That processed crap you’re eating?”

I look down at my bowl of Frosted Flakes. As if I need more sugar. Every time I think about how much sugar I ingest every week just in my coffee, I can’t figure out how my body keeps working. I started drinking coffee in an attempt to wake up from my perpetual half-asleep state and join the living. The problem is, I think I’ve developed an addiction.

Sandra’s right again. She’s right and I’m wrong.

I can’t even win with cereal.

“You’re going to be late,” Mom warns. She’s flipping through mail and pouring juice. Some juice spills on the mail.

“Do we have any paper cups?” I ask. “With like, lids?”

“What, you mean like coffee cups?” Mom says.

“Yeah, or travel mugs?”

“For what?”

“To take my coffee to school?”

Mom blots an envelope with the dish towel. “Don’t you think you’re drinking too much coffee?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure yet.”

“I’m not working late today,” she says. “Maybe we can go shopping for a new bathing suit after school?”

“Why do I need a new bathing suit now? It’s only May.”

“If we wait too long, the best ones will be sold out.”

“I can’t today,” I say. “I have a ton of homework.”

“How do you know?” Sandra butts in. “We haven’t even gone to school yet.”

“I know I’m
getting
a ton tonight. Plus, I’m making stuff up, remember?” Mom came to school last week for a meeting. It was me, Mr. Wilson, and the guidance counselor. Everyone agreed that if I make up the work I didn’t do, my final grades for the semester can still be saved. My grades will obviously suck for this marking period, but at least I’ll pass all my classes.

Sandra stares at me. She sips her drink.

“What?”
I go.

“Why are you still so mad at Mom? Over half of all marriages experience separation or divorce. It’s a fact of life.”

Mom has a coughing fit. She tries to drink some juice.

After listening to Dirk that night, I totally understood that I need to forgive Mom. I made a pact with myself to be nicer to her, which I thought I was doing. So I’m shocked that Sandra can tell some of the rage is still there. I’m trying, it’s just that I’m not there yet. Forgiving her can’t be forced if it’s going to mean something. It just has to happen when the time is right.

Same with getting over someone. I wish you could instantly forget about them the second you break up. But waiting for time to heal you can be the hardest thing ever. In my case, I thought it would be easier. Because when you’re the one who decides to break up with someone, you’re supposed to also be the one who’s over them. Only, it’s not like I didn’t want to be with Derek anymore. It’s just that all the Sierra stuff got in the way. I knew that if I didn’t break up with him first, he would have eventually dumped me to be with her again.

So that’s why it hurts when I see them together.

Every morning when I get to school, I try to ignore our old spot. Which is hard to do when your ex-boyfriend and his ex-girlfriend are standing in the exact same spot. Kissing in the exact same way you used to.

Seeing them like that hits me hard. I knew they’d get back together after we broke up. I just wasn’t expecting it to be three seconds later. Derek is
such
a sleaze. Since he’s being particularly sleazy this morning, I have to find a way to avoid their existence entirely. Maybe if I walk fast enough and watch the grass, I can zip by them without really noticing.

While I’m walking way over on the other side of the lawn, Derek notices me. And I notice him notice me. And it’s too late to hide anywhere. Plus, where am I going to go? Unfortunately, I have to go inside and sit in homeroom like everything’s okay. Which is not going to be possible if I look at them. Whatever I do, I should
not
look over.

So of course, I look over. And there’s Derek, smiling at me.

Smiling.
Like we’re friends or something. Smiling while he’s hugging Sierra, looking over her shoulder at me so she won’t see.

He’ll never change. I got out just in time.

All day, I can’t wait to get home. Seeing Derek do that sparked something in me. But in a good way. Because it’s time for me to get my life back. And make it better than it ever was.

I’m all fidgety and restless, and it’s so hard to sit at my desk, class after endless class. I can’t wait to get started. I stare at the clock for the last ten minutes of English. I have no idea what Ms. Fontaine is yammering about.

Instead of it taking half an hour to walk home, I race there in nineteen minutes. Sandra won’t be home for a while. That girl has after-school activities like every single day. When I think about her schedule, I just want to lie down and take a big nap. Which is exactly what I’m
not
going to do anymore. No more naps. I want to be wide awake for everything from now on.

By the time Sandra gets home, I’ve finished taking down the rest of the stuff from my walls that I don’t want anymore. Two stuffed garbage bags are tied by my door. I’m deciding what color to paint my walls. Sandra’s going to freak when she finds out that I get to repaint, but I’m using my work money so there’s nothing she can do about it. I totally lucked out that I didn’t get fired after taking some days off when I couldn’t drag myself out of bed. My boss is decent, so I told her the truth about why I missed some days when I called out and promised that I felt better now. She was super understanding about the whole thing.

I go down to the kitchen. Sandra’s peeling an apple and reading and watching the news, all at the same time. If I do one of those things, it’s a productive day.

“Hey,” I go.

She doesn’t look up from any of her activities.

I try again. “Can I talk to you?”

Sandra glances at me with some suspicion. “About what?” she says.

“About how I have to eat healthier. And exercise.” Even though I know that exercise can make me feel good, I have a hard time believing it. The few times I’ve tried to do anything remotely physical I’ve mainly felt gross.

Up until now, I considered a walk by the river or taking the stairs to be more than enough exercise. But if I want things to change, like,
really
change, I have to make drastic changes in my life. Which Sandra is loving.

She runs up to her room and comes back down with a pad of poster paper. We sit at the kitchen table with markers and plan.

“Okay,” she goes. “One, you have to stop drinking coffee.”

“You mean, like, cut down, or—”

“No, I mean stop drinking it entirely. Starting now.”

That. Is scary.

“And two,” she says, “you have to eat more fresh produce. Fruits and vegetables are really important and you hardly eat any. It’s wrecking your body and making you feel run-down.”

Maybe she’s right. Maybe that’s part of the reason I’m always so tired.

She blathers on about my new healthy regimen and other stuff I can’t eat and more things I should do. She writes everything down on the chart.

But I’m fixated on the coffee thing. I’ve been drinking coffee (with three or four sugars) every day for months now. So, what, I’m supposed to just . . . stop? With no warning?

“Then we have to plan your exercise schedule,” Sandra says.

“My what now?”

“You have to stick to a schedule or you won’t work out. I know you, remember?”

“Vaguely,” I grumble.

“Do you want to run with me?”

“Run?”

“Yeah, I’m going for a run tonight.”

“I can’t. Nash and I are going to the drive-in.”

“So let’s go now.”

“Now?”

“Why not?”

“Don’t I have to, like, get ready? To run?”

“No, you just have to do it.”

Nothing I can say will convince her that we shouldn’t go running right this second. It’s not raining or anything. And I did go to her for help. And if a drastic overhaul of my life doesn’t start happening right away, I’ll be very afraid for me. So we go up to our rooms and change and I dig out my Nikes that I only wear for gym when we have to run the mile. I hate that freaking mile.

Sandra’s already stretching in the living room when I come downstairs. She explains not to hold each stretch for more than a few seconds because our muscles aren’t warm yet and I could pull something. You’re supposed to do the serious stretching after.

Before I know it, we’re actually running. On the sidewalk. Like people who run. I feel all professional athlete about it.

After two blocks, things get worse. I have a cramp in my side and my left sneaker feels funny.

“I have a cramp,” I report. “And there’s something wrong with my sneaker.”

“Just run through it,” Sandra advises.

“How do you run through a cramp?”

“Just keep running.”

“Are you trying to kill me?”

“No, I’m trying to save your life.”

That shuts me up for ten more blocks.

I’m so out of breath. I feel like my lungs are going to explode. But Sandra’s the same as always. She’s not even breathing hard.

“How . . . long are we . . . running for?” I puff.

“I thought we’d do two miles. Until you get used to it.”

“Two
miles
?” I can barely even get through one mile when we have to run it for gym. How the flippin’ heck am I supposed to do two?

I can’t breathe.

“Is there water?” I go.

“Did you bring any water?”

“No.”

“Then I guess there’s no water.”

Note to self for future runs: Bring water.

By the time we get back home, I’m practically crawling. Climbing up the stairs is killing me. I collapse on my bed.

“Good job!” Sandra goes. “You want the first shower?”

“No, you go,” I groan. Just the thought of dragging myself into the shower is exhausting.

But I have to get ready. Nash is picking me up soon. There’s this old drive-in that they totally renovated and tonight is the opening night. Everyone who gets how cool that is will be there.

It was supposed to be me, Nash, Sterling, and Jordan, but Sterling’s sick and Jordan had a paintball tournament. I have this creepy feeling that the real reason Sterling wouldn’t come is because she’d rather sit at home IMing with that online Chris guy. Which is why I wanted her to come out with us. It’s obvious that Jordan likes Sterling, and maybe if she gave him a chance she could have a real relationship.

They’re showing
Heathers
, which I’ve only seen parts of once during a Christian Slater marathon on TV. Of course Nash has seen it a zillion times. He even has lots of the lines memorized. There’s nothing more annoying than watching a movie with someone who’s saying the best lines along with the characters.

“Can you please shut up with that?” I go.

“What?”

“Saying all the lines.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“I’m trying to hear the real lines!”

“These are the real lines. I know what I’m saying.”

“Just forget it.”

But five minutes later, he’s all like, “No, Heather, it’s
Heather’s
turn!”

My annoyance isn’t going away any time soon. “Can you stop?”

“I thought you said to forget it.”

“Not everyone has seen this movie, you know.”

“I know. Some people’s lives are terribly lacking.”

“Like mine right now because I
can’t hear
.”

“I never knew you were like this.”

“Like what?”

“When did you get so bossy?”

“Just now.”

After, we go to the Notch. I don’t feel like bowling, though, so we decide to get blueberry crumble at Shake Shack. Birgitte is there at a rowdy table in the middle, but Tabitha’s not with her. They used to be best friends, but I heard they got into a huge fight and now they’re not. It makes me realize all over again how much everything has changed since last year.

“Is here good?” Nash indicates the only free table.

“Yeah, but . . . we can go somewhere else, if you want.”

“I thought you wanted blueberry crumble?”

I glance over at Birgitte. I’m sure she saw us, but she’s acting like she didn’t.

“Oh, that,” Nash goes. “No worries.”

We have one of those tables that’s higher than the others, with really tall chairs. These are the best seats because they’re at the window and you can see everyone going by. Not like there’s so much action to watch around here, but there’s a good river view. Tonight, the river is dark and quiet.

My legs are killing me. At least my cramp is gone.

Nash takes the tea bag out of his mug. He didn’t even admit that he liked tea until a few weeks ago. Now he drinks it in front of me all the time. He’s into all these weird kinds, like rooibos, which is a red tea that’s great for your immune system. Which I really should get into, since I’m off the coffee.