Chapter One
Two months later
I’ve decided that walking through the halls in this high school is torture. Some of the kids leaning against their lockers stare as I pass them.They try not to be obvious when it's all-too clear they're talking about me.
“She’s so weird!” I hear one girl whisper as I walk by her. Her friend nods in agreement. They don't mean for me to hear. They never do. I guess I just happen to have good hearing.
I duck my head down, clutching my books tighter to me. I walk faster to escape their unabashed stares. I reach my locker. I notice a new orange flyer taped to it. I almost laugh when I've scanned it. Prom. One of the do-gooder girls reaching out to the school reject, no doubt.
Is it supposed to be funny or something? Do they actually expect me to go? Because I don’t get it.
I shift my books to my hip so I can rip the paper off my locker. I put it in a trashcan. Two boys snicker as I struggle to rid myself of it; the tape's gotten stuck to my hand. I try my best to ignore them. The warning bell rings overhead and I quickly run back to my locker, do the combination, and grab my things for English. I slam the locker shut just as the second bell is ringing.
“Get out of the way!" one boy snaps at me, pushing past. I stumble but don’t say anything. For a reason I cannot name one tear slips down my cheek, and I reach up to brush it off. I've never felt so weak. I look at my finger and sniffle in despair when I see the trace of mascara on it.
I am so busy wiping my fingers under my eyes to rid myself of any smudges of makeup I don’t see a kid's feet jutting out, who's leaning against a locker. My books and papers go flying. Some remaining kids in the hall see and hurry off. They don't want to be guilted into helping.
The guy who tripped me runs down the hall to his class, without a word of apology, just as the last bell rings. I sniffle some more as I get up. The hall has emptied and no one is around to witness my humiliation as I gather my things. I continue on my way to class, completely and hopelessly late. I open the door, hoping I will not be noticed. But God has never seen fit to answer my prayers. He’s seen fit to rip everything dear to me away.
I don’t talk to God anymore.
The door squeaks on its hinges loudly and the class turns to see who has come in. I see the boy who told me to get out of the way. He is smiling at a girl sitting next to him, already having forgotten me. Jerk. I swallow painfully and make my way to my seat, watching carefully for any feet that might pop out and trip me again.
“Miss Brown, I am glad that you could join us,” Mrs. Jones says smoothly, marking me tardy. I set my books down and settle into my seat. I finally relax and am able to remain so for the rest of the class. One good thing about this seat is that no one sits behind me. One time in class two immature boys put a note that said, Trip me I’m a freak on my back.
Mrs. Jones is discussing our new project to the class. I give her my full attention. “I don’t want you to hold anything back when you’re writing these poems,” she is saying, “I want you to give it your all. I will be grading these on the actual poems, not your presentation.”
One girl raises her hand. “What if, like, you don’t even know what you should write about?” she asks.
Mrs. Jones smiles. “I’m sure you can come up with something, Brittany. Your poems can be about anything. For instance, Brittany, I know you like to shop. So you can write about why you like it so much, or what you are feeling when you buy something.”
Brittany groans. “I don’t know how to write, Mrs. Jones. Some of us aren’t meant to write poetry.” Her nose wrinkles in distaste as she says this, and the class laughs. I don’t. I just doodle in my notebook.
Mrs. Jones sighs. “It’s up to you what you should write about, and it’s up to you what your attitude is going to be while you’re working on this.”
Brittany rolls her eyes. Mrs. Jones ignores her and continues, “Your poems are due on Friday, class. And I want them to be at least twelve lines long.” The class groans. She frowns. “I am being kind, mind you. I could make it worse.” Everyone instantly quiets.
I add more lines to the abstract shape I’ve created on the paper. As the class progresses, I go deeper and deeper into my own universe. No one notices, cares, or even sees me, and when the bell rings, I brace myself and become numb as I go back into the hallway. Back into Hell.
* * * * *
“Hey, honey, how was school today?” Mom asks me as I slam the screen door open. I throw my bag down onto the table and shrug, hiding my face from her by turning it to the wall.
“Fine.”
“Got any homework?” she asks me, that forced bright tone note still in her voice. It grates on my nerves… but I nod anyway.
“Better hop to it before dad gets home, then,” she says. I nod again, careful not to see the scar that runs from the end of her right eyebrow down to her jaw line. “Have you made any friends today?” Mom asks as I sit at the table and pull out my notebook. I finally look at her.
“Sure,” I say blandly. I catch the concern on her face. I sigh. “Don’t worry about it, Mom. These things take time.” I sound hopeless to my own ears. But she doesn’t understand. I don’t want any friends. I don’t need any friends.
Mom purses her lips. “No, they don’t. You should be having friends over on the weekends, not sitting in your room and staring at that computer screen. You’ve been in school for three weeks now, Lissa.”
I pull a notebook out of my bag. “Mom, it’s been a while since you’ve been to high school. Just trust me. I’ll bring someone home one of these days.” When the Chinese take over and my nose hair grows out two inches.
Mom turns around and continues scrubbing the stove.
“Not that long,” she says. “When I was your age—”
“Don’t start,” I snap, losing the last of my short supply of patience. “I’m trying to do my homework.” Mom just sighs and turns back around.
I can hear her muttering under her breath, “Maybe if you didn’t wear so much black…”
She knows why I wear black constantly now. Before RaeAnn died I used to wear grays and sometimes whites along with black. But that’s changed.
It’s always black now. And no one is going to make me stop wearing it. I don't care about being the freak. Those kids are all shallow anyway.
Mom worries about me. I’m continually catching her staring at me with a pinched face, as if she’s trying to see inside me. Often I overhear her talking to Dad about me. They both lie to themselves and say that time will heal.
Time won’t change a thing. Every second of every day, I see my sister’s face and her tears. As time passes, my wounds just go deeper. I lose myself a little more every time I wake up. I think that at the end of my time there won’t be any of me left.
Mom has that worried look on her face again. I can sense her consternation. I consider opening my mouth and telling her the truth.
People actually tried to talk to me the first few days in school, but I acted like they weren’t there and I just doodled in my notebook. I write notes to RaeAnn, and tell her what my life is like without her. One of the kids was reading over my shoulder, and I didn't know it, and then she went and blabbed to all her giddy little friends. The kids know RaeAnn's dead and they think I’m insane for writing to her like she lives in California or something. Now they're scared of me or something and everyone leaves me alone. I like it that way. But sometimes I wonder if they're right to be frightened of me. Once in a while I catch myself muttering to RaeAnn about what jerks they are, like I used to when she was here. Mom, I think I really actually might be going insane.
Last night I actually woke up in RaeAnn’s bed. Is that creepy? Maybe I deserve the other kids’ disgust.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble instead, staring down at my notebook. “It’s hard for me right now.”
Mom doesn’t answer. I guiltily notice that she’s still too thin, and even though I can’t see them right now I know there’s bags under her eyes from sleepless nights caring for me, soothing me from my nightmares, and crying herself to sleep like I do.
It’s good that I keep it simple for her, and don’t go too deep within my surfaces.
I force myself to stop thinking about anything. Anything other than poetry. I tap my pencil against the paper. I focus on making myself think…but all I can see is RaeAnn’s tear-filled eyes and her hurt as she turned to the window. I shift restlessly.
“What would you write about?” I ask Mom desperately. She looks up.
“Write? You mean a story?” She sounds relieved that we’re talking about something normal.
I shake my head. “A poem.” I say wearily.
Mom tilts her head. “I’m not sure. I’ve never been one for creativity. You should ask Matt.”
I scoff quietly. “Yeah. Right. I’ll get right on that one.”
Mom shrugs. “He’s the writer in the family, Lissa. Ask him. You might be surprised.”
As if on cue, I can hear my older brother pulling into the driveway. All the dogs in the neighborhood start to bark in response to his monstrously loud engine.
“When are you and Dad going to get him a new car? Or make him save up money to get a different one?” I demand when the quiet returns. Mom cringes. I can hear Matt coming up the walk.
“It is a bit loud…” Mom reluctantly admits. Matt slams open the door much the way I did.
“What food do we got?” He swings open the fridge door. He bends over and I grimace.
“Geez, Matt, pull up your pants!” I snap.
My brother ignores me. “Mom, what do we got? I can’t find anything!” he complains. He grabs a pop and sits down at the table next to me, folding his long legs beneath the table. He takes his hat off. I scoot away.
“You smell!” I grumble, bending back over my paper.
“I wouldn’t be talking, freak,” Matt grins. “Especially since you were walking around school last week with that sign on your back that said—”
“Shut up, you idiot!” I hiss with a quick glance at Mom. Matt just smirks and takes a swig of his pop. Mom looks at us suspiciously. Sometimes I wonder how Matt can be so heartless. I know he misses RaeAnn too, but he covers it up pretty well. Almost as well as Dad.
“What sign? Lissa, what is he talking about?” Mom demands.
“It’s nothing,” I say with a glare to my ugly sibling.
He smiles sweetly. “Oh, it’s not ‘nothing’, Mom. You wouldn’t believe—”
“Hey, Matt, do you think you could help me with my English assignment?” I ask frantically. He shuts up, thankfully, and gives me a peculiar look. I can feel Mom watching us sharply.
“You want me to help you?” Matt asks incredulously. I nod, glaring at him. He grins suddenly. “Okay.” He leans over toward me. “Whatcha got?”
I lean away. “We have to write a poem. At least twelve lines long,” I mumble unhappily.
He nods. “Easy. So what’s the holdup?” He takes another gigantic swig of his pop.
I shrug, wanting to get up and go to my room. I would rather eat dirt than sit here and receive help from my stupid brother. But I can feel Mom’s approval and I know I can’t let her down again.
“I don’t know what to write about,” I say quickly.
Matt laughs. “You can’t think of anything to write about? In all the things in the world—”
“Just because you’re good at coming up with ideas doesn’t mean everyone else is,” I snap. He chews his gum.
“Fine. Okay. Let’s see… the makings of a great poem… aw, I dunno. Just write about your feelings or somethin’.”
I sigh. My feelings… I wouldn’t begin to know how to put on paper. I want to shoot myself? I would do anything to have my sister back…? I would give up my life to have one more day with her…? I hate myself and have nightmares about the last words I said to RaeAnn…
I would end up in a mental institution when the teachers read it.
“What kind of feelings?” I ask hopelessly.
Matt grins wickedly. “Oh, that’s right, you don’t have any! Well, let me think… how bout what you feel when you’re sad? That’s what I like to write about.” His voice kind of breaks, and he looks away, clearing his throat in embarrassment. I look at him.
We’re all hurting, but no one wants to admit it out loud. Why not? Because there’s comfort in routine and silence, that’s why. Pretending like there’s nothing amiss or wrong in our lives makes pretending the pain isn’t there easier.
I scramble for the secure… insulting Matt. Yeah, that’s secure. Back on firm footing.
“That was probably the stupidest thing you’ve ever—” I begin.
“Whatever! Screw this!” Matt stands, hiking up his pants. I am ashamed when I hear the raw feeling in his voice, and see the desperation to cover it. He turns his face away and walks to the door. “Where the hell is my skateboard?” he snaps, and looks at me.
“Matt, watch your tongue!” Mom scolds.
“Lissa, where the hell did you put it?” Matt yells at me. I smile, playing along with him out of pity… allowing him to tuck everything away in his secret pocket again.
“Sorry. Doing my homework,” I say sweetly, and, just to show him how preoccupied I am, I look at my blank piece of paper. Matt looks at Mom.
“Mom! Are you going to let that bi—”
“That’s enough, Matt! Your Father will be home soon and he can take care of this if there’s a problem.”
If looks could kill, I’d be dead. Matt gives me such an evil look I almost cower in my chair.
“Whatever.” He slams open the door and a few seconds later I can hear his car roaring to life. Mom shakes her head as he skids out of the driveway. I gather my stuff and shove my chair back.
“Where are you going?” Mom calls after me, exasperated.
“Nowhere,” I mutter. In my mind, I know where I’m going. I’m going back to that place that I find the most peace. A certain place where half my heart hasn’t been ripped out of my chest and every breath I draw isn’t filled with regret and denial and hopeless desires. The place where no one can bother me or see what I’m thinking. My place… basically, it’s just a corner of my mind, where I lose myself. No one can reach me or see me.
Not that they would want to if they could.
* * * * *
I turn in a flimsy, pathetic poem. One that has no depth or meaning. Just pathetic, really. Something Brittany Geller would turn in. I ignore the disappointed look Mrs. Jones gives me, clutch my books tight to me, and head back out into the hall.
The sunset,
Sweeps across the sky.
Its beauty,
None can define.
All the colors,
Too numerous to name.
The sunset appears every day,
And never is the same.
So wild,
So unique and rare.
When one sees the sunset,
They throw away their cares.
Well, what did she expect? I’m only half of myself now. My other half is gone, buried with my sister. Poetry is impossible without it… isn’t it?
