Chapter Two
A week passes. Nothing significant happens, and life goes on as dully as it ever has. Every day, however, Mom's taken to bugging me about seeing a counselor. Of course she doesn't approach Matt about it. He's always gone anyway. I don't blab to Mom and Dad about the fact that I know he goes to his friend's house just to get drunk and drive back home before the sun comes up.
Today is like every other day. School is school, and I the reject. When I've gotten home Mom is thankfully not around. I grab a snack and head up to my room. Matt, oddly, is home. I get a glimpse of him swearing at the TV in the living room. I hurry by.
The window of my room opens to the roof, right next to a little nook where I can lay down and stare up at the sky. I've discovered that my family won't bother me when I'm there, and it's become one of my most frequented spots in the house.
I close the door to my room firmly. I abandon my backpack on the floor, but keep my notebook in my grip while I open the window and carefully crawl into my haven.
It takes me a few moments to get comfortable. When I've found the perfect position I do what I've done here every other day since we moved in: I think.
I think of ways that I could have avoided the collision. I think of the things I should have said to RaeAnn. I think about the kids at school. I think about my grades. I think about the latest book I've read.
But mostly I just think of RaeAnn.
There's this big empty hole in my chest where my heart should be. As I stare up at the darkening sky I feel like I should be crying. But I've somehow gotten past that point. There's only so much crying that can be done, before the hurt has gotten so deep that it almost disappears, in a way.
I realize that all of us have done it. Me, Matt, Mom, Dad. We've all stopped our crying. We've all begun to process of moving on.
But I don't want to move on. I don't want to be one of those people that mourns for an appropriate time, and then forgets. I want to remember.
I want to remember the way RaeAnn smiled. I want to remember the way she laughed. I want to remember the moments when we got along and were closer than two sisters could possibly be.
There's something... ironic... in the way things have turned out. I guess, in the back of my mind, I'd always thought that, if one of us had to go, I would be the one to do it. I never imagined that my sister, whose very being expressed vitality, would one day be lying in the cold ground. Still, white, and jarringly silent.
My lower lip begins to tremble. The tears have finally come again. Every night, I do this to myself. I torture myself with thought of her, and I force the tears to come. I won't become numb. I won't forget, and I won't stop mourning.
I am showing RaeAnn my loyalty to her in the only way I know how.
Time passes on the roof. It's getting completely dark, the sun obscured by the black velvet expanse of the sky.
I sniffle and sit up. My back is sore from being against the hard shingles. I swipe at my nose with my sleeve, but I let the tears fall freely down my cheeks and drip off my chin.
I gradually realize that I'm still holding the notebook. I flip it open. I can't see the page; it's too dark. I crawl back inside the house.
Normally right about now I would go on the computer, and play solitaire or work on homework. But not tonight.
Tonight I sit on my bed, take a pencil laying on the surface of my desk, and again open the notebook.
I suddenly have an urge to write. To write something of meaning, something good and real.
I take the pencil in hand and poise it over the blank page.
There's a feeling of emptiness,
a feeling of pain.
No one else knows it,
no one can understand.
I watch them live,
I stand by not taking part.
No one can know
that I'm broken of heart.
I sit back and glare at the poem with displeasure. It's something that should be put on a Hallmark card. I rip it out of the notebook and crumple it into a ball, tossing it onto the floor.
I try again.
To know the sound of a laugh,
and being unable to produce it is one of the greatest sorrows.
To feel the joy in the soul,
and having forgotten is one of life's most mournful moments.
To see the strongest of bonds broken in a flash,
is cause for a desire to die.
To lose a sister,
is something indescribable.
Tears are falling again. I give up and now throw the entire notebook away from me. I'm no writer, and I'm insulting poetry by even attempting it.
I curl up into a ball and close my eyes.
* * * * *
I refuse to eat in the bathroom again. The old part of me rebels at my cowardliness when I picture my smelly but safe stall. The old me would have defiantly sat at the table right across from the “popular kids”. The old me was stupid. The old me is supposed to be gone. But I’ve found that some small part of it remains.
I get in line, shoulders hunched. No one bothers me, and the prying glances are fewer. Maybe they have gotten tired of gossiping about me. I quickly take my tray and find an empty table in the corner of the loud room.
I sit down, and cautiously eat. My eyes dart around, glaring at anybody who dares look at me. When I realize everyone is actually eating and paying me no attention, I relax a little. I allow my eyes to roam the room.
I’ve been to school like this before. I’ve seen many schools liked this. Prep school. No imagination. No personality. All the kids here dress alike, in Abercrombie and Hollister clothes. The girls all have perfect smiles and perfect hair. The guys have short hair and wear sandals. And then there’s me… with my long curly black hair, my black baggy hoodies and kohl-lined eyes. But I don’t care. They can all go through their miserable lives not knowing. Not living.
I stuff a piece of orange in my mouth, chewing moodily. For some reason, at this moment, I feel so alone, and I actually wish for a friend.
"Hi."
I look up from my lunch and stare at the girl standing in front of me. I don't reply. The orange is lodged in my throat. I feel a river of juice slide down my chin and I swipe at it quickly.
She is unperturbed by my lack of a response. "So what's the deal with you anyway? The chicken nuggets ain't so bad." She snaps her gum. I assume she's referring to the fact that I'm eating a salad instead of the main food being offered.
I shrug. "I don't know."
She appraises me. "You don't seem like one of those veggie types."
She doesn't seem like any type I've ever seen. Her clothes are in a combination I never would have thought to put together.
She wears baggy, green army pants. Her feet are adorned by red heels with something like twelve straps wrapped around her toes. Her top is a glaringly yellow t-shirt that says, So what do you expect? I'm not gonna dress like you. Her obviously-dyed orange hair is up in a mass of tangles, decorated with blue sparkly barrettes. Her pale skin has no makeup on it, except for neon green eye-shadow on her eyelids. She has one diamond nose-ring around her nostril.
All in all, possibly one of the strangest girls I've ever seen. And they think I'm a freak?
She plops into the single seat across from me. "I've been on vacation for the last couple months," she informs me. "Me and my parents were backtracking through Africa. It's kind of disappointing to be back here. What's your story?"
I blink. "My story?" I repeat.
She nods encouragingly.
I am slow to answer. "I... moved here this year from New York."
I don't bother telling her about RaeAnn, or the "creepy" notes I write to her. The other kids, no doubt, have taken care of it.
She leans back in the chair until the front legs are off the floor. "Huh. Never been there. Heard it's got a lot of pollution or whatever. But who cares about that?"
She blows a bubble with her pink gum, and waits for me to say something.
"It wasn't so bad," I say hesitantly. I'm trying to figure out why this girl is talking to me. Pity? Curiosity? Boredom?
"So why'd you move here?" She asks, looking at me evenly. I realize with a start that her eyes are two different colors. On brown, one green. It's disconcerting, to say in the least.
"My dad got a new job," I say.
She catches me staring and realizes why. "Oh, I'm wearing a colored contact. I like the reactions I get from people." She laughs loudly, and kids look at us.
I don't like the attention. "Did you want something?" I finally ask.
She grins. "No, not particularly. Vikki Shawnston." She thrusts out her hand. I vaguely notice that there's a ring on each one of her fingers. I shake her hand delicately.
"Lissa Brown." I return flatly.
She eyes me, and notes all the black. "Heard about your sister. I won't tell you I'm sorry because I'm sure you've heard it enough in the past two months. And I'm not going to say I understand, because I haven't had a close family member die since my uncle Urkle, and he wasn't that great of an uncle anyway. So I'll just say that death is something horrible, and I'm here to be your friend."
She's so blunt about it, so straight-forward, that for a moment I'm speechless. Her gaze is even and unflinching, giving me the impression that she isn't making the offer just because she feels sorry for me.
I shrug, not knowing what to say. "Thanks, I guess."
Her smile is back, as if the seriousness hadn't even been there. "No problem. Now I got a couple of kids over there who need my sole advice on their wardrobe, so I must bid you farewell."
She stands with a flourish, and winks at me before heading over towards Brittany Geller's table.
I watch, something that feels like a smile tugging at my lips, as she saunters up to the snooty girl.
"Hey," Vikki says, leaning over in Brittany's face. "Did you get that at Goodwill? I think I saw it there, on sale for fifty cents. Huh. Suits you." Brittany gasps and recoils. Her face blooms with a furious red.
Before Brittany can retort, Vikki strides confidently away. Leaving me to smother something that I haven't felt rising up in my throat for three months.
Laughter.
* * * * *
"So tell me Lissa, what do you feel deep down when people mention your sister? Are you angry? Sad? Or do you just feel dead inside?"
Mom sits by, waiting anxiously for me to answer. I smother a sigh.
"Uh... I don't know."
I don't want to talk about this. I'm just doing this for Mom's sake. Can't she see that this isn't doing me any good?
The counselor, Ms. Grey is her name, jots something down on her yellow notepad. I feel like I should be laying on a couch and staring up at the ceiling like they do in movies.
She looks at me thoughtfully. "How long ago did your sister die?"
I don't like her asking me questions. My life is none of her business, no matter how much Mom is paying her. I'd like to see Matt handle this.
"Little over three months," I mutter. She nods. Her bright blond hair swings as she does so, and I look at it. Are counselors allowed to have pretty hair? Aren't they supposed to be fat and ugly?
"And how do you think you are handling it?" She asks me.
I look at the clock. Half hour to go. "Fine." Short and to the point. Maybe she'll deem me mentally sound so I can go home.
Mom sighs, her face seeming to sag a little more. My stomach clenches. I force myself to look at her scar. I did that to her. I took her daughter away.
I look at Ms. Grey. "I think I'm getting better," I lie. But it's the answer I know Mom wants.
Ms. Grey is unsmiling. "And why is that?"
Does she have to keep nosing? "I don't cry as often as I used to," I reply, struggling to keep my emotions off of my face. I cry almost every night, but neither of them needs to know that.
I can feel Mom looking at me. I just glance at the clock again.
"Lissa, crying less doesn't mean that the wounds are healing. They could be getting worse. I need to know if it hurts talking about her right now." Ms. Grey's eyes are unblinking and demanding. I hate it.
Seconds tick by. Mom and Ms. Grey wait. I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to admit that yes, it does hurt, and that I've been lying through this whole thing. I don't want to disappoint Mom. I want her to think that I'm doing better, that I'm getting well. She doesn't need any more stress in her life.
I stand. "I need to go to the bathroom."
