Saving Zoë, Page 3

  Six

  My friends are acting weird. And if I didn't know better, if I was the more paranoid type, I would probably start to

  wonder if they still wanted to be my friends. But since we walk to school together every day, meet at break, sit

  together at lunch, and then walk all the way home again, it's not like they're trying to ditch me. It's more like they're

  trying to keep a secret from me. One that Jenay almost keeps giving away, which causes Abby to glare at her with

  narrowed eyes and a shaking head. I mean, I don't know what they're up to, but it definitely has something to do with

  this weekend.

  "So, any b-day plans?" Abby asks, slipping her arm through the strap on her bag and hoisting it onto her

  shoulder.

  I gaze at the ground, retracing the steps toward home, while remembering my last birthday, which, having fallen

  right in the middle of all the Zoë stuff, was hardly worth celebrating. And I seriously doubt this year will be any better. I

  mean, from here on out, every time I make it to another year, it will only remind me of how Zoë didnt And tell me,

  Where's the "Happy" in that?

  But I don't want to share that with my friends and drag them down too, so instead I just go, "I don't know. We'll

  probably go to dinner or something." I shrug. "Though my mom did promise to bake my favorite cake, so if you guys

  wanna come over after, it's probably okay."

  "Pineapple upside-down?" Jenay asks, her eyes lighting up as she smiles.

  "No, that's your favorite. Mine's red velvet." I adjust my backpack, redistributing the weight so I won't end up all

  lopsided and bent when I'm old.

  "I love red velvet. Just give me a time and I'm there." Abby smiles.

  "I don't know, eight, eight thirty?" I say, glancing up just in time to catch them exchanging a secret look.

  The second I slip my key in the door, my cell phone rings. And I freeze, trying to decide which is more important,

  turning the key and beginning the long process of getting inside, or answering my phone. Because with two more

  dead bolts and a knob lock to go, there's just no way I can accomplish both.

  I heave a loud sigh, drop my bag, and ransack through the books and papers as i search for my cell. And by

  the time I find it, it's almost too late, so instead of checking ID I head straight for hello.

  "Echo?" The voice is definitely male but decidedly unfamiliar. I mean, the only male that ever calls is my dad.

  "Yeah?" I mumble, curious who it could be.

  "It's me. Marc."

  "Oh." I just stand there, clutching the phone, wondering what he wants. I mean, after that first day at school, I've

  definitely seen him a few more times, but it's not like we stop and talk. But then, nobody talks to Marc anymore. And

  even though that makes me feel pretty sad on his behalf, that doesn't mean I want to talk to him either.

  "I know this is weird, but I was kind of hoping I could see you," he says.

  I gaze at the driveway and the long crack that runs down the center, as I search for a way out. "Oh, I don't

  know. I mean, I'm kind of busy and all," I finally say, cringing at how false that sounds.

  "Listen, I know it's awkward. And I know how your parents don't want me around. But I also know that

  tomorrow's your birthday, and I have something for you, something I think you're gonna like. So, how 'bout it? Will

  you meet me?"

  I hesitate, gripping the phone and weighing my options. Then I hoist my bag onto my shoulder, slide my key out

  of the lock, and go, "Where should we meet?"

  There's this lake in a park not far from my house that I always used to go to as a kid. Even though it's not the kind of

  lake you'd ever want to swim in, since the water is murky and polluted and full of Big Gulp cups and beer cans

  floating along the top like they have every right to be there. I mean, someone would pretty much have to hate you to

  actually throw you in. But still, every weekend, people show up by the dozens, toting picnic baskets and spreading out

  towels, eager to spend the day lazing around, gazing at the scenery, and pretending they're somewhere better. And

  even though I used to like to do that too, heading there now reminds me of just how long it's been.

  I see him sitting by the water's edge just before he sees me. And even though I hate to admit it, my first instinct

  is to bolt. To just take off running, as fast and far as I can, as though my very life depends on it. But since I'm pretty

  sure he doesn't deserve that, I force myself to keep putting one foot in front of the other until I'm standing directly before him.

  "You made it," he says, his smile like a question mark, his eyes more unsure than I ever could've imagined.

  I stand there and shrug. Then drop my bag and sit down beside him.

  "Zoë and I used to come here all the time," he says, dipping his hand into a bag full of Wonder bread, tossing

  fat handfuls to a flock of greedy ducks. "She used to feed them so much, I teased her about making them obese,

  and inflicting them with type two diabetes. But she'd just laugh and say she was trying to build trust, so that someday

  they'd come waddling up and eat the crumbs right out of her hand."

  I glance at him briefly, wondering if his eyes will fill with tears. But when he turns to me and smiles, I know he's

  beyond all that, having moved his way through the grief list, and is now settled in some other place.

  "How are you?" he asks, searching my face.

  "Okay." I avert my eyes toward the ducks, but nod so he'll believe it. I know he has something to give me,

  something to tell me, but my heart is pounding so hard and my palms are growing so sweaty, I'm pretty sure I no

  longer want it.

  We sit like that for a while, him feeding the ducks, me nervous and freaked. Then he shakes his head, turns to

  me, and says, "Thanks for coming. I know it's probably weird for you, but it really is important. So, well, here." He

  reaches into the old khaki schoolbag, the one he's always lugging around, then hands me a small leather-bound

  book, the cover bearing a cobalt so rich and blue, I immediately think of Zoë.

  "What's this?" I ask, rubbing my fingers over the smooth soft leather, the same shade of blue as her walls.

  "Her diary." He looks right at me, his dark eyes intense and no longer blinking. "It was in her backpack. The

  one she left with me that day, the day she—" He stops and shakes his head. "Anyway, it's hers and it's personal,

  and I didn't want the cops to get their hands on it because there's nothing in there that would've helped them, nothing

  they didn't already know. Not to mention how it's none of their business. And I didn't want your parents to see it since

  there's stuff in there that she never wanted them to see. So I kept it. I've had it this whole time. But now I want you to

  have it." He sees the look on my face and raises his right hand, like he's on a witness stand. "I gave them everything

  else, though, I swear."

  I hold the book with both hands, too shaky and scared to peek. "Why me?" I ask, still gazing at the cover. "I

  mean, why don't you just keep it?"

  "I think you should know her," he says, his eyes fixed on mine.

  "But I did know her! And I do know her!" I grab my backpack and stand up quickly, wanting nothing more than to

  get away.

  "You didn't know her like that. You didn't know the whole person," he says, his face solid and set, like he's just

  so sure about everything he's saying.

  "Did you read it?" I ask, my hands shaky, watching as he nods in answer.

  I stand there, taking him in, the lean b
uild, the longish hair, the black T-shirt, the faded jeans, the chiseled face with the most amazing dark eyes. "You're not supposed to read other people's diaries," I say, turning away and running toward home.

  Seven

  The second I hear "Surprise!” I feel like an idiot. I mean, thinking back on Jenay's inability to keep a secret, and

  Abby's oh-so-obvious attempts to cover, it's pretty clear I should've known from the start. But after last year's

  birthday, when the only candles I was asked to blow out were for Zoë's candlelight vigil, my expectations for any

  future celebrations were at an all-time low.

  "Were you surprised?" Jenay and Abby ask, obviously delighted at being able to pull it off so successfully.

  "Totally," I say, slipping out of my favorite navy blue peacoat and gazing at all the decorations: the purple,

  orange, and pink paper lanterns; the matching candles, floor pillows, and balloons; not to mention the big red velvet

  cake pierced in the center with fifteen pink candles that my mom must have dropped off when I was bogged down in

  homework.

  "So I guess you don't really need this after all?" I say, smiling as I hold up the dog-eared copy of Le Petit

  Prince, which is not only required reading for French I, but also Jenay's excuse for luring me over.

  But she just laughs as she leads me deeper into the room.

  I'm surprised by how crowded it is. And even though I smile and wave and say hi to all of these people I

  recognize from school, if you tried to test me, pop quiz me on their names, the truth is I'd totally fail. I mean, just

  because they came doesn't mean I actually know them. And it feels like one of those episodes of Friends, where

  they throw a party and all of these extras show up. All of these supposed other good friends, lounging on that famous

  TV couch, talking and laughing and sharing the screen, like they've been there all along and you just hadn't noticed.

  And even though I'd like to believe that all of these people are here to see me, the truth is I know it's because

  of Abby and Jenay. They're the ones who invited them. They're the ones who've gone out of their way to know them.

  Abby runs off to get me a drink as I squeeze into a narrow space on the end of the couch, smiling awkwardly at

  the girl sitting beside me, who turns to me and says, "Omigod, you should've seen your face when you first walked

  in! You looked so surprised, like you'd just seen a ghost!"

  Then I watch as her face freezes in horror, just seconds after realizing what she really just said.

  But I just launch straight into my well-honed "damage control" routine. The one where I smile and nod and give

  a friendly look, one that hopefully conveys the message: as far as I'm concerned you have nothing to feel bad about.

  Then I get up off the couch and mumble something about needing to go help Abby.

  And as I'm walking away I hear her friend say, "Omigod, I can't believe you just said that! Hello? Remember

  what happened to her sister?"

  Eventually it's gotta stop, right? The way people look at me. The way they treat me. The way everyone around

  me goes out of their way to avoid certain words in my presence. As though the mere sound of missing, vanished,

  Internet predator gone, lost, or disappeared will somehow reduce me to tears.

  I know she meant well. I know she was only trying to make conversation with me, a girl whose party she's at

  and yet barely knows. But how can I ever be friends with someone who can't see me as anything other than Tragedy

  Girl?

  How can I hang with people who refuse to see that despite the whole thing with my sister, I'm really not so

  different from them?

  How can i make new friends when everyone feels so uncomfortable and guarded around me all the time?

  I mean, right after the whole thing with Zoë, I became hugely, insanely popular. All of these kids who'd barely

  spoken to me before started lining up in hopes of being my new best friend. But even though at first I kind of liked all

  of the attention, it didn't take long to figure out how most of them were just voyeurs. Just a bunch of tragedy whores

  who wanted to get close to me so they could report back to the others. As though their social standing would

  somehow elevate once they told the story of how they went for ice cream with the sister of the girl who got...

  Anyway, I learned pretty quick how to spot those people a mile away. And Abby and Jenay wasted no time in

  forming a tight, secure shield, protecting me from any and all future fake friendship attempts.

  But now that we're in high school, it's obvious they want to branch out, meet new people, expand their horizons,

  whatever. And it's not that I blame them, or would ever try to stop them. I'm actually more worried about holding them

  back.

  Or even worse, attracting all the wrong people, like the sideshow circus freak that I am.

  "Here's the birthday girl," Jenay says, acting all giddy, even though I'm 100 percent certain the only thing

  occupying her cup is crushed ice and Sprite.

  Abby hands me my drink and sits on the couch, as Parker scootches away from her so he can make room for

  me. "Have a seat," he says, smiling and patting the free space beside him.

  I glance at Abby wondering if she minds, then squeeze in beside Parker, thinking how weird it feels to be doing

  that considering how long I've known him, and how that's the first time he's ever scooted anywhere for me. But then

  again, the only time he ever spoke to me before was to say, "Sorry" as he fetched a soccer ball he'd just

  accidentally kicked at my head.

  But I guess that's because Parker always hangs with Chess, and Chess always hangs with the popular crowd.

  And even though our junior high was just as cliqued up as any other school, and even though Abby, Jenay, and I

  have never been part of that uber-cool group, we somehow managed to get out of there pretty much unscathed,

  avoiding a big, dramatic, Mean Girls showdown, which left us with a clean slate and no grudges to carry over into high

  school.

  But now, with Parker making room for me, I realize Jenay was right about them being demoted, as most of the

  girls from their old group have already moved on, setting their sights on all the hot sophomores, juniors, and seniors.

  Which pretty much leaves the pick of the freshman litter for the rest of us to browse.

  "We should play spin the bottle," Chess says, his eyes darting among us, looking to see who, if any, will bite.

  "Why not seven minutes in Heaven?" Parker says, laughing and high-fiving Chess.

  "Urn, when did my party become a Judy Blume book?" I ask, hoping and praying that they're not at all serious.

  "I think it sounds kind of fun," Jenay says, looking at me with eyes that are practically begging me to lighten up.

  "You know, retro." She smiles.

  Retro for who? I think, since neither she, I, nor Abby has ever played this game before. Remember what I said

  about not being cool? Well, that means we weren't invited to any of the cool parties either. But since it's obvious she

  just wants an excuse to kiss Chess, and since I don't want to be the one who gets in her way, I just shrug and act like

  I really don't care.

  Then Teresa, the alpha girl who held the top junior high royalty position solidly through both seventh and eighth

  grades, and who's now decided to join our meager group (probably because her original group disbanded and she'd

  rather be a big fish in our tiny little pond than a guppy in an ocean of upperclassmen), rolls her eyes and says,

  "Please, those games are so juvenile."

  "But I j
ust saw Carrie play it on Sex and the City" Jenay says, her voice sounding as pouty as her face looks.

  "Again, over! Syndication!" Teresa shakes her head as she digs through her purse, having positioned herself

  on the rug near our feet. "I mean, if you guys want to make out with someone then just make out. Get over it already,

  because nobody cares." She pulls a vodka mini from her bag and unscrews the cap. "Anybody?" she asks, holding it

  up in offering.

  I glance at Jenay and it's clear that she's torn. Partly pissed that Teresa's taking over the party, yet partly

  wondering if she should maybe just relax and let her. I mean, the fact that Teresa deigned to show up probably feels

  like a major coup.

  "None for me," Abby says, leaning back against the cushions and narrowing her eyes at this new, bossy

  intruder.

  "Ditto," I say as a show of support, even though I do kind of want some, just to see what it's like.

  And when I look over at Jenay, waiting for her to chime in, she just shrugs and holds up her cup, pushing it

  toward Teresa.

  Apparently Teresa's dad is a frequent flyer, which basically means she's got a purse full of airplane minis. And with

  pretty much everyone drinking (except Abby and me), and the lights turned low, and the music turned up, Parker

  leans in and whispers, "Wanna take a walk?"

  I glance over at Jenay and Chess, who are totally making out right in front of us, then I squint at Parker and go,

  "Where? I mean, Jenay's parents are upstairs so we really shouldn't leave the basement."

  But he just smiles. "I know a place," he says, standing before me and offering his hand.

  And even though it sounds totally fishy to me, I still get up and follow.

  When I think of coat closets, I usually think of itchy wool and cloying mothballs. But that's only because I don't have

  three brothers. Because from the moment I stepped inside there's been a hockey stick wedged against my butt, and

  it's accompanied by the most gag-worthy smell of B.O. I've ever encountered. Though I'm sure it's not coming from

  Parker since I don't remember him ever smelling bad, not to mention how this entire time, both his hands have been

  wrapped loosely around my waist and haven't wandered anywhere near my butt.