And I think how perfect this is, that the one time I actually speak up for myself, the one time I actually know what to say, it’s over a nonexistent friendship.
I walk the back way home, fast, go straight to my room, unzip my backpack, and start reading. I need her.
By the time I’m finished reading I’m shaking. Everything gets blurry. I bury my head in my pillow, grab my comforter in both hands and try to rip it but nothing happens. I think about where she is now, in a coffin, underground in a cemetery I’ve only been to once and will never go to again. How it’s so easy for her to not feel anything at all, to be just completely gone, to not be around to see how f**ked up she’s made me. She got to disappear completely and I feel like I’m about to combust. I stuff the corner of the blanket into my mouth until I can’t fit any more of it in and then I scream and scream and the sound comes out muffled. And I wonder what was so bad that she couldn’t do anything about it. What was so terrible that she felt she could never get over. When it gets too hard to breathe, I pull the blanket out and see that my teeth have only made little marks, tiny, invisible frays in the cotton. I can barely see them at all.
10
It’s already getting dark when I wake up later that night, Ingrid’s journal still open to the last entry I read. I can hear my parents downstairs making dinner. I have to clean my room—Taylor’s coming over soon—but I’m hungry.
“Well, hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” my dad says as I walk into the kitchen.
“Hey,” I mumble.
My mom comes up to give me a hug, but I lean over to peer into the pantry and she goes back to the stove. I know it’s mean of me, but I have this feeling that if I let her touch me, I would shatter into pieces.
“How was school?” my dad asks.
“Fine,” I say.
I rummage through all the weird snacks my parents eat: dried apples, instant oatmeal, wheat crackers.
“Well,” my dad says. “My day was fine, too. Thanks for asking. And let’s hear how your mother’s day was. Margaret?”
“It was nice, sweetheart,” she says to my dad, but like she’s really answering him, not trying to give me a lesson in social etiquette.
I find a bag of pretzels and tear it open, put one in my mouth, and taste the salt. My mom glances over at me. “Honey, have you been crying?” she asks.
I stare at the food she’s making and shrug.
“Taylor’s coming over to work on our project for precalc,” I say. “So I’m not going to be able to eat with you guys.”
“Can’t he come over after dinner?” my dad asks.
“This is important,” I say. “You know it’s, like, for school?”
“Well, he’s welcome to join us.”
“Uh, no thanks.”
“Why were you crying?” my mom asks. “Are you okay?”
“I just had a bad day. Is that not allowed?” I say, and it comes out a little harsher than I meant it to. I turn away and start heading back up to my room with the pretzels. On my way out I grab a Popsicle from the freezer.
At eight-fifteen, the doorbell rings and I rush past my parents to let Taylor in. He looks around nervously and catches sight of my parents. They are sitting at the dining table, eating something that smells really good.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner,” he says to them.
He’s carrying his backpack and his skateboard, but it’s clear that he’s tried to make himself look nice. He smells like shampoo.
“We’re having penne and a beet salad,” Mom says. “May we offer you some?”
“Thanks, but I already ate,” Taylor says, taking off his jacket.
“We can go upstairs now,” I say.
“Okay, great. I brought the map and those little pushpin things.”
We start to walk away when my dad calls out, “That’s a nice shirt you have on, Taylor.”
It’s just a plain T-shirt, solid green.
Taylor’s whole face turns red. “Um, thank you,” he stammers. He pauses, then adds, “Sir.”
Once my door is closed, he says, “Oh my God. Your dad totally hates me. He thinks I’m trouble. I knew I should never have bought that stupid sex shirt. I knew it was a stupid thing to do.”
“You should get a new one,” I say. “One that says something like ‘Will work for forgiveness.’ ”
“Or ‘redemption.’ ”
“Or ‘approval.’ ”
He smiles. “Think it would work?” he asks.
“Maybe.”
“Should I make the effort?”
He’s standing close to me; his breath smells minty, I can’t concentrate, so I say, again, “Maybe.”
We both stand there, not knowing what to say or do next, until Taylor sets his backpack down and starts taking stuff out. I sit down on the chair by my desk. I get up and sit on my bed. I get up again, and plant myself, cross-legged, on the carpet.
Taylor has already taken out everything we need to get started, but he doesn’t stop there. Soon pencils and paper napkins and paper clips and books for other classes form a small mountain beside him.
“Looking for something?” I ask.
“What? Oh. No, just taking inventory.” He dumps it all back in. Once everything is packed up again, he looks at all the stuff on my walls.
“Nice room,” he says.
And then, a second later, he says, “Oh.” It comes out kind of shocked, like it wasn’t something he meant to say. I look at him, then up to where he’s looking. It’s a picture of Ingrid tacked up on my wall. She looks pretty, standing on the grass by the reservoir smiling.