I DITCH MY LAST CLASS AND head straight to Ella’s building, a thousand hideous visions in my head. She lives just a few blocks up from me; I’ve been visiting her since fifth grade, so the doorman knows me. I slow down as I approach, in case he has something terrible to tell me. But he just touches his hat and waves me through. I hurry to the elevator, count silently as it climbs to the tenth floor.
Ella lives in one of those old Upper West Side buildings that has a maze of hallways leading to each apartment. I’m so desperate to get to her, I turn the wrong way and end up at the garbage chute. So I have to retrace my steps, start all over, make the right turn, before I find her apartment.
Probably I ring the buzzer way too long. When her mom answers the door, she looks annoyed. But annoyed is good, honestly. Way better than sobbing and hysteria.
Ms. Schaeffer is blocking the door. She doesn’t have much to block it with: she’s tiny. Like her sister, I think. Her brown-gray hair is frizzy, it brushes the shoulders of her jacket. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I’m always a little intimidated by Ella’s mom; I worry she thinks I’m some shallow, boy-crazy bimbo.
Now she says, “Hi, sweetie. Ella’s asleep right now.”
“Is she okay?”
Ms. Schaeffer looks surprised. “Oh, I think so. She woke up this morning and said she felt ‘tired.’ Between you and me, it seems like a case of ‘I don’t want to go to school–itis.’ ”
“So she’ll be back tomorrow?”
“I would think so.” She starts closing the door. “But I’ll tell her you stopped by.”
No, I think, I can’t leave yet. No matter what her mother says, I know Ella’s in trouble.
Stepping directly in her mom’s line of vision, I say, “Happy birthday, by the way.”
Startled, she lets go of the door. “Oh—thank you.”
I fish. “Ella said it was quite a dinner.”
“She did?” Ms. Schaeffer raises an eyebrow. “Was that what she was texting you?”
I make a guilty face. “Yeah, sorry about that.”
“I told Ella—and I’ll tell you too, Toni—I really don’t like all this”—she waves her hands in the air, exactly like Ella does—“constant, meaningless chatter. Sometimes I think you girls don’t even know what comes out of your mouths half the time. You just bee, bee, bee, bee, bee.” She makes high-pitched chipmunk noises. “In Ella’s case, she’s often talking about people she doesn’t even know. I said to her at dinner, I can’t imagine why you care about these things. Talk to your family, we are right here.”
I’m starting to get a picture of this dinner. “I’ll really try and text less,” I promise her.
“That would be nice,” she says archly.
I turn to go, then have an idea. Looking back, I say, “Ms. Schaeffer?”
She was just about to close the door. Now she stops, irritated. “Hm?”
“I just want to say, I think what Cassandra said was wrong.”
It’s a total gamble. I don’t know for a fact that Cassandra said anything. But from the look on Ms. Schaeffer’s face, I know I’m on to something.
She says defensively, “I don’t think she said anything untrue. We sent Ella to that clinic to learn ways to cope with stress other than eating. The night of my birthday, it was very clear she hadn’t, and I think it was frustrating for everyone.”
I imagine it: Ella surrounded by her family, scared of Cassandra. Once the phone was forbidden, food would have been her only distraction—her only defense. I can see her taking bite after bite after bite in that compulsive way she does when she’s nervous.
Then Ms. Schaeffer says, “At any rate, her cousin simply asked Ella to tell her about her experience at the clinic.”
Of course she did, I think.
“It was my sister who asked if the clinic had helped her understand the feelings behind her overeating. My brother-in-law suggested swimming as exercise. And her father and I said we were concerned for her. Now, I don’t think that was terribly mean of us. But I suppose Ella feels we ganged up on her.”
I have a memory of Chloe, Isabelle, and Zeena all crowding in on me that first day of school. I’ll bet that’s exactly what this dinner felt like to Ella. I had wondered how Cassandra could operate without allies. But she had her family. In one dinner, she took all the unhappiness and anxiety about Eamonn’s death and turned it right on Ella. She made the family her coven.
She looks at me pointedly. “It would really help her, Toni, if her friends supported her in getting healthier.”
“I will absolutely do that, Ms. Schaeffer. I promise.”
Ella doesn’t come to school the next day. She doesn’t answer any of my texts. That afternoon, I sit on my bed and dial Ella’s number. I am going to get through to her, I promise myself. No matter how many times I have to call.
The phone rings. No answer.
I call again.
No answer.
I call again.
No answer. I call again. Hear: “Hello?”
“Ella?”
“Oh. Hey.”
Her voice is way slowed down. She sounds like she’s half asleep. Or on some serious antianxiety meds.
“Did I wake you up?”
“Yeah. Sort of. I don’t know. Not really …” She trails off.
“How are you?” I ask.
“I’m okay.”
You really don’t sound like it, I think.
“Your mom told me about the birthday dinner.”
“Oh, that.”
“Sounds like they were pretty mean to you.”
“They were just … honest.” A sickly laugh. “They did an intervention. Only I was the one who got all the truth thrown at her. Kind of trippy, huh?”
“Doesn’t seem like it’s helping you.”
There’s a pause. Then she says quietly, “Oh, it is. In a way.”
“What are you doing now?”
“Uh, sleeping. I’m really tired.”
I’m about to say, Yes, because you’re seriously depressed and not eating, when Ella says, “Actually, I don’t feel so much like talking.”
Desperate, I say, “Ella?”
“I think I’m going to get off the phone.…”
“Can I come see you?”
“Take care,” she whispers, and hangs up.
Snap out of it, Ella, I chant to myself in history the next day. Fight back. Break the spell. Cassandra is evil. Your family is nuts. Don’t let them do this to you.
But day after day goes by and Ella does not come back to school.
One afternoon, I run into Cassandra outside the library. She makes a show of looking at the empty space next to me and says, “Hey, where’s your bud? I hear she can’t seem to get out of bed these days.”
“How long does this last, Cassandra?”
She pretends to think about it. “Not sure. I left it kind of open-ended. I tried to take it easy, but Ella’s so weak minded, I may have zapped her harder than I realized.”
“Then maybe it’s time to stop.”
“Oh, I can’t. The spell’s been cast.”
“Ella didn’t mean to hurt you, you know that.”
Cassandra rolls her eyes. “Yeah, news flash. Ninety-eight percent of the world’s damage is caused by people who ‘didn’t mean to.’ ”
She walks away. Over her shoulder, she says, “You better get to work, sweetheart. You’re letting me run away with this thing.”
Between classes, I dial Ella’s home line. Her mom picks up with “Yes?”
“Hi, Ms. Schaeffer, I’m so sorry. I wanted to know if you want me to pick up Ella’s homework and bring it by. It’s totally no problem.”
A pause.
I add, “I mean, unless she’s coming back soon …”
Ms. Schaeffer says, “I don’t think you’ll see Ella at school for a little while. She seems to be …”
“What?”
“Not herself,” says Ms. Schaeffer. “But that would be good, if you could bring the work by. Thank you.”
Ella’s homeroom teacher is Ms. Megai. After school, I go to her classroom and get a folder full of homework. Not exactly a stress reducer for Ella, but it gives me an excuse to see her.
Then I go straight to Ella’s building.
Ms. Schaeffer meets me at the door, says “Oh, thank you, Toni,” and reaches for the folder.
But I hold it back. “Can I just see Ella for a little bit?”
She bites her lip. She doesn’t look bored by Ella’s situation anymore, she looks exhausted and worried. “I really don’t know if it’s a good idea, honey. She seems to get upset about the idea of visitors.”
“I want to help.”
“She’s in a very fragile place right now, Toni. She’s just sort of … shut down.”
“I know. That’s why I think she needs her friends,” I plead. “She needs to know people care about her. Please? That’s all I want to tell her.”
She thinks. “Okay. But keep it calm, okay? Don’t be surprised if she doesn’t say much. She’s not very chatty these days.”
Depressed people usually aren’t, I want to say.
When I crack the door, I see Ella lying in her bed, covered to the neck with blankets. The face that turns to me is pale and sweaty. The bouncy bubble hair is dark and damp on her skull. The eyes are huge, with no happiness in them. No nothing, actually. They’re blank. The life seems like it’s seeping out of her.
I step in, close the door. “Hey there, gorgeous girl.”
She just stares at me.
“Can I sit down?” I want to give Ella any power I can, so she gets to choose. She looks at the chair near the bed to say yes.
There are three bedrooms in Ella’s apartment; she has the smallest, because the second one is her parents’ study. It feels even smaller because it’s crammed with stuff. Ella doesn’t throw anything away. Among her books, I see Frog and Toad and Judy Blume alongside her Twilight books. Every stuffed animal she’s ever owned has been kept. Plushy elephants and saggy rabbits crowd her armchair. In the corner, there’s a big flat-screen. It’s dark.
I take her hand. It’s cold. “What’s up with you, baby? I miss you.”
I wait for her to answer. Instead, she looks out the window.
“Ella?”
She still won’t look at me.
“Sweetie, I know you’re tired. You don’t have to talk. Just … look at me, okay?”
Ella turns her head. But only to stare at the ceiling.
I decide to try another tactic. Making a stern face, I growl, “I’m serious here. I need Ella, and I want her back right now, missy.”
Funny-bossy would have worked with Ella before. Not now. I don’t have a clue as to how to get through to her. It’s like there’s a thick glass wall between us. I’m pounding on it, yelling. But Ella can’t hear me.
I say, “Hey, want me to do a Shake Shack run? It’s raspberry mix-in week.”
Suddenly, Ella turns her head, fixes her eyes on me. At last, I have her attention.
She whispers, “She said you’d say that. That you’d try to get me to ‘fall back into old patterns.’ ”
“Who?” I ask, although I know.
“Cassandra. That night at dinner, she said that you liked that I was fat, that it made you feel superior because you have this gorgeous body. Even my mom said you wouldn’t help me change.”
“Maybe I don’t want you to change,” I say. “Maybe I liked you the way you were.”
Ella shakes her head, her hair sliding from side to side on the pillow.
“Come on, sweetie. This is Cassandra getting back at you for what you said. Don’t let her freak you out.”
She whispers, “It isn’t just her. It’s what they all think. They’re all so”—the word comes out in a long, shuddering sigh—“disappointed. Especially my mom and dad.”
“Oh, Ella,” I say. “What your mom is, is worried.”
“That’s just another word for disappointed. That whole time”—Ella’s eyes are still on the ceiling, but she’s struggling to speak—“that they were yelling at me about the phone and the way I eat, I thought, Oh, you thought Cassandra needed the help, but they don’t see it that way. To them, you’re the crazy one. You’re the one who needs to change.”
She glances at me. “I looked at Cassandra when it was going on. She knew. She was smiling. All the times our moms compared us—she was like, Yeah, you see now, I won. You are officially the family mess.”
She looks back at the ceiling. “After that, all the energy just went right out of me. I sat there thinking, Don’t eat another bite or they’ll freak. And you better not say anything, ’cause … everything you say is stupid. And that’s when it kind of came to me.”
“What did?”
“Don’t talk. Don’t eat. Just keep your mouth shut. Then they can’t …”
She trails off. “Then they can’t what, Ella?”
“Get me.”
I squeeze her hand hard, wanting to say, But she has gotten you, Ella.
Her eyelids flutter. “Maybe, if I do what they want, they won’t be so mad at me.”
My eyes sting with tears. “But you can’t stay like this forever.”
Ella shakes her head slightly. “Nothing else to do.”
“Please, don’t go away.” I squeeze her hand again. “Please?”
Her eyes widen slightly; I know she’s listening, even if she doesn’t want to.
But then she looks hard at the gray sky beyond her window and her expression becomes empty. The glass wall is back and there is only silence.
As I walk home, I think and think about how to help Ella. If I go to her parents, what would I say? I could tell them about Cassandra. But I can imagine them saying, Spells? What do you mean? How could Cassandra be hurting our daughter?
What is a spell? I wonder. And how do you break it? I remember the feeling that I was pounding on glass, trying to make Ella hear me. So, how do you break that damn glass?
All of a sudden, I remember that picture Cassandra sent me. Taking out my phone, I look at it. Snow White in her glass coffin. Not dead—but unreachable.
At first, I took it as a declaration of war. Now I’m wondering. Maybe it’s a clue.
When I get back, I tell my parents I’m not hungry and go straight to my room. In a box under my bed are all my old tapes and DVDs. Kneeling on the floor, I pull the box out and cough from all the dust. I grab Snow White, examine the cover. There she is, surrounded by weeping dwarves, with the prince arriving on horseback.
The witch puts her to sleep, I think. Coma, really. A state of nonbeing where no one can reach her. And there’s always something these princesses do to themselves that causes it: Snow White eats the apple. Sleeping Beauty pricks herself with a spindle. The hate that Cassandra has for her, her parents’ disappointment—Ella’s taken it all in. She’s eaten the apple, swallowed the poison, made it part of herself.
So, the witch can’t do it completely on her own. But once it’s done, it’s done. The princess can’t save herself.
Which kind of sucks. What the hell, Brothers Grimm?
Someone has to save the princess. Usually that someone is a prince. But Ella has no prince that I know of. Unless you count Liam Hemsworth, who she has a huge crush on. But I doubt he’s going to be willing to come to New York and lay one on a teenage girl to bring her back to life.
Also—if Oliver taught me anything, it’s don’t wait for the cute guy on horseback.
But maybe it doesn’t have to be a prince. Or maybe … I can be the prince. So how does the prince bring the princess back to life?
He kisses her, of course. But I don’t think me kissing Ella is going to do much.
Why a kiss? What does the kiss tell you?
I guess that someone loves you. That you’re not alone. So where do I find this magic kiss?
I look at the postcards on my wall. I stare at my idols, Bette Davis and Dorothy Parker, wondering what they’d do. All I can think is, They wore such intense, dark lipstick in those days.
And then I have an idea.
The very next day, I cut lunch and go to a stationery store. I buy ten pieces of colored oak tag and some markers. Then I stop at a drugstore and buy five cheap lipsticks.
When I come back, I’m storing the stuff in my locker when Abby Cronin comes up to me. “Hey, how’s Ella?”
Is Abby deigning to speak to me? She must see the surprise on my face, because she says, “Ella and I have English together. Is it true she had some kind of breakdown?”
What would you call what Cassandra has done to Ella? I guess “nervous breakdown” works. “Yeah, she’s not well. Feeling really, really down on herself right now.”
“That’s not right,” says Abby sadly.
I’ve never seen Abby actually concerned about someone. Usually she’s just … angry.
Saying “I agree,” I pull out one of the poster boards and hold up a lipstick. “Want to help me help her?”
I explain to Abby what I want her to do and why. At first she says, “That’s a little weird. Can I just write something?”
“Nope,” I say, and hand her the lipstick. “Everybody gives Ella a kiss, that’s the rule. I want this girl to feel seriously loved.”
Abby laughs. “Okay.”
She smears the lipstick on her mouth and gives the poster board a big mwah.
Then she writes: “Dear Ella, you’re a good soul. Please get well soon.”
Handing it back, she says, “Oh, wait a minute.” She takes it back, scribbles her number. “Tell her to call me sometime.”
“I will,” I say, thinking, One down, hundreds to go. Many of whom are not so crazy about me. Still, I have to try. My individual energy isn’t strong enough to save Ella. I need a coven.
In the library, I slide the card to Nina Watts, who says, “What’s this?” She sees Abby’s note. “Oh, Fudgie the Whale.”
She smiles, expecting me to get the joke. Because, hey, she doesn’t hate Ella, she’s just having a laugh.
When I don’t respond, she says, “Come on, she’d say it herself.”
“That kind of joke is part of what’s making her sick.” I hold up the lipstick. “You’re a cool person, Nina. Help me out.”
Nina considers, then reaches for the lipstick. “Free makeup? Who am I to say no?”
She writes: “Yo, El. Get your butt back here. I miss your goofy ass.”
Just then I feel a tap on the shoulder. I turn, see Amber Davies. Amber’s this elfin little creature with a dark-brown bob and killer dimples. She runs with the art crowd. She says, “Is that a get-well card for Ella?”
“Yeah.” I show her. “Kind of a kiss-and-tell.”
“Can I sign it?” I hand her the card, pen, and lipstick. As she writes, Amber says, “She was super sweet to me when I got suspended.”
That’s right, I think. Everyone died laughing when Amber got caught coming to school stoned on her parents’ supply. But Ella stuck up for her.
Amber says, “I was feeling totally horrible, but she was like, Aw, man, you get to catch up on the soaps. Which I don’t even watch, but making a joke made it all seem less dire, you know?”
She writes, “For Ella, a way fabulous chick. Miss you!” Then she draws a little image of Ella with her bubble curls and her Scream bag. Giving the board a big kiss, she says, “I really hope she feels better.”
Amber gives me an idea for my next target: Paul Jarrett, who dealt with a lot of comments after kissing David Horvath. I don’t know Paul that well, and I don’t know if he knows Ella said nice things about him when that happened. But it’s worth a shot.
I track him down in the gym, shooting hoops after school. As the ball clangs against the backboard, I hold up the card and call out, “Hi. I’m doing a get-well card for Ella Schaeffer?”
He holds the ball close, says carefully, “Okay.”
“Yeah. She’s struggling right now, and she’s the kind of person who always says nice things about people?” I get no recognition from Paul’s expression. “So I’m thinking we could support her in return.”
Paul says quickly, “Yeah—cool.”
He hesitates over the lipstick, but does it quickly, then goes back to his jump shot.
I read what he’s written: “Ella—don’t let ’em get you down.”
The school day is over. I’ve gotten everyone I’m going to get today. I head back down to my locker to get my stuff. On the stairs, I hear, “Hey, can I sign?”
I turn, see Cassandra. She’s standing a few steps above me. I call up, “This is for people who wish Ella well.”
“Oh.” Cassandra looks sad. “Yeah, not really me, then.”
She walks down the steps until she reaches me. “Small piece of advice?”
“Very small.”
“The kids here are weak. Easily distracted. Not great material for a coven.”
“You might be surprised,” I tell her.
In the story of Sleeping Beauty, the prince has to fight his way through the forest of thorns to save the princess. If he can do that, I tell myself, I can survive the cafeteria at lunchtime.
It’s been a while since I’ve been here on my own. Slam the Slut is no longer everyone’s favorite game, but you never know what could happen. Holding the poster in front of me like a shield, I search out friendly faces. I see Wallace, who’s a fellow reality-TV junkie, and Reina Goldfarb, who’s Ella’s homeroom bestie. Both of them sign the card. But there’s still a whole lot of space left.
But as Reina puts the cap back on the lipstick, Lizbeth Dawson turns from the table where she’s sitting with her rugby buds. “Hey, what’s this?”
“Um, for Ella?” I tell her. “She’s kind of …”
“Having a breakdown,” offers Reina cheerfully. “So we’re sending love.”
Lizbeth says, “Oh, man, I’m sorry. She’s a sweetie. Here”—she holds her hand out for the card—“we’ll sign.”
After the entire rugby team has signed, Lizbeth stands up on the bench and shouts, “Kisses for Ella, y’all. One of our own needs help, let’s do it!”
Suddenly, everybody wants to sign Ella’s card. People egg each other on to do big smacks and nice messages. When the card is held up for the next person, people wave their hands, frantic to be chosen. Some of the guys balk at the lipstick, but it quickly becomes uncool to refuse. All over the room, you hear laughter as kids tell stories about Ella. Some of them are a little teasing, but they’re all affectionate.
Finally, the card makes its way back to Lizbeth, who gives it back to me. Holding up the card, I call out, “Thanks so much, everybody! I’m going to take these to Ella and—”
Just then Zeena, Isabelle, and Jackson Kinroth enter the cafeteria. The room starts to buzz—no words you can hear, but you sure feel it. Chloe’s friends are here. She’s here.
At the sight of me, Zeena narrows her eyes. Isabelle looks panicked. Jackson grins, his hand going to the edge of his shirt. But he stops; Zeena might not appreciate him leering at me in front of her. He looks around. What’s the joke? What’s the gag? What do we have for her today?
His eyes fall on Wallace Laird, who’s trying to fade into the Formica. Jackson grins, calls out, “Hey, Laird. Why don’t you sit over here? Even you could score with this chick.”
Wallace is confident when he’s with normal people who know he’s gay and are cool with it, but like most of us, he’s not as tough when someone treats him like garbage. He has no defenses against a pure idiot like Jackson. He flushes bright red, tries to pretend he didn’t hear.
I scramble for something sharp and witty to say, something that will take the power away from Jackson and Zeena. Then Isabelle coughs.
In a very small voice, but loud enough to be heard, she says to Jackson, “You’re seriously … gross.”
Then she wobbles over and stands next to me. She looks like she’s going to burst into tears out of nerves—but she’s here.
I say, “Jackson, Wallace over you any day of the week and twice on Sundays.” And Wallace says, “Thanks, but if I have a choice, I’m going for Jeremy Renner.” I pretend to be furious and throw a napkin in his direction.
There’s a ripple of laughter. It grows. And in the laughter, a warmth, a happiness, even. I think of that old song, War is over if you want it. I do want it. There may never be a day when I don’t think of Chloe, what she did to me and what I did to her. But I want no more war.
“Hi,” I say to Isabelle.
“Hi,” she says back.
I hold up the card. “Want to sign?”
In my history class, I get Malaya Chen and Bill “Pigman” Pullman. The next morning, I get everyone in my homeroom—and in Ella’s. Her homeroom teacher, Ms. Megai, raises an eyebrow at the lipstick. “Everyone using one lipstick? A bit unsanitary, isn’t it?”
But she signs, saying, “I hope Ella comes back soon. Tell her it’s not the same without her.”
The people who work in the lunchroom all sign. Her whole Spanish class writes, “Te queremos, Ella! Enviamos besos!”
By the end of the day, I have 153 besos.
One hundred fifty-three kisses to bring Ella back to life.