THAT AFTERNOON, I BRING FIVE posters to Ella’s house. First I show them to her mom when she opens the door. Reading what people wrote, she starts to tear up, then attacks her eyes with fists, wiping the tears away.
“Ella’s got a lot of fans,” I say.
Her mom inhales, like she’s trying to breathe in all the goodwill. Then she waves a hand down the hall. “Go, take them to her.”
Ella looks surprised as I come in; surprise is good, I think. Surprise is interest. I’ll take it.
“Hey,” I tell her. “I brought something for you.”
I set the posters up on her desk, so she can see how many signatures I got. “From everyone at school.”
“Get-well cards,” she says flatly.
“No,” I say. “Not exactly. These are kisses, Ella. One from Pigman Pullman, even. You can’t call that your everyday get-well card. I mean, maybe gross. Maybe cootie-ridden …”
I bring the first card to her bed. “At least read the messages,” I tell her.
She sighs. “ ‘Dear Ella, get well soon. Love so-and-so.’ ”
“But look at the so-and-so’s.” I point to Paul Jarrett’s message, then to Amber’s. Ella smiles a little when she sees Amber’s note.
I point to Abby’s message. “From Abby, who would like you to call her.”
Ella reads the good-soul message. Frowns thoughtfully.
“And here’s from your homeroom teacher.” I point to the lip print.
Ella’s eyes widen. She whispers, “You got her to wear lipstick?”
“I did,” I say, thrilled with her reaction. “She worried about germs and said the color was a ‘tad bold’ for her, but for you, she’d risk it.”
I get the rest of the cards and spread them on her bed like a blanket. Ella gazes at the messages, lightly touches the kiss marks. “Come back soon, honey! I miss your beautiful smile,” from Linda in the lunchroom. “Te amo, Ella!” from Carl Whittaker in her Spanish class. And “I’ve been there, it hurts. Let’s do yogurt!” from Isabelle.
Lizbeth wrote, “Stay strong. Ever thought of playing rugby?”
Ella croaks, “Yeah, right.” But she’s smiling.
She keeps reading, and as she does, she comments more and more. “Oh, sweet,” and “God, I didn’t know he knew I existed,” and “I thought she hated me.” The more she talks, the more the cobwebs in her voice clear.
“You know,” I say, “I didn’t run across a single person who doesn’t like you.”
Ella glances toward the door. Then she pushes the cards away. “You didn’t look in the right place, then.”
She’s talking about her family. At first I don’t know what to say. Ella’s parents love her, but they are too harsh on her.
I say, “Ella, your family might not like the way you eat or the so-called silly things you talk about—”
She looks at me, curious.
“But I don’t care how you eat and I do like the things you talk about. And so do a lot of other people.”
“I talk too much about other people,” she says sadly.
“Maybe. But maybe that’s because you never felt like you were interesting enough to talk about.”
She smiles a little. “Well, let’s be real—I’m not.”
“And here’s another thing,” I tell her. “Why did Amber and Paul sign those cards? Because when you talked about them, you stuck up for them. You always stick up for people who are getting slammed. Like when you defended me to Ramona Digby.”
She shakes her head. “I should’ve done more for you. I feel so bad about that.”
“You stayed my friend,” I say. “You cared what happened to me. You tried to stop me from getting stomped by Chloe—remember, you offered to walk me home?”
She nods.
“So don’t say you didn’t do anything.”
She pulls one of the cards closer. Then says, “I shouldn’t have said what I did about Cassandra and Eamonn.”
“I disagree.” Startled, she looks up. “Your whole family was tied up in knots. Everyone was wondering, nobody was saying anything because”—I swallow—“because it’s really horrible to think about and who could handle any more pain? But it needed to be said, Ella.”
“I didn’t say it because I was so noble,” she says. “At the time, I thought, ‘Look how great I am, revealing the big ugly truth.’ But really, I just wanted my family to hate Cassandra instead of me.”
I think about this. “It can be both, can’t it? I still think it was a good thing, even if it came from a stinky place.”
Ella’s mouth jerks in an almost smile at the word “stinky.” Then she catches sight of herself in the mirror over her bureau. She says, “ ‘Mirror, mirror on the wall—who’s the grossest one of all?’ ”
“Yeah—time to break that mirror. That one belongs to your family. What does yours show?”
“Oh, that’s a really ugly sight.”
“Then let’s change it.”
Ella pushes the cards around with the tip of her finger. “How?”
“Why don’t you try to be as nice to yourself as you are to other people?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not that nice.”
I point to the cards. “I think all those guys would seriously disagree.”
Ella touches Amber’s and Abby’s notes.
“But there is one thing you have to do for yourself,” I tell her.
“Like what?”
“Like get out of that bed.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Whoa. Seriously?”
“So seriously.”
Ella pretends to consider it. Then carefully she sets the posters aside. Pushes back the covers. Her creased nightgown is tangled around her knees. Her legs and feet are pale and stubbly on the wrinkled sheets.
“It feels so hard,” she whispers. “I know that’s pathetic, but it feels really, really hard.”
“I’m here for you, Ella,” I tell her. “So are a lot of people.”
She puts her hands flat on the mattress, pushes herself up. “Oog …”
“Stiff, huh?”
“Just a little.” She swings one leg so the foot dangles over the edge. She peers down at the floor. “Remember that game where you’d pretend a part of the floor was the ocean and it was full of sharks? If you touched it, they’d chomp off your toes?”
“Mine was lava pits, but I get you.”
Ella touches her toes to the floor, pulls her foot back up onto the mattress. “I am actually kind of scared,” she says.
“I know.”
She looks at me. Then down at the ground. Lurching sideways, she rolls off the bed, landing not on her feet, but on her ass.
I freeze, terrified Ella will take this as a sign.
But instead she cracks up laughing.
Clapping a hand to her forehead, she gasps, “Oh, my God! Oh my God. I am such a crazy person.”
Laughing, I plop down beside her and I hug her hard. “Ella, you’re the freaking best.”
She looks around. “Did I break my leg?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh? Oh, well then. Here goes.” She puts a hand on the side of her bed, lifts herself up. When she’s upright, she plants her hand on her hip and says, “Here she is, boys! Here she is, world! Here’s …”
“Ella!” we scream.
An hour later, I pass by the living room, where Ella’s mom is on the phone. I hear, “Well, the therapist said—”
Someone interrupts, and she interrupts them back, saying, “I know, Martin, she—”
Then she sees me, widens her eyes, makes a gesture that she wants to talk to me. But I can see she and Mr. Schaeffer are having an argument. So I mouth, “I’ll be back,” and she goes back to talking to Ella’s dad.
Walking home, I think of Ella’s parents. I wish they had clued in to Ella’s feelings before all this happened. But then, I wish I had too.
I think of what’s waiting at my house. My mom is going out with friends—again. This is the fourth friends night in two weeks. For my mother who used to say her idea of heaven was eating while she read a book and didn’t have to talk to anyone. In fact, that was one of the things that brought my parents together. My dad saw my mom reading a book in a noisy bar all by herself and thought, Yeah, that’s my kind of lady.
But this hypersocialness doesn’t feel good. I wonder if my mom is showing my dad she can leave the family too. Or is she … like, actually planning to leave? So many bummer questions, so few answers.
When I get home, my dad will be there. I can suggest we order Thai food—“Pad Thai! Larb, extra spicy”—to put happiness in this house where there is none. But I feel tired at the thought of it.
Really, it’s simple. My mom is not in the house because Katherine still is. You can feel her everywhere, in the silences, the things we don’t do, the boring conversations that fall apart like stale crackers. You feel her in my mom’s anger, my dad’s guilt. My mom can’t stop being angry. She’s trying, I know, but it’s not working. She can’t get back to us.
And slowly, my dad is getting tired of feeling guilty. He’s getting tired of trying. My mom’s anger is like a death grip on his throat, choking the life out of him. After a while, he’ll stop fighting.
And then what happens? When everyone decides it’s just not worth it?
I’m not sure. But I’m starting to realize there’s no magic spell I can work.
Of course, it’s not just the kisses that bring Ella back to life. She has to form her own coven, with Shelley, her therapist, with her parents, who go with her to therapy sometimes, and with her friends. I visit Ella every day. Sometimes Reina comes. Once Amber came with me, another time Abby. Amber is hilariously dippy in the same way Ella is; at times, I worry I could be replaced as bestie-in-chief. But now is not the time for jealousy. Different friends can do different things for you.
I also worry about Abby because she’s so bossy. But she is fiercely loyal, and Ella can use that kind of support. Every time she puts herself down, Abby is right there with a comeback.
In the elevator as we leave Ella’s apartment, Abby is quiet. Then she says thoughtfully, “I was a judgmental dingus to you at the beginning of the year.”
I laugh. Hyperarticulate Abby using the word “dingus.” Also, hyper-righteous Abby apologizing.
I say, “Mistakes were made by all.”
“Yeah,” she agrees as we walk out onto the street. “But not by me. I’m perfect.”
Her face is totally deadpan. And when I laugh, she does too.
I walk Abby home, then head for my place. It’s dark early now. Remembering the week, the cards, everyone who visited, I can’t help but think, All this is great. But it’s not enough.
For the spell to be broken, truly broken, the witch has to die.
Two days later, Ella calls me. “So, next week?”
“Yeah?”
“I might be coming back to school. The therapist says she thinks I’m ready.”
“Welcome back, beauty.”
The following Monday morning when I meet Ella on the corner, I hand her a small box. “Ooh,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “Presents. Can I open it now?”
“Sure.”
Her fingers work the ribbon and tissue paper. Inside is a small box. Inside the box is Gloriana the butterfly.
“Oh, my God,” she breathes. “One of your little creatures. She’s so beautiful, I love this one.” She takes Gloriana out of the box, holds her up to the light. “You sure you want to give her up? You have a whole set.”
Had, I think, remembering destroyed Phoebe. “They don’t need to huddle all together anymore,” I say lightly. “I think they’re ready to move on.” I touch Gloriana’s wing. “She belongs with you because she’s gorgeous and lighthearted and she makes people happy. Look at her when you forget about yourself.”
Ella hugs me. “Thank you. I will take such good care of her.”
We start to walk. Ella tells me about her recent shrink session with her parents. “My mom keeps saying how terrible she feels. It takes like, half the session. Meanwhile my dad’s like, ‘I’m happy you’re better.’ ” She drops her voice low to imitate her dad. “ ‘Now let’s think nutritionist.’ Then Shelley asked me what I thought about that. I said, ‘Well, I agree about the nutritionist. But I kind of wish food wasn’t the first thing my dad thinks of when he thinks of me.’ I was totally terrified my dad would lose it. But Shelley said, ‘Did you hear that, Martin?’ Which is shrinkese for ‘Score!’ ”
I grin. “Fab-o-rama.”
She nods happily, then goes quiet for a little while. Just before we get to school, she says suddenly, “I went to see Cassandra this weekend.”
Amazed, I say, “Why?”
“Because I wanted to apologize for starting this whole Eamonn thing. Maybe in a way, it was good to clear the air? But I did it to get back at her too, and that really rots.”
“Yeah, but they need to be in therapy, Ella.”
“Well, that’s the thing. They still haven’t gone. Her parents keep making dates and Cassandra refuses to show up. So I wanted to tell her family therapy’s not that bad.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“Her parents were out at a movie with my parents, so I knew she’d be alone. First thing she said was ‘Oh, back from the dead.’ Which was a little weird, but whatever. I said, ‘Look, I’m here because I owe you an apology.’ ”
“What’d she say?”
“Oh, she rolled her eyes, like Give me a break. And I said, No, really. I screwed up and I want you to know that I know that. Then I told her how I thought our parents had always compared us and made us compete and how we should really be friends. Because who else understands how crazy our family can be?”
“And?”
“She says to me, ‘You don’t even have the first clue what you’re apologizing for.’ I said, ‘Well, as a matter of fact, I do know. I am sorry for talking about Eamonn and I am sorry that I said in any way that you hurt him or let him die or whatever. That was sucky and wrong and I really, really apologize.”
The light turns red. Ella and I are stuck at the corner. I press, “So what did Cassandra say?”
“Well, this is where it really gets insane. She said, ‘Oh, that’s what you told people, huh? That I killed Eamonn?’ Her voice was all calm, no big deal. I said, Yes, unfortunately, I kind of did, and I understand if you hate my guts and never speak to me again.”
“Then?”
Ella takes a deep breath. “Then she said, ‘But I did kill Eamonn.’ ”
We’re almost at the school. Neither of us knows what to say.
Luckily, behind us, Reina Goldfarb shrieks, “Oh, my God, yay, Ella!”
That’s all it takes for Ella to be swarmed by kids. Everyone hugging, patting, exclaiming. It’s a flash mob of Ella love. Somehow we all stumble into the building. Ella and I get separated on the stairs as she’s practically carried off to her locker. She grins back at me. I wave, call, “See you at lunch!” She gives me a thumbs-up before she disappears through the second-floor doors.
I have a huge, dumb smile on my face. And for a while, I just stand there with that smile. Feeling good.
Then I think of Cassandra. Who told Ella she killed Eamonn.
Is that why she won’t go to therapy?
I imagine it. Cassandra on one side of the office, sunk deep in a chair, chin fixed on her fist, looking away as her parents try to reach her, the therapist tries to reach her.
They won’t reach her. She won’t let them.
But someone has to. Whether she did do what she said or she didn’t … someone has to help her.
I should really leave it alone.
Only …
Cassandra didn’t leave me alone. Maybe I would have been better off if she had. But even with all that’s gone down between us, I still remember that when I was on the bathroom floor, a mess of piss and tears and pain, Cassandra was the one who got me on my feet.
By now, I should get that there is no magic between me and Cassandra. That we can’t read each other’s minds. That if I want to talk to her, I have to pick up the phone.
And yet I do feel like we have a connection. And that’s a kind of magic.
Yo, Cassandra.
I wait.
Then hear Go away.
I feel it anyway. She’s in a bad, hurting place.
Come on, babe. Talk to me.
GO AWAY!
Where are you, Cassandra?
No answer.
Where would you be? I wonder.
And then I know.