Chapter Sixteen

 

I see nothing that entire night. No huddled shape crying. No drops of blood on blue bathroom tile. Nothing.

When light finally returns, Vera’s in the kitchen, emptying a box of chocolate krispies into a cereal bowl. The morning sun slants its dull autumn rays through the window over the sink.

Vera’s dad walks in, his construction hat tucked under his arm. “I’ll be late again tonight. Don’t wait up.” He grabs a protein shake from the fridge.

“We’re out of cereal.” Vera’s head droops over her bowl. Her spoon pushes the chocolate krispies through a sea of milk.

Her dad pulls his wallet from his back pocket and removes a twenty. He tosses the bill on the kitchen table before walking out.

Almost immediately the wind howls, and I’m back in the dark before I can even see the shadows approaching.

 

The time I spend in the dark seems to stretch like a rubber band. Sometimes the moments go by quickly, and I’m in the light again before I know it. Other times I wonder if the darkness will ever end.

When I’m aware of the seconds passing, as I am now, I wonder what is happening to Vera. Is she cutting herself again? Will this time be the last? Which cut will be the one that severs the artery and lets all the life spill out of her?

With so much time to think, I doubt my ability to help her at all. How can I save her when I couldn’t save myself? What if my wings never grow in—does that mean I can’t save her? I must help Vera see that she has something to contribute to this world, and so far the only positive thing I’ve found is the comment from Ms. Kitchin.

 

First period is P.E. I sneak out of the gym during free throw drills to tack the neon-green literary magazine flyer back onto Vera’s locker. She doesn’t see it until after Introduction to Art (period 2) when she yanks it off with a sigh and stabs it onto the locker next to hers.

During period 3 English, I slip out during a short story reading and move the neon green flyer back to Vera’s locker. I am nothing if not determined. Besides, Warren has ditched English class for the second day in a row. If I’m not getting any new training, I might as well use flyer moving as practice.

After Ms. Kitchin’s class, Vera heads to her locker again. She fumes with anger when she sees the flyer again. The boy with the locker next to hers throws down his books and twists his lock.

“Are you the one doing this?” Vera shoves the paper in the boy’s face.

He’s a short, dorky kid with glasses, and I’ve never heard him say a word to anyone.

“What?” He looks as surprised that Vera’s speaking to him as I’m surprised by the ferocity of her anger. Her expression is usually either gloomy or passive. I’ve never seen this much emotion from her.

“This!” She waves the flyer. “It keeps ending up on my locker.”

The boy shrugs. “It’s not me.” He shuffles books around.

Vera frowns, crumbles the paper, and grabs her geometry book. The flyer gets tossed in a garbage can on the way to Mr. Gallagher’s class.

Poor Vera has no idea how stubborn I can be. During the geometry test, I roam the halls to find another neon green flyer. I have to be careful to pick one in a vacant hallway where no one will see me moving it. I almost giggle at the idea of someone seeing the neon flyer floating through the hallway like it’s moving of its own accord.

The urge to giggle stops when I notice my own picture hanging in a display case. I float closer. I had forgotten our school had this case. Inside is an “In Memoriam” section dedicated to kids who passed away while students here. I never paid much attention to it while I was in high school. It seemed a little creepy to see the photos of kids who died. But now there’s one of me added to the group. They used my senior class picture, of course. Not a bad photo of me. I put my angel hand against the glass. I could push right through the glass to touch my picture, but I don’t. I just stand and marvel at how pretty my hair had looked that day.

Afraid the tears will come again, I start to turn away but stop when I notice another picture. Tammy Ringles. The older sister of Cathy Ringles, the dance team girl I’d seen holding center court in the cafeteria. The newspaper article about Tammy’s tragic car accident is pinned next to her photo. Like me, she’d been a senior when she died. Funny how two younger sisters could react so differently to having an older sister die. Tammy’s sister Cathy throws her nose up in the air and becomes the center of attention. Cecille puts her head down and ends up chased by shadows.

Back at Vera’s locker, I decide not to tape it on the front. Instead, I fold the paper and shove it through the vents in the locker. The folding takes a lot of concentrating. Several times I stop and think about something good from my life. I remember how Ally and I once laughed so hard during a romantic movie we were asked to leave the theater. We couldn’t help it if the lead actor reminded us of our science teacher and we got the giggles thinking of him making the moves on the lead actress, who looked like our favorite waitress from the local diner.

By the time I get the flyer folded small enough to fit into the vent, I cry about Ally’s death all over again. How could God have taken her from me? Even death hadn’t brought me Ally again. I’m sure Ally must be in heaven. She probably went straight to sainthood after the car accident. No angelhood business for her.

I’m ready to give up on Vera, but the thought of making it to sainthood and seeing Ally again—and knowing that when I do, she’ll make me laugh—gives me the strength to push the flyer through the locker vent.

When Vera stops at her locker before lunch, the neon flyer falls to the speckled linoleum floor. Vera looks around the hallway like she expects someone to be watching her to see how she’ll react. Of course, none of the other kids are looking because none of them are involved. Poor Vera has no idea she’s being haunted by her own Guardian.

A few shouts down the hallway make me turn my head. A young boy shoves another kid. Before the second boy can shove him back, Ms. Kitchin steps out of her classroom. Vera looks at Ms. Kitchin, then at the flyer in her hand. Quickly, she takes what she needs out of her locker, slams it, and walks toward Ms. Kitchin.

Having swiftly ended the scuffle, Ms. Kitchin shoos away the onlookers. Vera walks right through the small crowd.

“Ms. Kitchin, did you put this in my locker?”

The English teacher reaches for the flyer and unfolds it. “Oh, the literary magazine. No, I didn’t put this in your locker, but it’s a good idea for you.”

“Someone keeps putting a copy of it on my locker.”

Ms. Kitchin smiles. “It sounds like someone else has discovered your talent.”

Vera shakes her head. “No one’s read my poems but you.”

“You must have shown them to someone else. Friends? Family?”

Vera shakes her head again.

“That’s too bad. I think some of your classmates could relate to your poem ‘Colors’.” Ms. Kitchin refolds the flyer and hands it back to Vera. “You really should submit it.”

“I don’t think that’d be such a great idea,” Vera says.

“Well, I suppose you could be like Emily Dickinson. Write a ton of poems, tie them up in bundles, and let others discover them when you’re dead.”

Vera’s eyes widen. I fear Ms. Kitchin is giving her ideas.

“But what fun would that be, Vera? We write to share our thoughts with the world, to know that we’ve touched another heart. Don’t miss this opportunity to share your words with others.”

The bell rings and Ms. Kitchin returns to her classroom.

Clutching the flyer, Vera heads off to lunch.

“She’s right, Vera.” I glide alongside her and talk out loud even though she can’t hear me. “It’s the same reason I enjoyed acting in plays. I always got audience feedback. From their laughter, I knew if I was being funny. If I was doing a serious scene and the theater was dead silent, I knew I had their hearts in a dramatic lurch. And when they applauded at the end, I knew I’d made some difference in their lives, even if it was just a small one. If I’d acted in an empty theater, it wouldn’t have been the same. Not submitting your writing is like trying to act in an empty room. What’s the point?”

Oh God, I wish she could hear me.

At lunch, Vera looks back and forth between the flyer and her poem. After eating her ham and cheese sandwich and refolding her aluminum foil into a perfect square, she takes out a pencil and begins to revise the poem. I peek over her shoulder. The poem reads:

 

One morning when I woke up,

I felt something was lacking.

The color yellow had left.

It simply had gone missing.

 

It wasn’t in the sun

When it rose above shore.

It wasn’t in the daffodils

Right outside my door.

 

By lunchtime, green was also gone.

Who knows where it had fled?

The trees around me all went brown.

The grass looked simply dead.

 

Purple faded in the afternoon.

The lilacs all looked dull.

At dinner, the color red was next

To take its curtain call.

 

By sunset, pink and orange

Had said their last adieu.

It used to be so pretty.

Now the sky is barely blue.

 

When morning came,

I hoped for change.

But blue was last to go

And only gray remained.

 

I’m tired of feeling numb.

I want to see the light.

I’m sick of looking at a world

That’s only black and white.

Where did all the colors go?

 

I don’t bother putting any more flyers on Vera’s locker. If she doesn’t take the hint now, there’s nothing else I can do. The deadline for submissions is tonight.

 

At home, I stay with Vera instead of falling into the darkness. She heads to the computer in the den and goes to the school’s website. Quickly, she types her revised poem into an email addressed to the magazine. Then she hesitates, her cursor hovering over the send button.

“C’mon, Vera.” I bend down, hovering over her right shoulder. “You can do this. Ms. Kitchin would want you to do this.”

Vera pulls her hand off the mouse and bites her right forefinger knuckle.

“Don’t be nervous, Vera. Just hit the button. What’s the worst they can do? Reject you? So what? Everyone gets rejected. If they don’t like the poem, find someone else who does, or write another poem.”

I straighten up. What am I saying? Everyone gets rejected? It’s true, but why hadn’t I thought of that before? When DePaul’s Theater School had rejected me, why hadn’t I thought of other ways to get into acting? I mean, I did ...kind of. But the truth was that I lost faith. I didn’t think I could do it any other way. I assumed if one theater school thought I wasn’t good enough, that everyone else would feel the same. I hadn’t even given myself a chance.

“C’mon, Vera. Be braver than I was.” The original poem with Ms. Kitchin’s comments and Vera’s revisions scribbled in pencil sits on the edge of the desk. I blow in the direction of the paper. The page bends slightly, enough to catch Vera’s eye. She picks up the page. Her eyes scan Ms. Kitchin’s words. She curls her lower lip up under her teeth and hits the send button.

“Nice job, Vera. Now we just sit and wait.”

And pray.