IT ONLY TOOK UNTIL WEDNESDAY evening before Sarah and my mom ganged up on me.
It wasn’t clear who instigated the attack, which they both pretended was uncoordinated, but at six o’clock on the dot that evening, Sarah appeared at the front door, claiming we’d had plans for me to go over to her house for dinner. I told her this was very much not the case, only to have my mom, who’d started removing all the sharp knives from the utensil drawer the day before, emerge behind me and proceed to all but push me through the front door.
“Go have fun, sweetheart,” she said. “It’ll be good for you to get out of the house for a while—get some fresh air, hang out with your friend.”
Her face was so hopeful, like she really believed this was what I needed. This isn’t something fresh air and friendship can fix, I wanted to tell her. If it was, I’d go over to Sarah’s house every night. Eat mung beans and celery and let her mom tell me all about Pilates and the best colors for my complexion. But what I need right now is to be by myself.
That was too much to try to get out, though; too much like peeling my skin off in front of them both. Instead, I kept it simple. “No, it won’t,” I said. “Really, I just want to stay home. Please.”
Mom hesitated, and I thought could see a crack in her resolve—a tiny hairline crack that I could leverage until it broke open.
“Please,” I repeated.
She looked at me and took a step to the left, as if to allow me to retreat into the house.
Sarah shook her head. “Nope,” she said. “Nice try. We’re doing this. My mom even made a side dish that contains carbs especially in your honor. This is happening.”
I looked at my mom beseechingly, but the rupture in her resolve had disappeared. “Sarah’s right,” she said. “You should go.”
AFTER WE LEFT THE DRIVEWAY, Sarah nodded toward a paper bag on the floor of the car between us.
“There’s a burger and fries in there for you if you want it,” she said. “Well, there’s two of each, actually—one for each of us. If you don’t want yours, though, then I’m happy to eat all of it myself.”
I stared at the bag, confused by this twist. “I thought we were eating at your house?”
“We are, but I figured you might be pissed about being hijacked from your self-imposed exile, so this is my peace offering. Plus, you know what my mom’s food is like—I don’t know if I have the strength to deal with you if you’re both angry and hungry.”
“I’m not angry,” I said, slumping against the window, watching the houses pass. They all looked the same to me; only the paint was different.
“No? What are you, then?”
What was I? It felt like the million-dollar question. I settled by giving a ten-cent answer, directed at the window. “I’m tired and I’m confused. All I want is to be left alone.”
“You’ve been alone for the last three days. You’ve had three days of not talking to anyone—of ignoring me, freaking out your family. So we’ve officially tried that and it hasn’t worked. Anyway, nobody gets to be left alone forever.” She paused, and her tone softened. “Look, tell me what’s wrong. If you talk to me, then we can skip dinner and do anything you like—go to a movie, get milk shakes, go to the basketball game—”
I flinched involuntarily. “I don’t want to go to the basketball game.”
In the reflection of the window, I could see her glance at me.
“Is this about Nick?” she asked. “Did something happen?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I closed my eyes. “Let’s just have dinner.”
“Fine,” she said.
We drove in silence after that. I breathed in the smell of the hot, salty fries, trying to remember when I’d last eaten. Eating seemed like an activity that went with another version of me, one from a long time ago. I wanted to be that version of me again. I wanted to want to eat the burger and fries she’d brought me. Instead, I handed the bag to Sarah at the next stop sign.
I DON’T KNOW WHAT SARAH told her parents, but when we got to her house, her mom eyed me with pity, as if I were a doomed baby bird that had fallen out of its nest, and she took my jacket and placed it on the coatrack with such care that it could’ve been made from spiderwebs. Sarah’s dad, on the other hand, practically had to be physically restrained from hugging me.
“She’s not a hugger, Dad,” Sarah told him. I nodded and looked away. I didn’t know how to meet his gaze, didn’t know how to fuse this man with the one who’d stood across from Mr. Matthews, brokenhearted but resolute.
The dinner, as advertised, did include a small bowl of pasta salad in addition to the other, more fiber- and protein-intensive dishes.
“You look nice,” her mom said to me after we all sat down and began loading up our plates.
After three days of not eating and only one shower, this seemed doubtful, but I thanked her anyway. It was, I knew, a well-intentioned remark.
“Did you do something new with your hair?” she tried again. “It’s shorter, maybe?”
“I did get a haircut,” I told her. And I had. Three months earlier.
“That must be it,” she said. “Well, it looks lovely.” Then, to my relief, she turned to Sarah. “Which reminds me—you’re going to need a trim soon. You’re starting to get split ends.”
“I like split ends,” Sarah said without missing a beat. “Love them. Why do you think I haven’t been cutting my hair?”
Sarah’s mom sighed and poured herself some more water. A round of contemplative chewing commenced. I fiddled with the food on my plate, taking a few cursory bites before putting down my fork and focusing on the art on the wall in front of me. Someone in the family was clearly a huge fan of desolate farmscapes, preferably ones with sad-looking horses in the foreground.
Sarah’s mom caught me looking at them. “My uncle painted those,” she told me.
“They’re very nice,” I said politely.
“He used to have a ranch up north. He loved his horses very much.”
Perhaps sensing that my enthusiasm for conversing about horses was limited, Sarah’s dad intervened and addressed the table at large. “Speaking of horses, did you hear someone tried to burn down that old barn again? The one on the Kilmans’ property?”
I hadn’t heard, but it wasn’t surprising. The Kilmans had both moved to an assisted-living facility several years earlier, and ever since, their property, which their children appeared to have no interest in either living in or selling, had been an easy target.
“Tried?” Sarah asked, raising an eyebrow. “How is it possible they didn’t succeed? It’s pure wood and it hasn’t rained in ages. It should have gone up like kindling.”
“I guess their neighbors saw it and were able to get the fire department out before it got too far.”
“They should just tear it down,” Sarah decreed with a wave of her fork. “It’s falling apart anyway.”
“Maybe it’s sentimental for them,” her mom said. “I think Mrs. Kilman’s grandfather built it. Besides, they shouldn’t have to tear it down just because our town has too many men who like to play with fire.”
“Or women,” Sarah said. “It could have been a woman, you know.”
“In theory, but I bet it’s a man. It usually is. There’s something very male about fire. Fire and any kind of property damage, really. Woman don’t do that kind of thing.”
“That’s sexist,” Sarah said.
“It’s not sexist. I’m saying it’s a good thing.”
“Good things can be sexist, Mom,” Sarah informed her.
Her mom ignored her. “I mean, property damage is just so pointless. Burning things, smashing windows, breaking things, scrawling graffiti on walls—it’s always men doing it.”
“Not always,” Sarah said.
“That’s true,” Sarah’s dad chimed in. “Especially graffiti. Just back in the fall, a girl at your school did that.”
Sarah frowned. “I don’t remember hearing about that.” She turned to me. “Do you?”
I shook my head.
“Well, I don’t think she was quite caught in the act,” Sarah’s father said, “but the teacher who mentioned it was pretty sure.” Then he paused and laughed. “I mean, usually there might be other interesting reasons why a girl would be in the boys’ bathroom, but apparently she was alone and the ink was still wet when she came out.”
Wet ink. Boys’ bathroom. A clicking noise started in my brain.
“Wow,” Sarah’s mom said with a laugh. “I swear, I let you go to one PTA meeting in my stead and you get all the dish. So what happened—did the girl get off scot-free? Or did the teacher report her?”
“Report her?” He paused. “I don’t know,” he said, turning his attention back to his food, his shoulders suddenly hunched under his shirt. “That was the last— I don’t know what happened after that.”
The clicking continued, getting louder and louder.
Girl.
Ink. Bathroom.
“Jess?” I wasn’t sure who said it or even if it was the first time. I blinked and found that I was frozen, my water glass halfway to my mouth. The three of them were staring at me, looking worried.
“Are you okay?” Sarah asked.
Slowly, deliberately, I put down my glass.
“I’m sorry,” I said, pushing back from the table. “I don’t feel good.”
“Is there anything we can get you?” Sarah’s mom asked. “Maybe some Advil? Or maybe you need to lie down?”
“No,” I said. “I think I need to go home. I think I need to go home right now.”