UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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I wake up the Saturday after the football game with my stomach in knots because I know I should ask my mom about senior pictures today. It really is a great idea. Quite possibly the Idea. Our only shot. I pad down the hallway to her bedroom. She’s probably not awake yet, though. I should eat breakfast first. Yeah, I’ll cook pancakes for Libby and me. Then I’ll talk to Mama.
Libby and I spend most of the morning making chocolate-chip pancakes, flipping them on the griddle as soon as bubbles pop up around the edges and drawing happy faces with whipped cream and extra chocolate chips. We make way too many and give my dad the rejects. Afterward, I clean the kitchen from floor to ceiling. And then, of course, I have to tidy up my room as well, and paint my toenails, and finish a paper that isn’t due until next week.
I finally enter my mom’s bedroom at 2:00 p.m. She’s still in bed. Not promising. I tie open the thick curtains, and light floods the room like an unwelcome intruder, highlighting Mama’s tangled brown hair and the half moons dark as bruises under each eye.
“What are you doing?” She throws an arm over her face.
“I, um, I wanted to spend some time with you.”
“Today is a bad day. I’m not feeling well.”
“Oh.”
Talking to my mom is not going to happen today. On bad days, food goes uneaten, clothes go unchanged, and promises go unkept. I hover by her bed for a few more seconds, but then I chicken out and creep down to the basement, where her studio used to be. Still is, I guess. Her equipment is still there—set up, untouched, and covered in a thick layer of dust.
When I give everything an initial wiping with a rag, dust particles fill the air in nose-tickling, sneeze-producing puffs. I sweep the painted cement floor of its dirt, fuzz, and the occasional desiccated insect carcass. Then I start in on the walls. They’re covered in photographs of other people’s babies: chubby babies, teeny babies, babies that are smiling and jolly, and babies that are crying and red-faced. It’s no wonder she could never come back down here. I wipe down each one, wrap it in newspaper, hide them by the stack in cardboard boxes, and then hide the boxes.
On Sunday, I know I have to try again. I lean against the wall outside my parents’ bedroom with my palms pressed against my eyes. “You can do this. You can do this. You can do this,” I whisper to myself. I try not to think about how the next few minutes could change our lives, because if I do I’ll completely lose it. One day. One goal. Get Mama to take pictures.
It’s 10:00 a.m. The covers are still pulled tight around her head, but that’s normal. My dad’s side of the bed is smooth and pristine—he usually ends up falling asleep on the couch in his office. When my eyes adjust to the darkness, I weave through the room and peel back the comforter.
“Mama?”
“Mmm-hmm . . .” She tries to pull the comforter back over her head, so I sit on it.
“It’s ten o’clock. How about you get up and have some breakfast? I’ll make you something.”
“Not right now, sweetie. Maybe in a little while.”
She rolls away from me, but I don’t move.
“Everyone’s getting their senior pictures made at Palmer’s. But they look terrible. And Megan and I, we were thinking, maybe you could take some pictures.”
“Take pictures?” She turns to me, surprised. “But I haven’t done that in years. And I never took senior pictures anyway.”
“That’s okay,” I say quickly. “Megan could come over, and you could just try it. This afternoon?”
“I don’t think so.”
I can see her slipping away. But I won’t let it happen again. I grip the comforter in clenched fists and take a deep breath. In a house where people don’t talk about things, I am about to drop a bomb. “Please, Mama, we . . . we need you. I know losing Baby Timothy was the most horrible thing that’s ever happened to you, but Libby and I are still here, and we need you to be our mom. I want you to be you again. I thought if you took pictures, it would help.”
Mama’s eyes grow wide. She hugs her arms across her chest as if she’s trying to protect herself.
“Claire, I—”
“Please.” My voice shakes with my desperation. It shuts down whatever excuse was forming in her mind.
“I guess I could think about it,” she says slowly. But I feel like she’s just saying it to make me feel better. Or so I’ll stop talking about it. “Not today, though. I’m too tired.”
I know what that means. That means never. I have to make this happen now.
“You can’t back out. She’s already coming over.”
“She is?” Mama always did feel the need to impress Megan, and I can see her wavering.
“Yes.” It’s a lie, but I can make it true with a thirty-second phone call.
She gets in the shower, and I call Megan (that is, I squeal into the phone about how excited I am that my mom is going to take pictures again). Megan squeals back and promises to come over in a couple hours. I help my mom put on her makeup. Then we head down to her studio, where I help her get her equipment set up. Her cheeks turn pink from the exertion, and I can’t remember the last time I saw her look so healthy.
We’re just setting up an area with a backdrop for formal pictures when Megan appears with several outfit choices draped over her arm. She thrusts an envelope at my mother.
“Look how awful these are, Miss Lily. You have to help me.”
As my mom flips through the pictures, her nostrils flare the tiniest bit, and I start to hope. She shifts from foot to foot, hesitating, but the bad pictures are taunting her, and she can’t not fix them. She can’t say no. I am in love with those bad pictures.
Mama takes the formal pictures of Megan first. I act as her assistant, making minute changes to the lighting, adjusting the binder clips on the black drape wrapped around Megan’s midsection. I can’t believe the metamorphosis taking place in my mom. With each passing minute, she becomes more sure of herself. The intensity seeps back into her eyes.
It’s working! I can’t even process all the emotions I’m feeling, and as a result I teeter somewhere between happy tears and giddy laughter. On the inside, that is. On the outside I am calm and serene, because the last thing I want is to ruin today with some stupid emotional outburst. But everything goes fine.
Over the next few days, I find Mama at her computer every now and then, editing the photos with a small smile on her face. Then she spends two days in a row in bed, and I’m certain that’s it. Our photography rehabilitation plan was a failure, and she’s lost for good. But the very next day, when I mention doing some casual shots with Megan, a sigh in my voice, she actually wants to. Just like that.
We try some pictures of Megan at school, posed in her cheerleading uniform on the bleachers and by the goalpost. We try some on the swing set in Megan’s backyard. The pictures are all obnoxiously beautiful because they’re of Megan, but something is missing. Mama sees it too, and she’s fired up by the challenge.
“What’s your favorite thing to do in the whole world?” she asks Megan.
“Cook,” Megan answers instantly.
“Can I take some pictures of you cooking?”
“Sure. I have to make cupcakes for the cheerleading squad’s bake sale tomorrow. Would that work?”
Fifteen minutes later we’re in Megan’s kitchen, Mama snapping photo after photo while Megan whips up cupcake batter and icing—from scratch, of course. No Duncan Hines for this girl. Mrs. McQueen enters the kitchen as Megan eases a rack of cup-cakes from the oven. As usual, Megan’s mom has on zero makeup, and her unruly blond hair is held in place with a pencil.
“Mmm. What is that smell?”
“Cupcakes. You want one?”
“Oh, yes.”
Megan ices a cupcake and hands it over. “You have to eat it fast, though. They’re still warm enough to melt the icing.”
Her mom peels back the paper and takes a big bite. “This is delicious.” She finally notices my mom and the camera. “What are you guys doing?”
“Miss Lily’s taking my senior pictures. Because, you know, the first batch was so bad.”
“Oh, right. That’s great.”
I breathe a sigh of relief when she doesn’t make a big deal about it.
“Hey, that reminds me. We need to work on your college applications this weekend. Come find me in a couple hours so I can read your essays, okay?”
“Um, yeah. Sure.”
Mrs. McQueen flicks her cupcake wrapper into the trash and walks out of the room.
“You still haven’t told them about culinary school, have you?” I whisper after she’s gone.
“Are you kidding? They’re having a hard enough time dealing with the fact that my reach schools were David’s safety schools. I figured I could apply to them both at the same time and work it out later.”
“When are you—?”
“Have you finished sending in all your applications?” Her eyes flick toward my mom.
Touché. I still haven’t told my parents I want to go to Tech and not Georgia.
“Yeah, pretty much.”
There’s an awkward silence.
“Do you girls want to keep taking pictures?” Mama asks.
“Yes!” we answer at the same time. And that concludes our conversation about colleges and life plans. Whew.
Megan plucks an apple-cider cupcake from the first rack.
“They’re finally cool enough to ice.”
She dips her spatula into a bowl of cinnamon buttercream and slathers it on, getting some on her fingers in the process. Mama snaps a picture of her face as she licks the icing off the end of her index finger. I peek over her shoulder at the camera screen. The look on Megan’s face is a mixture of satisfaction, joy, and pride at her accomplishment. It’s a look that’s mirrored on my mom’s face.
I check my cell phone for the nineteenth time this morning. Eric hasn’t called me all weekend. We usually spend every night on the phone, talking until we can’t think of anything else to say and then listening to each other breathe. But I haven’t gotten so much as a text or IM since school on Friday, even though I called him Saturday night at half-hour intervals.
I run upstairs to tell Mama I’m going over to Megan’s. I haven’t seen her since her sleepover with Britney. I kind of figured she would have come over to hang out by now. My parents’ bedroom is empty, but the shower water taps out a beat against the bottom of the tub and steam slips through the crack in the bathroom door.
“Mama?”
No answer. I step toward the bathroom and push the door open a little more, averting my eyes because my naked six-months-pregnant mother is not something I want to see, now or ever.
“Mama?”
“Claire.”
The pitiful rasping sound of her voice makes me feel like someone dumped a bucket of ice water on my soul. Her body is hunched against the side of the shower. More blood than I’ve ever seen in my life puddles beneath her before it mixes with the shower water and swirls down the drain. Her hair sticks to her face and neck in wet clumps, and she is pale, so pale.
“Claire, go get your dad.”
I tear down the stairs. When I throw open the front door, the buzzing sound of my father’s lawn mower fills the air. I sprint toward the noise, yelling and waving my arms, and he releases the mower handle at the sight of me. The blades sputter to a stop.
“Something’s wrong with Mama!” I shout. “She’s in your bathroom.”
He takes off toward the door without answering.
“I’ll call 911.”
I whip out my cell phone and dial. 9-1-1. It’s ringing. And ringing. Don’t you know my mom could be dying? I almost yell. Finally a click.
“Hel—”
“My name is Claire Jenkins. I live on 605 Turncrest Lane. I need an ambulance. Now. It’s my mom. She’s six months pregnant and something happened. There’s a lot of blood.” I manage to choke it all out, but my voice cracks on the word blood.
My legs buckle. I’m sitting on the grass. I somehow stay on the line, but everything after goes by in a blur. I know an ambulance comes to take away my parents. I know a second later Sam’s mom pulls up, scoops Libby and me into a bear hug, and brings us to her house.
Sam knows just what to do. When I crawl across the bedroom floor and lay my head on his chest, he stiffens, but only for a second. Then he puts a hand on my shoulder and listens. As I pour out the whole terrifying experience of finding my mom. As I confess how guilty I feel because I said I didn’t want a little brother. After a minute, I feel the lightest feathery feeling against my hair. So light at first I can’t tell if I’m imagining it. But with each stroke of my hair, his hand is steadier. I realize I can hear his heartbeat, and it sounds like it might beat right through his T-shirt.
“Your heart’s beating so fast.”
“Is it?” he asks, and I feel it go even faster. “I guess I’m thinking about a lot of serious stuff right now.”
I nod. “Me too.”
I say prayer after silent prayer while I’m curled up against Sam. I’m so glad we were able to work our way back to our normal friendship after soccer camp (gradually. Painstakingly. Over many months.), because I don’t know what I’d do without him right now. After what seems like hours, my dad calls, and I take the phone with shaking hands.
“Your mama will be okay” is the first thing he says. I let out a deep breath. “You’ll be able to visit her after school tomorrow. But . . . I don’t know about Baby Timothy. Pray for him, Claire-Bear. Pray very hard.”
My dad crying is the scariest thing I’ve ever heard. It means the world as I know it is spinning out of control. But even so, I can’t cry. I’ve never had to cope with something this big, so I keep it swallowed down inside.
When I walk into school the next morning with Sam, I try to avoid everyone I know on the way to my locker.
“Hey, Claire. I am so sorry,” says Amanda Bell, who has the locker next to mine.
She gives me a pity smile and pats me on the shoulder while I shove some books onto my locker shelf.
“For what?” How could she know?
“You mean you don’t know yet?”
She smiles again, but this time it’s more smile, less pity. I seriously doubt she knows anything life-shattering.
“Amanda, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I slam my locker shut. I am so tired of girl drama. I have real things to worry about. I couldn’t give a crap if someone called me a bitch or bought the same shoes as me or whatever Amanda is going on about.
“Well,” says Amanda, who seems determined to milk this moment. “I just can’t believe Megan would do that to you,” she calls over my shoulder.
A bolt of fear shoots down my spine, but I keep walking. What did Megan do?
When I round the main hallway, I know exactly why Amanda was pretending to feel sorry for me. The first thing I see is their hands. His hand. Her hand. Their fingers wound up together like laces on a shoe. I almost don’t believe it, but there they are, prancing down the hall together like he isn’t my boyfriend. And holding hands!
Everyone else in the hallway stares, first at their hands, then at my face. Like they’re waiting for us to have a Wild West showdown.
I take two steps in their direction before veering into the girls’ bathroom. All I can think is, But that’s my boyfriend. Amberly and Britney burst through the door behind me.
“OMG! Are you okay?” asks Amberly.
“I don’t understand. Why is he holding hands with her?” It is almost a relief to let this drama consume me. To let it be the only thing I think about at school today.
“She’s his girlfriend,” says Britney.
“This is cuh-razy,” says Amberly. She puts her arm around me.
“Since when?” I try to think of the last time Eric and I were together. “He was my boyfriend at lunch on Friday.”
Britney winces. “Since Friday night. When I spent the night at her house, we went to the carnival with him and his friend. Eric and Megan got stuck at the top of the Ferris wheel, and she told him how much she missed being his girlfriend, and then she kissed him.”
My jaw hits the floor. “She stole my boyfriend?”
“Technically, you stole hers,” replies Britney. “They went out in sixth grade. So you can’t be mad at her.”
I don’t know if I will ever understand how girl code works.
I wait for Megan to come into the bathroom and apologize, but it doesn’t happen. When I work up the nerve to venture into the hallway, Megan and Eric are talking by his locker, and all of eighth grade is still watching. Their eyes burn into me as I walk up to Megan, still in a handhold with my boyfriend, and ask, “Did you really do what B said?”
Megan’s lips purse. She gets a hurt look in her eyes like I’ve done something to her by confronting her about it.
“Yes. Eric and I still have feelings for each other.”
“Oh.”
Eric, of the feelings, is looking everywhere except at me. I don’t know what I expected from them, but this isn’t it. I feel like such an idiot. Whispers rustle like insect wings in every corner. Everyone is laughing at me, or worse, pitying me. Anger and hurt well up inside me like competing storm fronts. I rush to the nearest exit and shove the door open. How could he do this to me? How could she do this to me? I wander to the bleachers in front of the football field and plop down. A few minutes later, Steven Lippert appears. Normally I would tell him and his stupid tuba to get lost, but today I’m too upset to care.
“This always happens,” I say, half to myself, half to Steven.
“What does?”
“Boys always choose her over me. They always like her better.”
I cover my face with my hands and cry through my fingers. My life is so much more screwed up than that, but this pain is a manageable pain. If I give in to the other kind, it might be stronger than I know how to handle. He pries my hands away and holds them over my lap.
“I like you much better. And I think you’re prettier than her too.”
“You do?” My voice comes out pathetic and squeaky. I gaze up at him like he’s the sole source of hope left in the world.
“Much.”
Steven scoots closer and kisses me, his hands still holding mine in between our stomachs. He leans me against the bleachers like he knows what he’s doing. And I let him. His words and his confidence make me forget what he looks like and what I think about him—before and during the kiss. But as soon as our lips pull apart and my eyelids flutter open, it hits me.
I have kissed Steven Lippert.
I take in Steven’s greasy brown hair, the constellation of acne covering his forehead, and the orange chunks stuck in his braces. I remember reading somewhere that a kiss transfers from ten million to one billion bacteria, and it occurs to me that my mouth tastes faintly of Cheetos. It is all I can do not to projectile vomit.
I make the face girls make in horror movies when they expect to see their one true love but instead see a flesh-eating monster. Then I run away from the bleachers like a legion of zombies is chasing me. When I reach the edge of the field, I cut through the woods to avoid the rent-a-cop, and even when I hit the main road, I keep running. All four miles home. I fling open the front door, my hair sticking out every which way, my face red and tear-stained, to find my big sister Sarah playing Candyland with Libby on the living room floor.
“Hey. I drove home from Athens this morning and checked Libby out of school. I’m staying the whole week,” Sarah says.
I sink onto the rug in front of her. I love that Sarah doesn’t mention that I’m not supposed to be home from school yet or that I look like I’ve had a run-in with a leaf blower.
The next day, my dad takes us to the hospital to see Mama and Timothy. At the entrance to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (I learn pretty quickly it’s called the NICU), Daddy pauses.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
I nod.
He nods back and kisses me on the top of my head. “You’re my one, Claire-Bear.”
Then we stand over the sink and scrub scrub scrub our hands with soapy water until they’re pink and shiny. I put on a yellow hospital gown, gloves, and a mask and follow my dad inside. Sarah and Libby are staying with Mama because Libby isn’t allowed to see Timothy yet. They can’t risk exposing a micro preemie to her little-kid germs, and also it might be too much for her.
Now that I’m inside, I’m glad Libby stayed back. The NICU gives me the same uneasy feeling I get when we sing Christmas carols at the nursing home. All the bodies, hooked up to the machines, fighting to stay alive. That scares me. But if it’s scary to me, I can’t even imagine what it’s like for Timothy. I have to be brave for him.
I take a deep breath and hold my dad’s gloved hand for courage—as long as he’s here, I can handle this—and we weave past beeping monitors and nurses with clipboards. They talk about things like “surfactant” and “bilirubin,” and I file away the words to be googled later. I peer into Timothy’s incubator. Everywhere there are tubes. A tube that carries food through his nose and into his stomach. A tube that disappears into a hole in his throat and pumps his lungs for him. The spaces on his fragile body that are covered with tubes and monitors outnumber the spaces where skin peeks through.
He doesn’t even look like a real baby. More like a doll. A two-pound doll with waxy red skin, arms and legs no thicker than my fingers, a fine coating of hair, and eyes that are still fused shut.
He’s beautiful.
I pull out the smiling pictures of our family Dad asked me to bring and tape them to the sides of his incubator so he won’t feel so alone. Then I reach my hand through one of the holes and rest a few fingers on top of his head.
“Hi, Timmy. I’m Claire. I’m your sister,” I say. And after my dad walks away to talk to a nurse, I whisper, “Fight hard, because we love you.”