I CALL REGINA on Sunday night to see how my mom is doing. She starts by deflecting the question. How am I? she wants to know, all booming and cheerful. What did I do this weekend? What is my father feeding me?
But I keep pushing, and when the truth comes out, Regina’s voice gets really soft, and the softness scares me more than the words. “I won’t lie to you, honey. She’s battling.”
Battling. I picture my mother in a camouflage jacket and combat boots, driving a tank.
“I’m afraid she might try to hurt herself again,” Regina says. “But I’m not going to let that happen. I’m going to stay with her, twenty-four/seven, until she’s out of the woods.”
After I hang up the phone, I lie in bed picturing my mother in one of those old war movies, sliding along the underbrush on her belly. See how hard I’m trying? she says. It’s not easy to get out of the woods. There are leaves in her hair, a little smile on her lips.
But in the next scene she’s dead. Gun to the temple. Boom.
I can’t sleep. I can’t get that image out of my head.
* * *
On the bus in the morning, Sarabeth is still buzzing about her party. How great were everyone’s costumes? How much fun was that, singing together? Who knew Reese could beatbox? As usual, she keeps talking, even though it’s a one-way conversation. Why is it so hard for me to form words and push them out of my mouth? Why do I feel like I’m underwater? My mother’s voice runs through my head, an endless loop. Can’t get up. Too tired. Can’t get up. Too tired. Well, I’m tired, too, Mom. Did you ever think of that?
“Are you okay?” Sarabeth asks finally.
“I’m tired.”
“It seems like more than that. Not just today. You seemed down at my house, too.”
I wasn’t expecting this. I don’t want to start unloading my drama, not here, not to Sarabeth Mueller.
“It’s just my dad’s baby,” I say. Which isn’t exactly a lie. “Her room is right next to mine and she’s up all night crying.”
“Your dad’s baby?”
“My half sister, technically.”
“I thought you were an only child.”
I glance at her. “I was.”
“Remember third grade?” she says. “We did those family trees? You and I were the only ones without siblings.”
“You remember third grade?”
“I loved third grade. Everyone was friends then.”
The way she says it, I know she’s including me in “everyone.” It’s kind of a naked comment, and I’m not sure how to respond. Then this memory pops into my head: a bunch of girls playing Chinese jump rope on the blacktop behind the jungle gym. Sarabeth winding the elastic around her skinny ankles.
“Chinese jump rope,” I say.
She smiles. “Yeah. And four square. You were really good at four square.”
“I’m horrible at sports.”
“Really? You won all the time in third grade.”
The bus pulls up to the circle and we’re awkward for a moment. This is where I usually take off, speed walking ahead to my locker. I’m about to do it again when it hits me.
“Was I mean to you? After third grade?” I am remembering the names people used to call her. Casper the Ghost. Albino. Powder. X-ray.
Sarabeth hesitates. “Not really. Not directly. You just kind of … drifted away with Danielle and Keesha. And I just kind of … drifted the other way.”
I’m picturing icebergs.
“Anyway.” She shrugs. “We’re back.”
Sure of herself. That’s how she sounds. I think, How are you so weirdly confident? But I find myself walking off the bus with Sarabeth Mueller, all the way to our lockers.
* * *
Dani made cheerleading. I know because there is a big banner on the wall outside the gym: football players’ names in blue, cheerleaders’ names in gold. “Danielle Loomis,” it says, right there for all the world to see.
My heart is heavy in gym class. My legs are heavier. Chloe stands on the other side of the badminton net from me, shaking her head, laughing. “You’re allowed to move your feet, Anna.” Nicole isn’t in our gym class, so Chloe has no one to fight with about witches. She is almost normal. If normal means missing every birdie that comes her way. I’ll serve it to her, and she’ll make one of those dramatic, grunting leaps that professional tennis players make, and whiff, missing the birdie completely.
“You’re allowed to make contact, Chloe,” I find myself saying.
“I’m going for style points.”
“You’ve got style all right.”
“Look at this arabesque,” she says, lifting one leg and doing another remarkable whiff.
“Wow. Thanks for the breeze.”
Mrs. Strand is not amused. “Ms. Hartman,” she says to Chloe, “save the fancy stuff for ballet class.” She demonstrates ready badminton position: wide base, racket centered.
Chloe nods. She squats and bounces up and down, showing how ready she is. Then, as soon as Mrs. Strand turns her back, she does a flying leap, this time with her tongue out.
“Nine point two,” I tell her.
“Is that all?”
“You didn’t point your toes. Major deduction.”
Chloe laughs. And I don’t know why, but I leave gym feeling less like I swallowed a wrecking ball.