ON FRIDAY NIGHT, Sarabeth drags me and Shawna to another football game. This one is away, against William Allen, the Quaker school in Providence. Mrs. Mueller drops us off at the same time the Shelby Horner cheerleaders are exiting the bus. Dani looks surprised to see me, but this time I just turn my head like I don’t see her.
Sarabeth is in full Shelby Horner form, with stripes of blue and gold on her face. When we get to the bleachers, she offers to do mine, and I let her.
“We need to represent,” she says, smearing paint on my cheeks. “William Allen is tough. Their quarterback threw twenty-eight touchdowns last season.”
Shawna scoffs.
“I’m painting you next, Wendall,” Sarabeth says.
“No you’re not.”
“I am. You best prepare yourself.”
* * *
Everything is fine for the first half. We sit right next to the Shelby Horner band. “Band-Aids,” Shawna calls us, because at one point we start air drumming and air tuba playing and air saxophoning right along with them. We know we are dorking out, but there is something about being at another school and being in a group and wearing face paint that makes it acceptable.
At halftime, we walk to the concession stand. There are William Allen kids everywhere. I see a group of boys eyeing us. They are all hair gel and Under Armour, older looking, somehow, than Ethan Zane and his group. One of them is looking at me and I can’t help looking back. Why not? I think. He’s cute. And I’m emboldened by the fact that I will never see him again after tonight.
But then something happens. There’s a snort of laughter. A finger pointing at Shawna.
“Dude, check out those eyebrows.”
“Holy shit, it’s Morticia Addams!”
“Hey, Morticia. What are you doing at a football game? Shouldn’t you be home with Uncle Fester?”
They’re just about killing themselves laughing.
“Keep walking,” Sarabeth murmurs. “Ignore them.”
“Where ya goin’, Morticia?”
“Back to the morgue?”
Now they’re following us.
A rage builds up inside me. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but I’m turning around, facing them.
“Shut up.”
The biggest one, with thick, dark hair and a smirk on his face, looks at his friends. “Did she just tell me to shut up?”
“Yes, I did, Mr. Hair Gel, Mr. I’m So Cool I Wear Under Armour So I Can Make Fun of Anyone Who’s Not as Cool as Me. You go to a Quaker school. Isn’t it against your religion to be a jackass?”
I’m yelling, and I know I’m making a scene, but I don’t care.
For a second, the kid looks shocked. Then he mutters, “Freaks,” and motions for his buddies to walk away.
I turn to Shawna and see tears in her eyes.
“No one’s ever stuck up for me before,” she says.
“That’s what friends do,” I say. And I don’t know why, but there are tears in my eyes, too.
* * *
We miss the second half of the game. The three of us spend the next hour sitting on a patch of grass by the parking lot.
“Are you okay?” Sarabeth asks Shawna.
And Shawna tells Sarabeth what she’s already told me, about her eyebrows. “That’s why I transferred to Shelby Horner last year,” she says quietly. “Kids made fun of me all the time. It got so bad I’d pretend to be sick so I didn’t have to go to school.”
“Kids can be so mean,” Sarabeth says.
I know she is speaking from experience, but I don’t expect her to start listing all the names she’s been called. Casper the Ghost, Skim Milk, Albino, Powder, X-ray, Whitey Bulger.
I can’t believe she’s saying those things aloud. Turning her insides out. Am I supposed to remind her that I was Pubes in sixth grade? Because I won’t. I hated being Pubes.
But here we are, huddled together on the grass. Shawna’s on one side of me, Sarabeth is on the other, and our knees are touching and we’re breathing in the same air, and something about it makes me feel safe.
“My mother’s sick. She has bipolar depression and she tried to kill herself four weeks ago. She’s out of the hospital, but I don’t know if she’s ever going to get better.”
No one says anything. Are you happy, Mrs. Ramondetta?
Then I feel Shawna’s hand on my shoulder. “That kid back there was right,” she says. “We are a bunch of freaks.”
Sarabeth jumps all over her. “Shawna! What kind of comment is that? Did you hear what Anna just said? You’re supposed to be her friend!”
Shawna’s looking at me and there’s blue and gold paint smeared all over her face. I’m sort of half-laughing, half-crying, and I can feel the paint running down my face, too. I’m a mess, but strangely I don’t care.
“Everyone’s got their shit,” Shawna says, “is all I meant. It was a statement of unity.”
“Ha,” I say.
Shawna clasps my knee. “I’m here for you, Anna.”
Now Sarabeth is saying it, too. “I’m here for you, Anna. We both are.” No one says I shouldn’t worry. No one tells me my mother will be fine. No one offers stupid advice. They’re just there.
Later, when Mrs. Mueller is driving us home and we’re cleaning off our faces with tissues, Sarabeth says, “Maybe we should own it. The Freaks.”
“What do you mean own it?” Shawna says.
“For our talent show act. Maybe that’s what we should call ourselves.”
“Actually,” I say, glancing at Shawna, “I think we already have a name.”
* * *
When I get back, my father and Marnie are in the den, watching a movie. “Hey, Anna,” Marnie says when she sees me standing in the doorway.
“Hey.”
“How was the game?”
“Good.”
“Did you win?” my father says.
“Uh-huh.” I don’t actually know if we won. I spent the whole second half in the parking lot, pouring my guts out. But they don’t need to know that.
“Want to join us?” Marnie says. “It’s The Amazing Spider-Man.”
“No, thanks.”
I go into the kitchen to get myself a drink and, strangely, my father follows.
“Are you hungry?” he says as I open the fridge and take out a can of seltzer.
“No.”
“I can make you something if you want. Peanut butter and jelly?… Eggs?”
“You gave me money for dinner, remember?”
“Right.” He nods.
It’s weird. I never got an allowance before. If I needed something, my parents would just buy it. But ever since I started staying here, my dad has been giving me money. Ten bucks here. Twenty bucks there. Tonight he gave me thirty bucks for the football game, which was way more than I needed. It’s like he’s trying to make up for something. Which maybe he should be.
“What’d you have?” he says.
“What?” I pop open the can.
“To eat.”
“Oh. A hot dog. And popcorn.”
“That’s not very much. You sure I can’t make you something?”
“Yeah, Dad.” I give him a funny look. “Since when do you care how much I eat?”
“I care.”
“Whatever,” I mutter, taking a sip of seltzer. I am done trying to have serious discussions with him. After my last attempt, I realize it’s not worth it. We’re better off keeping our conversations short and superficial.
“Enjoy the movie,” I say, turning to go.
“Anna?”
“What.”
“Can you hang out a minute? There are a few things I need to say to you.”
I turn back around, take a slow sip of seltzer. Then another.
“Anna?”
“I’m listening.”
“Okay … first, I’m glad you went to see the school counselor.”
I stop drinking. “What?”
“I’m glad you went to see the school counselor.”
“No, I heard you. I’m just … seriously? You talked to Mrs. Ramondetta?”
He shakes his head. “No. But I did speak with your principal yesterday, and—”
“You spoke with Mr. Malloy? About me going to see Mrs. Ramondetta?”
“It’s school policy, Anna, to let parents know when their child has been to the counselor.”
“Wow.” This just keeps getting better.
“Not the specifics, of course, just the fact that you’ve met with her. And I think, well…” My father clears his throat. “Given everything that’s happened … maybe it’s not such a bad idea for you to talk to someone.”
I take a sip of seltzer, shake my head. Take another sip.
“I know our last conversation wasn’t … well, I didn’t handle myself as well as I might have. I got … frustrated … talking about your mother. And I realize maybe that wasn’t fair … to you. And I just wanted to say I’m sorry for losing my cool.”
I stare at him. It’s the second time this week my father has apologized to me.
“Huh,” I say.
“Can you accept my apology?”
He’s sorry for losing his cool. He’s not apologizing for much, so there’s not much to accept.
“Anna?”
I shrug.
“Is that a yes?” His face is pained, like this conversation is causing him actual, physical distress. Which makes me glad, in a way. Why should my mother be the only one who suffers?
“Anna,” he says again. “Can you accept my apology?”
“I guess. Whatever.”
“I’ll take it.” My father sighs, nods. He gives my shoulder an awkward pat. Pat, pat, pat. Pat, pat, pat. It’s like Jane, patting Goodnight Moon.
“Okay, Dad,” I say finally, taking a step back.
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Go watch your movie.”
“You sure you don’t want to watch with us?”
“I’m sure.”
“Good night, Anna.”
“Good night.”
“Good night, Anna,” Marnie says, suddenly appearing in the doorway. I swear to God that woman has bionic hearing.
“Good night,” I say.
“I left something on your bed,” she says.
“Okay.”
Of course she left something on my bed. It is probably the new Pottery Barn teen catalog. Or paint samples. Because she still hasn’t taken the hint that I will not be decorating that room.
But when I get upstairs, I see that I am wrong. It is not a Pottery Barn teen catalog. It is not paint samples. It is a plain manila envelope addressed to Ms. Anna Collette. It has “Lenox Park, Atlanta, Georgia” scrawled in the upper-left corner and “DO NOT BEND” scrawled across the top.
I grab a pair of scissors, slice open the envelope, pull out what’s inside.
It’s a photo.
It’s a big, shiny, blown-up photo of Harper and Scarlett and Caro and Presley and Marnie and me. We are wearing our bedazzled tiger-paw tank tops. We have our arms around each other. Harper has half a hot dog hanging out of her mouth. Caro is crossing her eyes. Presley is grabbing Scarlett’s boob and Marnie is giving me rabbit ears. We are all laughing.
Without even thinking, I open my backpack and pull out a roll of tape. I stick the photo on the wall next to my bed, so when I wake up it will be the first thing I see.