THE NEXT MORNING, I blink my eyes open and stare at my ceiling fan, waiting for the familiar blanket of heaviness to settle on me like it has for the past few mornings.
Well. For the past few years, really. I’d gotten so used to it, so distracted at times by Empower and Charlie—almost happy—that I stopped noticing how much the weight scratched at my skin and hung on my shoulders, curling me in on myself.
But this morning . . . there’s none of that. Instead, there’s this clarity that almost scares me. The soothing hush of the sound machine and the hazy autumn sunlight filtering in through the slats in my blinds try to blur my thoughts, but they won’t dull. Last night with Hannah sharpened everything, set loose a tidal wave of relief inside me. Finally telling someone. Finally knowing someone would believe me.
Last night, Hannah seemed okay when I dropped her off. We were both still teary and our throats were raw from singing totally improperly, but there was a sort of calm surrounding us both, as though we’d finally shaken off something heavy and old from our shoulders. Right before I drifted off to sleep, she texted me.
That’s all she said, but in those two little words, I recognized her relief, to have someone to cry and scream and laugh with, to break into an old theater with just to prove we still had it in us.
I push my covers back and pull on a pair of jeans and my Pebblebrook Choral Singers sweatshirt. Last night, right after Hannah texted, Mom popped her head inside my door and informed me that she and Dad still expected me to attend my school’s Fall Festival this weekend and work the “Guess That Song” booth.
“It raises money for the school,” she said, “and neither Principal Carr nor I think it’s appropriate for you to shirk your responsibilities. Especially considering I know you went somewhere with the car and you’re technically grounded.”
“Okay,” I’d said. We looked at each other for a few seconds. I wasn’t going to apologize for leaving the house and going out with Hannah. I wasn’t sorry. Eventually, I rolled over in my bed and faced the wall. She lingered in the doorway and I could feel her eyes on me. I waited for her to come over and sit next to me, rub my back until I fell asleep.
She didn’t, but I also don’t remember her leaving. I must’ve fallen asleep with her still standing there, the stale smell of The Menagerie still clinging to my skin.
Now my hands shake as I pile my hair into a messy bun and slick on some mascara and lip-gloss. It’s as if I’ve downed an energy drink on an empty stomach, all my nerves buzzing.
The Fall Festival is usually one of my favorite events at our school. It’s hot cocoa and burning leaves and gold and russet cloths draped over bales of hay and silly games that make me laugh and act like a little kid. Last year, Charlie and I ran the boring bake sale booth, which we spiced up by requiring patrons not only to pay a dollar for their brownie but also to guess the song Charlie strummed on her guitar and I hummed loudly and obnoxiously. We pissed off so many chocolate-deprived parents, Ms. Rodriguez suggested simply running a song booth this year, sans baked goods.
My stomach flips at all the texts from Charlie that I ignored yesterday, followed by her silence. The Fall Festival equals normal, and if there’s anything Charlie and I really need right now, it’s normal.
Downstairs, my parents circle each other, preparing eggs and bacon and laughing like any other Saturday morning. My dad is drinking tea and my mother is probably on her fourth cup of coffee. She fills a plate with golden-yellow eggs and then hip-checks Dad away from the sink so she can rinse the pan. He responds by flicking a kitchen towel at her butt. I watch them for a minute, taking a deep breath. Something about the scene feels wrong, like trying to squeeze into a pair of jeans long too small.
Then Owen walks in the front door, sweaty and red-cheeked from a run, and my entire body locks up, fight-or-flight ratcheting up my pulse.
But something else edges out the panic. Something new and bright.
“Hi, honey,” Mom says to him, setting two plates on the breakfast counter where Owen and I usually eat on school mornings. “Oh, Mara. You’re here too. Dad and I have to go to the store, so you two are on your own at the festival.”
“Wait,” I say. “We’re riding there together?”
Mom lifts an eyebrow at me. “Of course you are.”
“I’ll shower, I promise,” Owen says, nudging my arm as he passes to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.
Frozen, I just stare at him. He moves like he always has, gracefully and strong, comfortable in his own skin. For the past week, something’s been off a little, his body wearing a tension I was never used to seeing on him, and it helped divide him up in my mind. But now he simply looks like my brother, and I find I can’t stop studying him as he uncaps the bottle, as he takes a few gulps, as his eyes meet mine and I see a familiar softness.
Gemini.
But then he looks away, and it’s a crack of thunder. It’s a song echoing through an abandoned theater. Nothing is the same. Nothing will ever be the same again.
Mom must see the conflict roiling in my expression, because she puts her hands on my shoulders and guides me out of the kitchen and into the living room, where she turns me around to face her. She squeezes my arms and looks me in the eyes for the first time in days.
“Sweetie. I know everything that happened with Owen was scary. But he’s okay. They’re not pressing charges and we need to move past this. For us. For our family.” She tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “We miss you, honey.”
Hannah’s tears from last night flash in my memory, a firework blasting into the dark sky.
But last night was more than sadness. It was more than anger. It was the way we curled into each other. Our song. The way my confession blended with her own story and it became something more than just what happened to me and what happened to her. It became what happened to us. Together. Last night, after I told Hannah everything and then we threw our voices out into that old theater, peeling walls and littered carpets and all, there was this hint of something I haven’t felt in years.
Freedom.
Release.
A sort of falling apart that felt like letting go. And maybe that’s what I’ve needed all these years. That’s what she needed. Just for someone to hear us. There’s a warmth in my blood from that, from Hannah, but I worry it’s just a drop of fire in a frozen ocean.
I look down at my bare feet, green nail polish that Charlie painted on weeks ago receding away from my cuticles. The truth is, I miss the hell out of my family. Not only Owen, but my parents, too.
And I know Hannah’s tired. We’re all ready for this to be over. Really, I’ve been ready for three years. Everyone wants to move on. Problem is, I think everyone has a different idea about what moving on actually is.
I don’t know what to say to my mother, so I sort of fall forward, hooking my arms around her waist and pressing my face against her shoulder.
Mom lets out a surprised oof, but wraps her arms around me immediately. She runs her hands over my hair, down my arms, all the ways I’ve wanted to let her hold me for the past week. For the past three years.
“I love you, honey,” she says.
I squeeze her tighter, inhaling familiar hibiscus lotion and Dove soap. I do it for comfort, for connection, because I so want this moment with my mom to feel like a victory.
A change.
Even when everything in me knows there’s still so much to say.