Mom stumbled upon me in the morning, curled up in a ball next to the dog. Her gasp woke me. “Grace—have you been here all night? Were you crying?”
“I … guess so,” I said groggily. I knew my eyes were puffy, my cheeks stained with tears and dried mucus.
Reaching down to help me up, she asked nervously, “Did something happen?”
Only everything.
A little later, over a crunchy bowl of oatmeal, I carefully downloaded Mom on JJ’s confession—leaving out the part about meeting him at the beach at night. My mom gripped and twisted a tissue throughout, but never once stopped to question me or voice any doubts. She hugged me hard. “I’m so proud of you, Grace.” Her voice was thick with emotion. “My baby—this has been hardest on you. And here you are, the one who brings us closure.” Then she shook her head. “I can’t believe I just said that. I hate that word.”
Me too.
Mom probably heard it a lot in her support group. I heard it all the time, from nearly everyone—teachers, other adults, even kids my age.
“What does that even mean?” I said. I pictured it like a race. Once you cross the finish line, you’re done. It’s over. It’s officially time to stop mourning and move on. My personal finish line is like the horizon—you can swim the whole entire ocean and never get there.
My mom said, “Well, it means that finding out what really happened to your father helps in the healing process.”
“I don’t want to heal. It would be like our lives with him never happened.”
“That’s not it, Grace. The idea is that with time—with each passing day—it’s supposed to hurt a little less. The pain will always be there. That doesn’t ever go away completely. But eventually, it will feel okay to go on with your life, to smile, laugh—dance.”
“Didn’t take Regan too long,” I said. But I could no longer drum up any righteous anger at my sister. She didn’t grieve for Dad the way I did, and I was not okay with that. Her coping methods were different, but I was beginning to wonder if that made them less worthy of respect.
“You knew your father maybe better than anyone in this family,” my mom interrupted my thoughts. “Do you really think he would have wanted you to be sad forever?”
I pictured my dad’s big grin, his twinkling eyes, his off-the-wall sense of humor, love of music, and inept dancing. His bear hugs.
It was my turn to hug my mother.
Hours later, I decided to play catch with Rex in the backyard. The dog had been acting … I don’t know, a little droopy or something ever since we got up this morning. He’d been unusually quiet, too. An invigorating game of “get it,” “bring it” was sure to cheer him up.
Now that we were playing, however, it became clear the dog didn’t actually need cheering up. Rex acted his usual hyper-excited self, racing after the balls I tossed. His tail, that hairy propeller, was in overdrive. He launched himself into the air to intercept each ball before it hit the ground. Dutifully, he dropped each one at my feet, panting fiercely, waiting for me to toss another. He barked, he yipped, he even whined once.
But he didn’t say anything.
Which was odd for the chatterbox.
I tried to tease a few words out of him. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”
Rex tilted his head to one side, then the other. Like he didn’t understand.
Neither did I. What, had Rex gotten shy all of a sudden?
“Are you having fun?” I asked.
“Woof, woof!” was all I got in return.
“Are you thirsty? Do you want some water?” I tried.
In response, he leaped and tried to grab the ball out of my hand. “Okay, okay, I’ll throw it,” I said.
Bright-eyed, Rex panted his approval.
I didn’t know what else to do—or say—so I just lobbed the ball again.
My cell phone, tucked in my pocket, signaled an incoming text.
“Hang on,” I said to Rex while I checked it out.
Movies & Cheesecake Factory in 1 hr, Mercy had written. I hesitated. Then I texted her back.
The movie, a cheesy rom-com, was mindless and the popcorn supersize, just the way I liked it. Between the four of us—Jasmine, Kendra, Mercy, and me—we devoured it.
We shouldn’t have been hungry for dinner, but the Cheesecake Factory beckoned, and miraculously there was no wait. We slid into a booth.
“What I love most about this place,” Mercy said, flipping through the spiral-bound menu, “is that my mother hates it.”
“Go for it,” said Kendra. “Order something really decadent.”
“That’s my plan—something deep-fried and over-salted with zero nutritional value,” Mercy quipped. “Or, you know what? A Green Chile Cheeseburger could also satisfy.”
I looked at the ingredients: spicy green chiles, melted cheese, and onions with tortilla strips, salsa, and chipotle mayo.
Mercy wasn’t done. “French fries on the side. And for dessert, Reese’s peanut butter chocolate cake cheesecake.”
“I’ll have what she’s having.” I pointed to Mercy when the waiter came to take the order.
Kendra went for pasta and an extra fork to dip into Mercy’s dessert. Only Jasmine stuck with a salad. “The dance is next week. I will fit in that dress,” she said defensively.
“Right, like one meal is going to make a difference,” Mercy scoffed.
“Speaking of the dance.” Kendra caught my eye. “Maybe you’ll change your mind? Now that things are more”—she paused, looking down as she settled the napkin on her lap—“resolved?”
She meant JJ’s confession. I’d told my friends the Twitter version of the story—very limited. I wasn’t ready to confide more. And I totally wasn’t ready to get dressed up and pretend to be upbeat for the eighth-grade dance. “I don’t think my groove thing is up to shaking,” I tried to joke. “I’m not sure if I have one.”
What I didn’t say: I was afraid of a music-caused meltdown. There are certain old songs always played at school dances, bar mitzvahs, weddings. Like “Livin’ on a Prayer” by Bon Jovi. That was the one my dad and I—and Regan, too, now that I think about it—used to try and outsing each other to see who could punch the air higher. And for the slow dance, if they played “In Your Eyes,” I’d fall apart. It was my mom and dad’s wedding song. Plus, who knew what else I might be ambushed with. Hearing those songs on my iPod was one thing—bursting into tears in front of a hundred kids was something else.
Before Kendra could try to convince me, the orders arrived.
“Anyway,” said Jasmine, measuring out a teaspoon of dressing to sprinkle on her salad, “I’m just glad I’m getting to go.”
Right. I’d almost forgotten that part of Jasmine’s punishment for cheating in French was a ban on all extracurricular activities. Like it wasn’t bad enough she got three days’ suspension and an F for the semester. Luckily, they’d relented on the dance.
I suddenly lost my appetite. I’d never know if she got caught because the teacher got suspicious when my own failing grades suddenly soared, and my answers matched Jasmine’s exactly. That’s because I never confessed. Mercy wouldn’t let me.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she insisted.
I hadn’t meant to do anything wrong.
“You need the passing grade,” Mercy lectured me. “Besides, unless she told you how she was getting the answers, you couldn’t have known anything. Not for sure.”
Yeah, I could.
When I got home that evening, Rex overgreeted me, nearly knocking me down by jumping on me and licking my face as if he hadn’t seen me in days. His eyes were bright as he raced around me so speedily that his tail actually created a breeze. When he trotted away from me it was only to return a minute later with my mitt in his jaw.
I laughed, heartened by this shower of affection. “I guess you’re feeling better! So what was bothering you before? Were you shocked into silence because of JJ?”
Rex dropped the baseball mitt at my feet, darted into the mudroom, and returned with my softball. I stroked his head. “Right, I get it. You’re multitalented, you can act just like a regular dog. But we both know you’re not. So … let’s have it, Rex, say something. Say anything.”
Rex titled his head as if he didn’t understand. Then he barked.