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“I’m shocked. Absolutely shocked. How could you write such things about me? How could you think such things?”
My mother's face is scrunched up, her eyes narrowed, and I can see where she made a mistake with her green eyeliner this morning.
It’s a tiny slip, but an imperfection I want so much to point out to her right now.
But I don’t want the next slap to be her shaking hand on my face, so I keep my mouth shut, feeling my own face grow hot.
I have no defense.
She sighs loudly, and to my surprise, shoves my journal at me.
“I have to finish dinner, but don’t think I’m done with you, young lady.”
I frown at her back as she stomps away, muttering to herself incoherently, and I lean against the closet door, nearly falling into the closet itself since I hadn’t closed it yet.
No one, not Krystal, Bethany, or even Josh, knew about the journal, about how I write to my sister, but now the last person in the world I would ever want to see it has read it.
I lean over and put my hands on my knees, taking a few deep breaths as I try to figure out how to handle this.
My journal is in one hand as I rest the inside of my wrist on my knee, and I stare at it, looking at the end of the spine to see if my mother has torn out any pages.
If she meant to destroy it in any way, why would she give it back?
A rush of relief courses through me, and I head upstairs to change out of my jeans, which are damp and sticky, into a clean, dry pair and wash up in the bathroom before standing in the middle of my bedroom and looking around, wondering where I could hide my journal now.
She knows it exists, so she’ll search for it, just to be nosy and to give her something else to yell at me about.
But I can’t stop writing to Kayla.
I won’t.
My phone buzzes from my bed, where I’ve tossed everything from my purse and the inside of my backpack, and I ignore it, staring at the space around me.
Everything is so obvious.
A desk drawer, closet shelf . . . and of course, between the mattress and box spring.
Behind anything, inside anything.
Placing the journal on my bed gently, as if it might fall apart if I’m not careful, I rummage through what's left inside my purse. I don’t have a lot of stuff in it, since I don’t wear makeup and I only need my wallet.
It’s too small to stuff the journal into, so I turn back to my closet and unearth a box that holds items I no longer use, ones full of memories and I couldn’t bear to give away once I’d either outgrown them or my mother said she didn’t want to see them around.
Because a lot of them are directly related to Kayla.
I kneel on the floor and press my lips together as I lift up one item after another and set each aside, forcing myself to let go of them so I don’t end up a crying mess when I have to go down to dinner soon.
A mug Kayla made with her friends at a birthday event years ago, a sweatshirt she bought for me when I started cheerleading when I was six . . .
My sister loved big purses and bags, most of them red, of course, and always had whatever anyone needed inside of them.
Band Aids, cough drops, paper clips, paper and pen; she was legendary for keeping everything and anything, neatly tucked away and ready for anyone who asked.
But the purse I hold in my hands now is one she handed down to me, in a pearly gold rose shade she used for church.
We don’t go to church anymore.
It’s a little larger than the purse I use now, on a gold chain that looks slightly dull now but is removable.
I unfasten the chain from its clips on the bag and get up, heading back to my bed so I can see if the journal fits.
It does, with some wiggle room, and I hold the purse with the journal inside against my chest, thankful I was able to find a quick solution to this enormous problem.
I’ll keep it with me at school in my backpack, and during the rare times I go anywhere else, I’ll use the chains and take the purse with me, instead of the one I currently use.
My mother can’t forbid me to use it, not without a good reason.
That hasn’t stopped her before, though.
I shake my head at myself, deciding this is the best plan for now, and figure I’ll deal with whatever comes up later.
With my backpack emptied of books and notebooks, I tuck the purse inside and set it down by my desk, satisfied for the moment.
My parents ignore me for the rest of the night, my father hiding behind his newspaper, the sounds of him chewing chunks of pot roast nauseating me as I worry over what my mother plans to say to me about my journal entries.
But she says nothing, snatching a bowl of scalloped potatoes away from me after I take a single spoonful, although without her usual glare.
My stomach growls but she focuses on her own plate, spearing green beans as if they’ve done something to offend her.
When Josh texts me later, he asks why I didn’t call him back, and I realize I forgot about my phone buzzing while I was panicking earlier.
Our phone conversation is short, as he quickly discerns I’m tired but doesn’t ask why.
“I’m excited about tomorrow night. We haven’t had time alone together for so long, Mia.”
We won’t actually be alone, not with Megan and Alex there, but I don’t mind.
Except that if I manage to find a way to tell Josh I just want to be friends, it won’t be a private conversation, and I’ll have to deal with their reactions as well as Josh’s.
“Yeah, me too. I’ll see you at school, okay?”
After we hang up, I roll over on my bed and shove my head under my pillow, taking a few deep breaths to clear my mind.
It doesn’t work very well, so I get up and pull my journal from its new hiding place, taking a pen from my desk drawer as I settle down, cross-legged, back on my bed.
Dear Kayla,
I wonder if I’ll ever find a way out from under our parents’ feet. Even when I go to college, they’ll still tell me what to do, unless I find a way to pay for it on my own. I wish I had talked to you more about your own plans, and asked you more about your fears as well as your hopes. You were always so upbeat around me, as if nothing was wrong, but I know that so much was. I wish I had been a better sister.
Maybe you would be here now if I was.
Love always, Mia
––––––––
At school, I hug my backpack before hanging it inside my locker, the only item in it after my books and notebooks have been stacked on the bottom and top shelves, the purse with my journal safely in it.
I’m sure my mother is rummaging around my room now, so I don’t understand why she gave it back to me in the first place.
Maybe she’s hoping I’ll continue to write in it and she’ll be able to read whatever new additions I make.
I smile to myself, pleased I’ve found a way to keep her out of my head.
If she wanted to know how I feel or what I think, she could always ask, but I don’t expect her to, now or ever.
“Hey, Mia.”
Eli’s greeting startles me, and I stumble forward and nearly fall into my locker.
“Hi, Eli.”
I happen to glance down as I’m steadying myself and find his usual Converse gone, a pair of fluffy white topped women’s boots in their place.
He laughs before I can comment, so I just shake my head.
“My mom said she’s not going out today, so I borrowed them. A little tight, but better than walking here and back home with chunks of ice for feet.”
With a tiny salute, he backs away, and then he’s lost in the morning crowd.
Sure, it’s a practical move, but there’s no way he could convince me he won’t enjoy the attention he’ll get for wearing them.
I nearly forget about the newspaper and our message to the note-writer until Megan grabs my arm in the hall in-between classes and spins me around to face her before I realize what’s happening.
“Jasmine found this on the floor of the newspaper room this morning when she went in to water the plants.”
A senior and president of the ecology club, Jasmine has been taking care of the plants in every classroom for the past three years. I wonder if she read the note, but Megan doesn’t say anything more about her.
Instead, she shoves a folded piece of paper that looks exactly the same as the note in the mailbox earlier this week into my hands, and I open it up, oblivious to the kids pushing around us.
SHE HOLDS A KEY
I shake my head slowly.
“This is the same handwriting, but what does this have to do with a teacher and student in a car together?”
My eyebrows scrunch together, and I open my eyes wider to smooth them out as I take a deep breath.
“Like, the car key?” Megan offers, her excitement palpable.
She’s staring at me as if I should know what these words mean and how to connect them to the mystery.
But I have no clue.
“Let me think about this, and we’ll talk more tonight.”
We don’t have a newspaper meeting since it’s Friday, and we prepped the Monday edition yesterday. Thursdays are always extra work with two editions, but no one wants to hang around a cold empty building on Friday afternoons.
She nods, snatching the note from my hands before pressing through the crowd to get to her next class.
But the words stick with me throughout the day, and I feel as if I’m missing something important, something obvious.
As if the note was meant for me especially, although my name isn’t on it and there’s no way the person who wrote it would know if I would personally see it.
Between discussing this with Megan and breaking up with Josh, tonight is looking like some kind of emotional mess.
But at least there will be pizza, and my mom won’t be there to tell me I can’t eat it.