Sally

“Sally, honey,” my mom called tentatively from behind my resolutely closed door, “you okay in there?”1

Unwilling to lie anymore, I shook my head, pushing the nervous worry in her voice from my mind. “I just want to be alone, Mom,” I called, an edge to my voice.2

“Um. Ok,” she agreed unwillingly. “There’s some pasta in the fridge if you’re interested.”3

She lingered a few moments longer, as if waiting for my response; when none came, her footsteps retreated back downstairs.4

Alone again, I breathed a sigh of relief. Alone, it was easier not to think. Alone, my reality untainted by outside influences, I could allow fact and fiction to become intertwined in my mind. Still, the pain remained, constricting my throat, which had become accustomed to holding back tears over the past few days of horrific shock. Sprawled on my mattress, I attempted to distract myself from the calamity of my mind. Absentmindedly, I noticed my sheets, askew from nights of tormented sleeplessness; my navy blue comforter, dotted with pristine little stars, lay in a heap on the floor. Like me, it had not yet recovered and returned to its rightful place. 5

With a booming, unnecessarily loud, thrusting open of my door, Anne stomped in. I gasped, tensing into a sitting position as my sister barged in, stomping her flip-flop clad feet.6

“Sa-a-ally! Where did you put my pink bathing suit? I can’t find it! Where is it? I know you…”7

But I’d had enough. There was enough anger, pain, and suffering without her antagonizing outbursts.8

Walking slowly, steadily past her in long strides, I felt an odd calm wash over me. I knew exactly what I needed. 9

Anne’s cries were mere background music as I pulled on a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and quickly laced up my sneakers. Without a word, I sauntered downstairs and out the front door, feeling, for the first time in ages, a clear sense of purpose. 10

Easing into my stride pretty naturally, I reveled in the feeling of the pavement beneath me; my sneakers pounded along with the beat of my steady breathing. The beat harmonized my limbs. I was in control now. The world would never be free of my power again; I could feel it, the fierce determination pounding through my veins. There would be no solution to Jimmy’s death, no reverse of his tragic end, but there was hope. There was a future. This was something, anyway. 11

I returned home, sweaty and smiling slightly at my revelation and the wonderful sense of accomplishment that came with having run a few miles. 12

“Sally!” my mom cried when she saw me, “where were you? What…” She stopped abruptly as she really saw me, noticed my expression. I wondered what she saw as she pulled me into a tight hug and held me as I erupted into tears. For once, I didn’t pull away. 13

During my blind, hazy days of unrelenting mourning for a boy I barely knew, I’d tuned out the world. Now that I had a somewhat stable grip on reality, I realized, simultaneously surprised and ashamed, how self-centered I’d been. Jimmy had only been an acquaintance of mine; to me, he’d simply been the somewhat pleasant shaggy redhead who sat behind me in English class. In a school of so many students, we’d never gotten past ‘Can I borrow your pencil, Sally?’ ‘Oh, sure.’14

Now, watching my peers, I noticed tear-streaked faces, solemn sighs of regret, hatefully confused glares which tried to find some reason, some explanation, someone to blame. Others were clearly recovered, or maybe the tragedy of it all had never hit them, laughing jokingly. The ones who really caught my attention, though, were the apathetic ones; outwardly, these people seemed to be feeling nothing at all. Dispersed in the crowded hallways, each one of them was alone. To my surprise, Jessica Parker, who I’d been best friends with in middle school before she was inducted into the popular crowd, was among the emotionless. I noticed her several times that day, but was only aware of how completely desolate of attention she was when it was time for lunch. Scanning the cafeteria for a place to sit, I saw her. She was seated at a table with groups of people surrounding her small figure, but, clearly, she was not part of these groupings. Sitting slightly apart from the rest, she sipped from a bottle of lemonade; the tray of food before her remained untouched as she stared blankly, unseeingly into space. When had this happened?15

“Hey, Sal!” someone called.16

Tearing my eyes away from Jessica to locate the owner of the familiar voice, I wondered, absently, how long I’d been standing there, dumbly ogling at a girl I used to know. 17

“Sal,” the voice repeated, louder. And I saw him, his neck, which I’d always noticed was peculiarly long, but not in a freakish way, sticking up over the dense hoards of students. Paul smiled as he caught my gaze, waving me over. Suddenly awkward, I headed towards them, dragging my feet, giving fate time to intervene. But it didn’t. Instead, I arrived at the table of friendly faces unscathed, wishing, not without a small sense of guilt, that a tornado would strike at that exact moment, making all conversation impossible. Idling, unsure, I was grateful to Paul when he patted the seat beside him, indicating for me to sit. I sat. 18

“So, Sal,” my long-necked friend greeted me, apparently not catching the extreme waves of awkwardness that radiated from my body, “haven’t seen you in a while.”19

“I…Um… haven’t been feeling well,” I admitted, biting my lip. That was an understatement. 20

He waited, knowing me well enough to understand that I had more to say. A moment passed in which I gazed intently at my sandwich, as if waiting for it to tell me the words I needed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Paul taking a generous bite from his blueberry muffin. Behind him, Erica turned subtly towards us, watching silently. Her steely gaze brought on a wave of uneasy guilt. “I’m sorry,” I blurted, addressing both of them, “I was just really freaked out over Jimmy’s death and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you but I…I was really confused…” 21

“It’s ok,” Erica sighed, her lip curling into a tired smile, “I know.” And I could tell from the honesty in her topaz eyes that she understood. 22

“Yeah,” Paul agreed, patting me on the back with a supportive grin, “it’s cool.”23

Guidance counselors were suddenly everywhere. I’d noted their presence before, but their kind, calming words had been like background music in my tortured head. Now, though, there was something appealing about their understanding nodding, their promises to listen and not judge. Thinking this, I signed my name on a sheet outside Mrs. Dessen’s door. The other names listed were vaguely familiar, none of them noteworthy. 24

“Hey-a,” Josie chirped, flinging a benevolent arm around my shoulders, “Paul said you were doing better. Sorry I didn’t say anything before. You, uh, seemed like you needed your space, you know?”25

Turning to face her, I grinned gratefully, albeit weakly, as I relaxed under her glowing influence. “Yeah, I’m okay now.” I almost meant it too. “How about you?”26

“Well, you know me,” she replied, guiding me buoyantly down the hall, “always the life of the party.”27

At ease, I sighed, relieved at my somewhat smooth return to normalcy, listening with amused interest as she proceeded to fill me in on all that had gone on while I’d been absent from factuality. 28

“And,” Josie continued, on a gossiping roll now, “have you noticed Jessica?”29

“Um, actually, yeah,” I murmured, leaning in with interest as we entered the History classroom, plopping into adjacent desks.30

“Well… after the funeral, she got a little weird. Broke up with Frank, which was probably a good thing but still… it was all very weird. Not at all like her, you know? And now,” she went on as I nodded, “she’s always alone; doesn’t want to hang out with anybody. Actually, I tried to talk to her.” I raised my eyebrows, urging her to continue. “And, well, she wasn’t mean or anything. Basically, she politely told me to get lost; said she wanted to be alone.”31

“Wow,” I murmured as Mrs. Harrison began the class, “weird.”32

Inwardly, I wondered if Jessica Parker and I were more alike than I’d ever thought possible. 33

After school, my friends, thrilled with my recovery, had invited me to join them at the beach but I politely refused, explaining that I just wanted to be alone for a while. All except Josie nodded understandingly; her gaze alone scrutinized by face worriedly, as if afraid of losing me again. Or maybe my reaction was unnerving because it was so familiar. I gave her a somewhat forced reassuring smile, attempting to communicate that I wouldn’t abandon her again. I wasn’t sure if I got the message across though; she turned away before I could read her expression. 34

“Sorry,” a librarian addressed me, pulling me from the immutable pages of the book I was utterly engrossed in, “the library’s closing in a few minutes.”35

Looking up at a clock on the opposite wall, I was surprised to see that it was almost seven. “Oh, uh, thanks,” I grumbled, slightly miffed at her for interrupting my bliss.36

Exiting the tall, statuesque stony building which was my sanctuary at times when my mom was late to pick me up from school, I looked around, unused to being left to my own devices for so long; usually, I got home much earlier, right after track practice was over. With a pang, I suddenly regretted having missed the end of year Track banquet, a makeshift celebration for all us athletes that was held in the school cafeteria. During my self-imposed exile, I hadn’t been in the mood to attend it. Now I wished that I could have said goodbye to the seniors who were headed off to college, never to be on the high school track team again. One of them in particular, Kat Fenway, had been my mentor throughout my freshman year, which was now nearing its end. In the fall, because my mother had told me that I had to play a sport, I’d unwillingly gone to my fist Cross Country practice, during which I somehow managed to run an interminable two miles, pushing myself along with High School Musical’s “I don’t Dance” beating in my head. When it was finally, mercifully over, Kat, who at first I’d assumed was a sophomore due to her small stature, came up to me, a red-faced, panting, half-dead brute. “Hey,” she’d greeted me, “I’m Kat.”37

Once I could breathe, I grabbed one of the half-empty bottles of water that littered the field, took an appeasing swig, and introduced myself as well, suddenly a bit embarrassed by my appearance; it abruptly occurred to me that my face must be bright red. My tie-die T-shirt clung uncomfortably to my somewhat stocky figure. “I’m Sally.”38

“Congratulations, Sally,” she grinned, “you survived your first cross country practice.”39

I smiled unexpectedly, laughing weakly at the unexpected thrill that came with her words. I survived.40

“Does it ever get any easier?” I’d asked after draining the water bottle and starting on another, “Running, I mean.”41

Bemused by my question, she mulled it over for a moment, tilting her head as she pulled at her chocolate brown ponytail. “Um. Not easier, exactly, but you’ll get used to it.”42

I liked the way she’d said that, not getting my hopes up but also implying that I would come back, try running again, rather than simply deciding it was too hard and giving up as I had done with so many other things. And I did come back. Although it wasn’t easy, by the end of the week I could run three miles. By the end of the cross country season, I was capable of running six.43

“Hi, hon,” my mom sighed into the phone, a hint of aggravation in her tone, “I’m sorry but I’m running late. This freaking traffic…. Do you think you could keep yourself busy for another hour or so?”44

“Oh, yeah, no problem,” I assured her, “I wanted to Gerbio’s, anyway.” 45

“Ok, are you done with your homework?” she asked, not overly concerned because she knew I could be trusted. 46

“Yeah, I just had to finish my Romeo and Juliet essay.”47

“Good,” she muttered, distracted, perhaps by the radio I could hear, a chattering hum in the background, “well, go ahead then. I’ll pick you up there. See you in a bit, honey.”48

“Mmmhmm. Love you, bye.”49

As I set off, a purposeful bounce in my step, I remembered the first few weeks of school. Friendless and shy, unwilling to brave any unnecessary, awkward contact with teenagers I didn’t know, I’d slunk into the small, welcoming bookstore which was stationed inconspicuously across the street from my new school. Instantly comfortable within the haven of its high shelves, filled with books of all kinds, I sighed with relief as I set my backpack down in a corner. Gerbio’s Bookstore was beautiful, lovely in its shabbiness, because it was just what I needed.50

“Hi, David,” I greeted the slightly chubby, middle aged man behind the register. 51

As he looked up, recognition dawned on his features. “Hey, Sally,” he called, his kind voice soft; he fit perfectly in this atmosphere of tranquility, adding to the comfort that came with being surrounded by the immortal words of so many. “Good to see you. You haven’t been around in a while.”52

Although I knew David didn’t mean to be passive aggressive, his words caused me discomfort; I’d only been to the bookstore a couple of times since I’d joined the Track team and began to make friends. Instead of hiding away in the bookstore, I’d chosen to spend more time with others, very uncharacteristically of me; but, with running came confidence in myself I’d never believed I could posses. Miles and miles of consistent jogging had thinned me out and given me a sense of accomplishment, a sense of self worth I’d never gotten anywhere else. Josie was the first to recognize this newfound brilliance in me. Our first real conversation had occurred shortly after I’d come in third place in the eight hundred meter race, earning one point for my team. Despite the fact that some kids on my team earned over ten points per meet, I was flying high, giddy with my quasi-victory. “Wow,” she congratulated me as I returned to the expanse of grass where the rest of the team was sitting, momentarily shocking me for we’d never spoken before, “that was great!” 53

“Uh, thanks,” I responded gratefully. Her words were proof that I’d actually done well. Despite this, I’d never liked having conversation turned in my direction so I quickly added, “What event are you doing today?”54

She grimaced. “One hundred meters.”55

“That’s cool,” I enthused, “I mean, at least it’s not long distance. You’ll be done in, like, ten seconds.”56

“Yeah, I guess,” she grumbled, “but I know Coach only puts me in that race because I’m not good enough to do anything else.”57

I thought about that for a moment. “Have you ever asked him?”58

“What?” she questioned confusedly. 59

I rephrased my question. “Have you ever asked him to be in another event?”60

“Um, no,” she admitted.61

“Well, maybe that’s why he hasn’t put you in anything else.” She looked doubtful so I continued. “You know Erica?” I motioned to a tall, lithe girl whose long red hair was pulled up into a high ponytail; we watched as she sprinted, jumped, and flew into the sandpit, landing with a gracefully controlled thump. 62

“Well, she only did one event before she asked Coach if she could try hurdles and now…”63

“She’s doing, like, every single event.” Josie finished, her lips turning up into a grin that I would later realize was never far from her lips. “Cool, maybe I’ll try that.”64

As we continued talking, we soon discovered that we had History and Algebra together. In the days and weeks that followed, I stopped eating lunch with somewhat friendly strangers and, instead, sat with Josie and her friend from middle school, Paul who I’d taken an immediate liking to. He had a friendly way about him; once in his presence, all awkwardness faded, replaced by easy conversation. 65

“…I think,” David was remarking, indicating a book on a shelf to his right, “that you’d like this one.” As I pulled the novel from its abode, I stared, transfixed at the cover which featured a large, bright blue eye, flecked with red and gold. There was something menacing, ominous, dreadfully gorgeous about it that intrigued me. 66

“Wow,” I murmured, beaming, exuberant, as I dragged my eyes from the picture and back to David’s smiling face, “this looks awesome. Thanks so much!”67

It was the first time in a while that I’d really been excited about anything. 68

“You didn’t even read the summary,” David chucked, shaking his head in bemusement. 69

“I don’t have to. I already love it.”70

“Alright,” he sighed good-naturedly as he extricated the book from my hands, “That’ll be eight dollars and ninety nine cents.”71

The days passed almost easily. I relaxed into a nice, dependable routine: run for three miles in the early morning, school, hang out with friends on the quad, go to library or bookstore, home, sleep, etc. Some might have thought it monotonous but it kept me stable, on track, well away from insanity; I even began to enjoy myself as I settled back into my life. 72

“Gah,” Josie grumbled, “I swear Mrs. Torden wants me to fail Biology! This is… gah!” She went back to frowning at her textbook. I chuckled, patting her on the shoulder reassuringly. 73

“Let me see,” Erica called, a small smile gracing her freckled features as she held out her hand, palm raised. 74

Still griping with distaste for her Bio teacher, Josie handed the textbook over, eager to be rid of it. 75

“Oh,” Erica murmured after having scanned the page, “you’re doing Meiosis and Mitosis?” 76

“I guess,” Josie pouted, coming to perch by her redheaded friend on the table we were all huddled around. 77

“Well, on page twenty-six there’s a picture of how cell division works. It’s easier to understand when you can see it…” 78

Josie’s brooding temperament soon became one of rapt interest as she listened to Erica intently, nodding every now and then.79

“What homework are you doing, Sal?” Paul asked from across the table, smiling crookedly. 80

Rolling my eyes, I held up the book David had found for me. “I haven’t been able to concentrate on school properly since I started reading this. You know that.”81

“So easily amused,” he sighed, shaking his head as he scribbled down something in his notebook. “Anyway, are you going to that guidance meeting? Mrs. Harrison’s really pushing it.” 82

“Actually, yeah. I am. You?”83

Paul nodded, as if he’d been expecting my response, tilting his head, scrutinizing me. “No, I didn’t sign up,” he answered after a moment, “but I can go with you anyway if you want.”84

“No, no. That’s ok but…thanks.” I hoped he could hear the immense gratitude I felt towards him, how much I appreciated his kind offer. 85

It was very late when the phone rang. “Hullo?” I mumbled groggily into the receiver, stifling a yawn.86

“Hi, Sally. It’s Erica. Sorry… were you sleeping?”87

“Yeah,” I enunciated carefully, attempting to at least sound somewhat awake, “but that’s totally ok. I just went to bed early…”88

“Sorry,” she repeated earnestly, “but…well… I wanted to talk to you about Jimmy.”89

Mute with surprise, I made to say something, I’m not sure what, but nothing came from my uncertain, perhaps fearful lips. I hadn’t really spoken to anyone about my deceased classmate.90

Mercifully, Erica continued. “It’s just that I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately. It was just so sudden, you know?”91

I nodded. Then, when I realized she couldn’t see me, I managed a tightlipped “mmhmm”. 92

“And then you… Well, it seemed like the whole thing freaked you out too. So, for some reason, I just need to know… What was going through your head when you heard? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want,” she added quickly. 93

The quiescent mum on her side of the line seemed to indicate she was waiting for me to speak, but, again, I couldn’t find the words. I hung up. Then, appalled at my juvenile reaction, I called back. My hands trembled in nervous anticipation of the conversation to come. 94

“Um…sorry,” I breathed when Erica answered on the second ring, “I’ve been thinking about Jimmy too.”95

“Yeah?”96

“Yeah…. When I first heard, I was surprised, confused… I don’t know. I didn’t really know Jimmy well but it was still a shock.” A took a deep, slow breath to steady myself before continuing. “Some people were freaked out because they’d never experienced death before… but I have.”97

Erica was silent on the other line, waiting. 98

“My grandma died of cancer when I was in third grade and then my grandpa. After that, I thought I couldn’t feel any worse pain. I thought I was done crying, done mourning. But I wasn’t.” I was speaking too fast, almost unintelligible in my rush to get the words out. “Then, when I was in sixth grade, my mom’s friend died in her sleep. And…” I trailed off. “It just seems like my whole life is marked by death. Every important event is overshadowed by sadness, regret, what I could have said, could have done differently. And then Jimmy… he was another loss, another depression in my timeline. I just… I can’t take it anymore. There’s too much I can’t control.” There was wet on my cheeks when I finished. After a moment, I realized they were my tears. That horrible sound was a sob; it sounded terrifying to my own ears, beast-like, yet another thing I couldn’t control. 99

“It’s ok,” Erica murmured soothingly although I could tell she was nervous, unsure how to handle the situation. 100

“I know,” I agreed as the sobs finally subsided, leaving me raw and filled with something like fearlessness, “I know.”101

Once I’d calmed down, Erica told me how she’d reacted similarly at first, confused and unsure. She couldn’t wrap her head around how someone so young, so alive could just die like that. It was so unexpected, so random. I sympathized. It was all so crazy. Nothing made sense. Nothing was fair. It seemed almost like some sort of sick joke, an insult to Jimmy, that life continued. But it did. So Erica and I decided to catch up, jump back into the inexplicable craziness that was life. We would remember Jimmy and all our other beloved predecessors, but we must continue, ridding ourselves of regret. The pain would always remain, though, a throbbing ache. Embracing confusion, we attempted, at least for the time being, to accept that nothing made sense. What else could we do?102

I’m not sure if I believe in reality. It’s so objective; people are always too unsure about it. They second-guess themselves, wondering if they really perceived the world correctly. So, is there one, true reality or are they all mashed together into this mess called life?103

“Sal, Sal, Sal,” Paul sighed dramatically as I attempted to explain this to him, “you are just too deep for us.”104

“Better than being shallow,” I grumbled, leaning back into his blue beanbag chair.105

“Well,” Josie announced, “I think it’s pretty cool. I mean, I don’t totally get it, but isn’t that sorta the point?”106

I grinned at her, nodding in approval. At least I sort of made sense to someone. 107

“I think I know what you’re getting at too,” Erica murmured thoughtfully, “weren’t we talking about in Theology class today?”108

“Yep.”109

Josie gasped. “Did you see what Ms. Frickter was wearing today?”110

I rolled my eyes, unable to suppress a smile as I remembered the brightly colored socks my theology teacher enjoyed wearing with her sandals. 111

“Today they were striped,” Erica commented, “orange and green.”112

Shuddering as if her teacher’s lack of fashion sense caused her physical pain, Josie pulled a notebook out from under Paul’s bed, which was situated in a corner of the gigantic room. The wall beside it, painted a dull green, was covered with pictures of horses; he’d taken the stunning photos himself on several trips to Tanzania where he spent most of the summer with his uncle. Although I’d seen them many times before, I couldn’t help but be enthralled by the pictures. One of the horses, who I’d always overlooked, noting simply that he was a mundane, charcoal color, suddenly caught my eye. The creature looked so different to me now. He looked away from the rest of his comrades dejectedly, as if craving to be companionless. Despite this, he was surrounded by beautiful beasts. Idly, I wondered if they were friends or foes, protectors or intruders.113

“Speaking of fashion…” Josie began, pulling me back to the present with her melodramatic tone, “Paul here has been hiding something from us.”114

Taking a closer look at the spiral notebook in her hand, I saw that it had the words ‘BEWARE, PRIVATE, DO NOT READ’ written all over it. Obviously Josie had disregarded these warnings.115

“This,” she declared, wagging the book teasingly in Paul’s direction, “is Paul’s sketch book.”116

“It’s from the beginning of the year, before I dropped Art class for Technology,” Paul explained; for a moment, I thought I may have heard a nervous edge in his words.117

“Anyway,” Josie continued, ignoring the author of the book now clutched in her hand, “Turns out that Paul here is a pretty mischievous kid…”118

A tangible awkwardness hung in the air as Josie revealed the first drawing, but it could have just been me. Paul looked oddly at ease, leaning back in his maroon beanbag chair as he assessed my reaction with his calm, curious gaze. While I would have been flustered, a freaked-out-red-faced mess were I in his place, Paul was calm, unruffled. I’d always admired the way he seemed to be above embarrassment, above caring what others thought of him. For him, it was enough that he was comfortable with himself. Sometimes I felt like that too, but at that moment I certainly didn’t. Josie looked smug, while Erica seemed somewhat worried, eyeing me warily. 119

“So, what do you think?” Josie asked, breaking the silence by addressing us all. I let out a sigh of muted relief, glad she hadn’t asked me this directly. I wouldn’t have had an answer. 120

“About what?” Erica asked, overly innocent.121

“Well, about Paul’s crush of course,” Josie exclaimed, waving her arms around in an eccentric manner. “You know, there are more of these,” she added, flipping through the notebook to reveal a few more portraits, all of them with the same subject, the same centerpiece. I could tell our non-reaction was much less than she’d been hoping for. I still couldn’t find the right words to make things normal again, to turn back time, to make myself invisible, nonexistent…122

“Sally?” 123

Paul’s voice pulled me from my contemplation of impossible solutions. 124

He shouldn’t have looked any different to me. He was my friend, my Paul. Even now, he was like a rock, steady, unmoving, solid, whole, not torn apart like I was at the moment. 125

“I think it’s sweet,” Erica teased, nudging Paul playfully. 126

I could have hugged her for taking the pressure off my quaking shoulders. “They’re really nice,” I murmured, glad that my voice sounded even, “but they don’t look like me.” Paul laughed. Erica smiled confusedly, eyeing me with her brow slightly furrowed. 127

“I didn't know I was that bad of an artist,” Paul chuckled, shaking his head, amused. 128

“No, no,” I exclaimed hurriedly, “they’re all beautiful. That’s the problem. I’m not that pretty. Not even close.”129

Surprise flashed through my friend’s eyes before he shrugged. “I think you are.”130

I looked again at the girl with molten gold hair, her deep, aqua ocean eyes gazing absently at the world, her fine features determinedly uncertain. She looked familiar, but not quite real. There was no way I looked anything like her, no matter what Paul said otherwise. 131

“Freak! Freak! You… freak!”132

In response to my sister’s pathetic anger which, today, was directed towards my mom, I turned my air conditioner to “Full Blast Cool” and cranked up my radio. The folk song currently playing on my favorite station somehow managed to drown out most of Anne’s stupid screams with a peaceful, flowing sound. Sighing, I buried myself back into the book David had discovered for me. How, I wondered for the gazillionth time, had he known that it would be perfect for me? This tale of the body and soul, the supernatural mixed in with my normal everyday reality. In this story where peaceful beings had conquered the world by the sheer force of harmonious numbers both frightened me and gave me hope; “active non-violent resistance” had been my goal for a while now. In the end, though, neither side won. Love was victorious, defying reason with its powerful emotions. As this seemingly obvious truth clicked, I read the last words of the novel. I was done. Closing the hardcover with gentle hands, I thought of Jimmy whose end had been just as unexpected as that of my soul-wrenching, heart-breakingly beautiful book. And yet love went on, somehow surviving the tragedy. How could that be? Could the highs of life really balance out the lows? Did happiness override depression? Was this all a pointless game Fate was playing or did we all have some purpose? What really mattered— the whole or the individual? Were they one and the same? Innumerable questions buzzed incessantly in my mind, following me into sleep. 133

Josie had fallen out of a tree. She was climbing, totally in control. Or at least I thought she was— until she was a crumpled lump on the ground. For a moment I was utterly captivated by the tree which I only now realized was an odd pink color; for some reason, this troubled me. As I eyed the tree with grotesque fascination, the pink blossoms blooming from its branches pulsed in rhythm with my throbbing heart. The flowers had an almost fleshy quality to them…My eyes concentrated on the wrong things. My instincts were all wrong. Abruptly, I remembered Josie. How could I have forgotten her? What had distracted me? I couldn’t remember. She was gone. Where was her body? I screamed, but there was no sound. Fear constricted my heart, oppressive. I pushed the feeling away roughly, ashamed, hysterical, overwhelmed, uncomprehending. Poison burned through my veins, replacing emotions I shied away from. My mouth contorted into a grimace of nonsensical anger. But whom was I glaring at with hate-filled eyes? 134

A terrible weight pressed down upon my suddenly fragile heart. My stomach churned uncomfortably. Josie was dead. It took me a moment to separate fantasy from reality. No, no. She was alive. It had been a dream. My stiff shoulders sunk back into my mattress; head plopped back onto the blanket I used as a pillow in a sigh of relief. Disoriented, I inched open my eyelids. Light was pouring in through my window. What time was it? It couldn’t be past five thirty, could it? I was so used to my routine; not having time to run this morning would change my whole schedule. Hopping out of bed in my usual fashion, I pushed away unwanted images from my cluttered head. Just a dream. And yet, my stomach remained unsettlingly uncomfortable. 135

“Hey-a, Sally!”136

It was only when I saw her animated, very alive face that my stomach returned to normal.137

“Josie,” I sighed in greeting, worried frown replaced by a tired smile, “hey.” 138

Before I could say another word, she was chattering away. “Sally, Sally, Sally! Omigosh! What are you wearing?”139

The unexpected question threw me. “Huh?”140

Rolling her eyes in exasperation, my fashion-conscious friend shook her head in disapproval as she eyed my outfit with distaste. “Obviously,” she informed me, groaning and tutting as if speaking to a dimwit, “you need to dress better than that if you’re going to impress Paul.”141

“What?!” My shocked voice sounded almost hysterical, coming out squeaky with horror-struck surprise. 142

“Well, duh,” Josie continued, unfazed by my reaction. “I mean, no offense, but you look like you’re going on a run. You know, you should really dress more like your sister. Doesn’t she shop at Hollister? She was wearing a really cute shirt the other day…”143

“Hey!” I interrupted, defensive for I absolutely loathed being compared to my sister; sometimes, I went out of my way to differentiate myself from her, to maintain my individuality, my sanity, myself. “I happen to like my clothes. They’re comfortable.” I made a face to indicate exactly how I felt about her last suggestion which I was convinced she’d mentioned just to spite me. 144

“Ok, ok. Fine,” Josie conceded, “but at least let me…”145

“No.”146

“But…”147

“No.”148

“Not even a little lip gloss?”149

“Nope,” I negated, grinning with the thrill of victory. 150

Stomping away, my self-appointed personal fashion advisor gave me one last annoyed look before turning away, glossy brown hair glowing dully in the badly lit hallway. As the first bell rang and I headed toward my own class, French, I contemplated Josie’s arguments. Although I wasn’t especially keen on admitting it, even to myself, I did wear practically the same thing to school that I wore running. The only difference was that, during the winter anyway, I wore my favorite black pants or jeans rather than shorts. During the spring and summer, though, my running and school attire were one and the same. It wasn’t like this was the first time I’d noticed this. Other girls wore clothes from Abercrombie & Fitch, Hollister, Wet Seal, or American Eagle. Unlike me, they wore the clothes they bought at the mall. I, on the other hand, was never entirely comfortable in such things. Instead, I preferred wearing my mom’s old running shirts, my newer running shirts from the few races I’d done out of school (Tufts 10k, the “Turkey Trot” on Thanksgiving, a 5k in Martha’s Vineyard), and the shorts I’d gotten at Target the previous summer. At a time when I’d been more naïve, I’d gone on a shopping spree with Josie who delighted in consumer-mania. After an hour or so, I couldn’t take it anymore; the place was driving me insane; claustrophobia was not far off. Even so, I managed to survive until Josie had tried on every “fashionable” thing in the mall, my own personal hell, and even tried on a few things I wasn’t particularly thrilled about but Josie insisted looked great. I wasn’t convinced, but, to appease her, I bought a red tank and a Panic! At The Disco CD, the only thing I ever purchased from Hollister. 151

The only awkward moments Paul and I were forced to endure always occurred when Josie was in our presence. She’d drop snide comments when we were least prepared to ward them off. “So, when are you guys going out?” or “Paul, don’t you think Sally looks pretty today?” were her favorites. Paul, as usual, seemed fairly unfazed by all this so, eventually, I followed his example, managing to restrain myself from freaking out whenever this happened, doing my best to keep my face from burning, my flustered breathing calm and steady, almost normal. As I continued behaving in this Paul-like manner, Josie grew less and less bothersome; she seemed to grow bored when her comments ceased to provoke me. It was only then, when I was more comfortable with myself for I had no need to fear Josie’s attacks, that I began to notice Erica’s reactions. Every time Josie came up with a new remark for Paul and I which, I was thrilled to notice, was becoming a phenomenon more and more uncommon, Erica always seemed intent on Paul’s response. One time, when he casually replied that yes, he did think Sally looked nice today, to one of Josie’s questions, Erica looked sad, pained, or perhaps disappointment was the expression that darkened her emerald eyes to a dull army green. 152

“It would seem that we have a love triangle on our hands,” Josie twittered on a dull Wednesday afternoon, her delighted demeanor at odds with the continuously oppressive rain drowning the outdoors in showers of wet. 153

“Yeah?” I replied out of courtesy, not actual interest, as I doodled absently in the margins of a blank sheet I planned to take notes on when Mrs. Harrison began the class.154

“Omigosh, yes!” Josie giggled excitedly, missing my lack of interest.155

“Mmmhmm. Who?” I asked the question she wanted most to answer. Having been friends with Josie for what seemed like years but what were really only a few months, I’d grown accustomed to conversations such as these during which very little input was required on my part. I was the perfect audience, allowing her to babble away while nodding and asking questions every few minutes to keep up the allusion that we were actually having a conversation. 156

“You, Paul, and Erica of course,” she declared in a whisper so loud that Mrs. Harrison gave us a warning glance before returning to her monologue. 157

“Of course,” I murmured wearily to myself, shaking my head in disbelief that Josie had figured it out as well, “of course.”158

I’d clearly underestimated Josie, thinking that I was the only one to have noticed anything amiss with Erica. After the shock had worn off, though, my stiff shoulders relaxed into a slump. An odd calm had washed over me. Hope? Relief? I mused over the fact that I felt no jealousy. 159

I’d thought about skipping the first guidance meeting but perhaps, I reasoned, it would be good for me to get some sort of closure. Really, I wanted a perfectly reasonable explanation for why we all must face death at some time in our lives. Why did some, such as Jimmy, die so young and others so old? I wanted a textbook from which I could learn the answers to my impossible questions. Yes, I wanted the unfathomable, the impossible, to suddenly, magically make perfect sense. These hopes were unreasonable, nonsensical, but, nevertheless, they were the ones that pushed me to enter the guidance office at 2:15 PM and plop into an uncomfortable orange chair.160

“So, here we all are,” a voice from a corner of the room announced. 161

I let out an unwilling squeak of surprise as I turned to face a tall, not unattractive older woman. She was on the verge of beauty, great age, and what Josie would call a “fashion catastrophe”. But all of these she was not, not quite, so her altogether demeanor was average, mediocre rather than intimidating. 162

“Hi,” she greeted the sizeable group of us congregated in a semicircle of ugly chairs around her, “I’m glad you all came. Do you know one another?”163

It was a weird sort of question to ask teenagers who all went to the same school; nevertheless, it unnerved me enough that I looked around. To my right was Jessica Parker, legs and arms crossed as if she was attempting to fold into herself, to disappear; Clement, a boy I recognized from my art class, was seated on my left, a few inches away. Though I knew these people by name, I hadn’t had a conversation with Jessica for years and Clement, well, the only time we’d ever spoken was when he’d asked me to pass the blue paint and I responded that I only had red and yellow. My gaze returned to rest on the guidance counselor as she introduced herself. “I’m Dr. Khan and, by the end of this session, you will all be able to say that you know at least one other person.”164

This was not entirely true. Although Clement and I were paired up and given a sheet of ‘guideline questions’ to ask one another, we didn’t get any deeper than, ‘Uh… so, what’s your name?’ and unimaginative, generic questions such as ‘What career would you like to pursue in the future?’ or ‘What are your hobbies outside school?’165

“Well,” Clement sighed when we’d gone through the list, “that was pointless.”166

I nodded in agreement, leaning back into my chair. Looking around the room, I noticed that most people were still quizzing one another. Beside me, Jessica looked uncomfortable as she answered her partner, Regina, a girl from my Algebra class, in a restrained tone that inferred how little she wanted to give away. She may have been slightly more open with anyone but Regina, who fed on the distress of others, eager for a chance to scavenge any juicy gossip she could pass around. It was an accomplishment she could be proud of because, although she felt slight shame, making herself into someone worthwhile, someone people listened to, was so adamantly important that she figured that the ends justified the means. At the moment, she looked quite like a hideous predator, looming over her vulnerable prey with a sly grin edging onto her glossy lips. 167

“So,” a voice from my left began, reminding me of his presence, “you’re in my art class, right…Sally?”168

“Yeah,” I replied, returning my attention to the boy beside me, “I am.”169

“Hmm,” he murmured, musing over this information, “well, I’m curious. Why did you come here?”170

It was a good question but I couldn’t come up with a simple, straightforward answer for him. Life, I had begun to realize, was rarely black and white, good and evil, true and false; there were many shades of gray. “I’m… not exactly sure,” I answered honestly. “I guess I wanted answers, some sort of closure.”171

“Did you get it?”172

“No, not really,” I chuckled, smiling slightly. “How about you? Why did you come?”173

He hesitated a moment too long before responding. “Just curious,” he muttered, grinning to cover up the uncertainty I could see in his chocolate brown eyes, “that’s all.”174

There was a weird churning in my stomach as I climbed the stairs to where the Art classroom was located on the third and top floor. It was either nervous anticipation or there had been something seriously wrong with the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I’d eaten for lunch. 175

“Hi Sally,” the plump, dark haired woman who was Ms. Danon greeted me with a mildly surprised smile, “you’re early.”176

“Yeah,” I replied with a shrug, fiddling with a pencil rather than meeting my art teacher’s gaze, “guess I’m just excited for the new project.”177

“Oh, good,” she called delightedly from where she was busying with something behind her desk, “I think you’ll like this, Sally. It’s definitely your style.”178

Considering that Ms. Danon knew me fairly well, I didn’t doubt this. Still, I hoped she wasn’t joking, actually meaning to give us some horrible assignment she knew I’d hate such as drawing a very realistic scene in the classroom, maybe something that required tuns of shading like an apple or a spoon. I frowned in distaste at the thought. 179

“Hey.”180

My heart, beating too fast, made it much too difficult to pull air into my suddenly compressed lungs. My head throbbed in beat with my flighty heart, a sparrow pounding on my ribcage, demanding to be let out. Only a moment later, when I’d managed to control my ragged breathing into something that could almost pass as normal, did I register his voice, familiar to me now.181

“Clement,” I breathed in greeting to the brown-eyed, curly haired boy who was eyeing me with puzzled interest, “uh, hi.”182

At that moment, Mrs. Danon unknowingly came to my aid, rescuing me from my tongue-tied state by calling out to the room at large, which had filled up while I’d been preoccupied with puzzling emotions. 183

“Ok, sit down everyone. Calm down, please. Today we’re starting a new project.” 184

A few groans erupted throughout the classroom, most of which were concentrated in the corner where Jessica usually sat. I noticed that she wasn’t there today. Instead, I realized, after a quick scan of the room, she was huddled in a seat at the other end of the table, clearly avoiding her fair-weather friends. 185

“So,” Mrs. Danon continued as if she hadn’t been interrupted, “this project is more… abstract than usual. I’ll also be giving you all a lot of freedom with this because it’s very personal.” She paused for a moment to let her words sink in; she had most of her students’ full attention now. “I want you,” she announced, her voice clear and unusually solemn, “to draw a feeling.” There were a few murmurs at this; most sounded confused or annoyed. “For example, she elaborated, “you can portray emotions such as hope, depression, happiness…Feel free to use colored pencils, pastels, any kind of paint… whatever you want, really. So, now,” she concluded, “get started.”186

It’s hard to say how it started but, gradually, Clement became a necessity, an anchor in my life. On that first day, we sat together during Art, discussing the odd yet intriguing project Mrs. Danon had come up with, as well as our first guidance meeting and whether we would go to the next one. From there on out, our camaraderie had developed into a friendship I’d come to depend on. Art class was the highlight of my day, what I looked forward to, except on Wednesdays when I didn’t have Art; on those days, the minutes felt like hours, dragging on and on in endless monotony.187

“You know,” Clement declared on a muggy Tuesday afternoon, last period, “you could come hang out with Frank, Shannon, Dave, and me sometime.”188

Whatever he saw in my expression caused him to backtrack. “I mean,” he muttered hurriedly, “if you want to.”189

“Oh, yeah. I’d like that,” I assured him smilingly, his uncertainty boosting my confidence for some reason. Clement was usually the reckless, outspoken one, while I was more of an introvert who was comfortable with companionable silence but afraid of empty loneliness. 190

“Good,” he grinned, returning to his usual self.191

During the summer, when my dad, mom, Anne, and I go on a two-week sailing trip, I’m at my best in the early morning and the late afternoon. It’s then that I can enjoy my life to the fullest, when can fully appreciate all I have, all I’ve lost, and all that is yet to come.192

We had been well into the second week of our trip, visiting a state park, when we began to hear a dully-continuous beat, while walking back to the boat one pitch-black night, the occasional campfire our only guiding light. My dad, who seems to know all about anything and everything, perhaps because he is a very social person, insisted that the sound was a drum and that the far off wailing was actually singing; of course, he was not mistaken. As we neared the source of the sound, I could distinctly make out the drum, constant in rhythm, dependable, and the singer’s voice, so charged with raw emotion and beautiful in an unconfined way, as if whoever it was, was crying out all their secrets, their insecurities, their problems that they wouldn’t mention anywhere else; but the music made it all ok, made it enjoyable, beautiful even. 193

“God! I want a piece of paper so bad!” one of the band members howled in annoyed desperation. Another one of them laughed, as if he was used to his friend’s spontaneous freak-outs. 194

As for me, I could relate to the screamer. I imagined that he wished for paper because he’d been inspired but was unable to jot down the amazing lyrics that had bloomed in his mind; with his short term memory loss, the perfect words would be gone in seconds. I heard leaves ruffle in the darkness at he rose, frustrated, to his feet and stumbled off in search of writing materials. It was then that I noticed my family, already moving away from the scene before I could object. With no other option, I trudged along behind them, through the mud and green, green grass, over planks that lead to the main office, a small log cabin. I remembered my dad began speaking animatedly with a volunteer who worked there, asking about the fee for renting a canoe. Exhausted, my mother and sister plopped down onto a nearby bench; Anne quickly dozing off, head propped up on my mom’s shoulder. So no one noticed him but me. As a figure strode into the yellow-tinted light, some instinct told me that this was the screamer, the boy so desperate to get his thoughts on paper. In the light, he was of average height and lean, his hair, a shock of midnight curls, contrasted with his alabaster skin, rendered an unnatural shade of lemon due to a lamp in which hung above my father’s head. My first reaction was one of muted terror, for I recognized this boy, though I didn’t even know him by name at the time. After I had retreated into the shadows, closer to where my mom and sister were seated, I felt a vague annoyance. To me, this boy, this screamer, was an intruder. I didn’t want anyone from school butting into my summer life. No, I wanted to be far, far away from schoolwork, petty dramas, insecurity, and mundane days that all mirrored one another. Not having noticed me, the intruder came to stand by my dad, waiting his turn to speak to the volunteer. 195

“Well, thank you very much,” my dad was saying to the rather bored looking teenager at the desk, “nice to meet you.” Unurprised, I noticed that, as usual, my father had made friends; it was a quality of his that was somewhere between annoying and endearing, his making friends with everyone he met. He’d once confided in me that, when he was a kid, he didn’t have many good friends for his dad, my short tempered grandpa, was constantly fighting with his bosses and then he, my dad, and my kindhearted, soft-spoken but firm grandma would have to move on to another town. My dad went to thirteen different middle schools and high schools combined. I couldn’t help wondering, superstitious as I was, if he would have done better if they’d moved one time more or less; thirteen was usually such a bad omen, a curse of sorts. 196

Because the screamer’s normal tone was actually quite soft, I could only make out the words I’d been expecting, ‘paper’ and ‘pen’, and perhaps a ‘please’ thatched onto the end of his request. I would have liked to stay, hidden by the darkness, transfixed as I was with this intruder, but now my dad was helping my mom up, prodding my sister awake, and leading us away as he told us of where we could go in a not-too-expensive canoe. 197

I told Clement the story of the first time I’d seen him a little embarassedly. I’d waited until I thought we were good enough friends that he wouldn’t laugh or think I was a psychotic stalker to tell my tale. 198

“You know,” Clement murmured, a smile playing on the corners of his lips, “I did see you that day, when you thought you were invisible.”199

“Really?” I asked dumbly, staring blankly down at the splotches of paint that constituted the emotion I was supposed to be painting. “Did you recognize me?”200

“Yeah,” he replied, nodding, eyes glazed over with memory, “I thought I’d seen you at school before, but, uh, you looked a bit annoyed at me.” He grinned jokingly, “I guess you didn’t like me much, even then.”201

I rolled my eyes, turning back to my hopeless attempt at painting a feeling I didn’t understand. “I do like you though,” I added, just in case he actually meant what he was saying in more than a teasing manner, “but, you know, I hate having anything to do with school during the summer. You were like… and intruder in my happy place.” My lips twitched into a smile as I bent down low over my work, as I added a few more red splotches. 202

When Clement didn’t reply after a long minute, I glanced up tentatively. He was gazing at me with an unfathomable expression.203

“What?” I asked, putting down my paintbrush to pull on my ponytail self consciously, “Is there something wrong?”204

“No,” my friend sighed with what seemed to be joyous relief, breaking into a smile that lit up his entire face, “everything’s great. Everything’s perfect.”205

‘Perfect’ is a terrible word; like the number thirteen, I consider it to be an omen. If the depressing horrible times in our lives our balanced out by the happy ones, then the same can be said for the opposite. The moment Clement uttered that dreadful word, though I smiled with pleasure that all was well between us, nerves gnawed at my belly for I knew that Fate had been provoked, that there was no stopping tragedy when it was meant to be, etched so immutably in the stars. 206

Jessica and I had been the best of friends, but there had always been underlying problems in our bond which had seemed so certain, so strong. It seemed, at first, that we were the perfect pair; she liked to think of herself as a leader and I, though not exactly a follower, was quiet and shy, ready to believe the best in everyone but myself. She offered me direction when I felt lost, which was fairly often; knowing so much more than me in matters of womanhood, she was my mentor, my guide, offering her abundant knowledge as we went along. Despite what one may think, I was the one to first approach her, not the other way around. Her best friend, Fiona, who was very much a leader herself, had moved and was now attending a school in France, so she was alone, friendless. I was secure, content with my best friend, Danielle, an exceptionally bright, kind girl who had the same calm temperament as I did. We never fought like Fiona and Jessica had always done, getting all worked up over nothing, refusing to speak to one another, and then making up the following day. Danielle and I looked down upon their ridiculous antics with skepticism, wondering why they bothered being friends anyway if it was so much trouble, a constant battle with brief moments of short-lived peace. 207