Searching for Beautiful
Page 4“Now you’re sorry? When everything falls down around you? How are we supposed to believe that? All you’ve done is lie lately. You didn’t want us to know about Jason. Why would you do that if you didn’t know how old he was?”
My heart starts to thunder. One lie. I don’t know what to do or say. If I tell them I didn’t know, it just looks like I’m covering. “He told me no one could see us together. He said he couldn’t meet you guys and I couldn’t tell anyone about him.”
“Pfft, but you did. You told us all about him. You told us you had this awesome guy who you weren’t ready to introduce us to!” Ellie shakes her head.
It was stupid to lie. Stupid to be so insecure. I get that. Dropping my head back I close my eyes. I need to make them believe. I need them.
“I lied, but not for me. For him,” I say. “Don’t you think I realize how stupid that is now? Don’t you think I’ve lost enough?”
“You dropped us. You started to pull away, and then it was all about him. We were best friends, Brynn. It doesn’t make any sense.”
Diana adds, “Regardless, it was us. We shared everything. There were so many secrets between the three of us, but as long as it was only in our circle it was okay. Before, you wouldn’t have hesitated to tell us something, even if some guy didn’t want you to. Our friendship was more important than that.”
Everything Mr. Rogers said is happening. And they’re right, too. It’s not like I can expect them to believe me. I just want to go back in time. To go back to the day Jason called me Red and this time, tell him to fuck off. To walk away from him and never think of him again. I want to go back to after Mom died. No, to before she died. I want her back. My life back.
“We all went to one of the Storm’s games last year, Brynn. How do you expect us to believe you didn’t know who he was?” Ellie almost looks like she’s pleading with me. Like she wants me to give her an answer she can believe, but all I have is the truth.
“What?” I push off the door. “That happened way before I met him! Did you know who he was? If I said the name Jason Richter, would you automatically know he’s a baseball player? We couldn’t have cared less about that game. The three of us only went because the boys wanted us to. While Ian, Todd, and Kevin watched that stupid game, we painted our nails! We freaking Facebooked on our phones. Plus, it’s not like there aren’t a million Jason Richters in the world.” I’m sorry I lied. I’m sorry I couldn’t deal with Mom better. Sorry I still don’t know how to deal with any of this.
Even though Ian and I had been off and on, it had always been the six of us. The only difference is, before the end of seventh grade, we had Christian instead of Ian. But then Mom died. Then I messed up the balance when I met Jason; I kept myself apart from our little group.
“Pretty big coincidence.” Ellie isn’t pleading with me anymore. That’s always been Ellie. She doesn’t take crap from anyone. She’s strong, and I’ve always wished I could be more like her, but now I’d love for her to not be the type who is willing to walk away. To understand and give a second chance, because I don’t know how I’ll deal with this if I lose them for good. “And speaking of Facebook, what about his page? It would have said he played baseball.”
“He told me he didn’t have one. Why would I assume he lied about that?”
“Whatever. That doesn’t explain the rest of it. I thought we were friends.” Diana shakes her head. “I guess all these years meant nothing to you if you can’t tell us the truth. We don’t even know who you are anymore, Brynn.” A single tear leaks out of her eye.
With that, they turn their backs on me and walk away.
I don’t know who I am anymore, either.
Chapter Six
Before
“I don’t feel like it.” I trace the pattern on my headboard with my finger, every curl of green leaves and vines. All the delicate flowers Mom spent hours painting for my birthday this year. It’s still here and she’s not. She hasn’t been here for a month now.
I wish I could make something, the way she did. I used to be able to. But I haven’t touched my pottery since she’s been gone.
“I think you should,” Ellie adds. “Even just the mall or something. You can’t spend all your time locked in the house like…”
My father?
A hermit?
The loneliest person in the world?
I feel like them all. I don’t think there will be a day when I don’t feel like I’m all of those things. Maybe that’s the way it should be. There isn’t an answer book to this type of thing.
“What about Ian?” Diana adds. “You’ve been ignoring him. All he wants is to be there for you, Brynn. We all do.” I know it’s true; I do, at least with her and Ellie. But knowing and reacting are two different things. I can’t make myself do the latter.
My lips stretch into a half smile to placate them. I don’t tell them Ian is calling me less and less. That I’m not calling him at all, though I’m sure they know that part, since I’m not calling them, either. “I’m tired… I don’t know…” My mom is gone! I want to tell them. My best friend in the world is gone and I hate the way things were left between us. Why can’t they understand?
“Okay, so you relax tonight, but you have to go to Ian’s birthday party tomorrow. That’s, like, a girlfriend duty.” Ellie comes over and sits next to me on the bed. “I know you miss her…”
If she knows, then why is she talking to me about girlfriend duty? Parties and movies don’t mean anything to me right now.
“God, she was the coolest, right? Your mom was so awesome. I always wished she was mine.” This from Diana.
“Oh, you remember that one time…”
They launch into stories about my mom. Stories about her like she was theirs. Like they miss her as much as I do. Like it’s okay to sit here and talk about her as though it’s not a big deal that she’s gone. It is a big deal. The biggest deal, and they’re laughing and talking and I hate that I can’t do it, too. I hate that I’m mad at them for it.
They go straight from that into Ian’s party and what they’re wearing and, oh, Brynn, I think you should wear, and I nod when I’m supposed to and reply when I’m supposed to, but somehow their words leave me feeling more and more empty inside.
For some reason, I don’t want to share my thoughts or memories of her with them right now. I don’t want anyone else to talk about her.
That’s a lie. I want Dad to talk about her.
She frowns and grabs my hand. “You didn’t even hear any of that, did you?” She doesn’t give me time to answer before she continues. “I know you’re sad and we get that, but we can’t help if you don’t talk to us. Talk to someone. Your mom would want that.”
It’s those words that shove me over the edge. I can’t believe they would tell me what my mom wants. That they think they can say to talk it out and I just can. She didn’t have to find her mom dead.
Clay mixes with water down the drain as I wash my hands. I’m still frowning, still annoyed at Mom, but my eyes keep flashing to the vase I just made and I can’t stop thinking… She would love it. I love it, but I know she would even more. Mom’s always been into thinner, longer designs and that’s exactly how this one came out.
As frustrated as I am at her, excitement still skitters through me when I think of how she’ll react when she sees it. Mom loves it when I create things. It feels good to make her proud that she picked me.
But she also had an attitude with me today for no reason. She’s been on my back all day. Serves her right if I don’t show it to her right now.
Deciding against telling her, I turn off the faucet in my pottery room and head for the door.
I count the steps from my room to the back door. Fifteen. Shaking my head, I giggle when I think of how crazy it is to count my movements as though that will make it take longer to get inside. I’ve already been out here longer than I need to be, so I finally just push the door open.
See her legs on the floor as I push it farther and farther.
My heart starts to jackhammer. What is she doing on the floor? What is she doing on the floor?
Her waist.
“Mom!” The door hits the counter as I shove it open.
“Mom!” My legs collapse from under me and I hit the floor.
She’s not moving. Not talking. I’m afraid to see if she’s breathing.
No, no, no. “Mom? Please! Please, wake up.” The words break apart as I speak them. My tears fall on her as I pull her head to my lap. Holding her, I struggle to get my cell out of my pocket. My fingers shake as I dial 911, my free hand running through her hair like she does with me.
The woman who answers hardly gets out any words before I yell, “Help. Please. Help me!”
“Brynn?” Diana snaps me out of the memory. One look at her tells me she’s frustrated. “We’re going to go. Think about what I said, okay?” She stands and then so does Ellie.
“Do you want us to pick you up tomorrow?” Ellie asks.
“What time?” Diana asks.
“Umm…seven?” I feel like I’m on autopilot, saying what I’m supposed to and not feeling any of it.
“Okay, we’ll see you then.”
“Love ya,” they both say.
“Love you, too…”
I can’t make myself go to the party. I can’t make myself answer the phone. And when I go back to school, it’s a struggle just to hang out with my friends.
The worst part is I know they’re right. Mom wouldn’t want this for me, even if I did sit in my pottery room being angry at her while she was dying.
I wish I could be as good as she was.
Chapter Seven
September
Now
My parents met at a high school dance. Mom used to tell me about it all the time, how Dad didn’t go to her school but he’d been at the dance with someone else, and the second their eyes locked from across the room, she knew he was someone special.
She told me how he’d asked her to dance. How he’d called her his beautiful lady in Italian. She said when his arms wrapped around her, she felt dizzy, and in that moment, she knew she loved him.
Ever since the first time I heard that story, two things were true about me. First, I was a total romantic. I wanted a love like Mom and Dad’s. I wanted to be someone’s beautiful, maybe even fall in love just like they had.
Second, I’ve always looked forward to school. Don’t ask me how I brought those two things together—maybe since it was a school dance or because I wanted to believe I’d find my true love at a young age. Or maybe it was because the first time I thought I fell in love, it was at school, in the seventh grade. But whatever the reason, I loved school. Thrived in it.
Now, the thought makes me sick to my stomach.
I can’t stop staring in the mirror of my armoire, looking for some sort of sign that I’ve changed in the last few months. That spending the summer without my friends, alternating between the house and my pottery room, working to create something that just won’t come to me, is enough punishment. That watching my dad try to talk to me, when he can hardly look me in the eyes, is enough of a prison. That knowing I once had life inside me—even if only for a little while—only to have it stolen, is enough torture.