How to Be Brave(56)
“And now you’re friends with Avery and Chloe? Even after what she said to me at the party?”
“What’d she say?”
“You don’t remember?”
Liss shakes her head.
We were all pretty messed up that night, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.
“She said, ‘I thought you said she was cool.’”
“Chloe said that? About you?”
“No. Avery did. And last night, at the gallery: ‘They’re really colorful’? Like she couldn’t even muster up something better than colorful? I thought she was on some mission to be nice to everyone. I poured my heart into those.”
“She doesn’t have to like them, you know.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Okay, well, look: Chloe’s not that bad, Georgia.” Liss shrugs. “And Avery’s, well … she’s Avery. You know she wakes up at four thirty every morning just to straighten her hair?”
“That’s supposed to convince me that she’s a good person?”
“No, Georgia. It’s supposed to convince you that she’s human. That she has insecurities, just like us. And that she was high, too, that night when she said that thing about you not being cool or whatever. And she says and does stupid and mean things, just like we all do. And I mean, nobody’s that bad. Don’t you think we’ve judged them just as much as they ever judged us?”
…
“We’re all just trying to get through, you know?”
…
“I mean, would it help if I said she volunteers at the hospital every Saturday? We’re all just trying our best.”
…
“Why do you care so much about what she thinks, anyway?”
…
“Think about Evelyn. I think she’s the one who’s struggling the worst. She’s trying the hardest.”
And she’s right. About all of it.
“I am sorry, Georgia. Really.”
“I’m more sorry. Infinitely so.” The tears come now, fast and full. I can hardly catch my breath. “Like, down deep, buried into my core, is this gaping hole of remorse for what I did. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to express how big it is.”
Liss wipes tears from her face and smiles. “I think you just did.”
“Well, okay, then.” I take a deep breath. “Good.”
“I have something for you.” She pulls out a blue envelope with my name written on it. “Here.”
I rip it open and there it is, my list, numbers 1 through 15, all rewritten in Liss’s handwriting.
“I’m mostly pissed at you because you ripped it up,” she says. “Maybe even more so than for kissing that f*ckhead.”
I don’t know what to say, partly because I’m moved by the gesture, but also because I’m feeling done with it—with the idea of doing everything, of being brave, of living life for my mom when she couldn’t even take care of herself enough to live it for me.
“Thank you for doing this, but, um, yeah … I don’t think so. I think the list is over.”
“What?”
“I don’t really need to do everything. And honestly? I’m kind of pissed at my mom for telling me to in the first place. This should have been her list, not mine. And she should have included a point where she took better care of herself so she could be a mom and tell me how not to f*ck up my life.”
“Oh, come on, Georgia. You don’t mean that.”
“I kind of do, though.…”
“Really?”
“You were there. You know what happened.”
“But Georgia, she loved you. She couldn’t help what happened to her. She couldn’t help getting sick.”
“Couldn’t she?”
“Why do you always do this?”
“Do what?”
“Expect the worst. Go to extremes. Give yourself over to something big, then give it all up when there’s even a little bit of imperfection.”
Do I do that?
“She wasn’t perfect, and neither are you. And just because she died doesn’t mean she didn’t love you. Maybe she’s not here to make you feel bad about doing stupid stuff, but I hope that doesn’t mean you’re going to give up doing stupid stuff. I mean, you have to live, Georgia. You have to f*ck up sometimes. You will f*ck up sometimes. Everyone does.”
And she’s right. Again.
Damn it.
“Okay, fine. Let’s say I do the list. Let’s say I finish doing my list of stupid things because my dying mother told me to try everything at least once, even if it’s throwing myself out of airplanes that are not about to crash.” I point to the new, clean list written in her handwriting. “But what about numbers thirteen to fifteen?”
“What about it?” Liss says. “List or no list, you have to go for him. I mean, I hang out with him all the time. And he thinks you’re cute. At least, that’s the word he used.”
Ex-squeeze-me?
“Wait. What? But—but—you guys. I mean, you’re together, right?”
Liss bursts into this huge guffaw of a laugh. “Me and Daniel? God, no! Not my type at all. I mean, he’s supernice, but A) he’s too skinny and B) he’s like a brother.”