Keeping The Moon(8)

“That thing in your lip is, like, repulsive.” She scrunched up her nose as she said it.

“Isabel,” Morgan said sternly in a Mom voice. “Stop it.”

“And next time you decide to dye your hair,” Isabel went on, ignoring her, “you should try to get all of it one color. I’m sure

your mom can afford to send you to a professional.”

“Label,” Morgan said, grabbing her by the arm. Then she looked at me. “Colie,” she said, like she knew me. “Just don’t listen

…”

But I didn’t hear her, couldn’t, was already gone, turning and walking out the door with the food in my hands to the parking lot

before I even knew what was happening. Over the years I had perfected removing myself from situations. It was kind of like

automatic pilot; I just shut down and retreated, my brain clicking off before anything that hurt could sink in.

But every once in a while, something would get through. Now I stood under that one streetlight and the fries and onion rings stank

in my hands. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I wasn’t even me anymore. I was bigger, a year younger, and back in my neighborhood the

night Chase Mercer and I took that walk down to the eighteenth hole.

I didn’t cry as I walked back to Mira’s house. You get to a point where you just can’t. It never stops hurting. But I was glad

when I didn’t cry anymore.

I didn’t even know this girl, this Isabel with her blonde hair and pouty lips. It was like I wore a permanent “Kick Me” sign,

not only at home and school but out in the rest of the world, too. It isn’t fair, I thought, but those words were as meaningless

as all the rest.

Mira was sitting in front of the TV when I came in. She’d put on a pair of blue old-lady slippers and replaced the kimono with a

faded plaid bathrobe.

“Colie?” she called out. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Did you find it okay?”

I looked at myself in the full-length mirror by the door: my black hair, my piercing, my torn-up jeans and black shirt, long-

sleeved even in this summer heat. Isabel had hated me on sight, and not because I was fat. Just because she could.

“Colie?” Mira called out again.

“Yeah,” I said. “Your salad’s right here.” I took it into the back room. She opened the box immediately and popped a piece of

lettuce into her mouth.

“Oh, I just love their Caesar dressing!” she said happily. “Norman sneaks some home to me every once in a while. It’s

wonderful. What did you get?”

“Just a burger and fries. Here’s your change.” I put it on the coffee table, where she had two plates and two iced teas and a

stack of napkins waiting.

“Oh, thank you. Now sit down and let’s eat. I’m ravenous.” Cat Norman hauled himself out from under the couch and nudged the

bottom of the box with his nose.

“I’m not that hungry,” I said.

“Bad cat,” she said, pushing him back with one foot. To me she added, “But you must be starving! You’ve had such a long day,

all this excitement.”

“I’m really tired,” I said. “I think I’ll just turn in.”

“Oh.” She stopped eating, glancing up at me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” This came instantly, like a reflex.

“You sure?”

I thought of Isabel, the way her eyes narrowed as she zeroed in on me. Of my mother in her purple windsuit, new shoes squeaking,

waving good-bye. Of an entire summer stretching ahead. “Yes,” I said. “I’m sure.”

“Well, okay,” she said slowly as if we were striking a bargain. “You probably are worn out.”

“Yeah,” I said, starting out of the room, my cold smelly burger still in my hand. “I am.”

“Okay, well, then good night!” she called after me as I started out of the room. “And if you change your mind …”

“Okay,” I said, “thanks.” But she was already settling back in her chair, Cat Norman leaping with a bit of effort to the arm

beside her. She turned up the volume on yet another wrestling match, and I could hear the crowd roar, cheering and screaming, as I

climbed the stairs to my room.

“Colie!”

It wasn’t morning. The room was dark, with the moon big and yellow and hanging just where I’d left it in the corner of the

window.

“Colie!”

I sat up in bed, forgetting for a second where I was. Then it came back: the train, Norman, wrestling, Isabel’s beauty tips. My

face was dry and tight, my eyelashes sticky from the crying I didn’t do anymore.

“Colie?” It was Mira, her voice right outside my door. “You have company, honey.”

“Company?”

“Yes. Downstairs.” She tapped the door with her fingers before walking away. I wondered if I was dreaming.

I pulled my jeans back on and opened the door, looking down the stairs at the lighted room below. This had to be a joke. I didn’t

even get company at home, much less at a place I’d been less than a day.