The Pretty One(64)

And then someone does.

Drew clears his throat and takes a step back, but I’m still clinging to his hand for dear life. “I guess I should probably get going.”

“We should really clean this cut, though,” I hear myself say.

Why do I even bother talking?

“I have a first-aid kit in the car,” Drew says quickly and looks at his watch. His voice sounds warbly, like he’s frightened of someone coming home and finding us there. “See you tomorrow,” he adds, before walking out the door.

When it closes behind him, I’m not so sure that I will.



Lucy arrives home nearly a half hour later and finds me in the backyard jumping rope. I have no idea why I’m doing this, considering that:

I haven’t jumped rope in about a million years.

Our yard is pretty much just a cement slab the size of a postage stamp.

I can probably count the number of times I’ve actually been in our “backyard.”

As anyone who’s ever jumped rope knows, after about two seconds you’re ready to keel over from exhaustion.

Nevertheless, here I am, jumping rope with all the energy and enthusiasm of a fourth-grader. But I don’t feel energized or enthused. The truth of the matter is that I have been suffering from severe anxiety ever since Drew left, and although I’ve felt anxious many times before, my usual solution (eating) just didn’t appeal to me at the moment. Besides, we were out of Oreos. I checked.

“What are you doing?” Lucy looks surprised and horrified, as if she just found me drinking directly out of the milk container.

I continue to jump even though I’m so winded I’m having trouble exhaling. “Interpretive dance.”

Lucy shakes her head, not finding my joke the least bit funny. She glances from the backyard of one neighbor to the other, apparently concerned that someone might witness my insanity. And then she goes back inside.

I stop jumping rope and go after her. “Drew brought back your sweater,” I say nonchalantly while following Lucy into the kitchen.

At the mention of Drew, my sister’s whole demeanor changes. Her sour expression morphs into one of sweetness and joy causing several of my internal organs to fail.

“Where is it?” she asks.

I point to the coffee table in the living room.

I’m kind of expecting Lucy to say something nasty about me having all my diorama crap on the table when I wasn’t supposed to, but instead she picks up her sweater and hugs it to her chest.

“I can’t believe he dropped it off. How incredibly sweet. It’s like he was looking for an excuse to see me again.”

I stop still as my worst fear comes to life.

“So you guys had fun?” I force myself to ask, trailing behind Lucy as she practically skips up the stairs like Tinker Bell tiptoeing through a field of fairy dust. I spent an hour with Drew, but I didn’t ask him a single thing about the play. The slight was intentional. I didn’t want to ruin our time together.

“Fabulous,” Lucy says with a big sigh. “It was so romantic.”

“Romantic? Are you talking about Drew or the play?” I think about how he kissed me on the forehead and wonder if I’d imagined it.

Lucy laughs as she opens our closet, expertly holding her dollhouse in place with her high-heeled boot. I haven’t seen her this happy since she was ten and the mall Santa told her she was the prettiest girl he had seen all day. “I was talking about the play,” she says. “But I have to say it was romantic being with Drew, too. He’s so different than I imagined. He’s sweet and funny…so easy to talk to. I had so much fun I didn’t want to leave. At least I have Friday to look forward to.”

“Friday?” I say quietly, my heart suddenly cramped in my throat.

“Drew and I are going to Marybeth’s party.”

WHAT? He asked my sister out again?

“You don’t look so good,” Lucy says, uncharacteristically (at least for the past month) demonstrating some concern for my well-being. “You better lie down.”

My brain simply does not possess the capability to digest the information my sister had so excitedly presented. Drew, the guy who hates parties unless he has someone special to talk to, asked my sister to go to a party with him on Friday night. That tender forehead kiss was nothing but my overactive imagination looking for proof that Drew might actually like me.

I’m such a fool.

I take Lucy’s advice and lie on the bed, throwing my arm over my eyes.

“What do you think of this top?”


I open one eye. Lucy is dancing around the room holding her bright purple cashmere sweater to her chest. “This and my new jeans.”

After I say what I used to tell Lucy all the time before the accident—“You’ll look beautiful”—I put a pillow over my face so she won’t see me cry through my nose.





twenty-one

climax (noun): the significant moment in the plot of a play, when things change or reach a crisis.

I haven’t been to school in two days. My official reason for staying home is that I’m sick with the flu, and since both of my parents are out of town on business trips and my sister is not about to shove a thermometer in my mouth, it’s an excuse I’ve gotten away with simply by not showering, neglecting to take my nasal spray (causing my nose to run like a faucet), and staying in bed. The real reason I’m staying home has nothing to do with my physical well-being and everything to do with my emotional state. Simply put: I can’t deal.