Текст книги "This Song Will Save Your Life"

Автор книги: Leila Sales

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

14

By sundown the next day, I could barely keep my eyes open. I was curled up on the couch in Dad’s living room, holding a book but not really reading it. Mostly I was just staring at my cell phone, willing Char to call or text. I wanted to know what had happened between him and Pippa. I wanted to tell him that I was going to have my own Friday night party. I wanted to talk to him. But so far, nothing.

Of course, this was normal, I reassured myself. Char and I didn’t have a talking relationship. We had the other kind, the kind where you don’t talk. So his silence meant nothing.

My dad sat in his armchair, fiddling with his guitar. He strummed a few chords and mumbled to himself. It mostly sounded like, “Hmm, mmm, mmm. Yeah yeah yeah. Mmm la la. Yeah yeah.”

“New song?” I asked.

“Yeah. I was thinking the Dukes could play it at Solstice Fest, if I could figure out some lyrics. What do you think?”

What I thought, silently, was that no one at Solstice Fest, or anywhere for that matter, was interested in hearing a new Dukes song. They just wanted to hear “Take My Hand,” and they would put up with other songs if they had to.

I had traveled with my dad to a lot of his shows. The best destination concert was when I was twelve. I got to go on an oldies cruise to Jamaica with him. I got my hair done in dozens of tiny braids with beads on the ends, and I swam in the Caribbean.

But what I remembered most clearly about this trip was the Dukes’ set. They played a bunch of new songs and B-sides while the audience sat there politely. Then they played “Take My Hand,” and the audience went nuts for it, obviously.

Once the song was over, the lead singer said to the crowd, like it had just occurred to him, “Hey, do you want us to play it again? It’s only two minutes and twelve seconds long, after all.” The crowd roared its approval, and the Dukes started “Take My Hand” right back from the beginning.

Even as a twelve-year-old primarily focused on eating a pineapple popsicle, I felt that there was something heartbreaking about this. Because the Dukes knew the truth: that nobody at all gave a shit about what they’d been up to over the past thirty-five years.

The Dukes seemed just as happy to be playing their hit single the second time around, and the audience seemed just as happy to hear it. Somehow I was the only one who wasn’t happy.

After that, Dukes concerts just weren’t as fun for me. Mostly, I tried not to go at all anymore. It felt like watching a magic show after you’ve already learned how the magician does all his tricks.

“The song?” Dad prompted me now, as he strummed out the chorus again. “Do you like it?”

I checked my cell phone again. Still nothing. “It was nice,” I said.

“Oh.” Dad cleared his throat. “I’m still working on it.”

I had missed my cue somehow. I could tell. “I think it’s going to be really good, Dad. I think the hippies at Solstice Fest will eat it up.”

He half smiled and ran his thumb over one of the guitar strings. “Hey, do you want to go with me? To Solstice Fest.”

“Um, when is it?”

He gave me a weird look. “During the solstice.”

I guessed that made sense.

“We could drive up on Friday night and camp out. I think the Dukes’ slot is around noon on Saturday.”

“I can’t,” I said.

“Oh,” Dad said. “Of course, you probably already have plans. Are you and Sally and Chava going to that school dance?”

I had told my parents about Sally and Chava because I wanted them to know that I was a normal person with friends. I had never told my parents about the Freshman/Sophomore Summer Formal because I wasn’t insane. Apparently my father had been reading the PTA newsletter.

“The dance is that night,” I said noncommittally.

“Do you have a date?” Dad asked.

“God, Dad. No.” I thought about what that could possibly look like: Char showing up on my doorstep in a tuxedo, slipping a corsage around my wrist, posing for photographs in front of the fireplace? He wouldn’t even call me.

Dad nodded sagely. “We guys, Elise, are easily intimidated. When I was sixteen, I would not have had the guts to ask a girl like you to my school dance.”

This was a lie on multiple levels, since 1) the reason why boys weren’t asking me out was absolutely not because they were intimidated by me, and 2) by the time my dad was sixteen, he was already playing sold-out shows at his local concert hall, and any girl in Philadelphia would have given her left arm to go to a dance with a Duke.

“Dad,” I said, “would it be okay with you if I spend Friday night at Mom and Steve’s house?”

He paused in his strumming. “You mean the weekend that I’m at Solstice Fest? Of course that’s okay. I was going to suggest that myself.”

“No, I meant, like…” I hugged my knees into my chest. “Every weekend.”

He set his guitar down. “So I would only get you on Wednesdays? And you would stay with your mother six nights a week? Every week?”

“Well … We could rearrange things so I could spend some other weeknight with you … like Tuesdays?”

“Why?” Dad asked, his voice raw.

I couldn’t answer that. I opened and closed my mouth, but I had nothing to say.

“Okay,” Dad said, “forget ‘why.’ How’s this? No.”

“What?” I stared at him.

“I said, No. No, you can’t stay with your mother six out of every seven nights. No, I am not going to rearrange my work schedule just because you feel like it. I don’t care if you don’t want to be here, or if when you are here you don’t want to talk to me, or if your mother’s house has all sorts of marvelous puppies and children and swing sets and fresh-baked goods. I am your father, and that means I am every bit as much your parent as she is. No, you can’t spend Fridays there, too.”

I stood up. “Look, this has nothing to do with Mom or swing sets or anything like that. It’s just that her house is a lot more conveniently located to … well, to … stuff.”

Dad stood up, as well. “I don’t really care,” he said. “What I’m hearing you say is that you don’t want to spend time with me. And what I am saying to you is, you don’t have a choice.”

I felt panic bubbling up in my chest, and my breath started coming out in short gasps. What was I supposed to do, go to Start next Thursday, hope that Pete was there, and tell him, “Hey, look, my dad won’t let me go out on Friday nights. Good luck finding another DJ!” I might as well just wear a sandwich board proclaiming, I AM ONLY 16. I couldn’t do that. I didn’t want to do that.

“You can’t stop me,” I said, my voice shaking. “Don’t you love me at all?”

“Don’t I love you?” Dad’s words got louder and louder. “Jesus Christ, Elise, are you kidding me?”

I felt my face puckering like a prune. “Mom wouldn’t keep me from doing something I care about.” And even as I said it, I knew it was a cheap shot. One of the unspoken rules that I did understand was that my parents were not supposed to criticize each other in front of me, and I was not supposed to play them off each other.

Plus, Mom would absolutely keep me from doing something I cared about, if it came down to that. The only reason why she hadn’t stopped me from going to Start was because she didn’t know that was happening. Not because she was the superior parent.

“So that’s why you want to spend Friday nights with her, too?” Dad asked. “Because she doesn’t get in your way as much as I do?”

“No!” I protested. “It’s just that … this is important to me. You don’t understand.”

“I don’t,” he said. “Explain it to me.”

He looked at me closely, and I thought for a moment about telling him everything. What Start was, why I needed it. After all, he was on national tour with his band when he was just two years older than me. Maybe he would be cool with it.

But what if he wasn’t?

I shook my head. “I can’t explain it to you.”

Dad kicked his guitar, and I flinched at the sudden atonal squawk as it hit the ground. “You know what, Elise?” he said. “Do what you want.”

I stood still, hardly breathing.

“You want to spend every single night at your mother’s house? Fine. I’ll be here if you ever decide that you need me.”

He lunged to pick up his guitar and lifted it over his shoulder like he was about to smash it into something. I clapped my hand to my mouth. Then slowly, painfully, he laid the guitar down on the armchair and walked out of the room. I heard his footsteps hard on the stairs to the basement. And a minute later I heard the sound, unmistakable to anyone who has heard it before, of a softball bat whacking a futon.

*   *   *

“Look, if you want to go to Start tonight, you should go,” Vicky said over the phone the following Thursday evening.

I lay down on my bed, my cell phone pressed to my ear, and glanced at the clock on my bedside table. Nine o’clock.

“I think I want to stay home,” I said.

“If you want to, sure.” I heard the sound of spritzing through the phone, like Vicky was putting on hair spray or perfume. “But you shouldn’t not come tonight just because of Pippa. You’re the DJ. You do what you want.”

“Does she want me there?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Well, whenever she’s mentioned you over the past week, it’s been as ‘that slag,’ so I’m thinking probably not.”

“What’s a slag?”

“I asked her that,” Vicky said. “It’s British for slut.”

“How am I a slag? Char is the first and only guy who I have ever…” Kissed. Seen naked. Slept in a bed with. “Anything,” I finished.

“I don’t think she means it literally,” Vicky reassured me. “And for whatever it’s worth, I’m on your side. They weren’t together. Pippa can’t call dibs on every guy who she thinks is hot, because that would be every guy. Except for the Dirty Curtains. She thinks Dave looks like a caveman, and not in an ‘I will protect your young’ way. And Harry isn’t ‘man enough’ for her. You know, because he’s not actually a legal adult.”

“Oh, so speaking of the Dirty Curtains,” I said, “I have a proposal.”

“Shoot.”

“You know how I get to DJ Friday nights now?”

“I’m so excited,” Vicky replied. “Goddammit, I am so excited. Glendale’s hottest DJ. Do I or do I not keep saying that?”

“Well, Glendale’s hottest DJ wants the Dirty Curtains to play a set at her first-ever gig next Friday.”

There was silence for a moment.

“What do you say?” I asked.

Vicky let out an earsplitting shriek. “I say yes!” she squealed. “Harry and Dave also say yes, or they will once I tell them, since they do basically everything I say. Elise, this is awesome. I can’t believe you would share your big night with us.”

“There’s no one I would rather share it with,” I told her.

“You have to come tonight, then,” Vicky said. “So we can celebrate together our impending fame. Honestly, Elise, don’t worry about Pippa. You need to understand, the past few weeks have been hard on her.” Vicky’s voice grew quieter. “Pippa likes being in the action. Like the sun, with everyone revolving around her. When she was in Manchester, I think she felt like she was completely in the dark, closed off from her own solar system. So to come back here and discover that all of us kept orbiting without her … well, she’s not happy. It isn’t about you.”

“Isn’t she in the room with you?” I asked. “Aren’t you two getting ready together?”

“I locked myself in the bathroom.” I heard the sound of a toilet flushing. “See?”

I sighed. “I don’t want her to hate me. Enough people already hate me.”

“I don’t know if this matters, but I want you to come tonight.”

I pulled my quilt over my head.

“This will all resolve itself on the dance floor,” Vicky told me.

“Oh, really?” I said. “How’s that going to work?”

“How could anyone hate anyone when we’re all out there together, moving to the same song? How can we not be united? Come out tonight and join in—it’ll be good for you. Oh, and wear that top you got from Calendar Girls. The lacy one.”

“It makes me look like a snowflake,” I mumbled.

“Just trust me!” Vicky chirped. Then she hung up the phone.

I sat for a moment under the fortress of my quilt. Tiny flecks of light peeked through the stitches. I could just live the rest of my life under here. I could pay Neil to bring me food three times a day.

I groaned and threw the blanket off my head. Unfortunately I hadn’t thought to make feeding time arrangements before hiding in my bed, and now I was hungry.

Before I went to forage for a snack, I glanced at my computer to see what Fake Elise was up to right now. I hadn’t checked in on her since right after coming home from school this afternoon.

June 10: nobody likes me. sometimes i think people like me, i pretend that i have real friends, but i know i’m just kidding myself. why would they really like me? why would anyone ever really like me??? whenever someone is nice to me i know it’s just because they’re taking pity on me. xoxo elise dembowski

I looked in the mirror on the back of my door. I stuck my fingers in the corners of my mouth and pulled my face into a hideous grimace. Then I practiced some affirmations.

Lots of people really like you!

For example … your mom!

Alex!

Neil!

People who gave birth to you or who still have most of their baby teeth totally like you!

Sure, the only thing your dad said to you during the entire time you were at his house last night and this morning was, “Well, I’ll see you again one week from now, since that’s what you want.” But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you. He’s just mad at you. And he will get over it, if only because he is your legal guardian!

Vicky likes you! She is not just taking pity on you. Really. Her kindness to you is genuine.

How do you know this?

Because you’re awesome at reading a crowd!

Char likes you! Okay, he kind of ignored you at Start last week, and okay, you haven’t heard from him since then. But this situation with Pippa is delicate. He doesn’t want to hurt her. Who does? You don’t want to hurt Pippa either. Why would he have taught you to DJ if he didn’t like you? Why would he kiss you? Because he likes you!

You are a likable girl, Elise Dembowski!

Affirmations complete, I headed toward the kitchen to make myself a hot chocolate. On my way back, I noticed my mother sitting on the couch in the sunroom. Alex was with her, which surprised me. Neil’s weeknight bedtime is 8:15 and Alex’s is 8:35, so the fact that it was past nine and Alex was still awake was definitely not fair.

“What’s up?” I asked them.

“We’re just admiring the poetry castle,” Mom answered. She took a sip of her tea and gestured at Alex’s creation.

I sat down on Alex’s other side, and the three of us stared contemplatively at the castle.

It was massive. I had no idea how Mom and Steve planned to transport this thing to Alex’s school next Friday. It stretched well over my head, cardboard boxes and duct tape everywhere. She had painted the boxes all the colors of the rainbow, and streamers hung from every corner. I could see the poems stacked neatly inside, ready for sale.

“It’s amazing, Alex,” I said.

“It’s not done yet,” Alex warned me. “It’s not perfect yet.”

“It’s going to be the best one at the fair,” Mom said proudly, and I remembered all the times she had said those same words to me. When I designed and sewed a dress for the Girl Scouts’ fashion show; when I practiced reciting a monologue for the Shakespeare competition in eighth grade; when I baked pecan-raisin-banana-chocolate bars, my own invention, for the Election Day bake sale three years ago. My mother always said this: It’s going to be the best one.

“Does Mr. Berger give a prize for the best booth?” I asked Alex.

Alex snorted and said, “Of course not,” like I was an idiot for not understanding the exact rules of the second-grade spring fair.

“Well, if he did, you’d win,” I told her.

“But for now, Alex sweetie, it’s way past your bedtime.” Mom stood and lifted my sister from the couch.

“But I’m not tiiired,” Alex whined, and I wondered if this was the curse of all women in my family, to never get tired.

“It’s bedtime anyway,” Mom said. “You can work on it more tomorrow. Right, Elise?”

“Right,” I said. “Even I am going to bed, Alex. See?” I picked up my hot chocolate, yawned dramatically, and headed to my room.

Two hours later, I crept out of the house and walked to Start. I meant what I had said to Vicky. I meant to stay home tonight. But I wanted to see Char too much, and I couldn’t resist.

Like Char himself once told me, we all want things that aren’t good for us.

15

When I got to Start, I didn’t immediately see Vicky or Pippa. Char was in the booth with his headphones on, playing a Marvin Gaye song, and this seemed a good omen; Char knew how much I liked old soul singers.

I slipped into the booth next to him. “Hey, stranger,” I said. “Long time no talk. You miss me?” I was aiming for jokey, but it came out wrong, too honest. I saw Char flinch a little.

nobody likes me, Fake Elise chanted inside my head. why would anyone ever really like me???

“How was your week?” I tried.

“Fantastic,” Char muttered.

“Really.”

“Oh, yeah. Probably my best week ever. Have you ever been to Disney World?”

“Yeah.”

“My week was like that, only about eighty times better.”

He stared down at his computer. The song playing was “Panic” by the Smiths, which is the one where Morrissey repeats the line “hang the DJ” for about a minute straight.

“Sure, it totally seems like you’re having an eighty-times-Disney-World week,” I agreed. When he didn’t respond, I said, “So what exactly happened with Pippa last week?”

“We frolicked through rainbows together,” Char answered in a monotone.

“Char.”

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, making it stick up in tufts. “I don’t know, Elise. She was pissed.”

I fought the urge to smooth down his hair with my hand. I never touched Char first. I always waited for him to touch me.

“What did you think was going to happen when she came back from Manchester?” I asked him. “Did you think she wasn’t going to find out about us? Or she wasn’t going to care?”

“I didn’t,” Char said, “think about it. Anyway, I told her I didn’t want to be her boyfriend before she left. You know that. So why did she expect me to celibately wait for her return for a month and a half?”

“Because,” I replied, wondering if Char was secretly an idiot not to already know this, “you had sex with her after you told her you didn’t want to date her.”

“So?” he asked.

“So, what was she supposed to think that meant?” I asked. “What do you think people think it means when you hook up with them?”

He shook his head. “I have no idea. What do people think it means?”

I gave a long exhale, then said, “For someone who’s supposed to be so great at reading a crowd, you have some serious blind spots.”

Char flicked a number of dials on his mixer. “If you’re such an expert, Elise, why don’t you just tell me?”

I tried to look him in the eye, but he just kept looking at his equipment. “People think it means that you want to actually be with them. In a serious way. People think it means you care about them. That’s the point of the whole thing, isn’t it?”

Char shrugged. “Guys don’t think that way.”

I didn’t know if he was right about that or not. I didn’t know how guys thought about anything.

“Is Pippa coming tonight?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer from Vicky.

“No idea.” Char put on his headphones.

I waited until he had transitioned into the next song, but when he still didn’t take off his headphones, I tugged at his arm.

“What’s up?” he asked, taking off one earphone. “I’m working.”

“I can see that,” I said. “I wanted to tell you my big news from last week.”

Things were weird between me and Char right now. Things were weird because Pippa was back. But when I told him my news, he would be proud of me. He would remember how much we had in common. Things would be good again.

Right?

I felt like a cat bringing home a dead bird to her master. “You’ll like it, won’t you? I killed it all by myself. You must like it.”

Did bird-murdering house cats get this fluttery feeling in their stomachs, too?

“I’m going to be DJing Friday nights!” I told Char, a smile erupting across my face. I couldn’t not smile whenever I thought about it. “Starting next week. I can do whatever I want with it, Pete said. It’s going to be the best.”

Char took off his other earphone. He stared at me. “You’re DJing Friday nights,” he repeated, and I thought that maybe the loud music had garbled my words. “Here?”

“Right!” I shouted, to make sure he could hear me this time.

But his expression was still confused. “Pete gave you a Friday night party? Just you, no one else?”

“Just me,” I confirmed.

Now Char’s expression was more than just confused. It was mad. He responded with only one word. “Why?”

“Because he thought I’d be good at it.”

“Why?” Char asked again, and I felt the ground slant ever so slightly underneath me.

“He said … I have a lot of natural talent, and—”

“Do you have any idea what a big deal it is to get a weekend party at one of Pete’s venues?” Char interrupted. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve asked him to move me to Friday, so no one has school or work the next day and can really go out? And then he just gives it to you? You, a sixteen-year-old girl who started DJing all of two months ago?”

I didn’t speak for a moment. Then, quietly, I said, “It’s not my fault that I’m only sixteen. And it’s not my fault that I only started DJing now.”

Char lowered his voice, too. He sounded gentle, helpful. “Why don’t you just tell Pete that you don’t feel ready? Tell him you need more practice. Tell him you’re worried about what will happen if you have technical problems and you don’t know how to fix them. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“Because,” I said, “I do feel ready.” I cleared my throat. “This is so silly, but I guess I expected that you would be happy for me.”

Char tapped on his computer keyboard and was silent for a minute. If I were someone else, I might have been impressed. But I knew enough about DJing to know that he wasn’t actually doing anything.

“Listen, Elise,” Char said at last. “I hadn’t wanted to get into this tonight. But I think we should … stop.”

“Stop?” I repeated.

“Yeah. Like, break up.”

And the world tilted again, harder. “How can we break up?” I asked. “Were we even together?”

“I think the age gap is too much for us,” Char said. “We’re at different stages in our lives, and we’re looking for different things.”

“Now?” I said. “Now this bothers you?” I felt my breathing coming funny, like I had to gasp to get enough air. “What did I do, Char? What is it? Are you breaking up with me because Pippa’s mad at you? Are you breaking up with me because”—my breath caught in my throat and I almost couldn’t go on—“because I got offered a stupid Friday night party and you didn’t?”

“You said you didn’t love me,” Char said quietly, looking at his computer screen, not me.

“When?”

“Last week. When Pippa asked you. You said no. You almost laughed, and you said no.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. And then I said, “No—I’m not sorry. You don’t love me either. You never said you did. You never once called me, or hung out with me in daylight. How could you love me? Do you?”

My body tensed. Part of me hoped that he might say yes. That he would say, “Yes, I love you, and that’s why I’m breaking up with you—because it kills me that you don’t feel the same.”

Because that would be it, then. The ultimate proof that I was lovable.

But what Char actually said was, “That’s not the point.”

“How the hell is it not the point?” I was almost screaming by now.

“You don’t need me,” Char said. “That is the point.”

He put his headphones back on.

When do you want me to take over? I wrote on a Post-it and stuck it to his computer screen.

The corner of Char’s mouth twitched, and he pulled my note off his monitor. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, crumpling the paper in his fist. “You have a full night of DJing ahead of you next Friday. You deserve to take tonight off.”

It took me a minute more of standing there before I realized that I’d been dismissed. Before I realized that a relationship can end just like that.

Dazed, I left the booth and walked outside. I would have kept walking, too, I would have walked forever, except that Vicky, Harry, and Mel were standing right there.

“Hi, Elise!” Harry said. “Look, I’m here!” He went on to explain, “My parents are on a business trip, so Vicky’s quote-unquote ‘in charge.’”

I pasted a smile on my face and joined their circle. I don’t know why I bothered to act like everything was okay. Start is small, and news travels fast. Soon enough they were all going to find out that Char had dumped me. But I wanted, for as long as I could, to pretend like he hadn’t. I wanted not to be there when they heard the news and said, Well, of course he did. Boyfriends are for pretty girls, normal girls, girls who know what they’re doing. Everybody knows that.

nobody likes me, and i deserve it.

Shut up, Elise.

“The Beatles,” Vicky was saying to Mel.

“All quit,” Mel replied.

“Not John,” Vicky countered.

“Right, because he was murdered before he had the chance.”

“George never quit either,” Vicky said.

“And then he died from lung cancer,” Mel said.

“But when he was, like, sixty. I’ll quit before I’m sixty.”

“Sixty comes sooner than you think, honey,” Mel countered.

“We’re taking a poll,” Harry explained to me, “on whether or not Vicky should quit smoking. So far it’s two for quitting, one against. You want to even out the score?”

“No,” I said.

“Oh, come on,” Vicky whined. “This isn’t a majority-rule situation. It’s my body.”

Mel cleared his throat. “Well, maybe—”

“Hey,” I interrupted. “Were you guys popular in high school?”

They all stopped talking and stared at me.

“You know,” I said. “Friends. Did you have them? If so, how many?”

“Well, now,” Mel rubbed his bald head. “You’re asking me to remember back pretty far.”

“Oh my God, Mel,” Vicky said. “You are, like, one-eighth as old as you pretend to be.”

Mel scowled at her. Then he said to me, “Honey, I was a gay black teenager in Arkansas. How popular do you think I was?”

I tried to picture a younger Mel getting bullied by his own versions of Chuck Boening and Jordan DiCecca. But it didn’t work. If they had tried to steal his iPod, he would have stood up to them. He was Mel. Standing up to people was his job.

“I’m definitely very popular among the Dungeons & Dragons players at my school,” confided Harry. “Also, I rule at Settlers of Catan, and that has won me a devoted fan base of at least two or three classmates. Oh, and I shred on the drums. The girls go wild for that.”

“You can’t shred on drums, dipshit,” Vicky told him. “Only guitarists shred.”

Harry winked at me, then screwed up his face and mimed a very intense drum set. He stopped after a few seconds, when he noticed that I still wasn’t smiling.

“I don’t believe that anyone who is a legitimately interesting person can be popular as a teenager,” Mel went on. “Or ever, maybe. Popularity rewards the uninteresting.”

“I take offense,” Vicky cried, throwing her cigarette butt to the ground. “I am at least a somewhat interesting person, and I was popular in high school.”

Mel and I both gaped at her. I felt betrayed. “You were?” Mel asked.

“You don’t have to sound so shocked about it.” Vicky shook out her thick, wavy hair.

Mel said, “I just can’t picture you as a blond cheerleading girlfriend of the class president, that’s all.”

Vicky snorted. “Exactly how many teen movies have you watched? You know that’s a huge stereotype, right?”

Mel shrugged. “I’m a John Hughes fan.”

“Well, I was never blond, but I was a cheerleader sophomore year, and I never dated the class president, but I did once make out with the quarterback at a party.”

“And the wide receiver,” Harry added.

“And him,” Vicky conceded.

“And the tight end,” said Harry.

“I did not.”

Harry nodded at me and mouthed, She did.

“Anyway,” Vicky said, “I was popular. Well, for the first half of high school. I was a very popular fifteen-year-old.”

“Then what happened?” I asked.

“Well…” Vicky’s eyebrows knit together. “Don’t laugh or anything, but I used to be skinny.”

She paused, her face red.

“Why would we laugh at that?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Vicky said. “Like, maybe you’d think it’s ridiculous that someone like me could have ever possibly been skinny.”

“You’re not fat now,” I said.

“I’m fat enough,” Vicky said. “But when I started high school, I was skinny. I really, really was. I also threw up pretty much everything I ate. Everyone loves a skinny girl. I do, too, frankly.

“At the end of tenth grade, my parents made me start seeing a therapist, and she literally changed my life. After a few months of therapy, I stopped making myself throw up so often, and then I did it less and less, until I never did it at all. So naturally I gained weight. There were actual calories in my body for the first time since I was twelve. And so my friends, who were, by the way, huge bitches, just ditched me.”

“That’s crazy.” I tried to imagine, as I looked at Vicky, not wanting to be friends with her. I couldn’t do it.

“That’s actually why I started smoking,” Vicky said. “Because it’s supposed to be an appetite suppressant. As you can see, it doesn’t work as well as all that.” She lit another cigarette and arched her eyebrows at Mel, as if daring him to tell her not to. He didn’t say a word.

“To be fair to my high school friends,” Vicky went on, “it wasn’t just that I didn’t look like I used to. It was like this spell had been broken, and all sorts of things that used to seem important to me now just seemed stupid. So I quit cheerleading. And student council. My so-called friends could not figure out what was going on.”

Vicky giggled and added, “My parents weren’t that thrilled either. Their plan had been for me to give up vomiting, not for me to give up everything. They even fired my therapist, as if it was all her fault that I had decided that I wanted to be myself.”

“And it meant that I never got a therapist either,” Harry added. He sighed. “Yet more proof that Vicky is their favorite. So unfair.”

“But then,” Vicky said, “I made friends with these other kids at my school—you know, the ‘uncool’ ones. And one of them turned out to be really into music. She and I started writing songs together. Eventually we formed my first-ever band. She played guitar, I played keyboards and sang. We never performed anywhere, but we recorded a bunch on our computers. And that”—Vicky flung her arms out to the sides—“is how I discovered who I am. And that is why I’m here tonight, hanging out with you.”