Читать книгу Everything Grows - Aimee Herman - Страница 9

1993

THE STORY OF MY FIRST HAIRCUT is legendary. Or at least it is in my family. It has circulated over Thanksgiving meals, in synagogue after prayer time is over and all that is left are slightly stale cookies to munch on during Oneg, and even when my grandfather was slowly dying in the hospital.

It was just after my third birthday. My thick, curly hair had gathered into more knots than a brush could untangle, so Dad grabbed the scissors from the coupon drawer and started cutting. Shirley (my mother) was too distraught to do it. After the first cut, I started to scream.

“You’re hurting her,” Greta, who was five at the time, yelled.

And then—according to this well-circulated story—I yelled: “You’re killing it,” meaning my hair. I guess I thought my hair, like everything else on my body, was alive. I didn’t understand why my dad would try to cut a piece of me away. So, he stopped and I wouldn’t let anyone near my hair again until I was almost six. By then, my head resembled a blond abandoned squirrel’s nest.

I’M FIFTEEN NOW, SO OF COURSE I understand that hair is dead. My strands don’t scream out when I’m at the hair salon. Though of course, Henny, who has been cutting my hair since I was eight, knows the story too.

Here is what my hair looked like before. It was beautiful, like shampoo commercial hair where the woman throws her head around and each strand glistens as though weaved with tiny suns. Strangers have even stopped me at the grocery store. Or they’d stop Shirley and tell her what gorgeous hair her daughter has. Grandma (Dad’s mom) used to ask for my scraps after a haircut. Her hair was thin and straight. No one really understood where my curls came from. But apparently, I was blessed. This word was also used a lot to describe my hair. Anyway, it was long and thick and beautiful and then I cut it.

I don’t believe I’m unusual. What I mean is, how else should a teenager react when they find out a classmate has committed suicide? Oh, maybe I should start from the beginning, though I’m not sure where that would be. Beginning of me? Beginning of when I started to realize things out about myself that made me feel different than others? When does this story begin?

We were in second grade together. He sat behind me. Also fourth grade, where I got my first ‘D’, which I don’t think was fair at all, and seventh grade science class, and he is was in my English class this year. It’s not like we were friends. Hardly. He was my bully. Threw frog guts at me in seventh grade during dissection. He called me “screen door” and “mosquito bites” in front of the whole class, and yet the teacher didn’t even notice. Maybe he had a whole roster of people he bullied, but it sure felt like he had his hatred aimed straight toward me. But who cares about any of that now? He’s dead.

I was down the block at Dara’s house. Her mom (who knows everything about everyone) got a phone call (not sure from who) and went down to the basement where we were playing and asked if we knew him. I don’t even remember saying goodbye. I just ran home, rushed upstairs to my bedroom, grabbed the scissors on my desk and started to cut my hair. When someone dies like that, things just stop making sense.

Of course, I understand why I was so upset. So, maybe that is where this story starts? But first let me explain what happened after the first cut. Again, I’m fifteen. I don’t understand everything about the body, but I get that if I cut my finger, I will bleed and maybe cry, but blood and pain doesn’t come out of a haircut. And yet, it was like I could feel every hair being pulled out of my scalp. I just stood in the middle of my bedroom, away from my mirror, because I didn’t want to watch what was happening, and cut. The sound was like a slow rip. Not like paper, but well, like something else. My neck itched from the hairs falling against it and the floor caught my curls, creating a puddle of me. I just cut and cut, trying not to imagine him. Trying not to think about why a fifteen-year-old boy would want to kill himself. Trying not to think about Shirley and how I know about the time she tried to kill herself last May, but not about the other times, and there must have been more. Trying not to think about having to visit her on the weekends at that hospital. Angry about what she did, but still trying to be nice to her because she was in a mental hospital that smelled like rotten bandages. I used to call her Shirley in my head, though I’m not sure why. After she tried to leave us, I started saying it out loud.

I threw the scissors down on my bed and slowly walked to my mirror. My hardwood floor was now covered with my hair. Actually, it was really just a messy pile, but it felt like a lot. My hair had reached past my shoulders. The mirror now revealed my new ‘do.

“Eleanor!” screamed Shirley.

Well, I couldn’t hide in my room forever.

“What did you do to yourself?”

“I cut my hair,” I said, plainly.

“I see that. Why?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I needed to—”

“Francine just called me. She said you ran out of the house. She also told me about the boy in your grade.”

I took a deep breath. Greta was the one who found Shirley, not me. But I had to help get her to throw up. She had swallowed too many of her pills. Greta was incredible. She called for an ambulance, tried to calm me down, took care of things. It’s like she knew exactly what to do. I felt paralyzed. I didn’t understand what was happening.

“Why would she take too many?” I asked, as though Shirley had forgotten the correct dosage of her anti-depressants.

“El,” Greta said, “I think Mom tried to kill herself. Call Dad.”

It’s very strange when a parent does something wrong. You can’t send them to their room and punish them. You can’t take away their favorite toy; they don’t have any. I never really got to react in the way I needed to, which was apparently by chopping all my hair off and leaving a messy patch of dirty blond nothingness.

Shirley pulled me into her and I could smell the haunt of cigarette smoke against her clothing. She quit while she was in the hospital, but I had a feeling she’d recently started back up. It was kind of like a secret we both knew about but didn’t mention.

“Honey, I’m so sorry. Did you know him?”

“No,” I said into her chest. “Yeah, I mean, not really.”

“Can I make you something? Can I . . . what can I do?”

“Nothing. I just . . . I just want to be alone.”

WHILE SHIRLEY WAS IN THE HOSPITAL, Flor—her best friend—watched us. Dad was traveling for work at the time. I missed him, but I got along really well with Flor, and she was happy to take care of us. Dad called every day to check on us. He even visited Shirley in the hospital when he got back into town. It’s strange. They’ve been divorced for like six years now, but it’s like they’re nicer to each other now that they’re not married.

Shirley’s doctor at the hospital suggested we try a support group—for survivors of suicide. Dad, Greta and I went each week. Once summer arrived, Greta was hanging out with her friends more—before they all split and went to college—and stopped going to the group. Once Greta went away to college in August, Dad came with me a few more times. I thought about stopping, but actually, I really liked going. I didn’t mind going alone. I guess it helped to be able to talk about it openly, to be around others who understood. Recently, Flor started to go with me.

“ELEANOR, DARA IS ON THE PHONE!”

I walked over to my desk to pick up the phone. We used to have only one phone in the whole house. It was in the kitchen with a cord long enough to reach the family room and even the front hallway. Then, we got cordless phones a few years ago. One in the kitchen, one in Shirley’s bedroom and Gret and I have one in our bedrooms. I used to love how—depending on the channel—you could hear bits and pieces of neighbors’ conversations. There was always some static, but I’d dig out all the wax in my ears just to hear whatever I could. My imagination would always fill in the rest.

“Hey,” I said.

“You okay?” Dara asked. “You just ran and—”

“Sorry.”

“Want me to come over?”

“Nah.”

“Why do you think he—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.

“Yeah, okay. I mean, I guess it’s extra scary because your mom . . .”

“I really don’t want to talk about it.”

THAT NIGHT, SHIRLEY TOOK ME TO the mall to get my hair evened out, whatever that means. I asked her if I could dye it. Up to that point, I was only able to use sun-in and my hair was already blond, so I didn’t really see the point—though that didn’t stop me from using it. Maybe Shirley felt bad or too tired to disagree, but whatever the reason, we went to the beauty supply store on the second floor, got some bleach and manic panic—I couldn’t believe it!—and headed home.

“It fades,” Shirley said, when we got home. “That’s why I didn’t battle you earlier. And . . .” she paused, “ . . . I understand why this is extra hard, Eleanor. But you know I am better, right? I’m not looking to leave anytime soon. I love you. That has never wavered.”

“Yeah, I know. I love you too. If it’s okay, I’m gonna try this out.”

“Please use an old towel,” she said. “And put paper towels on the counter, in case anything drops.”

Before the bleach. Before the cranberry-fizz-colored hair dye. Before I started to mourn my dull blond curls. I grabbed the heaping pile of my hair and put it into a plastic Food Town bag. I figured next time we visit Grandma’s grave, I can bring her some. I know how much she loved it.

After the bleach. After the cranberry-fizz-colored hair dye. After I started to mourn my dull blond curls.

“Well, next time we lose each other in the mall, I’ll easily find you,” said Shirley.

“Ugh, is it awful?”

“Well, it certainly looks different from this morning, but it’s not terrible.”

I feigned a smile.

“Is your homework all done? You ready for school tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I don’t know, I . . . Shirley, can I . . . can I ask you something?”

“Eleanor, you know how I feel about you calling me that. Go ahead.”

“I feel like there must have been so many bad days. So, what turns a bad day into what you desperately hope is the last day? I mean, what makes someone decide: today I kill myself. Maybe yesterday sucked, but today is just too much.”

“I certainly can’t answer that for James, but for me . . . oh honey, I got to the point that I thought you and Greta would fare better without me.”

“You thought dying would make our lives better?”

“I know. I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“And now?”

“Now, with medication and—”

“But you were on medication. That’s what you—”

“Better medication, more regulated. And going to therapy again has really helped. Brinna even mentioned me trying some group therapy. We’ve been making great headway and she feels like being around others could be really beneficial.”

“It could get you to meet people,” I said, trying to be optimistic.

“You have, right?”

“What? At the support group? Yeah, I mean, everyone is super nice, I guess. Didn’t exactly go there to make friends, but . . .”

“But it gives you the opportunity to understand a little more. To know it’s never about the survivors. To understand mental illness.”

“Yeah.”

Shirley threw her hand into my hair and tousled the tiny amount left. “I like this. Like Debbie Harry or something.”

“Who?”

* * *

“THERE IS JUST NO WAY TO prepare for something like this.” Ms. Raimondo stood in front of us, as she always does, but she looked different today, like her veins somehow wilted and all the blood inside vanished. I guess we all looked like that today.

James was dead.

“As your homeroom teacher mentioned, there are grief counselors who will be here all week into next, and you can go to them to process what’s going—”

“Like instead of going to class?”

Ms. Raimondo just stared at Harris blankly. “Like because you need to.”

“As I was driving to school today,” she said, “I had all these words for you guys, but I guess I . . . lost them.” She sort of smiled, as though part of her mouth didn’t get the memo that it was supposed to lift. “It’s difficult to know what to say when . . .” The rest of her words vanished.

I don’t know how to feel. I just know I want to feel anything else but this.

“So, here’s the thing,” she paused. “We’ve been reading and taking apart poems in this class and addressing the complications of language, the feeling of being shut out or angry or emotional. There are times that it is just so hard to make sense of it all.”

“Like Shakespeare?” Tiffany added.

“Sure,” she smiled with her whole mouth. “Listen, I want to put aside today’s lesson and introduce something else. Who here keeps a diary or journal of some sort?”

A few hands tentatively rose. I used to keep a diary many years ago and then lost interest. It was mainly just secret crushes or complaining about unfair rules. I guess not as riveting as I hoped it would be.

“Starting today, I’m going to ask you to keep a journal. I won’t look at it, I promise. But I think it would be beneficial for all of you, especially with regards to losing one of our classmates this weekend. See it as a chance to reconnect with your thoughts and react in a safe space on paper. More specifically, I want you to write to someone. Anyone. Someone you’ve never met, someone you love. Whoever you’d like. By having a focus, it feels more like a conversation, except without the interruption, of course. I’m hoping it will be meditative, a chance to be with your inner thoughts. A destination toward healing,” she paused, looking around the room. “So, uh, take out your notebook, if it’s not already out, and start writing. Begin with ‘dear’ and then whomever you are writing to. This is more generative than anything else. What I mean by that is this doesn’t need to be formal. In fact, it shouldn’t be. Just let your thoughts and words fly. Roam. Be free.”

“Are you collecting this?” Deanna asked.

“No, I’m not. Allow that to give you permission to write without edit, without judgment, without fear. And I want to encourage you to keep this going. When tragedy happens, writing can be one of the best medicines to make sense of things.”

Behind me, I heard someone say, “Which one was he? I don’t remember a James.”

“Yeah, I don’t know. I think he sat by the window? Maybe he had black hair?”

I stared at my blank page. Turquoise straight lines. I used to write letters to Dara when she went to summer camp. I loved feeling like I could say whatever I wanted without any interruption. I’ve written letters to Dad, even though he’s just thirty minutes away. I wrote to Shirley when she was in the hospital. Sometimes I write to Greta. I didn’t think I’d miss her when she went away to college, but I do. So much.

Ms. Raimondo is a newer teacher at our school, younger than the others. Sometimes I feel like I can see her thoughts grow inside her, but maybe that is just me staring way too hard because I think she’s so pretty. When she walked into the classroom on the first day of school, I couldn’t believe she was the teacher. She looked so cool, with double-pierced ears and purpley lips like she had eaten a whole bunch of pomegranate seeds before she arrived. On the first day of class, she had us write love letters to ourselves, which I thought was really strange. Then, we put them in an envelope she gave to us, which we had to address. She promised she’d mail them to us, eventually. When we forgot. After school that day, I went home and told Shirley all about her. She thought Ms. Raimondo sounded like a hippie, which I wasn’t exactly sure was a good or bad thing. Shirley can be quick to judge at times.

I peered around the room and noticed a few people already writing. In front of me sat Aggie, slightly hunched with her dark glistening braid leaning on her right shoulder. Sometimes I forget Ms. Raimondo is even talking because the back of Aggie’s head mesmerizes me. I’ve spent most of September trying to think of something to say to get her attention. She talks in class, but I haven’t seen her talk to anyone else yet. She’s new to this school, though I’m not sure where she’s from. I’ve written pages of poems just about Aggie’s braid. I wouldn’t dare show them to anyone, of course.

It hurt to allow myself to think that James was gone. And then I couldn’t quite understand why I was feeling this way. We weren’t friends. The only words he flung in my direction were mean ones. But I guess it’s that he succeeded. He did what Shirley has tried to do so many times. That’s when I knew whom I needed to write to.

Monday, October 18, 1993

Dear James,

Ms. Raimondo looks like a grasshopper today, dressed in a long, tight dark green skirt and lime-green blouse. You used to be in this room, but of course we never spoke to each other. I kind of hated you. Or I was scared of you. I guess a little bit of both. You never raised your hand or spoke at all really. But I can hear your voice because it used to make fun of me. It’s so strange being at home without Greta. Quieter. I miss her more than I call my mom Shirley because I think Ms. Raimondo is really beautiful when she wears her hair back and I can see her ears. I still have a difficult time trusting Shirley since she Why did you kill yourself?

Tuesday, October 19

Dear James,

Something happened today in study hall. I can’t stop thinking about it, and I figured I might as well tell you, since, well, you know.

By the time I get to study hall I’m so hungry, but lunch isn’t for two more periods, so I often sneak in some kind of snack to eat while the teacher isn’t looking. We aren’t allowed to eat or talk, which is super annoying. Sometimes, though, I’ll stick something in my pocket and sneak bites. Usually just loose cereal that I suck on to eliminate the loud crunching sound. Is that weird?

Today, I dipped my hand into my pocket and found only crumbs. I tried slyly emptying it out, dropping bits of flesh-colored preservatives to the floor.

“You know, if we were outside, birds would eat that. In here, you are basically just encouraging the cockroaches to come out of hiding.” Aggie had tapped me on the back. She was sitting behind me, diagonally. That’s right, two classes together, though not sure study hall counts as a class. And homeroom too, although that’s just like a half hour or whatever.

I couldn’t believe she saw me do that.

“Yeah, I . . . I was just . . . hey . . .” Wow. Real smooth, Eleanor.

Her voice was deep, not like the ocean, but more like Shirley’s, whose vocal chords have been charred from decades of cigarette smoke.

“It’s not like I’m judging, I’m just noticing,” she said. I took all of her in. This was the first time I really could, since she was looking directly at me. She didn’t exactly match, but from what I noticed through my many weeks of watching her, she never does. She had on a shirt with lots of stripes and an oversized vest (her father’s?), a long skirt, and a tie that went well beyond her waist. “I’m Aggie, by the way,” she paused and moved a little closer to me. “Agnieszka,” she whispers, “but only my dad calls me that now. I feel like you’re in all my classes and yet we’ve never talked to each other. Fromme comes before Glackhzner, so you sit in front of me in homeroom.”

Agnieszka Glackhzner. A mish-mosh of letters. A song.

“Oh, uh . . . yeah,” I dribbled out.

“My dad is a garbage man. ‘Sanitation worker’,” she emphasized proudly, using her fingers to wrap around those last two words. “I’ve been brought up to locate garbage cans like exit signs. I’ve never had to make my bed, but I’ll get punished if I’m caught littering.”

I smiled. “Jeez . . . sorry. I mean, yeah, I didn’t realize.”

“It’s all right,” she smiled back, and I suddenly forgot how to breathe. “Eleanor, right?”

I nodded.

“Who are you writing your letters to? You know, from English class?” Aggie smiled. Her lips spread wide, and I quickly noted all her teeth, so white and slightly crooked.

“Oh, uh . . .”

“I mean, you don’t have to tell me.” Aggie brought in the corner of her mouth and bit down on her lower lip. Why couldn’t I breathe? The air had asbestos in it. Mold. Cancer. What was happening? Why couldn’t I stop smiling?

“I’m writing to Richard Brautigan,” she said.

“Is he an uncle or something? Or . . .”

“No, no. A poet. And storywriter too. A friend of mine I used to go to school with in Staten Island gave me a book of his. Oh man, I love his stuff. You’ve got to check him out. When Ms. Raimondo said to write to someone, he was the first person I thought of.”

“Oh, uh, yeah.” What?

“You’re funny. Hey, I wanted to tell you in English class that I really love your new hair. It’s awesome.”

“Thanks.” Finally, a word. “I’m writing to—”

“Sshhh,” Mr. Greggs widened his eyes at us.

“Anyway,” Aggie whispered, “you can borrow a Brautigan book, if you like. I’ve really got to stay focused this year. Second chance.”

Second chance?

Wednesday, October 20

Dear James,

We had hamburgers with homemade french fries for supper. Not every letter needs to be about something.

Okay, fine. Maybe there is always something that can be talked about. Something of substance, I mean. What would you have said about my hair, James? Would you have pointed and laughed? What clever joke would you make of it? Would you call me cranberry bog or menstruation face?

The thing is, I guess I was distracted by you on Monday, and then Tuesday I couldn’t stop thinking about my conversation with Aggie, but something else happened on Monday. After school.

Dara missed the bus in the morning, so I didn’t see her until math—the only class we have together this year. When I walked in, she was already there, and she gasped. Really. Like out-loud-lungs-filling-with-everyone’s-dead-skin-cells type of gasp.

“Eleanor! Oh my god! What happened?”

I threw my fingers on my head and felt around. “Oh, this? Yeah, I guess I made a mistake?”

“I almost didn’t recognize you. You look like . . .” James, if you were in the room, I bet you would have laughed. Maybe you would have even egged her on. “You look like a lesbian.” She whispered it like “lesbian” was a curse word.

“W-what does a lesbian look like?” I still can’t believe I said that. I mean, Flor is a lesbian and she just looks like—I don’t know—a person. Actually, she’s the first lesbian I’ve ever met. Or know that I’ve met, I guess. She has short hair, but do all lesbians have the same haircut? I’ll have to ask Flor.

Flor gives off a soothing aroma of peppermint and coffee. When she isn’t drinking coffee—which happens all throughout the day, even at dinner—she is popping little peppermints into her mouth. Usually they are the kind you get from that giant bowl at the diner after you pay your bill. Flor always takes giant handfuls, stuffs them in her pockets and delivers them to a bowl in her house. Gret and I call them urine mints, and do not dare eat them, even when they are the kind with delicious bits of hard jelly in the center.

“They’re always kind of damp,” Greta once told me. “And you know why?”

I just shrugged.

“Because people go to the bathroom, hands damp from wiping not washing, and then they grab a handful of these. Pop ’em in their mouth. Gross,” she said, sticking out her tongue. “Never eat them. No matter what, okay?”

When I first met Flor, I wasn’t sure if I liked her. She is eccentric (I can’t remember how I learned this word) in ways I have never experienced before. First, she’s obsessed with the mail. Since she’s no longer working—Shirley mentioned something about disability—she makes sure to be home every day the mail comes. Sunday is her day off. It is also a wasted day—her words: “A day without mail is a day unworthy of breakfast, showering, or conversation.”

“I can’t even housesit because I worry I would just open up mail that isn’t mine, just to see what’s inside. It’s like a daily birthday present,” she once said.

“But isn’t it just bills and junk?” I asked her.

“Yeah, but someone still took the time to lick that envelope, tear off a stamp, and slip it through a blue mailbox. Time and appreciation, Eleanor.”

Flor used to keep even her junk mail until Shirley went over to her house and saw the piles and piles of magazines and envelopes, half-torn open.

“You can’t just keep everything,” Shirley said between cigarette inhales. “You’ve got to let go.”

Maybe this is why they’re such good friends; they aren’t afraid to tiptoe around each other. They just tell it like it is.

“I’m a lesbian, Eleanor,” Flor said a few months after our first meeting, “So I’ve learned to get used to making room for myself in spaces that try to exclude me.”

This was the moment I knew I really liked Flor. I liked knowing someone who understands how to exist even when others don’t want her to because of stupid reasons like just wanting to kiss girls or whatever.

What happens when we say something out loud? Does it become more real? Is it any less real when we keep it to ourselves?

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. Then math class started, and it was super awkward between Dara and I, and we didn’t see each other again until our bus ride home. We always sit next to each other and we still did, but most of the ride was in complete silence.

“Hey, listen,” I started, “it’s . . . I don’t know . . . I left your house and I just wanted to scream. Didn’t you? I mean, we didn’t really know him, but he was our classmate for so many years. And then I thought about Shirley and almost losing her in the same . . . anyway, so I just cut my hair. That’s it. It’ll grow back. Who cares?”

“No, yeah, I know, Eleanor. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . say what I said. I think I have a gay uncle so . . .”

“So . . . what?”

“So, a gay person is probably related to me. So, it’s not mean.”

“I don’t understand. And anyway, so what if I was a . . . a lesbian?”

James, I can tell you this because you’re not my bully anymore, you’re just a piece of paper. Before I became an atheist—my parents know, though they wish I’d reconsider—I had my Bat Mitzvah. That was kind of the end of my Jewishness. I was newly thirteen, begrudgingly (vocab word!) finished Hebrew school and completed the whole experience. I lead the minyan, read from the Torah, all of it. Anyway, at the party part, my friend Kelly kept asking me to dance. When Good Vibrations came on by Marky Mark, she grabbed me, and we just swung our limbs around like animals. It was incredible. I mean, everyone was dancing. When it was over, she yelled into my ear that she wanted to give me my present. I told her she didn’t have to get me anything, but that I could just open it later. But she kept insisting. So, we left the room—my Bat Mitzvah was in this giant hall where, like, weddings probably happened. We went down the stairs and into this smaller room. I just looked at her because she didn’t seem to be holding a gift, and then she kissed me.

You probably think it’s lame or gross to imagine two girls kissing. I could tell you that I was shocked. I could tell you that I immediately pushed her away and wiped my lips, but the thing is, I wanted only one thing for my birthday and it wasn’t until Kelly kissed me that I realized what it was. It’s like my whole body opened up and I became something else. I remember walking in on Greta and her high school boyfriend Vegetarian Todd kissing and I couldn’t get over how gross it looked. But I guess it’s gross until it happens to you by someone who means something.

So when Dara called me a lesbian, it was like something got louder in me. After my Bat Mitzvah, every time Kelly and I saw each other, we kissed. A few times, Kelly took off her shirt and let me stare at her and once, she even let me touch her. She never really wanted to touch me. She called me her secret boyfriend. I didn’t think much of it then. I just liked how she made me feel. Less than a year later, she moved away. Her dad got a job in Texas, and we wrote for a little while, but then she stopped, and I stopped and well, I guess it went away . . . you know . . . the feelings.

“I just think it’s weird, El,” Dara said. “I mean, you cut your hair and made it . . . purple. I guess it’s not like you.”

“Okay, well, maybe it isn’t. But maybe I don’t even know what I am or who I am or . . .”

“You weren’t even friends with James.”

“Dara, are you kidding me? It’s so much more than that.”

“Just tell me if you are. That girl Jacqueline who was in our science class last year? She shaved her head and then told everyone she was bisexual. I mean, you and I have had sleepovers. We’ve slept in the same bed! I changed in front of—”

“Okay! Okay. Yes. I am. A . . . lesbian, or whatever. Jeez. I don’t know, I never said it out loud. Can we just . . . can we not—”

“Oh my gosh, you are? Wait, I was just . . . I mean, I didn’t think. Eleanor, I . . . I’m not sure how I feel about this.”

“We’ve been friends since we were seven. Why does this even matter?”

“I’m not sure. Can I think about it?”

“Can you think about how this doesn’t even affect you?”

James, there’s no need to continue the rest. I can’t believe I told Dara something I barely ever thought about (actually, even as I write that, I know it’s not really true—I’ve thought about it more than anything else) and now suddenly it was apparently the end to our friendship. I mean, I guess I kind of have feelings for Aggie, but I just saw it as like, a friend-crush, even though she’s not exactly my friend and . . . oh, you wouldn’t understand anyway.

Thursday, October 21

Dear James,

Tonight, I had my suicide support group. We meet every Thursday. Flor came along and while we were on our way there, I asked her about what it’s like to be a lesbian. Super weird, I know, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“What’s it like to be a fifteen-year-old?” she immediately asked back.

“Umm . . .”

“Eleanor, why are you asking me this?”

“I don’t . . . I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to know more about you.”

“Okay,” Flor was looking at the road (since she was driving), but I could see her face tense up as though she was thinking big thoughts. “Well, it’s been a long time, I’m almost fifty. Wooh, don’t say that out loud much. It’s difficult and wonderful and challenging and . . . even at my age, I still have to come out to people. You never stop. I’ve had some good reactions, some horrifying ones. I’ve lost friends. I’ve gained friends. Funny, when I first met your mom, I thought she was gay. I thought everyone at the book club was gay. Maybe that’s wishful thinking. And when I realized she wasn’t—nor was anyone else—I wasn’t mad or anything, I was just worried. I really liked your mom and didn’t want to lose her as a friend. It had happened so many times before. Of course, she didn’t care one bit. I’ll never understand why something that has nothing to do with anyone else makes people so uncomfortable.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“If I found someone, I couldn’t even marry them. Shouldn’t everyone have the right to just . . . love and get married if they want? I’ll never get used to that. I’ll never understand.”

That night at group, there were a few new people. I’ve been going since June and I’ve seen lots of people come and go. Shirley occasionally checks in with me to make sure I still want to go, and I do. I feel less alone when I’m there. I also feel really grateful because a lot of people in the group actually lost their family members. I’m lucky I still have a mom.

“Eleanor, I made coconut chocolate cookies, the ones you love!” Delia insisted on bringing baked goods each week. She said that it allows her to funnel her sadness into something better. There was always coffee too, and some other snacks. I know, who cares, right? But I’m telling you this to set the scene, James. Because of what happened a little later on.

I spoke a lot more in the beginning, when everything was raw, but now, I prefer to just sit and take it all in. Delia spoke about her husband, who she found in the basement. I guess he was hiding a bunch of bad pictures too, that part I didn’t really understand. But Delia said something about him leading some kind of double life. Delia always talked about her confusion of missing him and hating him at the same time.

A few other people spoke too, and then Peter, the social worker, asked if any of the new members wanted to speak.

I guess some people just need to be asked because right then a woman started speaking. She had a haircut just like my sixth-grade teacher. Do you remember Mrs. Gryzynsky? I know you weren’t in that class, but I feel like everyone knew her. She was so strange. She was really short and always wore bright, bright red lipstick. Her hair was cut like a mushroom.

This woman had one of Delia’s cookies in the palm of her hand. It’s like she was petting it, like she didn’t know it was edible.

“I lost my boy. My only one,” she said. Her voice sounded scratched like someone with giant fingernails tore up her vocal chords.

“Would you like to share?” That’s what Peter always said. A few times, he has mentioned that it was a question that allowed more openness to answer. Like we can talk about more than just who we lost or almost lost. We can also talk about our day or whatever.

“I don’t . . . I’m still trying to understand. How can a parent ever survive this? I mean, . . . I just didn’t know . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Patricia, who lost her brother last year, handed the woman a tissue. “There’s lotion in it,” I heard her whisper.

“If you feel able, would you share your name and maybe anything about him you might like?” Peter has a really soothing voice, which definitely helped me to open up in the beginning. He also has a monstrously-large moustache. James, remember our music teacher in middle school? Mr. Jerricks? His moustache was like three fingers wide. Peter’s is even thicker.

“He was only fifteen,” the woman said. “He liked to cook, bake all sorts of things with me. He listened to music a lot. I can’t remember the names of the . . . I’m Helaine.”

“Helaine, thank you for being here with us today,” Peter said.

“James is his . . . was his . . . name,” she added.

Your mom. Of course. In this moment, I wish you weren’t just a piece of paper. I wish you could have seen her face. Puffy and red and wet and I don’t know . . . like her brain melted or something. Not like she didn’t make sense, no, not that. More like, she was at a loss for words. For understanding.

I didn’t know you liked to cook. I don’t really know anything about you, really. I wonder what your favorite recipe was. James, did you leave a note? Did you tell anyone beforehand? Who was your best friend? Did you ever get to be in love? Did you ever kiss anyone?

At the end of group, people started folding the chairs, putting away the cups and napkins, grabbing the last of the cookies, chatting a bit. I motioned to Flor that I was going to talk to Helaine. When she mentioned your name, I think Flor understood as well.

“Hi,” I said to her.

She was looking at one of the few pieces of art on the walls. Some kind of landscape with a setting sun.

“H-hi,” she said, still staring at the painting.

“I’m fifteen too,” I said, hoping maybe she’d make the connection.

She turned to face me. “Oh.”

“Um, I knew him. James. I mean, we weren’t exactly friends, but—”

Suddenly her skin grew pinker. “You did? You . . . did you have any idea? Did he tell you—”

“No, no, I . . . we didn’t speak, but he was in my English class. He didn’t really talk in there either.”

“What’s your name?”

“Eleanor,” I said. “Eleanor Fromme, but I doubt James ever mentioned me.”

She shook her head.

“I’m . . . I’m so sorry for your loss.” Even as I said it, I hated every word. Why do we apologize when someone dies as though we caused it, as though we could have stopped it? Could I have?

“Thank you, dear. Tonight was . . . good. Maybe I’ll get Burt to come.”

“James’s . . .”

“Father. He blames himself. He . . . he’s a pastor. Always hoped James would be more . . . oh, I don’t know . . . Christian.” She smiled.

I definitely didn’t know what to say to that.

“May I . . . may I ask what causes you to come here as well?”

I took a deep breath. “My mom.”

“Oh, Eleanor, I’m so sorry—”

“Actually, she’s still alive. I mean, she tried to kill herself, but she’s okay now. I’m not so sure what okay really means. I’ll always be waiting, you know? Scared that she might try again, even though she promises me she won’t. I see her every day, but what happens when I’m in college and it’s just her and—”

“So much for a young person to think about,” she said.

“Yeah, well, I’m sure I’ll put her through a lot too,” I laughed.

“Maybe I’ll see you next Thursday, Eleanor.”

James, I can’t pretend that it wasn’t strange to speak to your mom after there were days I’d go home after being bullied by you and thinking a monster must have raised you to turn you into one. But she’s warm and even in her sadness, she seems so kind.

On the ride home, I told Flor about Helaine and feeling guilty that I still have my family member, while so many people in group lost theirs. Sometimes I feel like an imposter.

“Eleanor, you are everywhere you are supposed to be,” Flor said.

P.S. Your mom smells like banana bread.

Friday, October 22

Dear James,

It is so strange to ignore someone I used to tell all my secrets to. And I wonder if Dara feels the same way. On the bus to school, I had to sit next to Ross, who smells like old grape jelly sandwiches. Dara and I always sat together. I thought maybe she’d apologize. But it’s like I was invisible to her. And then of course, I had this terrible fear. I mean, she’s the only person that knows that I’m . . . just write it, Eleanor . . . A LESBIAN! What if she tells people? What if the whole school replaces you as my bully. What if James, you got to die with all of your secrets. I guess we all have them.

I don’t even know who your friends were. Sometimes I wish I could talk to one of them and ask what you were like. I don’t really think you were the monster I thought you were. After meeting your mom, I realized there must have been some of that kindness in you too, right?

There is a poster in our health class with a boy in mid-punch leaning toward a scared-looking boy. I think they’re in a cafeteria, maybe? In giant bold lettering, it says: BULLIES GET BULLIED SO DON’T BE A BULLY! I’m sure someone was mean to you and you just did what you saw. Mr. Giore (my history teacher) said that history happens over and over, so there is no past, just present-tense re-runs.

Greta used to bully me all the time. She’d boss me around and if I put up a stink, she’d yell at me. Sometimes she’d steal my favorite toy and hide it. She was worse than when Dad and Shirley would punish me. I’m sure I’ve bullied too. Maybe I’ve even bullied Dara. Bossed her around. Made her feel bad. I don’t know. What things can we forgive? And are there things we just can’t let go of? James, writing to you really digs at my apple core. I know I’m still so mad at Shirley for doing what she did. Maybe I won’t ever forgive her. But being in that support group helps. Maybe that’s why I stay, so I can try to let go of what she did. So I can trust her again.

Sunday, October 24

Ms. Raimondo said that to tell a story, one must start at the beginning. But who remembers that? I couldn’t speak when I began. I can’t remember what my first word was, probably Mom or Dad but certainly not enough vocabulary to tell my story. Or a story.

But Ms. Raimondo said something else, which I guess is why I’m writing this. She said that stories find their meaning once they are written down. You were there that day, weren’t you? When she said that? It meant something because I actually wrote it in my notebook and I’m not really the best note-taker—I usually start and then lose interest—but I wanted to understand it better.

Anyway, I never told anyone about that night. Last March. Maybe if I write it down, I can let go of it. Forgive you, maybe. It was so cold outside, but I had to get out of my house. Shirley had her book club people over. Every month they discussed romance novels as though they are . . . I don’t know . . . works of art or something. But that’s how Shirley met Flor, so I guess good things come out of weird things, right?

Everyone was smoking cigarettes, and it was like the tar was tiptoeing up the stairs, into my bedroom. I piled on a sweater over my long-sleeved shirt and another sweater over that with long thermal underwear beneath my sweatpants and I felt like a polar bear swallowed by another polar bear. Plus, two scarves, my winter coat and my Walkman with a mix tape made by Dara. I remember everything.

“Bored! Gonna take a walk around the block! Be back s—”

“Wait,” interrupted Shirley. “Are you kidding me? It’s freezing out there.”

“I know. I’m bundled. But it reeks of smoke in here and my lungs are screaming. I promise I won’t be gone too long.”

Shirley looked at the others. “Okay, but just around the block and then back,” she said.

I walked out, pushing the headphones over my ears and preparing for some perfectly picked out music to accompany me on my walk.

James, I just realized this was before. Shirley was . . . Mom. Helaine is probably going to think this way too. Before you hung yourself and after.

Here is something to know about my neighborhood. I live on a cul-de-sac. The great part of this is that when I was younger and the thought of playing outside was enough to make me happy, I didn’t have to worry about oncoming traffic when playing catch in the middle of the street. Anyone who drives on our block already lives here. But I decided to make a right turn and travel out of the cul-de-sac, heading toward the ‘shady development’. I titled it this when I first noticed the tall trees turning into each other like clasped fingers. The branches became like an umbrella shading me from the summertime sky when I was zipping away on my bike. In the winter, without all the leaves, they just looked like trees with bad posture, leaning. But it’s my favorite place to bike through in the warmer months. Each house is so different from the other and since the houses are much older and have been there for many decades, the trees are tall and wild.

Anyway, I was listening to the Pixies in my eardrums and feeling like a dragon as my frozen breath escaped me, creating a white smoke from between my chapped lips. I was singing loudly—I remember this—because I was the only one who existed or at least it felt that way. I don’t really know too much about the Pixies, except for the way they make me feel, which is alive and excited. I wonder what music you listen to. Your mom couldn’t remember.

And then I felt something.

“Hey!”

I felt you before I saw you because the music was loud, and I was lost in my thoughts.

“What?”

“Hey, what are you, freak?”

And I remember everything as though it was a movie I was watching, but I was in it. I didn’t know it was you at first, because it was so dark. You were in one of those winter sock hats and your jacket was dark. Actually, everything was dark except for the streetlights that had been illuminating my walk.

I took off my headphones because I was scared and wanted to be alert.

“You go to my school, dyke.”

I kept walking. And if I was a dragon before, I suddenly became Jackie Joyner-Kersee. Although, I wasn’t exactly running, more like power-walking, which is what I do in gym class.

“Am I scaring you, lezzie? I know what you are.”

You were smoking a cigarette.

“Or maybe you’re a fag,” you said. “Which one? Huh? You a dyke or a faggot?”

I could still hear the music blaring through the speakers of my headphones. Of course, I didn’t answer you. I didn’t know what to say. James, you really frightened me. And then, suddenly I was on the ground because you pushed me, pulled at my sleeve, and I fell.

I could hear the crackle of the paper burning up with each suck of your cigarette between your lips, and do you remember what you did next? You blew that smoke right into my face.

Here’s the thing: I’m not going to pretend to be some fearless superhuman. My body was trembling beneath every single layer, and I think my complete silence was due to the fact that every word that wanted to come out was frozen inside me. I’ve never been in a fight before, so I can’t even say if I can pack a mean punch or not. There was that time Heather S. thought I was staring at her boyfriend in Spanish class last year and she told me she was going to beat me up after school. I was terrified of the day ending. I wound up hiding in the library until I knew all the buses had left and then called Shirley from the payphone to pick me up. Yes, I was staring, but only because I thought his jean vest was so cool and I was trying to read the pins he had on the back. Anyway, maybe I’ve got a badass boxer living inside me, but I wasn’t exactly in the frame of mind to figure it out that night.

You said some other stuff that for some reason I blocked out and then. You. Spit. On. Me.

You were so close to me that I could feel your hot breath on my neck. I remember you kind of smelled like Vick’s VapoRub.

“My dad, he . . . he wants me to be everything he is. Go to church, pray every single day. It’s bullshit. He wants me to be real . . . you better not tell anyone about this, dyke.”

And then you spat on me once more and I could taste the tobacco in your saliva on my skin. So gross.

I always wondered if you were afraid I’d tell. Or if you even cared. And I’m not sure why I didn’t. I guess I didn’t know how to tell it. I guess I was afraid that if I said the words out loud that you called me, they would become more real. What I really wanted to ask you was: how did you know?

I have lived in this neighborhood for most of my life. We moved here when I was six and everyone on my block pretty much knows each other’s business. The Fiore’s live next door and when Gabby, who is one grade above me, found her father french-kissing her mother’s best friend, everyone found out. It’s kind of like a game of telephone, where the real story rarely remains in its original form. But in this particular case, her father really did have an affair, and now I think they are having an open relationship or something.

When Shirley set off the fire alarm because of her cigarettes, the fire trucks came. Oh man, they all couldn’t wait to feast on that gossip. It wasn’t the first time she fell asleep with one lit. I don’t even want to talk about that.

David Werzloski moved into the house at the corner two years ago. In second grade, he showed me his penis. Just pulled his pants down right in the middle of Mrs. Rossi’s math lesson and I couldn’t believe how wrinkly it was, kind of like a crumpled-up fruit roll-up.

And Rachel, Tina and Tiffany live three houses away with their parents and new dog named Rover. The Pashmis across the street. The Jacobs. The Gowers. The McDonnells. The Goldbergs. Dara and her family live about six houses down. There are more boys than girls on our street. The Goldbergs have triplet boys who are Gret’s age. One enlisted in the army, the other two went to some college in Oregon, I think.

My point. My point is that I feel like we all know each other in some way. I’ve trick-or-treated at everyone’s house. Beyond just this cul-de-sac, all the streets connect. I sold Girl Scout cookies when I was briefly a Brownie, just until I got to go to Sesame Place. Then, I decided I didn’t like being called a dessert that I couldn’t even eat because during that time Shirley prohibited sweets from our house. I’ve been to sleepovers and played Monopoly in these houses and swam in their pools and went to Halloween parties and even accompanied Shirley to a Tupperware party one evening at one of these homes.

When you pushed me, I stopped feeling safe. I was so afraid to go to school that Monday, but you acted like nothing even happened. Didn’t address me or taunt me or anything like that. Actually, I feel like that was the last time you ever bullied me.

Monday, October 25

Dear James,

It feels kind of weird to be writing to you like we are old friends or something and I’m just catching you up on what you’ve missed. It’s been a week. Just one week since you’ve . . . the ribbons people tied to their car antennas and backpacks are mostly gone. The wind took them away. Your picture will probably be in the yearbook under some kind of heading like: ‘In Memory Of’ or something like that. And then what? We move on? Nothing changes, and everything just keeps growing around us. I keep thinking about your mom. I hope she comes back to group. I hope your dad comes too.

Anyway, today Aggie and I sat together during lunch. It was incredible. I didn’t even realize we were in the same lunch period, and then I saw her. She actually motioned for me to sit next to her!

“Do you think your thoughts are strange?” I asked her.

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

“I feel like I’m thinking things I was trying not to think about and it’s . . . I don’t know . . .”

“Why don’t you want to think about them?” she asked.

“It’s like breathing. We can hold our breath and stop for a second or two, but eventually we have to go back and let the air in. Maybe I can try to not think for a second, but then my thoughts just come right back.”

Aggie smiled. Today, she had on some kind of shiny lip-gloss. I couldn’t stop staring.

“Maybe they keep coming back because they are still forming.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Anyway, let’s talk about something else, okay? Tell me about . . . tell me something that you haven’t told me yet.”

Aggie had just grabbed a large bite full of her tuna and capers sandwich, so she dragged her finger through the air as a symbol of hold on.

“Well, we haven’t been friends for very long, so there’s a lot on that list! I don’t know . . . umm . . . I pierced my own belly button last year, which was a painful mistake.”

“Bloody?”

“Infected.”

“Oh, well, my parents pierced my ears when I was a baby, never even asking me if I was cool with it. Once I was old enough, I unplugged my earlobes just as soon as I could. The hole is closed up now.” I grabbed my earlobe and twisted it toward her. “See?”

“Looks to be,” Aggie smiled. “Oh, I collect envelopes.”

“Like, new ones?”

“No,” she laughed. “The ones from junk mail or bills. It’s the insides that I like the best.”

“The letter?”

“No, the lining of the envelope. It’s always cool patterns and I used to dream of cutting them into tiny squares and gluing them together like a paper quilt. Can’t really say what I would have done with it. I imagine tiny, hidden stories inside the patterns. Like morse code. I’ve always wondered if other people notice how beautiful the inside of an envelope is. My dad knows about my collection, so he always saves them for me. Right now, I keep them in a giant envelope. Oh, my gosh, I just realized how funny that is.”

“Like those wooden Russian dolls that fit inside each other. A doll inside a doll. An envelope inside an—”

“What’s something that you collect?”

“I collect a bunch of stuff, but I used to collect . . .”

“What?” Aggie leaned in.

“Oh gosh, please don’t think I’m strange, but I used to collect my fingernails. Like baby half-moons. I kept them in a cigar box my dad gave me. Weird, I know.”

Aggie grabbed my hand and brought my fingers to her mouth. “How about I add to your collection?”

She pretended to bite my nails, and I laughed hard enough to feel my apple juice slosh around in my stomach.

“I’m glad you moved here,” I said. I could feel my entire face and body blushing. I only hoped Aggie hadn’t noticed.

“Yeah, me too. Hey,” she brought her hands to my cranberry fuzz and sloshed her fingers around. “You getting used to being hairless?”

I smiled. “I keep forgetting that. I don’t really have a habit of checking myself out. Yeah, it’s weird, but I feel more me like this.”

“What do you mean?”

James, I didn’t really know how to answer her. The thing is, there’s something else that’s been kind of growing inside me for a while now, but you know like when you don’t have a word for something, you kind of just twist your way out of that sentence? Am I making sense? Probably not. What I mean is, I feel something in me, something that feels incomplete. Something that feels unspoken. When Dara called me a lesbian, I thought that might be it, except that feeling remained. That feeling that something else is still there waiting to be found.

“You know like when we’re really young and our parents dress us and maybe it’s something we like, but then you look back on pictures taken and you’re like, ‘I would never have picked that!’”

“Definitely,” Aggie laughed.

“Maybe I’m just still figuring out to dress myself. How to look. Even though this haircut was definitely not thought out, I am starting to recognize myself a little more.”

“Hey, do you want to have a sleepover this weekend? If you’re not busy, I mean?”

Oh my gosh oh my gosh act cool, Eleanor.

“Sure, okay.” Inside, every single organ in my body grew teeth and lips just so a smile could form. My lungs, my intestines, my liver were all beaming!

James, have you ever met someone who made you feel like you wanted to understand everything about yourself?

Wednesday, October 27

Dear James,

Today in class, Ms. Raimondo said that there is a book out there for everyone. She said it because when we were discussing a poem by James Baldwin, Greg blurted out—he never raises his hand—that it was just too hard to understand, and poems are only meant for too smart people. Too smart people, James? Ugh, anyway, I’ve never heard of James Baldwin before, but Ms. Raimondo said that we’ll be reading some more of him later in the year and I kind of got excited about that. The poem was called “The Giver”. It felt like a riddle and maybe I still don’t quite get it, but Ms. Raimondo said it’s less about the gifts we give, but rather the action of it. And that the feelings we have when giving the gift aren’t always fully received. Giving gifts don’t always solve the problem, she said. James, I’m not sure why but I felt such relief in this.

This past weekend, I thought about what would have happened if you weren’t my bully and we somehow made our way to friends. We’d share jokes and maybe even read the same books and talk about them and who knows, maybe even study together. And if we had been friends, maybe you wouldn’t have . . . but then when we read this poem, I realized that we can gift-wrap all sorts of things and it doesn’t mean it will bring happiness or even cure madness (Ms. Raimondo mentioned that part). We can give, but it may never be enough. We will always run out of food, out of houses, out of . . . hope.

Yeah, I guess this poem is pretty sad too.

Thursday, October 28

Dear James,

I have two small closets in my bedroom. When my parents were still together, and life seemed defined by rules, one was designated for my warmer-month clothes and the other for winter. Nowadays, I fit all my clothes into one closet and use the other as my hiding space. I kind of see it as my tunnel toward being whoever I want to be.

In it, I’ve hung a Whitney Houston poster where her hair looks so beautiful and curly, placed my favorite pillow and my small, battery-operated radio/tape player. My closet is just big enough to sit inside, with my knees semi-comfortably pressed into my chest. I guess it’s not much of a hiding space since my whole family knows I go in there sometimes when I don’t want to be bothered.

I often close the door when I’m in there and the only light coming in comes from the gap between the door and the floorboards. I imagine my body as though it hides its own trap door. Sometimes I take off all my clothes, so the darkness becomes like a fifth wall, and then just feel around. I pretend everything is as it should be. I knead my small breasts in a way that pushes them down like that time Dad and I made challah together and I could feel the tough dough get more elastic and even with each push of my palm. I imagine planting seeds in my vagina, waiting for something different to grow. James, good thing you’re paper now, because you’d probably stop reading this, but this is how I feel. I’d watch the roots slowly pour out, twist and turn. My vagina would be replaced by a fern or banana tree. Or, maybe just a giant hand would emerge and scoop out all the woman in me.

It’s like I’m a meal on a menu with the wrong name. My ingredients make it seem like I’m one dish when really, I swear I’m another.

Saturday, October 30

Dear James,

Today, Aggie comes over for the first time and I just can’t wait. But James, I want to tell you about group this week. Flor didn’t come because she had a date—which she seemed super excited about—so Shirley dropped me off. You probably want to know if your mom was there.

“I want to shape tonight a little bit, if that’s alright with everyone,” Peter said. Usually he takes a back seat to the discussion. He kind of just nods his head, but not in a way like he isn’t listening, more like knowing that it’s about us and not him.

“I’d like to encourage everyone to speak. Of course, if this feels uncomfortable or impossible, then of course you may pass. But I am going to place a question in the air for everyone and hopefully embolden some thoughts.” Peter twisted the end of his moustache. He did this a lot when he was listening. It’s like it turned his thoughts on or something.

“There is very often guilt involved with survivors. We’ve talked about this in here. A sense of ‘I should have said this’. What do you want to say in this moment? For some of us, we’ve had only weeks apart from the tragedy. Others, months, even years. But as we know, the questions and thoughts never stop. So, tonight, I want us to fully address our loved ones. Talk to them. Say what we didn’t. Speaking it out is a path—a long, windy one—toward healing.”

Maeve, who lost her sister, started to speak. “There were times I just wanted you to finally go. Our whole lives you kept trying and it became so painful. I stopped . . . I stopped trusting you. I could never get comfortable. And then, when you . . . when you finally . . . I was relieved.” She pressed her hand against her mouth.

James, I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this. I guess every letter to you is full of this doubt, this sense of why do I need to give these words to you? But Thursday’s group gave me this sense of understanding a little bit more about speaking out loud. Even when the words feel like they are too late.

“Maybe we were too hard on him,” your mom spoke.

“If it’s alright, I want to encourage you to speak directly to him,” Peter said.

“Yes, of course. Sorry. My husband . . . I tried to get him to come tonight . . . he . . . he’s not . . . he blames himself. He expected James to be a certain way. But we do that as parents, we want for our children what we didn’t have. We never want them to suffer. And yet . . . he was suffering the whole time.”

James, as your mom spoke, she held onto a handkerchief so tight, I watched her knuckles scream.

“I should have just let you be you,” she said. She pressed the handkerchief to her eyes and nose.

Like I said, I don’t usually talk, but I felt a pull.

“My mom just attempted, but it hurts just the same,” I said, “because it’s like even though she is still here, I’m still scared that she’ll . . . sorry, you . . . will try again. And also, it’s hard knowing how you tried so hard to leave us.” I looked at Peter and said, “Her being here is kind of like a consolation prize.”

“What do you mean by that, Eleanor?” Peter asked.

“I guess it’s like . . . well, I used to watch The Price is Right with my grandma. You know that show? People have to guess the price of things and then the winner gets to play something else. Sometimes they get to choose between door number 1, 2, or 3. You just know they’re all hoping for a car. Or like a dream vacation to Hawaii or something. Usually people are excited no matter what it is, even if it’s just a washing machine. But sometimes it’s like a suitcase made of broccoli and you can tell the person is excited to be on television, but pretty disappointed. My mom meant to die and when she didn’t, I’m sure there was a part of her that felt bummed, you know? She tells me she’s sorry and that she wants to be here, but it’s still hard to accept.”

James, I could just feel everyone stare at me. I got super self-conscious. And then your mom said something.

“You know Eleanor, sometimes we make a decision and moments right after, we wish, wish we could change our minds.”

After group, during cookie-hoarding time, as I like to call it, I spoke with your mom for a bit.

“How are you . . . how are you?” I asked her.

“Each day still feels empty, missing.”

I didn’t really know what to say to that.

“Eleanor, would you like to come over for supper sometime?”

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

“And your mother too. We’d love to have you both.”

When I got home, I talked to Shirley about Helaine and her invitation. I gave her Helaine’s phone number, and Shirley said she’d set something up.

Sunday, October 31 (HALLOWEEN!!!)

Dear James,

Aggie and I were up until 5 a.m., finally falling asleep against each other, her braid on my shoulder, her scent leaving footprints on my skin. Can you believe it? She read me stories from a Richard Brautigan book called Revenge of the Lawn. I told her that title made me think of what would happen if someone forgot to mow their grass and it became so wild it took over the world. She laughed, and when she smiles it makes my whole body feel like it’s glowing. I tried hard to listen while she read and not lose my concentration from the shape of her lips and wideness of her dimly lit hazel eyes.

In the morning, we ate pancakes smeared with organic peanut butter—the kind where the oil becomes the main ingredient, holding the good stuff hostage—and tons of maple syrup. My Aunt Renita gave it to us last Chanukah. That was before she divorced my Uncle Greg. I always liked her better, and now I never get to see her because my Uncle Greg is Shirley’s brother. Divorce sucks.

James, I feel like I really got to know Aggie last night. We shared so much with each other.

“I mean, I really liked Staten Island, but I think my dad needed a change. He’s a little better now since . . .” Aggie said.

“Since what?” I asked.

“My . . . my mom died two years ago.”

“Oh, Aggie, I am so sorry.”

“Yeah, it’s still so weird to say out loud. She . . .” Aggie looked down at the floor. I watched as she poked her fingers into the tiny holes created from her hair weaved into itself. “This may sound strange, but I’m grateful to have been left back. When she died, I just couldn’t handle things, I was so angry. It’s like our house just crumbled, you know? How was I supposed to still go to math class and do that stupid physical fitness test in gym? Ughh . . . why do we even do that every year? Anyway, my grades just tanked and I was left back.”

“What . . . happened to her? To your mom? I mean, if you are okay talking about it. I don’t want to—”

“Breast cancer. She had it for awhile. We really thought it would just go away. And it did. I mean, it vanished for a few months, but it was always there, like wind, you know? Wind is just really angry air. And cancer is just really angry cells, I guess. She used to brush my hair every night. Every single night. She’d sit behind me and I could feel every hair on my head being touched by her. Pulled at, but never hurting, you know? And she’d just listen as I told her about my day. Who I crushed on. Who I was mad at. What I was learning in school or having trouble with. Obviously, I could brush my own hair, but it soothed her to do it, even before she was sick. For that reason alone, I don’t think I could ever cut my hair. It has memorized her brushstrokes.”

“Oh, Aggie,” I dripped out.

She grabbed her braid, resting on her shoulder, and swung it toward her back.

“So, I just stopped going to school. My dad was grieving pretty hard then too, so for weeks we just sat on the couch together watching old episodes of Murder She Wrote and Cagney and Lacey, my mom’s favorite television shows. She recorded almost all the episodes. But then the school finally called my dad. I guess that’s some kind of felony. They said I was in danger of failing my classes and that I went over the limit of absences. My dad . . . he’s pretty tough. I mean, my mom’s death definitely softened him. But when they called him, he didn’t even argue. He just cried. My dad cried on the phone to the principal.”

For a while, we sat in silence. I just wanted to glue myself to her, so she could feel bigger or stronger.

“Sorry,” Aggie looked up at me with damp lashes. “I didn’t mean to get all dark. It brought my dad and I closer and I’m glad we’re here. We needed to leave Staten Island behind. And I got to meet you.”

This made me smile so big, I thought my cheeks would crumble.

“So, you still haven’t told me who you’re writing to.”

“I’ve been writing to James.”

“James? The kid who—”

“Yeah.”

“Were you friends? I didn’t realize . . .”

“No, I mean, not at all. Actually, he bullied me. I guess writing to him helps me understand a little bit more. Actually, it’s helping me to understand myself more. Shirley . . . my mom . . . she tried to kill herself earlier this year.”

“Eleanor.” I watched Aggie’s eyes grow larger.

“Yeah. Speaking of it getting dark.” I tried to smile, which was easy to do around Aggie. “Anyway, I’m still working on forgiving her and understanding all that. I go to a suicide survivor support group once a week. Actually, I met James’s mom there.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” I took a deep breath and could feel my lungs expanding. “She’s really nice. And the group helps me to be around others who understand. It’s all just so hard.”

“Definitely.”

“Ugh, it’s bad enough being a teenager with a body that’s changing whether I want it to or not.”

“What don’t you want?” Aggie asked.

No one ever asked me this, James. After this horrible year of almost losing Shirley and Gret going to college and barely seeing Dad, no one has asked me what I want or what I don’t.

“I don’t want what I know I’m supposed to be getting.”

“What do you mean?” Aggie asked.

“Breasts. And . . . don’t make fun, but I haven’t gotten my period yet.”

“Oh! You’re lucky. I got mine in fifth grade, can you believe it? I feel like an old pro now. I actually really like tracking my cycle. My mom gave me a calendar when I first got it. I got in the habit of writing it down. It’s kind of beautiful to get to learn my body like that. She was all about how the moon follows us, changes its shape as we do. As women, you know?”

“I guess I don’t feel that way at all. I feel like I don’t know my body.”

“Well, you’ve got your whole life to learn it, right?”

Aggie grabbed my shoulders and shook me a little and then we collapsed. There was so much more I wanted to tell her, James. But I was scared she’d stop being my friend like Dara. We just became friends, some things I need to stuff further down until they get too big to fit into my pockets.

It is almost noon now and Aggie’s fork still rests against the plate she ate on. I’m not ready to wash it. Nothing is the same, yet I am. Or perhaps I am not. Perhaps I will never be the same and the same no longer exists.

Last night, Aggie said that we are onions. Always unpeeling, making people and ourselves cry as we unwrap. I have so many more layers, James. I feel like I’m just starting to unravel and see what has been hiding in me. What was hiding in you? Were there things you were afraid to unwrap?

Monday, November 1

Halloween used to be my favorite holiday and I didn’t even dress up. I guess eighth grade was my last costume celebration; I was a news reporter. Did you like Halloween, James? Aggie was going to stay over and help hand out candy, but then she remembered she had a math test today and had to study, so I wound up giving out candy with Shirley. I thought it was going to be lame, but actually it gave us a chance to talk between doorbell rings.

“Why’d you get such crappy candy this year?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“What do you mean? What’s wrong with Tootsie Roll Pops and Smarties?”

“Usually you get chocolate,” I said.

“Yeah, and then I wind up eating what’s left. Best to get rid of the temptation. But don’t worry,” she smiled. “Flor is coming over later and she’s giving out the good stuff. I’ll ask her to save you some.”

“Thanks.”

“How . . . how has school been since . . .”

“The grief counselors have gone, so I guess we’re supposed to be over it by now.”

“Well, it doesn’t exactly work that way, you know that. Did James have many friends? Have they thought about memorializing him in any way?”

“He was a bully, Shirley.”

“Eleanor, you know I hate—”

“Well, he was. And I’m sure he must have had some friends, but . . . I don’t know. The thing is, I’m still trying to figure out why it all upset me so much. It’s like I feel this need to understand why he would . . . why he needed to . . .”

Suddenly, Shirley was holding me, and something must have opened up inside me because I was weeping. Really, James, like chest heaving and snot everywhere.

“We may never know, sweetheart. And I wouldn’t dare tell you how to feel, but—”

“But?”

“But the reason was his. It doesn’t matter so much now. What matters is what remains.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Eleanor, when I was feeling depressed, if I had tried to tell you, if I had successfully articulated what was going through my mind, it wouldn’t have necessarily solved anything. In fact, it wouldn’t have made you feel better. It may not have even helped you to understand. Sometimes life and who and how we are just doesn’t make sense. It just is. We work with what we’ve got.”

“But he couldn’t. He couldn’t work with it.”

“No, but again, it’s about the remainder. Being as alive as you can possibly be. To understand who you are and . . . well, keep going, I guess.”

Shirley wiped my nose as though her fingers were a tissue. Gross, I know, but that’s what moms do, I guess, and all I could do was smile.

“I’m not ready to call you Mom,” I said, nervously.

She just stared at me and I worried she was going to break down. Then, she said in an almost-whisper, “I understand. You let me know when you are, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Then, the doorbell rang, and we had a slew of ghosts and Power Rangers and some costumes we weren’t exactly sure of and the night rolled on.

Tuesday, November 2

Dear James,

Dara actually talked to me today. She dropped a note on my desk in math class.

Eleanor, can we talk? I feel like it’s been 4ever. Maybe we can sit together on the bus after school? Dara

Before I headed out the door after class, I turned to look at her and nodded. I may have smiled a little too. I guess I figured she hated me and had no interest in making up. It didn’t seem like she told my secret to anyone.

On the bus ride home, it felt so strange to be sitting next to her again even though it really hadn’t been that long. And yet, I felt like so much had changed. Although my hair was growing in, I really liked it short. I’ve begun to play around with it a little, using gel and mousse, some days slicking it back or letting it be like a wild thunderstorm jutting from my scalp. Shirley keeps asking if I’m going to let it grow out, but after cutting it, I can’t imagine it the way that it was. This is me now.

“Hey, I bought a bag of your favorite chips—barbecue. Want some?” Dara opened the bag and brought it closer to me.

“Sure.” I leaned in and dipped my hand into the bag.

“So, what’s up?” Dara crunched on a chip and half of it plunged into her lap. Barbeque powder rained like New Year’s Eve confetti on her thigh. She swatted it away, waiting for my response.

“I failed my Spanish test,” I blurted.

“Oh yeah? I’m doing pretty good in Spanish. I can help you with conjugation or whatever.”

“Yeah, maybe. What’s up with you?”

“My parents are probably getting a divorce.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Dara.”

“My dad was sleeping in the basement for weeks and I finally just asked him what was happening. They’re calling it a separation, but . . .”

“Well, maybe they’ll change their minds. You never know.” I said this, knowing they probably won’t.

“Maybe. Remember the beach this summer? Feels like so long ago. I had a feeling then. They were being so nice, and I don’t know, something felt off. Remember?” Dara’s voice drifted and I could tell she was quite sad about it.

“Yeah. Gosh, that really did feel like so long ago.”

I spent two weeks in July—before Gret went away—on Long Beach Island at Dara’s family’s beach house. We lived on hot dogs and fried everything and one night, we walked outside in our pajamas and howled at the moon (kind of) and fell asleep in the sand underneath more stars than we could ever count in our lifetime.

“I thought maybe you’d apologize first,” she said.

“I’m not sure what I’d be apologizing about. You’re the one—”

“You just ran out of my house that day! Didn’t call or anything. And then you came to school and all your hair was gone. I’m supposed to be your best friend.”

“You are. You were.”

“And you’re . . . you know . . . and you didn’t even tell me that.”

“Gay? Did you happen to think that maybe I wasn’t ready to even say anything? I haven’t even told anyone yet. Have you?”

“No, Eleanor. I wouldn’t blab. It’s yours to tell, but. Are you really? I mean, how do you even know?”

“How do you know?”

“How do I know what?”

“How do you know you’re not gay?” I asked.

Dara just looked at me as though I had asked her the most ridiculous question.

“Eleanor, please,” was all she could say.

James, everything changes all the time and it’s so easy to forget or not pay attention to it. With my hair short, I can see the passing days as it slowly starts to even itself out. I feel like whatever has been growing inside me has gotten louder in these two weeks. And maybe some things are finally ready to come out.

Oh, and I guess Dara and I are still fighting. We spent the rest of the bus ride in silence.

Tuesday, November 2 (later)

Dear James,

I threw out that mix tape I was listening to the night you pushed me. Actually, I thought I had already. I didn’t want to be reminded of that night. But when I was looking for something under my bed, I found it. I pulled out the thread, watched it unravel and get immediately tangled. Then I threw the tape in the garbage can in my bedroom. I think it’s time for a new one. New music. Maybe I’ll make you one. One I would have given to you if we were friends.

Wednesday, November 3

Sometimes school feels like a rerun of a cancelled television show. We see the same people in the same mint green hallways wearing the same outfits having the same conversations. It’s not that nothing happens, it’s just that we so quickly forget what came before all this.

Thursday, November 4

Aggie asked if I wanted to come over to her house this weekend and I wanted to scream out YESYESYES, except I’m spending this weekend at Dad’s. He’s been out of town a lot lately and we haven’t spent a full weekend together in almost a month. Dad used to be my favorite parent and I guess he still is, but I don’t see him very often. I bet you liked your mom best. She seems really nice. Oh! Shirley and I are going over to your house for dinner on Friday night. Really weird. Can you even imagine if you were still . . . well, I guess if you were still alive I wouldn’t be going there. I never would have met your mom. And I certainly wouldn’t be writing you these letters.

I thought Shirley was doing better, but the other day she didn’t even get dressed and I’ve learned that’s a sign. Maybe she just felt like being lazy. I mean, if it were up to me, I’d stay in my pajamas all day. I’d even go to school in them, who cares?

Friday, November 5

Dear James,

Last night Flor and I went to group. On the way there, I asked her how her date from last week went. In the time I’ve known her, she’s never gone on a date before, or at least she never mentioned it.

“We went to an Italian restaurant near her house. They serve family style.”

“What’s her name? What’s she look like? Will there be a second date?”

“You’re rather interested, aren’t you?” she said, smiling. “Her name’s Theresa. I met her at the library and we just started chatting. She’s taller than me, more slender. Dark hair. Glasses.”

“You think you’ll see her again?”

“We saw each other a few days ago. We’ll see how it goes.” Flor smiled in a way I hadn’t seen before. She looked truly happy.

“I’m worried about Shirley,” I blurted.

“Eleanor, there’s no need. She’s—”

“She didn’t get dressed at all the other day. When I got home from school, she was watching her soap operas. She looked like she hadn’t moved from the couch all day. I don’t know. I feel like I need to pay extra attention to these things now.”

“I understand being worried but give her a chance to have bad days. She’s human.”

“I guess.” I wandered my eyes toward the moving landscape out the window. McDonald’s, bank, jewelry store, another McDonald’s, Wendy’s, strip mall, strip mall, strip mall, tree.

“So . . . anyone catching your eyes these days?” Flor never asked about my dating life, mainly because I’ve never been anywhere close to having one.

“Maybe a little, but—”

“Oh? What are they like?”

James, I wasn’t thinking this then, but I do think it’s interesting that Flor never used a he or she.

“I don’t know. I don’t really want to talk about it. Not yet, at least.”

You probably don’t care about this and would much prefer to hear about your mom. It seems she finds group to be really helpful. She even told the group that she started seeing a therapist, which I guess is a big deal because she said she’d never seen one before. She’s still hoping your dad will come join the group sometime, but so far, it’s just been her.

She asked if I like fried chicken. I bet your mom is a really good cook.

Saturday, November 6

Dear James,

Your house smells like cooked carrots and pine trees.

Shirley and I got there a little early. Your mom was still in the kitchen, frying chicken. I offered to help, and she let me whip the potatoes with the electric beater. She even gave me an apron to put on, which she said was yours. Her and Shirley talked a bit while I whipped, but of course I was listening the whole time.

“Burt is at church. He is meeting with a couple tonight who are getting married in a few weeks and they’ve been having counseling sessions. He sends his regrets.”

“How is he . . . coping?” Shirley asked.

“We’re both just without words. I haven’t even been able to go in James’s bedroom. I don’t want to open the door. I don’t want his smell to escape.” She blushed. “I went in right after and then . . . he’s just . . . he’s everywhere.”

James, there is so much I wanted to say. I wanted to tell her how I used to be afraid to go anywhere near Shirley’s bedroom while she was in the hospital—we found her in her bed. That every time I even looked in the doorway, it was like replaying that day all over again. But I didn’t. I just mixed the potatoes and let them talk.

“Helaine, if you ever want to talk, I am here. So is Eleanor, of course.” She looked at me and I tried to force a smile.

“Actually, I wanted to see if Eleanor might want some of James’s tapes. Eleanor, I remember during group that you mentioned you liked the Nirvana band. James was quite enamored, to put it mildly.”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Sure.”

“His bedroom is just up the stairs to the right.”

“I thought . . . I thought you didn’t want to open his door. I mean, it’s fine. I don’t need to—”

“Just close it when you’re in there and then when you leave. It’s okay, dear.”

James, I’m not sure what I was expecting when I went into your room. Obviously, bedrooms tell a lot about a person. I mean, if you were to go into my room, you’d learn that I love the color purple. Dad painted my walls when I was seven. Honestly, my love affair with purple kind of ended a few years ago and I much prefer blue and green, but I’ve been too lazy to even think of repainting or asking Shirley if I can. I have a poster of The Scream, you know that painting by Edward Edvard Munch? I’ve got a photo of whales because I used to want to be a marine biologist but changed my mind. Just haven’t taken the poster down. A poster from the movie Fried Green Tomatoes. I liked it, but between you and me, I have a huge crush on the blond actress in it. Anyway. You’d learn I like art and movies. I’ve got lots of books on the shelf above my desk and a cactus that Flor gave me last birthday that she said is basically impossible to kill. So far, she’s right.