Tragedy Girl (5 page)

Eight

“Okay, let’s just think this through.”

Melanie paces in her bedroom, running her hand through her hair.

“It’s got to be Natalie,” I say, sitting cross-legged on her carpet as crepe myrtle branches rustle outside her bedroom window.

“But Natalie’s hung up on
Blake
, not Jamie,” Melanie says, repeating the same argument she made last night on the phone yet shaken enough to regurgitate the precious little information we have at hand. “Why would she care who Jamie’s dating?”

I rest my chin on my knuckles. “You said yourself she likes to call dibs on
all
the guys—that even if they’re not interested in her, she doesn’t want them being interested in anybody else, either,” I say. “And Jamie’s transformation into a stud surely hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

Melanie stops pacing and catches my eye. “That means it hasn’t gone unnoticed by Blake, either.”

My eyebrows crinkle. “What do you mean?”

Melanie taps her index finger against her thigh. “Jamie was always a little nobody, just Blake’s hanger-on. His wannabe. Maybe Blake’s not taking it so well that Jamie’s finally getting some attention.”

“What?
How insecure do you think Blake is? Besides, guys don’t even care about that kind of stuff, do they? And, uh, there’s that little detail of Blake being with us all night … including when the letter was placed in your mailbox.”

“I mean, he could have had somebody put it there for him … ” Melanie says, then glances at me for a quick sensitivity check. She walks over and sits next to me on the floor. “Hey, Anne, I’m not ragging on Blake. I think he’s a really nice guy, and I agree, this doesn’t seem like a guy move at all. I’m just trying to think everything through. And like you’ve been saying, there’s some heavy-duty tension between Blake and Jamie these days.”

Melanie’s mom creaks open the door and peeks in. “You girls doing okay?” she asks. Melanie nods impatiently, prompting her mother to close the door again and leave us alone.

“Blake explained that to me last night,” I say. “He thinks Jamie blames him for not saving Cara, or, I don’t know, not trying harder … something like that. But he thinks Jamie is mostly just mad at himself. There’s a lot of guilt there. Both of them feel guilty.”

Melanie nods. “I know. I feel like Jamie and I are getting along okay, but there’s a wall there, you know? He just seems so … wounded.”

I peer into space. “I just thought of something else weird.”

“What?” Melanie prods.

“It’s probably nothing, but … do you think Lauren and Garrett are pissed that they weren’t invited last night?”

Melanie contemplates the question. “It’s possible. Lauren actually had fun with Garrett Friday night—at least when Natalie wasn’t spazzing out on us. She was hoping he would ask her out, but she thinks the chances are low. She said he doesn’t seem interested. He seems kinda … preoccupied. Like Jamie. I guess that girl’s drowning really did a number on everybody.”

“Speaking of Friday night,” I say. “After the bonfire? Garrett was in the car when Blake walked me to the door. We … kissed. And when I pulled away, I saw Garrett looking at me. He looked … I dunno, worried, or concerned or something. It kind of creeped me out. The look in his eyes … it was really intense.”

“You think Garrett planted the note?” Melanie asks. “But again, that theory leads back to
Blake
, not Jamie.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think.”

Melanie taps her fingertips on the carpet. “I can’t help thinking it has something to do with the dead girl.”

We sit there for a moment, then Melanie’s eyes sparkle mischievously. “Maybe it
was
the dead girl,” she says. “The one whose body was never found?”

Whatever expression I get on my face makes Melanie wince. “Oh, right … too soon for dead-girl jokes. Sorry.”

We sit quietly for another minute, and then I ask, “So, are you going to tell Jamie about the letter?”

Melanie shrugs. “I don’t even know if he’ll ask me out again. Like I said, he acts awfully … distracted. Hey, maybe
he
slipped me the note. I guess that’s one way to dump somebody.”

“Blake mentioned the four of us going out again next weekend.”

Melanie raises an eyebrow. “Did he now. Quite the take-charge kind of guy, no?”

I feel my cheeks flush.

“I was kidding,” Melanie says. “Didn’t mean to insult your sweetie.”

Now my face feels hotter than ever. How stupidly presumptuous of me to act like Blake and I are some kind of
couple
. I barely know him! Sawyer’s right: I’m not acting like myself at all. First, I’m gushing over some guy I barely know, and now I’m having a gossipfest with a girl (who, let’s face it, I barely know either) about a drama-filled note. I was more mature than this in
middle
school. I hardly know these people at all, and worse, I’m starting to feel like I hardly know myself anymore.

“I’m feeling a little sick to my stomach,” I tell Melanie, managing a weak smile. “I better head back home.”

Home.
Yet another dubious concept.

I wonder if I’ll ever feel at home anywhere again.

“
Hey, beautiful.
”

The text is from Blake. He’s sent me several today, probably half a dozen just since I got back from Melanie’s house, but I’ve responded to only a couple of them, and then as tersely as possible. It’s almost midnight, I’ve been studying for an English Lit test for hours, I have a shrink appointment after school tomorrow, I need some sleep …

But maybe these are just excuses. The note Melanie got really shook me up. It’s one thing to stumble through life when nobody is paying attention, but
this
situation … I know it’s not Blake’s fault, but what with Natalie’s outbursts and the creepy anonymous note and my general sense that Blake is the most talked-about person in school, I feel like a monkey in a zoo, being observed, monitored, scrutinized—the same feelings that drove me four states away after my parents died. It just feels like a lot of pressure.

“
Talk to me, babe.
”

I stare at the text, nibble a fingernail, and then respond: “
Been studying all day. Sorry I’m not very chatty .
”

He texts back: “
I’m lying in my bed crying.
”

I push myself up onto an elbow. “
Crying? Why?
”

“
A movie on TV tonite, this sappy movie about these star-crossed lovers. I saw it at the theater a few months back.
”

“
With Cara?
” I probe.

“
Yeah. Stupid, huh?
”

I stare at the words for a few seconds, take a deep breath, and then call him.

“Hey, babe,” he says in a choked voice, sniffling.

“Hey. I hate that you’re upset. I’m sorry; I didn’t know … ”

“I’m okay,” he says, weeping through his words. “I’m much better now that I’m talking to you. I think I spent three solid hours at her gravesite today.”

“I get it. Really, I do.”

“Do you? Because, Anne, I want you to know, I think you’re … I think you’re maybe the greatest girl I’ve ever met.” More sniffles. “I don’t want to blow this by spending all my time with
you
talking about
her
.”

“No, no, not at all. I’d think something was wrong with you if you
didn’t
feel this way.”

“I get that about you,” he says, his voice still quavering. “You’re so sensitive. Plus, you’ve been there. You
know
.”

“Yeah. I know … ”

“Well … I’m not going to spend the rest of my life blubbering. I’m going to devote my future to honoring her past. That’s the least I can do.” He chokes on his words.

“That’s great, Blake.”

“I mean it,” he stresses. “I already do a lot of volunteer work for the children’s hospital—that’s where I was treated for my cancer, you know—and I’m told I’m really good at motivating and inspiring people. I’m going to devote my life to doing good. For Cara’s sake.”

I nod. “That’s really admirable.”

“But I’m not going to live in the past. Am I selfish for wanting to move forward?”

“No, of course not.”

He sniffles some more. “I want to move forward, Anne. I want to move forward with you.”

Nine

“I keep having these dreams.”

“Yes?” Dr. Sennett says, a pencil resting against her chin.

I push my sweater tighter against my chest, chilled by the artificial air in her office. “I dream I catch a glance of my parents, then rush toward them, but then they’re gone. I know they can’t be far—I
just saw them
—but every street I take, or every door I go through, just gets me more off track. They get farther away instead of closer.”

Dr. Sennett nods inscrutably, her brown hair resting on her shoulders.

“The weird thing,” I continue, “is that I feel like I’m actually communicating with my mom while this is happening. She’s telling me it’s too soon to see them, that seeing them now, while my grief is still so raw, will only leave me upset and frustrated.”

Dr. Sennett smiles mildly. “Sounds like a wise mom.”

“But she’s wrong,” I say firmly. “I need to see them.”

Dr. Sennett leans up, resting her forearms on her legs. “Anne, I don’t delve too deeply into the supernatural, but just because you don’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there. The love and guidance they gave you while they were living? That’s still here. They’re still guiding you, if in no other way than through the seeds they planted while they were raising you. Can you be content knowing they’re still a part of you without having to actually see them? At least for now?”

I blink briskly, surprising myself by having tears in my eyes. “I’m just so lonely … ”

The clock on Dr. Sennett’s wall ticks off the seconds. She plucks a tissue from a nearby box and hands it to me. I dab at my eyes.

“Can you make a little room in your heart for your aunt and uncle to pick up where your parents left off?” she asks quietly. “Can you do that, knowing that’s what your parents would want?”

I smile ruefully. “My Aunt Meg is nothing like my mom.”

Dr. Sennett nods, then asks, “Does she have to be?”

Yeah, she kinda does. No offense, Aunt Meg, but my mom was amazing—funny and whip-smart and ironic and quirky. She couldn’t do perky if her life depended on it.

“In a way, maybe it’s better that she’s
not
like your mom,” Dr. Sennett continues. “No ambiguity or divided loyalty there, right? Plus, the ways that she’s different might add things to your life that you’ll end up valuing, even if you can’t appreciate them right now.”

I dab my eyes some more. “But you don’t understand,” I say. “Aunt Meg and I don’t have a real relationship; we’re just cordial to each other. Don’t get me wrong; I appreciate so much what she and Uncle Mark have done for me—in fact, I feel like every moment of my life has to be a testament to my appreciation. It’s exhausting. There’s nothing authentic about a relationship where you’re constantly prostrate with gratitude.”

Dr. Sennett fingers a lock of her hair. “What would you tell her if you weren’t prostrate with gratitude? What would you share with her if your relationship was authentic?”

I think about the question, idly fingering my tissue. “I actually did tell her about these dreams the other day,” I acknowledge. “She’s a good listener. She’s really sweet.”

Dr. Sennett nods. “What else might you want to talk to her about? What else do you think your aunt could help you with?”

I think for a moment, then blurt impulsively, “I’d tell her I’m obsessed with a guy I met at school … that he’s crazy good-looking and seems really nice … but that I’m not really sure if any of this is real or right, but then again, I tend to overthink every little thing, so … ”

Dr. Sennett smiles. “Sounds like you have a lot to share,” she says. “Maybe your Aunt Meg is the right person to share it with. Maybe your mom is pulling some strings for you.”

I squeeze my eyes shut self-consciously. “This is
so
not me,” I assure her. “I’ve never been boy-crazy or silly or superficial … ”

“So this feels silly and superficial to you?”

I shrug. “Actually, it feels like the opposite. I know it
sounds
silly and superficial—that’s why I’m so self-conscious about it—but I think the reason this guy and I are bonding is that we’re both grieving. His girlfriend drowned over the summer. I think we
get
each other … you know?”

Again, Dr. Sennett’s face is unreadable, but her eyes prod me to continue.

“Yet all this is taking place in high school, which means there’s a lot of silliness all around us,” I say. “This one poor insecure girl is totally threatened by me, and she made a scene at a bonfire over the weekend … then I think she left my friend a creepy anonymous note in her mailbox. I was nice enough to Blake today in school—that’s the guy—but I was kind of avoiding him at the same time, because I’m not sure I can handle all the drama. If it was just the two of us without all this attention focused on us, that would be one thing, but … ”

“So what does your gut tell you?” Dr. Sennett asks. “Are you willing to push past the silliness to get to know him better? And keep in mind, although high school is definitely a microcosm, your life will always be subject to some degree of judgment and scrutiny. There’s no living in bubbles on this planet.”

“I get that,” I say. “And yeah, I think I want to get to know him better. It’s just, the silliness notwithstanding, I wonder sometimes … do I really even know him at all?”

More seconds tick away on the clock.

“I think that’s what a relationship is about—getting to know somebody,” Dr. Sennett says. “Maybe he’ll be the love of your life. Maybe you’ll look back six months from now and wonder, ‘What was I thinking?’ Maybe he’s a prince; maybe he’s a jerk. I think the trick is knowing you don’t have to be able to peer into the future; you just have to trust yourself to make adjustments when you need to. Enjoy the ride, pay attention, and know when it’s time to strap yourself in for the long haul … or time to step off.”

I sweep my bangs off my forehead and look up at her shyly. “He asked me out again today,” I tell her. “He wants to go out this weekend … another double date with his best friend and a friend of mine. All of our dates so far—well,
both
of our dates—have been with other people along.”

“Even better,” Dr. Sennett says smartly. “Never hurts to have a girlfriend’s set of eyes for some objective feedback.”

My stomach tightens, but I nod.

“Remember,” she says as we wrap up our session, “you don’t have to have your whole future carved out in the next fifteen minutes. You just have to trust yourself.”

Aunt Meg turns down the radio as she drives me home and glances at me with her peripheral vision.

“So … it went okay?”

I peer into the late-afternoon sun. “Yeah,” I say. “It did. Thanks for arranging that, Aunt Meg. It was really thoughtful.”

Her face brightens. “I’m so glad it went well, honey. Mark thought it might seem pushy to set up an appointment, but it always helps to talk things through, right?”

I smile. “Hey, Aunt Meg?”

“Yeah?”

“You know when I went out with friends a couple of times over the weekend?”

“Yeah?”

“Well … there’s this guy I kinda like.”

I can tell she’s willing herself to under-react, which strikes me as touching.

“Yeah … ?”

“His name is Blake,” I continue. “We’ve only seen each other a couple of times—outside of school, I mean—but he’s asked me out again this weekend, and I think I’m feeling pretty good about it.”

Aunt Meg nods, her eyes still on the road. “So he’s a nice guy?”

“Yeah,” I say. “He seems really nice. More mature than the average guy, I think, because he’s been through a lot.”

“Oh?” Aunt Meg says, still committed to nonchalance.

“He had cancer when he was a kid, and then his girlfriend died over the summer.”

Aunt Meg catches her breath. “Oh no!”

“She drowned,” I say.

Aunt Meg steals a glance at me. “What was her name?”

“Cara.”

Her eyebrows widen. “I work with her aunt at the insurance agency. That was huge news—so tragic. Her family was just devastated.”

“So … did you know Cara?”

She shakes her head. “No, but I know a lot about her. I think she and Blake dated forever. Her family was really fond of him.”

I press my parents’ rings against my chest. “So did they blame Blake at all? I mean, for the drowning?”

“Oh,
no.
They knew it was a terrible accident. In fact, they were really worried about Blake and the other kids being traumatized. I know they wanted him to speak at her funeral … ”

“I read a newspaper clipping,” I say. “He was too upset to speak. So was his friend Jamie. They’re the ones who went out on a jet ski looking for her.”

She shakes her head some more. “So tragic.”

I nibble at my nail, then ask, “Do you think it’s weird I’m seeing him? I mean, so soon after the accident? Does it look insensitive?”

Aunt Meg thinks for a moment, then says, “I don’t think it’s insensitive … just maybe a little more intense than you’d want to sign on to for at this point in your life. I mean, after everything both of you have been through … ”

“It’s nothing serious,” I stress.

“Well … things like this can
get
serious pretty quickly. Would you be up for that?”

“I don’t know,” I say wistfully. “I just know I’m enjoying spending time with him.”

She nods, then says, “Well, I’d love to meet him. Wanna invite him over for dinner some time this week?”

“You mean at your house?” I clarify.

“Um, actually I mean at
our
house,” she says, then reaches over to playfully pinch my thigh.

I laugh lightly.

“Okay,” I say. “Our house it is.”