Holding Up the Universe (32 page)

The night is cool and clear after the rain. I inch my way to the edge of the roof until I'm standing where I was standing before, twelve years ago, and I look out over the neighborhood and the house that used to belong to Libby Strout.

Maybe if I fell again, it would jar something back into place in my brain. I might see the world and the people in it in ways I don't now. I might conjure up a face from my memory or be able to think
Mom,
and instantly associate the word with a whole, added-up image of eyes, nose, mouth, the way everyone else does.

I stand there for a long time, trying to figure out a way to jump and bang my head in the same exact spot I hit it before. Maybe I should take a rock and hit myself with it instead. But what if I do more damage? What if I get complete and total amnesia?

I sit down and then I lie down, and the roof is damp from the rain. I let the water soak through my shirt as I gaze at the sky and all the stars that look just like all the other stars, and it might as well be a sky full of faces. I tell myself,
Libby is one of those stars.
I choose one and name it after her and keep my eyes on it as long as I can.

And then I blink.

Stay. Stay. Stay.

Don't go away.

But she's gone.

The phone rings, and it's Jack, the only person I want to talk to.

Something's wrong.

I can hear it in his voice.

At first, I can't understand what he's saying.

“I'm sorry,” he says. He keeps repeating it, until I tell him to stop.

“Why are you sorry? What's going on?”

“I can't do this. I thought I could. I wanted to. But I can't. It's not fair to you.”

“What's not—”

“You deserve to be seen, and I'll never be able to see you, not really. What happens if you lose weight? You'd need to stay large forever, and that's your identifier, but you're so much more than weight.”

“What are you saying to me, Jack?”

Even though I know, and my stomach knows, and my bones know, and, most of all, my heart knows. All of me is sinking like a stone.

He says, “I can't be with you, Libby. We can't do this. I'm sorry.”

And then he hangs up.

Just like that.

And I sink through the floor and into the yard and from there into the dark, deep core of the earth.

I think of Beatrice in her garden, and how she died for love. And then for some reason I think of another story my mom used to read me, “The Twelve Dancing Princesses.” I walk to my bookshelf and search for it. I flip through until I find it—
Libby
in purple crayon. I wrote it very small, on the skirt of the youngest princess, Elise. She was my favorite, not just because she wins the prince, but because she has the loveliest heart. She is who I wanted to be.

I look at Elise's perfect hair and face and figure. Of course people love to watch her dance. Of course she marries the prince. I wonder what would have happened if Elise had looked like me.

Before I go to sleep, I write Libby this long apology text, but I end up deleting it because what's the point? It won't change the fact that there will always be this part of me that's searching for her, even if she's right there.

Even though I don't expect to make the team, I still go around to Heather Alpern's office to see if she's posted the name of the newest Damsel.

And there's the paper on her door. And there's the single name listed on that paper:
Jesselle Villegas.
I tell myself,
You shouldn't be surprised. You shouldn't be disappointed. What did you think would happen when you talked back to Caroline?
But I am surprised. I am disappointed.

I tell myself,
You didn't really want to make the Damsels anyway. Not like that. Not having to dance in formation and carry flags and take orders from Caroline Lushamp.
But my heart feels like a deflated balloon.

Bailey and Travis and I wait outside for Mr. Dominguez to pull the car around. Travis's eyes are closed, and he looks like he's sleeping standing up.

Bailey says, “I heard about Jesselle.”

“It's okay. I'm okay.” Just to drive the point home of how COMPLETELY OKAY I am, I wave my hand at the air, so carefree, like I'm smacking away a mosquito.

She says, “It's that horrible Caroline.”

“This will just free me up to pursue other things.”
Like dancing by myself in my room and creating voodoo dolls with Caroline Lushamp's face.

As I fish through my backpack for a lip gloss, Bailey is listing all the other non-dancing, non-voodoo-doll-making activities I could start doing. My hand closes around something. An envelope. I yank it out and turn away to read it, even though I can guess what it says.

You aren't wanted. (I told you so.)

I look up, expecting Caroline to be there watching me. Instead, Bailey is reading over my shoulder.

“Who's that from?”

“No one.” I shove the letter back into my backpack.

I told you so.

Does she mean
See there? Jack doesn't love you.
Or does she mean
Why did you ever think YOU could audition for the Damsels?

“Libbs, who wrote that?”

“Don't worry about it.”

“But—”

“Please, Bailey. I'm fine.”

“I guess you're fine about Jack too, then.”

“I don't want to talk about Jack.”

Her mouth snaps shut. Then she says, “You can't always be fine. No one's always fine. And I know you're used to being on your own, and I know I should have been a better friend so that you didn't have to get used to being on your own, but I'm here now, and I wish you'd talk to me.”

In the car, I ask Mr. Dominguez to, for God's sake, play some music, only I don't actually mention God because this will only set Bailey off and I already feel bad enough for barking at her. The first song Mr. Dominguez chooses is, of course, ancient 1970s rock. “Love Hurts,” and if you don't know it, DON'T EVER LISTEN TO IT, ESPECIALLY IF YOUR HEART IS BROKEN. Immediately I get this lump in my throat, the kind that makes it impossible to swallow or even breathe.

One minute into the song, tears are rolling down my face, but Mr. Dominguez doesn't bat an eye.

I see Jack in the main hallway of school. He's flanked by Seth Powell and Dave Kaminski, who looks right at me, almost through me, while Jack saunters past like I'm invisible.

And maybe I am.

Like everyone else in his life.

Just one more person he can't see.