I'm Not Her (19 page)

The principal decides to have a memorial for Jeremy at school in the school gymnasium to “help the student body cope.” First Mr. Samson gets on the stage and speaks about Jeremy, but he’s overly pompous and condescending and his speech makes me wonder if he even knew who Jeremy was. The guidance counselor takes over the mike and his words ring with genuine emotion. He tells the student body a bit about what kind of person Jeremy was and then talks about death and grief for the survivors.

He mentions the memorial page and I feel stares at the front of the bleachers where Kristina sits in her wheelchair beside me, with Mom flanking her on the other side. Kristina is stiff and expression-free during the entire presentation. She insisted on attending it when she found out. She thought Jeremy would somehow know and would appreciate her being there.

When the ceremony is over, I glance behind and see some kids crying, freshman girls mostly, but others already look bored, as if they need something new to entertain them. It gives me a sore stomach. I want to shout at them. Tell them how wonderful he was at the hospital. How he could babble on and on.

A few people approach us as kids start filing out of the gym. Gee and Devon come together to see Kristina and she manages to smile and say hi to them, but she looks tired and doesn’t add anything more. Mom fills her silence with babbling of her own and they get the message and leave.

Everyone else keeps their distance, but if staring could burrow holes in our heads, we’d be more porous than SpongeBob SquarePants. I don’t know whether to be angry or relieved when Mom quickly wheels her out of the gym, away from the prying eyes of a student body who once adored her.

I told Kristina and Mom I’d make it home on my own, since I have my bike at school, and return to my locker. As I’m done shuffling books in and out of my backpack and about to close the door, someone taps on my back.

I jump and grab at my chest.

Melissa.

“Whoa. You scared me.” For a tiny second I forget that we’re not friends anymore and I’m about to smile, but then I remember.

Melissa clears her throat. She probably expects me to say something to make things easier for her. That’s how our friendship used to work. But no more following the old script. Things have changed.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “About Kristina. About her leg. And Jeremy.” She pauses. “I heard they were dating.” She looks hopeful, as if I’ll give her the dirt on that rumor, deny or confirm it for her.

With a shake of my head, I shift my backpack over my shoulder and fold my arms across my chest. A couple of freshman boys push each other back and forth as they pass by us in the hall. Life goes on at Great Heights High.

“Is she okay?” Melissa asks.

“No. She’s not. She has a lot to deal with. One leg and all. And the death of her good friend.” I say
good
louder than the other words. The ugly things we’ve both said hang in the air between us, written in invisible ink.

Melissa opens her eyes wide and then her face reddens. She stares at me, and for the first time I notice how puffy her cheeks are. Her eyes look tiny inside her face. She’s put on even more weight over the last couple of months. Without me to share her snacks.

“You hated her too,” she says in a soft voice, looking around, but we’re the only two in front of the lockers. “Until she got sick.”

I stand taller. “I never hated her. Never. She’s my sister.”

“That doesn’t matter. I hate my sister.” Her eyes burn brighter, shining with dislike for her stepsister, so skinny and cute. Exactly the child Melissa never was.

“Well, I never hated mine,” I tell her and lift my chin higher.

She hesitates. “I didn’t mean what I said you know. About her dying. Or only deserving one good leg.”

I see two girls walking toward Melissa and me. They’re watching both of us with interest.

“That’s not for you or me to decide though, is it? Maybe having one leg is part of God’s grand scheme of things.”

Melissa’s mouth opens and she closes it quickly.

“Or maybe God messed up. Maybe it was supposed to be me.”

Melissa frowns and her double chin triples.

“Even my mom thought it should have been me. But I didn’t want to change places with her. Still don’t. Does that make you happy? That I’m a bad sister too?”

It’s the truth. I want my leg. It wouldn’t change my life as much but in spite of all of that, I don’t wish to change places with her. Not really.

I am selfish. And ashamed.

“You don’t mean that,” Melissa tells me, as if she ever knew me at all.

“How do you know what I mean?” I ask. “You never cared about me. You just hung out with me to have someone to gossip with. Well, I’m done with that. And you.”

Tired of the conversation, I turn and walk away from her. She doesn’t say a thing or try to stop me, and I head all the way outside. I thought she might fight me. I thought she might care more. The air is fresh but chilly. I pause on the front step to catch my breath. A horn honks. I take a quick look at the street and recognize the car idling in front of the school. A piece of crap with a capital P.

Nick.

I hurry down the stairs and turn left toward the bike rack, not up to dealing with him on top of everything else.

“Hey!” he yells. “Tess.”

I ignore him. A car door slams and I hear him chasing after me. I resist the urge to run from him. Barely.

“I’m a jerk,” he says when he reaches me.

“I know,” I tell him, without looking at his face.

“More than you know.” He reaches for my arm, but I push the offensive hand off me.

I curse myself for not getting a ride with Mom and Kristina. “I know enough. I don’t need to know more, okay? Are you looking for a freaking Jerk of the Year medal or what?”

“Not really. I mean, I don’t want to advertise.” He half grins, but it fades when he looks at my face.

“You don’t have to. I think everyone already knows.” I hurry to the bike rack and bend down to open the combination lock. My hands shake with wanting to get away from him before I lose it completely.

“Tess. Seriously. I’m sorry about that party. I seriously thought you left that message to blow me off. And I was very drunk.”

I wrap the chain around my bike seat. “Jeremy died, you jerk. And just so you know, getting drunk is not an excuse for stupid behavior.”

“I know. I know.” He drops his head and his body collapses into itself a little, but I keep the bulletproof vest strapped around my heart.

“Did you even go to his memorial?” I demand.

He doesn’t have to answer. His face shows his guilt.

“It wasn’t personal,” he says. “I didn’t know him that well. He was a freshman. And I had some stuff to deal with.”

“Whatever.” I throw my leg over the bike.

“It’s complicated. I need to talk to you. I wanted to take you to the party. Talk to you about it then. And you blew me off.”

“I didn’t blow you off,” I remind him.

“Sorry. I know.” He sighs heavily. “I’ve been busy dealing with some stuff. I got news.”

“Good for you.” I don’t want to hear it. My insides ferment. I’m just a dumb girl he fooled with false sympathy and disposable kisses.

“I’d like to talk to you. It’s important.” Nick grabs my handlebar and wraps his fist around it.

“I don’t think you even know what’s important.” I push his hand off. “See ya later, Nick.”

He lets go without a struggle and I pedal off toward home.

Kristina and Mom have gone to physio when I get home. Dad walks in while I’m at the table scarfing back peanut butter sandwiches and drinking milk straight from the carton. I glance at the clock on the wall, surprised. It’s only four thirty but I don’t comment on his arrival time or the fact that he’s actually at home before dark. He’s holding a thick envelope in his hand and he walks over to the kitchen table and holds it out for me.

“Mail for you,” he says.

My heartbeat speeds up. I check the return address. Academy of Art University, San Francisco. I take it from his hand. It’s heavy. I smooth my fingers over it.

If I’d won, they would have called. Or at least emailed the news.

I try to deal with the unbearable likelihood that I didn’t win the contest. I’m not good enough. A loser.

“Peanut butter sandwiches for supper?” he asks.

I ignore him. I don’t want to give up hope and cling to the package, rationalizing. They’ve sent out the winning package by snail mail and it’s sitting in my hands. Waiting for me to open it and rejoice. Watch my life change right in front of my eyes. With the slip of paper telling me I’m the Grand Prize winner, I’ll go from Kristina Smith’s sister to that incredible artist who won the scholarship to Academy of Art University and, wow, did you see her on TV! She is so cute. Talented. And completely awesome.

“So?” Dad asks. “Is that what I think it is?”

I keep a firm grip on the package, but frown at him and wrinkle up my forehead the way Mom hates. I can barely breathe and certainly can’t put together an answer for him. He has no idea what it is or that my entire life is supposed to change.

“Don’t worry if you didn’t win, Tess. You have many skills besides your art.”

My mouth drops open for more reasons than one.

He chuckles. “Don’t look so shocked. I knew about you entering that contest. I talked to that kid at the golf course. Nick? You know. That friend of yours from school. Man, that kid can play golf. He caddied for me a couple times.”

“You talked to Nick about what?” I demand, not even ready to deal with the fact that Nick actually caddied for my own father.

“The art contest. He told me about it. He thinks you’re pretty cool. Smart and creative.”

“You
knew
about it?” I have an urge to pitch the envelope at his head. Never open it. Never reveal the answer that terrifies me.

“I do have some idea about what’s going on in my own home,” he grunts as he opens the pantry and pulls out a loaf of bread.

I stare at him for a moment, amazed he has the gall to say that. “Oh. And how exactly do you do that when you’re never here?” I manage to say as I struggle to absorb my shock that he talked to Nick about me. About the contest.

His face pinches up enough that his embarrassment is obvious. “I know I haven’t been around much, Tess. I, uh, I’ve been really busy with work.”

His lame excuse adds fire to the pit already burning in my stomach.

“You’ve been busy avoiding your family and what is going on with Kristina,” I snarl. “Never mind Mom and me.”

He exhales a loud breath of air. “I’m sorry if it seems that way. I’m just…well, I’m doing the best I can.” He opens the loaf of bread and takes a few slices out of the plastic.

I want to tell him his best isn’t good enough.

“Hey,” Dad says in a softer tone. He slaps a thick layer of peanut butter on the bread and peels a banana and starts cutting up slices on top of the peanut butter. “I’m sorry I didn’t mention I knew. I’m sure your art was really good. I saw Nick’s entry. He showed it to me before he sent it off.”

I place the envelope on my lap, away from his eyes. As if he’s tainting it, by being in the same room as it. “What are you talking about?”

“Nick. He told me about a drawing he’d done and how he would have loved to enter, but couldn’t. I suspected it was a money thing, so I offered to pay his fee if he’d do some free caddying on the side. We worked out a deal.” He carries his plate to the table and sits beside me, reaching over and taking the last crust from my plate and popping it in his mouth before picking up a slice of his own. “He entered too.”

My brain feels as though it’s been sucked from my head. I can’t remember how to take in oxygen. Breathe.

“Nick entered the contest?” I repeat. “And you knew, but didn’t tell me?” My fingers stroke the envelope. Dread makes me woozy.

Dad shrugs and manages to look uncomfortable. “I figured he told you. I meant to ask you about it.” He taps his fingers on the table as he chews and looks around the kitchen, as if Mom will sweep in any minute and rescue him from this conversation and fix him a chaser for his peanut butter sandwiches. “Mom not around to make supper?”

I could care less if she appeared wearing a Martha Stewart apron and holding a prize-winning chocolate cake. “You sponsored Nick, you saw his entry, and yet you didn’t even ask me about mine? You didn’t even ask to see what I did?” I swallow tears of anger. I refuse to cry. “Do you have any idea what a big deal this is to me?”

He bites into his sandwich and looks out the patio door. “Well, things have been a little crazy around here, Tess. There hasn’t been time to talk about things like art.” The defiance in his voice makes me feel crazy.

I stand, gripping the thick envelope in my hand. “Why does no one in this family take my art seriously? Why does no one believe in me? You knew, yet you didn’t even ask to see my entry or show some support.”

Winning would show them. Winning would redeem me.

But the stupid envelope is heavy in my hand.

“I believe you love art, Tess.” He chews and swallows. “And I’m glad you have it as an outlet. Especially now, with your sister. But there’s been so much going on around here, there hasn’t been time to talk about things like your hobby. Besides, you’re meant for bigger things than art. With your brain, you could do anything. Law. Medical school. You could get your doctorate degree and be a professor, like me.” He lays his hands on the table as if asking me to understand.

A professor? Who the hell does he think he is? Trying to decide what I want to do with my life?

My self-control is stretched to the limit. I wave the envelope, feeling anger in every cell, every fiber of my being. “Why would I want to be like you? You’ve deserted your family. You haven’t been home since Kristina found out she was sick.”

He sits up straighter, his cheeks reddening, but my fury unleashes as if he popped a hole in an angry wasp nest. The anger swarms from me. Hobby? It offends me to my core. Art is a huge part of who I am. It always has been, but no one has bothered to notice. All he cares about is my brains and all Mom cared about was Kristina’s sports.

They both got it wrong.

He puts his sandwich down and stands, glaring down at me, his eyes flashing with indignation. “Watch how you’re talking to me.”

“Why? You think you deserve my respect? You don’t even talk to Kristina anymore. You barely look at her since she had her leg removed.”

His fist pounds the table and the sound and the action startles me. But I don’t stop.

“And who the hell is answering your phone after hours at work? Betty Boop?”

He glares down at me, his lips pressed together, and then he spins and walks out of the kitchen. Walks away. Leaves me standing there.

“Don’t walk away from me,” I yell, sounding alarmingly like my mom. But it’s too late and he doesn’t come back.

I’m so furious, so angry, I don’t know what to do with it. I run upstairs to my room. Wet tears of anger stream down my cheeks. I throw the thick envelope on my bed. It bounces once and then flops still. Laying there. Taunting me.

I turn and rush back down the stairs, banging the front door, and stomp down the front walk and then pound the pavement on the street, walking fast around the block…fuming as I let the feelings I’ve been holding in come out, refusing to push them down like I always do.

Anger. For being ignored. For being belittled. For not being good enough. Guilt. For worrying about my stupid problems that pale in comparison to my sister’s. More anger for having to compare. Is it so wrong to want what I want? For me? What about me? Don’t I count anymore?

I walk and walk, trying to burn off my frustration with physical activity. God! It’s becoming a habit. Before I know it I’ll be doing runs with Mom. Finally, with nowhere to go, I end up back home.

Inside, the house is quiet. I go to my room and sit on my bed, staring at the envelope that mocks me. Dread floats around and around my body. My hands shake.

I pick it up and rip it open.

My eyes scan the first line. “Thank you for your entry. The jury was very impressed by your obvious talent. Unfortunately the contest was really tight this year. We have decided to go with a different candidate from your state. In addition, your state winner was awarded the Grand Champion.” Blah. Blah. Blah.

My heart bleeds green with jealousy, but I read on.

“Your entry has been awarded an honorable mention. Enclosed is an application for a scholarship. We would love to see you apply to Academy of Art University in your graduating year.”

There’s a knock on my door. “Go away!” I shout.

“Tess?”

It’s Mom.

She taps the door lightly again.

“I don’t want to talk.” I sniff softly so she can’t hear.

She opens the door though. Stupid me, not locking it behind me. She hesitates and then walks in and moves to stand at the side of my bed. She looks down at me on the bed. A crumpled-up disaster of a daughter.

“Dad told you we had a fight,” I say. It’s a statement, not a question.

“I’m sorry, Tess.”

“For what?” I can’t keep bitterness out of my voice. “For him disappearing from our lives when we need him?”

She presses her lips tight and crosses her arms. “No. I’m sorry about your contest. Your dad told me about it. He said you didn’t win.”

I chew my bottom lip to keep back the telltale tears of a loser.

“Kristina told us she knew about your drawing. And the contest.” Mom uncrosses her arms and perches her tiny perfect butt on the side of my messy bed. “She said you’re good.”

“I am,” I snap, surprising myself.

Mom frowns but quickly wipes the expression away and smiles. “I’m glad you have something you love to do. It’s like me and scrapbooking.”

I stare at her, horrified. She’s comparing my art to her occasional stabs at scrapbooking?

“You know, in the long run, it’s probably best you didn’t win,” she says. “You don’t really want to go to an art college, do you? I know you’re disappointed you didn’t make the Honor Society, but you still have brains. And connections. Your Dad can get you a spot at the university. He’s always talked about you working there someday. All you need to do is brush up on your people skills. Maybe join Toastmasters or something.” She stands up and walks over to my dresser and starts folding clean clothes heaped on top that she left for me to put away. She starts opening drawers and tucking things where she thinks they belong. Everything has a place. Everything can be shoved into a drawer and forgotten.

“You’re a lucky girl, Tess, not having to worry about money. We’re all lucky. Even Kristina. Things could be so much worse for her if we couldn’t afford the care we’ve gotten.” She rolls up a pair of socks and sticks them in a drawer.

“Lucky?” I ask, staring at this woman who claims to know who I am.

She bends down to pick up a pile of dirty clothes I’d thrown on the floor and takes them to the laundry bin and neatly slides them inside. “Dad gives us everything we need.”

I snort. “Except himself.”

She doesn’t pause as she bends and picks up more clothes scattered across my room. “He’s doing the best he can,” she says, repeating his sentiments.

How come his best is not enough?

“Anyway,” she says, “forget the contest. There’s no use having a temper tantrum.”

I stare at her as she moves around, frantically trying to put my room into some sort of order. I start to laugh. She can’t control things any better than me. She couldn’t stop Kristina from getting sick, which ruined her plans for Kristina’s future. And she can’t decide who I am. Who I get to be.

She bends to pick up my dirty socks and then stops, clutching them close to her chest. “I’m sorry you didn’t win,” she says in a soft voice. “I really am.” And then she starts back into her frenzied movement around my room and I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed, watching as she whizzes through my room as if cleaning it can somehow save her. Something’s occurred to me.

“How does Dad even know I didn’t win?” I ask.

She tosses clothes into my laundry bin and wipes her hands on her pant legs. “There was something on the news. Some boy won. Some boy your dad knows.”

No.

She walks toward the door, one hand on the door knob. “It wouldn’t kill you to clean up your own room, Tess.” As if she won’t rush back to do it for me as soon as it gets messy again. “I’m meeting a friend for coffee. I’ll be back in a while.” She pauses as if she’ll say more, but then closes the door behind her.

I blink, staring at the empty space she vacated, almost afraid to breathe.

Nick can’t be good at art. He’s a man-whore. He drinks too much. He felt up Bree at a stupid party in front of me. He can’t be talented.

I’m beyond shocked he learned about the contest from me, but didn’t even bother telling me he drew too. Or that he entered it behind my back. With my own dad’s money.

No.

Nick doesn’t deserve it.

I try not to hear the bellowing of the man in his living room. His dad. I blink away the image of his little sister’s dirty face. Her smile. Her learning disability.

He stole the stupid Drawing Prize from me. I hate him. I hate both of them. My dad. Nick. It’s not fair.

My life has been crap for fifteen years. I need to win to change my life.

I stand and march down the stairs to the living room. I unplug the laptop and drag it back to my room. When I’m plugged in and logged on, I click on the Oswald Drawing Prize link and stare at the announcement.

The winner for the state of Washington and the Grand Champion: Nick Evonic from Great Heights High School for his piece, “Losing It.”