The Truth About Letting Go (3 page)

We’re quiet a few minutes. The water’s trickling past, and I study her pulling blades of grass. She’s so curious about me, but I wonder what it’s like to be in her shoes. I wonder what it’s like to have trouble walking up a small hill.

“You used to come out here with your dad.” Charlotte interrupts my thoughts. “I’d watch you two from my window riding bikes around the neighborhood. I always wondered what that was like.”

“What?” Can she not ride a bike or something?

“Having a parent who liked you and wanted to be with you, spend time with you.”

“Oh.” I pull my own blade of grass not sure how to respond. Is she saying her parents don't like her? “I don’t know. It’s just how it was. Mom’s always working herself to death, but with his job, Dad was home most of the time. With me.”

“You must’ve loved it.”

“Actually, it kind of got on my nerves sometimes. A lot of the time, really.”

“Really?” Charlotte smiles, her eyes full of amazement.

I can’t believe I feel safe admitting this to her, like I don’t have to feel guilty saying the truth. I wonder if it’s because no matter what, I’m still the one in control, the one with more power. It’s a cynical thought I don’t like. I push it away, and instead I think about how amazing it is, my dad’s number one fan lives right here in our neighborhood.

I wish I could tell him. He’d probably make a funny observation about life, and I could laugh again.

“Well, yeah,” I say, feeling better. “I mean, wouldn’t you get sick of your dad always wanting to know what you were doing or what happened at school or if you didn’t want to talk about it, insisting you go for a bike ride or a run to clear your head?”

“I probably wouldn’t look like this,” she chuckles.

I’m not sure the safe reply, so I look back at the creek.

“You always looked happy to me,” she says softly.

“I was,” I whisper, and for a second, I feel dangerously close to crying.

The pressure’s back, and I don’t want to be here now. I stand quickly—far too quickly for Charlotte to keep up.

“I’m taking off,” I say, without giving her a chance to speak. But I see the look in her eye, and I know she knows what almost happened.

And I know I’ll be back.

* * *

The next day is Sunday. I lie in bed listening as my mom softly taps on my door. She calls to me, something about church, but I don’t answer. Finally, she goes away. I roll back over and close my eyes for another hour. When I open them again, the house is quiet.

I jump up, throw on my track shorts and a long-sleeved tee, and jog out to the creek. After a few minutes of sitting, I hear the sound of respiratory distress and Charlotte appears. She takes her place below me on the bluff.

I break the silence first. “Did your family move here so you could go to Creekside, too?”

“Sort-of,” she says. “I think they wanted to get me out of my old high school to see if I was stress-eating.”

“Your old school was stressful?”

“Some of the kids there… well, there were a few mean girls.” She seems embarrassed, so I don’t pursue it.

“And you moved here over the summer?”

“Yeah, but I was at camp when they moved in,” she says. “I didn’t get back until the week before school started.”

“Camp? Where’d you go to camp?”

“Camp Be Well.”

I frown. “Is that like an Indian name or something?”

“It’s a fat camp.” She says flatly.

A laugh jumps into my throat, but I swallow it back down.

“Oh,” I say. “So. What’s that like?”

“It’s supposed to be esteem-building. But it’s hard to feel good about yourself when you’ve been shipped off for being an embarrassment.”

“I don’t think that’s—”

“How would you know?”

I’m surprised by the sharpness in her high-pitched tone. It’s an unsettling mixture—bitterness delivered in a princess voice. I close my mouth and look back at the creek. She’s right. I don’t know anything about why her parents would send her to a fat camp. Dad always said you had to want to change for change to happen. And weight isn’t something I struggle with.

We’re quiet a few moments and then she speaks again. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles.

I don’t answer. I don’t really know what to say.

“My parents own those Posh Princess stores,” she says, pulling at another blade of grass and still seeming angry.

“Oh, I love those stores!”

She smiles bitterly and nods. “I’m the reject in the back room.”

My lips press together, and I take a deep breath. I can’t help Charlotte with these things, and the comfort I came to find isn’t coming. I dust my hands and stand, pulling my shorts down. Charlotte’s woes piling on top of my own are making the pressure in my chest unbearable.

“I guess I’ll see you at school,” I say, not sure what that will mean.

“Yeah,” she says. “Back to school.”

I nod and do a little wave before turning to go. My emotions are so shredded, I can’t feel any worse. Besides, she and I aren’t on the same team. We probably never will be. I don’t like it, but it’s just the way it is.

Unless…

As I walk slowly to my house, I think about my bike ride, about my vow, and about stepping off that ladder. What happens if I fall? Will the pain release? Am I strong enough to find out?

Chapter 3

Mandy takes one glance at me when I get in her car and frowns. Then she does a quick exhale and reaches over to smooth the back of my hair several times. I let her.

“Heroin chic is
so
Y2K. But I guess that’s what’s next, right? Kate Moss?”

I look away, out the window at what's coming. “I’m not going for a trend.”

All of my colorful spring outfits felt as wrong as everything in my life this morning, so I opted for jeans and a black tank. My hair was a spontaneous decision. However I slept last night, I woke up with it falling in messy waves, so instead of brushing it into smooth submission, I left it. My first break with the rules. One foot off the ladder.

“Well, anyway, I’ve apparently made the geek patrol’s hit list,” she complains. “It’s all over school what a bitch I am, and it’s infuriating and ridiculous at the same time.”

I study my nail. “What happened.”

“Perry Rensselaer asked me to the spring luau. Can you believe that?”

I shrug. Perry’s a total nerd, but he’s not the worst guy at school. That would be Trevor Martin, resident delinquent.

“A shrug? That’s all I get from you?”

“I take it you told him no.”

“You take it. Of course I told him no!” Her face is an offended frown. “As if it’s not an established fact I only date hot guys. You don’t qualify? Don’t ask.”

I glance over as she slides a lock of smooth, perfectly highlighted blonde hair behind her shoulder. I think about how different we are despite our usually similar appearance. Mandy’s more the in-your-face type, while I tend to float above. Sure, I get noticed, I’ve just always done my best to dodge the drama. She’s probably more engaged because she grew up here, with the same kids year after year.

“The critics are just jealous because I don’t have to settle,” she says. “It doesn’t make me shallow, it makes me
selective
.”

“Right.” I look away, wondering how Charlotte gets to school. There’s no way she’s walking.

Our brief conversation has been on my mind since yesterday, and I wonder if whatever we were doing is over now. If we’ll pick up where we left off, with me not even knowing her name. It couldn’t feel more alien to me.

“What they don’t get is it also means I’m alone. A lot,” Mandy continues. “There are
not
as many hot guys in high school as you’re led to believe in the books.”

“Perry’s a nice guy. He worked up the nerve to ask you out, and you shut him down. You had to expect some blowback.”

She turns wide, horrified eyes on me. “Are you truly on drugs? I can
not
be pressing my lips against some chicken-chested acne victim’s. It’s gross. I’ll open my eyes and throw up.”

“Drama queen.”

“Besides, I’ve gone to school with half these geeks since kindergarten. They should know better.”

And we’re here.

For two years, it’s been our thing to wheel into a front parking spot in Mandy’s silver Beemer, flip our hair as we step out, and walk to class. But today I’m tense. Everything in my life has changed, and I don’t feel like that old Ashley anymore.

I get out of the car, but instead of flipping my hair, I hug my books to my chest. A few heads turn as Mandy and I pass, but I can’t tell if it’s the usual checking us out or curiosity about my new look. Or if they’re waiting to see whether I’ll have a crying meltdown in the middle of the quad. The tight feeling is in my chest again, and I have to focus on moving forward and not turning around and running all the way home, where I can crawl back into the safety of my bed.

“See you at lunch,” I say and duck into my building.

“OK,” Mandy calls oblivious to my discomfort. The only thing bothering her is why anyone would question her rules. Why her rejection even needs justification.

At my locker, I stare at my books for what feels like a long time. I can’t remember if I used to gather my stuff for both classes now or if I came back here after first period. I’ve only been out two weeks, but it feels like a lifetime has passed.

The metal door next to me slams, and I jump. I grab my English book before closing my locker and turning to the left where I’m suddenly face to face with a very tall, skinny guy who’s in the process of standing up. He’s wearing huge, horn-rimmed glasses pushed up on his forehead, and I pause, realizing once again, I recognize this person and I don’t know his name.

He freezes and stares back at me. His blue eyes widen as his books slowly slide from his hands.

“Your books…” I jump and reach out to catch them.

“Oh!” He jerks and the glasses drop down over his eyes, doubling them in size.

“Whoa. That’s some prescription.”

He stands back up and shoves them onto his forehead again under his dark hair. I have to tilt my head, he’s so tall.

“They’re not really mine,” he says, struggling to push all his books together.

“Whose are they?”

“My grandfather’s. I just borrowed them.”

“Why?”
Why emphasize your strangeness
?

“It’s from a movie. It reminds me of what I might—” He stops abruptly. “Why are you talking to me?”

I take a step back.

“I mean," he rushes on, "we’ve had the same lockers all year, and this is the first time you’ve even looked at me. Ever.”

“I…” I shake my head. “I had a lot on my mind before?”

His frown almost morphs into a smile, but then he looks embarrassed. I notice his ears turn pink.

“Whatever.” I start to walk away. “I was just trying to be nice.”

“Wait!” He jogs to catch up. “I wanted to say, well, I’m sorry about your dad.”

I stop and study him. His blue eyes stand out clear with his shaggy dark hair all around his face and those dumb glasses on his forehead. His expression is concerned and sweet, and somehow, I appreciate it. It’s like the feeling I had talking to Charlotte, but in a different way.

“What’s your name?”

“Jordan. Uh, Adams.”

“Thanks, Jordan. I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch.”

His mouth drops open, but I turn and head to chemistry.

* * *

Class is a blur, and although I try to pay attention, I’m more interested in counting how many of my classmates are avoiding looking at me. It’s far more interesting than what our teacher is saying. Soon enough it’s lunchtime, and I go to the cafeteria to find Mandy. Her nonstop chatter will be a relief after the morning I’ve had. I find her at the entrance still looking pouty. It isn’t like her to stew about rejecting a geek for so long.

“I think you should just blow it off,” I say. “You have certain standards and everybody should know them by now.”

“What?” Her brow creases, and instantly she remembers. “Oh, that. No, I’ve forgotten all about that.”

“Good.” I fall in beside her to go through the line. “So why the face? Pop quiz in history?”

“He’s not here, dammit.” I watch her pay Ms. Sanders and try to figure out what in the world she means. I’m starting to wonder what I did for the last six months. It’s as if I’ve just been awakened from a hundred years’ sleep. Like that Rip Van Winkle guy. Only nobody’s aged. So maybe something more science fiction-ey. One of those wormholes.

“Who?” I ask.

“Jesus, Ashley! When are you ever going to be back?”

I’m wondering the same thing. “I don’t remember…”

“Colton Sterling? I told you about him on the phone yesterday, remember? I flirted with him all week before spring break, and I was planning to ask him to the luau today.”

How could I forget a name like that? Our telephone conversation comes trickling back. I’d only listened to part of it anyway.

“Oh, right. You wanted me to see him.”

“Yeah, well fat chance of that when he’s not even here.”

“He probably got sick or something.” I pick up a tray and head to the salad bar.

Charlotte is sitting at a table with three other equally large female students. She catches my eye, and I smile. She smiles back and a feeling of warmth toward this strange girl fills me. I want to go sit with her and talk about Dad. Instead I wait as Mandy piles lettuce onto my empty plate.

“Oh my god, yes! Maybe he’s got severe allergies!” she brightens.

“It is spring.”

Charlotte’s back to talking with her friends, and I follow Mandy to the cluster of jock tables. One of the football players is standing, performing an instant replay of some heroic score he made last fall.

“I’ve been dying for you to see him and tell me what you think,” she says.

I stab my salad. “If you’re into him, I’m sure he’s a total panty drop.”

“It’s not that…” her eyes widen and she shrieks. “What
is
this? Has somebody put a curse on me?”

I frown and look up, following the direction of her eyes. Just then I see Jordan glance at me and quickly look away.