|photo by tranmautritam from Pexels|
The Sunday mornings in my memory are vibrant: sunshine and clatter, pancakes and smiles. But this morning Mom is alone at the kitchen table. The house smells like bacon but the six-burner stovetop is empty. The frying pan is perched, bottom side up, on a drying rack beside the shiny clean sink. Our ritual family breakfast has come and gone, and they let me sleep through it.
"There you are," Mom says, looking up from her cooking magazine. I get a hasty hug before she steers me to the chair she just vacated. "Sit down. I'll get your pancakes. Orange juice?"
"Um, yeah. Thanks. Where are Dad and Lindsay?"
She uses a black and white checkered dishtowel to maneuver a plate out of the warming drawer under the wall-mounted oven. "Your father is on the computer," she says, placing my breakfast on the table in front of me. "He's getting some work out of the way so he can spend the rest of the day with his family."
There's a hint of an attitude, I think. I don't like the way she says "your father." Like he only belongs to me. And did she emphasize the word work? Does she resent the idea of him working on a Sunday morning?
Or am I imagining it?
Yes, I'm sure I am, because I finished reading the IM conversations last night. There was barely any mention of my parents arguing. Nothing at all about Mom staying locked in her room crying.
"Did you say where Lindsay was?" I ask.
"She went for a run with a friend who lives in the neighborhood. She'll be back soon, and—"
"What friend?"
Mom blinks her eyes three times. Because my tone is too harsh. I'm revealing my suspicion. "I mean, I didn't know she had a friend here. In this neighborhood."
My orange juice gets delivered with one of Mom's overly sympathetic smiles. I drop my eyes to my plate and shove an entire piece of bacon in my mouth, because she's absolutely right about the thing she's so hesitant to say out loud. This is hard. Being in this house, under these circumstances, is harder than any of the rehabilitative things I had to do at Faircrest. And I'm having an especially hard time not telling Mom what Lindsay did yesterday—what she might be doing right now.
But there has to be some reason I didn't tell my parents about my sister's drug habit before my accident—because I'm sure it bothered me then as much as it does now. So maybe Lindsay is telling the truth about Mom and Dad. And if it's true then yeah, they don't need one more thing to worry about. Not if I can make the problem go away.
And I can. Lindsay promised me she wouldn't smoke any more weed and I want to give her a chance. I owe her that. I need to trust her—at least until I'm a hundred percent sure that I can't.
"Allyson, honey, did you hear me?"
"Um, no. Sorry."
"I was saying that Lindsay's friend is new to the neighborhood."
Mom deposits the syrup next to my plate, but it's wrong. The bottle is too short and I'm pretty sure the label is supposed to be red.
"I haven't had a chance to meet her yet," Mom says. "Her family just moved to Summerfield a few weeks ago."
Really? Or is that just something Lindsay tells Mom when she wants to "escape."
"There's a transition support group session this afternoon," Mom says. "I'll drive you over—if you think you might be ready for that. Dr. Greene said I could stay there with you, or not stay..."
The hesitance in her voice seems like a message. But it could be that I'm just hearing what I want to hear. I've only been "home" for one day—and I'm already so overwhelmed with my transition that I can barely breathe. "I think maybe next week would be better?"
"Of course," she says. With a satisfied smile that feels like approval. "Have you thought any more about Noah's idea?"
"Uh..." The last idea Noah shared with me was about meeting Samantha.
"For the school tour," Mom says. "You mentioned it when we talked on the phone—right after his visit to Faircrest?"
"Oh. Right. I was thinking that maybe we could do a tour together instead. Like the four of us. As a family?"
"Yes, you mentioned that too," Mom says. "Your father wouldn't be able to join us, honey. He's driving to North Carolina early tomorrow morning. And the high school has a special day planned for Lindsay; she'll take a tour with the rest of her classmates at freshman orientation. But I think it's a wonderful idea for you to visit the school with Noah."
I don't know if I want to visit the school at all, but I would like to see Noah again. The IM app gave me the answer to my question—Lindsay isn't the reason he and I stopped being friends—but it raised about a hundred more I'd like to ask him. The timeline I plotted in my journal has a lot of gaps.
"Allyson?"
Mom's eyebrows are high. "I'm sorry. Did I miss something again?"
"It's okay, honey. I was making a suggestion for tomorrow. The three of us could have a girl's day. Shopping or a movie?"
"Oh." Yes, that's exactly what I need. To get Lindsay out of the house—and away from this so-called neighborhood friend—so I can keep an eye on her. "Sure. That sounds great."
"I scheduled an appointment with your school counselor before I knew you we're coming home," she says. "It's for tomorrow afternoon."
The information feels like a baited hook. Mom is fishing for a reaction. Because I still haven't said whether or not I'm going "back" to high school. I carve a chunk out of my pancakes and stuff it in my mouth. The new syrup is delicious, but the pancakes taste...off. I use my fork to lift the top layer—and yes, the underside is charred.
"You can sit in on the appointment if you want to," Mom says. "But the tour might benefit you more. Would you like to ask Noah to meet us there?"
"Um." I guess a tour could be helpful. And it was Noah's suggestion. "Yes," I say, standing. "I'll go ask him. My phone is upstairs charging."
"What about your breakfast?"
"I'm finished." I dip my last piece of bacon in the syrup, shove it in my mouth and call out a muffled thank you as I head for the stairs.
I'm more than halfway up when I spot the angry cat, waiting for me on the upstairs landing. I stop and it crouches, readying for an attack.
Crap.
"Crap, crap, crap."
I grab onto the railing and head back down. One step at a time.
"Ally, what's wrong?"
It's Lindsay. Coming through the front door, her voice pitched with alarm.
This wouldn't have happened before. The Allyson I remember would not have been afraid of a ten-pound ball of fur. "It's nothing," I say, swiping a hand in the air. "I'm not really..."
The cat lowers its head and hikes its fluffy butt. Its body rocks back and forth as it pumps its back legs. My stupid heart clenches. I'm heading into panic mode and there's nothing I can do to stop it.
"Hold on," Lindsay says. "I'll get her." She takes the stairs two at a time, scoops the cat into her arms and deposits it in her bedroom. "Mags just wants to play with you," she says, closing the door. "That bite yesterday was your punishment for being gone so long. But she's probably over it today."
"It just surprised me is all," I say, climbing again. "I wasn't expecting it...um, her. To be in the house. And we didn't...we've never had a cat before. So."
Lindsay takes a step back when I get to the top and her eyes drop to the floor. Is she trying to hide them from me?
"Does your new running buddy live on this street?" I ask, scanning her too-short shorts and her skimpy running top for sweat stains.
There are none.
She shakes her head and shoves a finger under her stack of bracelets. "The guy with the green eyes lives on our street. Mom just assumed it was a girl and I'd like to keep it that way because..." She curls her finger around the bracelets and twists. There's no ink on her arm today, but I'm pretty sure she's thinking about the word, liar—while she decides whether or not she's going to trust me with the truth.
"Because what?" I ask.
Lindsay's eyes meet mine. Narrow and maybe a little bloodshot, but I can't be sure. "He's older," she says.
"How much older?"
My question comes out wrong—like an inquisition—and she frowns. "I don't need another mom, Ally. And besides, it doesn't matter."
"It doesn't?" I ask, trying to redeem myself by sounding curious in a sisterly way. "Isn't this the boy who makes you feel like...um, oatmeal?"
"Yeah," she says, almost smiling. "But it's one-sided."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
Not true—I'm not sorry at all, but I don't feel guilty about the lie. My sister has already given me enough to worry about.
"Don't be," she says. "Drew doesn't think he's allowed to be interested in me that way, but his eyes tell a different story."
I do my best to deliver an encouraging smile, but that's an extra-hard lie to sell—because what if this older guy is giving Lindsay drugs? And if they're getting high together, then it only stands to reason that eventually he's going to allow himself to do more than just look at my baby sister that way.
"Everything all right up there?" Mom calls. Close, like she's standing at the bottom of the stairs.
"Yes," I say. "Lindsay saved me from the cat."
"You shouldn't have said that," Lindsay whispers.
"What? Why?"
She gestures to the stairs and I hear the carpet-softened thuds of Mom climbing. "She doesn't trust me to be alone with you."
"Why not?"
Lindsay shakes her head—meaning she's not going to tell me?
"I'm gonna take a shower," she says. Intentionally loud. Then she ducks into the bathroom and locks the door.
Mom emerges from the stairwell. Her face is pinched with concern and confusion—which is exactly how I feel. So I offer an explanation. "The cat's in Lindsay's room, because..." A brand new surge of embarrassment warms my cheeks. "I was being stupid."
"No, honey. It's my fault. I shouldn't have let Mags back in the house."
"I overreacted," I say. "And I didn't get a chance to text Noah. So." I point to the purple room. "I'll go do that now." I walk, stupidly fast, to the end of the hallway, praying that Mom doesn't follow.
It's a horrible thing to wish for, because it's a reaction—probably an overreaction to what my sister said before she went in the bathroom. I don't know if it's true; I can't imagine why Mom would want to keep me from being alone with Lindsay, but I don't doubt that my sister believes it.
I plop onto the bed, pluck the charger cord out of my phone and send Noah a text: I finished the IM convos, but I'm still not clear on why you and I weren't friends for awhile. Did something happen after the NJ guy?
My phone tells me that the text was delivered. Then I get the pulsing ellipses bubble that tell me Noah is typing.
It goes away, but I don't get a text. Did he change his mind about answering?
The ellipses bubble comes back—but only for about two seconds. Ugh. I open my journal and read back over the timeline while I wait.
March 22: Fifteenth birthday / Raisinets cupcake!
April, May: Lindsay sabotages The First Move
June 21: The wrong first kiss
June 30: Lindsay tells Noah
September: Tenth grade starts. My "friendship" with Noah is back on track
November: Grandma Dodge dies :(
Christmas break: Did something happen while Noah was in Georgia?
January: Noah is distant. He comes around but the friendship isn't the same
February 18: Noah blows up at me in the lunchroom
March 22: My (not so sweet) sixteenth birthday
April 12: Last IM message
May-August: ???
September: Eleventh grade (Why did I join the swim team?)
June: Lifeguard job / accident
I check my phone again and groan. Again. But then Noah's reply finally comes: Yes. It happened winter break of tenth grade. I called you from Georgia to ask if we could hang out. Maybe go to the mall like we'd talked about before. You said no because you'd met someone else. We didn't really talk again until eleventh grade, when you joined the swim team. I'm being intentionally vague, but I'll supply details if you want them. I don't have to work today, so I'm available for whatever.
Huh. There wasn't any thing about Noah calling from Georgia in the IM transcripts.
But still, I erase the question I wrote beside January and write phone call—even though it makes absolutely no sense to me. It doesn't even seem possible. According to everything I've read, I was devastated when Noah's grandmother died. And then, heartbroken when his grandfather "lost his shit" and they had to move him into an assisted living facility. But more than anything, I was worried about Noah. Because I was completely in love with him.
I should've been thrilled that he asked me out. Why would I say no? There couldn't have been another boy. Or if there was, I didn't mention him to Samantha. So. Was I lying to Samantha when I told her I didn't know why Noah was mad at me?
Probably. Samantha caught me in the school-skipping lie in eleventh grade—and the scary text conversation made it sound like me lying was a new thing, but maybe she was wrong about that. Maybe lying to my BFF was something I did on a regular basis. Not that it matters now. Nope. I just need to concentrate on convincing Lindsay that ultimately it was me, my fault. I sabotaged my relationship with Noah.