Love Rewards The Brave (13 page)

83.

We sit down at a table

built for two and

she brings it up again.

“What is it then? Markus said he saw you in the cafeteria the

other day and Jack, that senior who everyone thinks is totally gorgeous, you know the one who’s always playing his guitar outside?”

I nod, knowing who she’s talking about.

“Well, I guess he walked up to where you were sitting, totally checking you out, and said something. And instead of answering you picked up your backpack and left the cafeteria. Like, completely ignoring him.”

I don’t even remember this

taking place.

Apparently I’m

better than I

thought at

blocking out

the traumatizing

paralyzing

things

in my day-to-day life.

“Why did you do that, Louisa? Why wouldn’t you just talk to him?”

How do you tell

your

one and only

friend

the truth about your past?

What happens if it

freaks her out

or shuts her down?

What then?

It isn’t worth the risk

of losing

her.

“Jess, whatever, he was being a total creep, that’s why I walked away. Okay? Markus doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

And that is enough.

For her, for now.

“Besides, Jess, weren’t we talking about how cool I am?” I ask.

Glowing outwardly

freezing inwardly.

I pick up my gyro

thankful to be distracted

by food

as I think about

the things Jess

just said.

84.

The knock on my bedroom door

wakes me up, I look at the clock.

Fuck.

I’m totally late.

Monday morning came fast

after last night with Jess

at the mall, the dinner and movie that followed.

“Louisa, got to get a move on,” Ms. F says. “You need to leave in about thirty minutes. Margot can drive you to school on her way back to her house.”

Brush teeth.

Dress fast.

Bagel in hand.

I jump in Margot’s car

thankful the heat’s

cranked up

as we pull out of the

frosty driveway.

“So, Louisa, one more week till Christmas break, right?” Margot asks, through her yawn, as she pulls into a coffee stand.

Two extra-hot

extra-whip-extra-shot

caramel lattes.

God, how is she so perfect?

“Yep,” I say, taking the coffee from her. “Thanks for the latte.”

“Oh, of course. But, so, I wanted to ask you, with Christmas break coming up and all, do you want a job?”

I don’t know what to say

so I do what I do best:

nothing at all.

“It would be a job at the record store. We need some extra people to work with the holiday rush and there was this girl who just flaked out, and anyways, I just thought you might like it?”

I bite my lip

self-consciously

aware of

saying yes too fast

or too slow.

“I already talked to my sister, and she thinks it would be great for you. What do you say?”

“You think I can do it? I mean, I’ve never had a job before.”

I want to confess

that I’m terrified

I’ll make a mess

of it.

But that I want to

try.

“You have to start somewhere. And this is better than working at a pretzel stand in the mall.”

I laugh.

“And the dress code at the record store is the best part. Come as you are.”

Come as you are.

I can do that.

God knows

I can’t do much

else.

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay, yes?” she asks.

“Okay, yes.”

She drops me off at school

and I can’t

help but

think maybe I woke

up late

and got a ride from her

today

for a reason.

I just hope

I don’t

fuck

it

up.

85.

The clock is moving so slowly

I want to scream

at Terry.

I have been thinking

it over the past few days.

Yes, she brought the journals to me.

Yes, she woke up forgotten memories.

Yes, she says she is trying to help,

but I have a bunch of questions now

And I want to

Call

Her

Out

On A Few Of Them.

“Louisa, you look like a ball of nerves right now. Do you want to talk about bringing your journals home? Did you get a chance to look at them?”

Terry’s been asking me some variation

of the same

question

for the past forty minutes

and I wonder what she thinks is going to

happen?

If she asks me one more time I just

might give her what she wants:

Truth.

“Louisa, I know you weren’t exactly happy when I gave them to you, do you want to talk about why?” she asks.

Again.

“Stop it. Okay? Just stop asking me. Okay?”

I speak louder than I have in..

Ever?

“You want to know how I felt when you gave them to me? I felt scared. Scared that you might have read them. Scared of where they’ve been hiding for two years.”

I’m screaming now,

the voice no longer mine.

It’s another girl.

A girl who is temporarily

speaking on my behalf

because I know I would never be

strong enough to

talk about the

aftermath

of getting those old books.

“I was scared of what I would remember. Scared that the pages will make the monster that is my dad come back to life and haunt in ways I can’t handle. Scared that the words would swallow me whole.”

The girl disappears

as quickly as she came

and I am left

gasping for

breath

with a shocked

counselor

looking like she’s

never seen me

before.

86.

I walk out of the office

pretty quickly after the

bodily takeover

alien encounter

case of the body snatchers

that just happened.

I walk straight past Ms. Francine

and leave through

the front door.

It takes her a while to catch up

probably a debrief with Terry

over what went

Wrong?

Right?

Was there a fight?

Ms. F comes to the car

drives us slowly to

a diner

not far from our house.

I’ve never been to this place.

“Sometimes we just need a change of pace,” Ms. F says.

As if

she was reading

my mind.

We order.

For me:

Fries.

Burger.

Shake.

She says, “I’ll have the same.”

I look at her a little

freakishly.

What’s going on here?

First the takeover

that happened with

Terry,

now Ms. F is forgoing a

green salad

opting instead

for a greasy sandwich.

“What?” she asks. “Sometimes you just need to let go, you know, let loose.”

“I get it.” I say, registering her metaphor.

Rolling my eyes for

some reason I can’t quite

place

because

Ms. F isn’t being showy

or bossy

or
I told you so.

It’s more like:

I know.

“So you decided to give Terry what she had coming?”

I look at her like

I don’t know what she

means.

Back to my old routine

pretend like you don’t know

then you won’t have to show

something

real.

“Just so you know, Louisa, I was wondering the same thing about where your journals came from, after all this time. I emailed Terry about it over the weekend, but I didn’t want to be the one to talk to you about it. It seemed like it was something between the two of you. I’m proud of you for talking to her.”

This idea of me

working things out with Terry

would have worked better

if I’d stayed

around and

found

out the answers.

“Do you want to talk about it now?” she asks.

The waitress

sets down the food.

I pick up a fry

breaking it in half.

I feel

divided

undecided

on which direction I want to go.

Do I say yes to her

and get shit out

or do I continue to live

in a make-believe world

riddled with doubt?

Why is this a hard question?

87.

“I want to talk about it, but it,” I say, then pause. “It’s really hard.”

I speak as

calmly as I can.

Wanting her to understand

that I can’t do this

on my own.

“Why don’t I help you then? Terry told me the journals have been sitting in a storage office in the police department for two years. Apparently someone went through the space last week and came across several bins, marked with your name, of things an apartment manager had taken there when you and Benji were first placed in custody.”

I stare down my strawberry shake

wanting her to take a break

before I decide whether

or not

I can look at her.

“Most of the stuff was old clothing, although there was an old blanket that had Benji stitched on it, so that was returned to him. Your caseworker was given the box of your journals, who then gave it to Terry. I don’t know if she read any of them, though.”

I breathe out.

It’s not as

scary

as I was anticipating

nearly hyperventilating.

“Why does it bother you if Terry read your books?”

I look at her.

Ms. F- a woman in her thirties

probably has a better place to be

then sitting in a booth with me.

Yet

Here

She

Is.

“I guess. Um. If she read them, she might, you know, see me?”

“And you don’t want to be seen?”

“Of course not.”

“Why, Louisa?”

She doesn’t like

my cryptic

way of attempting to

avoid

all those kinds of contact

I hate.

I close my eyes.

“People could leave me if they really see me. Like Jess. Or You.”

“Margot read some. She didn’t run away from you.”

Why am I doing this?

Why am I answering these questions?

The ones Terry has been asking

for two years?

“It doesn’t make it any easier, though, Ms. Francine. I’ve been undone in a thousand ways. I’m not going to be whole again in a day.”

“Do you think you can ever be whole again?” she asks.

“I hope so,” I admit.

I open my eyes.

Allowing

her

to

make

contact.