Out of Order (18 page)

“You...you cut yourself? On purpose?” I say. “Why?”

Zelia looks away and stares out the window. When she answers, her voice is so soft I can barely hear her. “I don't know,” she says.

All at once, I realize that I've only seen what I needed to see in her. Strength, confidence, daring, that way of being so absolutely alive in every moment. All the things I wanted to be. I haven't seen what was really there. I haven't seen how much she must have been hurting. I swallow hard and change the subject quickly. “So...how long are you going to be here?”

“No idea.” Zelia leans toward me and drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “It's not that bad, you know. My roomie's cool.” She gestures toward the unmade bed across from hers in the narrow room. “She's seventeen and she sings in a band. Dead Valentines. Have you heard of them?”

I shake my head.

Zelia looks disappointed. “Well, me neither actually. But anyway, she wants me to go see them play when we get out of here.”

“That's great,” I say. I stand beside her bed, feeling awkward. I look down at the magazines I bought in the hospital gift shop. Somehow I had pictured Zelia being more sick, more subdued. She seems just like she always does. Except for the bandages.

“Here,” I say, thrusting the magazines toward her.

She glances at them and drops them on the bed. “Thanks.” Then she looks at her watch. “Hey, Sophie, I have to go to this group thing in a couple of minutes.” She rolls her eyes at me comically.
“It's totally lame. We all have to sit in a circle and compete to see who is the biggest loser.”

“What do you say?” I ask curiously. Zelia isn't really the support-group type.

She laughs. “Oh, I have fun. I think today I'll tell them about how my little sister was run over by a fire truck when I was four.”

I frown. “You don't have a younger sister.”

She laughs again. “Hey, they want me to share, so I share.”

I chew on my lower lip. “Zelia...other people are telling real things...you know, true stories. I don't know. It just seems...”

Zelia swings her legs around and jumps off the bed in one fluid motion. “Oh, Sophie, lighten up. You're getting to be no fun at all.” She pops a piece of gum in her mouth and snaps it loudly. “Anyway, I have to go. Come see me again, okay?”

And she is gone. I sit on the edge of her bed and stare at the rumpled sheets for a few minutes. Then I get up and take the elevator back downstairs.

Max is waiting in the lobby. “So,” she says. “Okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

“How was she?”

I make a face. “I don't know. She seemed just like usual. It was weird.”

Max waits.

“I don't think she's even going to try to deal with stuff,” I say. “She doesn't even seem to think she has a problem.”

“Well...I guess everyone has to deal with their own shit.” She watches me. “Or not.”

I don't think she means it as a challenge, but her words catch and tug at something inside me. I think maybe it's time I started to deal with mine. And I think I'm going to have to start way back at the beginning. To start over and tell the truth this time.

THE NEXT DAY
, after school, I open my drawer and pull out the bag of rings Zelia and I got from the gumball machines at the drugstore. I stuff it into the pocket of my leather jacket and head downstairs.

“Ready to go?” Mom asks.

I nod. We walk out to the car, and she drives me down to the hospital.

Mom parks the car and comes in with me. In the main lobby, she takes my hand and gives it a squeeze.

“Do you want me to go up with you?” she asks.

“No, I'll be okay.” I haven't told her that I skipped school to visit Zelia yesterday.

“If you're sure...I'll meet you back down by the coffee shop.”

I nod and ride the elevator back up to Zelia's ward.

She is sitting on a couch in a common area, reading a magazine. She looks up and smiles when I walk in.

“Hey, Zelia,” I say. I sit down on the couch beside her. Zelia groans when she sees that I have brought her a stack
of assignments and notes from missed classes.

“Mr. Farley says not to worry about the due dates—he'll give you extensions—but to try to do the readings if you can,” I tell her.

We chat for a while, mostly about school. I tell her I finally handed in my
Lord of the Flies
essay and that Mr. Farley has assigned yet another paper. It is so strange. Here we are in a psychiatric ward, and we are talking like we always do. We could be in her living room. It is so tempting to pretend that every­thing is normal—that the fight never happened, that she never tried to kill herself, and that there is nothing wrong.

I take a deep breath. “Zelia...” I say slowly, “there's some­thing I haven't told you. About myself, I mean. Something I haven't been totally honest about.”

She perks up and leans toward me. “Really? What?”

I bite the inside of my lip. This is harder than I thought it would be. “I want you to know why I'm telling you this.” I tilt my head and look at her blue eyes. “So if it...if it changes how you see me or anything...”

Zelia grabs my arm. “Sophie, so mysterious! Let me guess... you've found Jesus? No, no. Too cliché. Let me think...”

I interrupt. “I'm serious.”

“Okay, okay.” She is pouting now, but I keep going anyway.

“Look, I think part of the reason you are in here is because you don't face up to stuff. I mean, neither of us do. I haven't been dealing with my stuff either.”

Zelia's face is still. She watches me warily.

I plow on, not wanting to lose my momentum or my nerve. “Okay. So I want that to change, you know? I want us to be stronger. Both of us.”

“Get to the secret,” Zelia says.

I sigh. “Okay. Okay. The thing I haven't told you is that back in Georgetown, in grade nine, I was kind of...well, I was...well, you probably would have thought I was an Ermentrude.”

She throws her head back and laughs; then she looks at me appreciatively. “Good one, Sophie.”

“I'm not kidding,” I tell her.

“Oh, come on. This is payback for me telling the support group that my sister got run over by a fire truck, right?”

I shake my head. “No. No, it isn't.”

Zelia stares at me. “I don't get it. What do you mean?”

I struggle to find words. “I...I...you would have thought... I mean, the way I dressed and stuff...well, you wouldn't have been my friend back then. And some of the girls were pretty mean. Really mean actually. Worse than they are to Ermentrude Clements.”

Zelia shakes her head. “I don't get why you're telling me this.”

I clear my throat. I'm starting to feel unsure of this myself. “I just wanted to be honest about it.” I can feel tears prickling my eyes and I ignore them, blink hard and continue. “When we moved out here, I tried to change. I wanted to Wt in. I was so happy when we became friends. But I feel bad that I kind of, you know, kind of hid who I used to be.” I look at her and chew on my lip. “Do you understand?”

She stands up. “I don't think you should go around telling people this, Sophie. I mean, really. Not a good idea to spread that story around.”

“I'm just telling you. Zelia. My friend.” I hold my breath and touch the bag of rings in my pocket. Are we still friends?

She frowns. “Yeah, well. I just think, it's over, right? Like you said, who you used to be. History.”

It would be so easy to just agree, let it go, but something isn't sitting right with me. “Yeah. Yeah. But who I used to be...I mean, it's still there, you know? Still part of who I am.”

Zelia sits back down and leans toward me. “What is your point, Sophie? You're saying you want to be part Ermentrude?”

“I'm saying I want to be who I am.” I hesitate. “And I guess I'm saying that the things that happen to us don't just go away.”

Zelia scowls. “Yeah? In my life, they do. Over. Done. Gone.”

I meet her eyes. “Yeah. And look how well that's working for you.” I can't believe I said that out loud. I brace myself for her anger.

To my surprise, she just laughs. “Points for that one, Sophie.” She looks at me appraisingly. “Anyway, enough of the heavy stuff, okay? Give me some gossip.”

I try to switch gears. “Can't think of anything, really. ”I stick my hands in my pockets and find the bag of rings still there. I've told her my secret, and more than anything I want to hear her say that we're still friends. I want the reassurance of our rituals and games. I start to slide the bag out of my pocket.

“Come on...what's new at school? Hey, what about you and that hottie out at the barn?”

I look at her blankly. “Huh?”

Zelia tosses her hair. “You know. Travis.”

“Tavish,” I say. I shove the bag of rings back in my pocket, feeling flustered and caught off guard. “I thought you said he was a geek.”

She shrugs. “Whatever. Don't tell me you're not into him... you're blushing!”

I know I am. I hate conversations like this. “Nothing to tell,” I say.

“Ohhhh...Come on. Your face is bright red. You've got the hots for him, admit it.” Zelia is laughing, playing with me like a cat with a mouse.

I try to think of how some other girl might respond. “He's not my type,” I say, doing my best to sound casual.

Zelia leans toward me. “Who is, then?” she asks. “Who is your type?”

I shrug.

She narrows her eyes. “Max?”

I stare at her. “What?”

“Come on. She's such a dyke.”

“She's not,” I say hotly. “You just don't like her.”

“True,” Zelia says. Tah-rue. “I don't like her much. But she's still a dyke.”

My thoughts are slow and thick. “Why do...I mean...she had...I don't...”

Zelia looks at me scornfully. “If you don't know, you're like
the only person who doesn't. I heard she was actually going out with a girl from some other school.”

I remember Max mentioning her ex, saying he went to a different school. Had she actually said
he
? Or had I just assumed that?

I shake my head, as if I can shake off these thoughts, as if I can shake off these feelings like a dog shaking off water. “I have to go,” I say. “Mom's waiting for me downstairs.”

Zelia raises one eyebrow and laughs. “Who's running away from things now?”

BACK AT HOME
I lie on the couch, half studying, half daydreaming. Mom is sitting beside me, folding a pile of laundry into the plastic hamper.

“How are you doing?” she asks.

I hesitate. “Okay, I guess.”

She flicks aside a stray lock of hair that has escaped from her ponytail. “You and Zelia aren't getting along so well, are you?”

I make a face and pick up a towel, still warm from the dryer. “No, but she's in hospital. I mean, she's not exactly having a good time, is she?”

Mom tilts her head to one side. “You're not feeling respon­sible for her, I hope.”

I fold the towel lengthwise, and then in thirds. “No, but I don't want to bail on her, either.”

“Of course you don't,” Mom says. “You're a good friend. I just hope she knows it.”

I look at her questioningly. “What do you mean?”

“I hope she appreciates you.” She looks as though she wants
to say more. Then she just reaches over and ruffles my hair. “I should let you study.”

I drop my eyes back to the page of my notebook. So far, all I have done is draw a row of tiny horses, galloping and jumping through the algebraic equations.

ZELIA CALLS JUST
as I am getting into bed.

“They say I can go home in a few days,” she says.

I slip under the covers and stretch out. “That's great. Are you, you know...how are you doing?”

“Okay. But I was wondering...I don't know if Lee is going to want me to come home. And Michael...I don't think I want to see him.”

This is the first time she has mentioned his name since the day of our big fight. I take the opening and ask carefully, “Did something else happen with him? After we talked? Is that why you...cut yourself?”

There is a long silence on the other end of the phone. I picture Zelia standing at the pay phone in the hospital's windowless hallway. I can hear her breathing.

“He just ignored me,” she says softly. “Totally, like I wasn't even there.”

“What about the earrings?”

Another silence. “An apology. He said they were an apol­ogy. That he shouldn't have kissed me.”

“Well, he shouldn't have.” I don't know how to make sense of whatever happened with Michael. When it comes
to Zelia's stories, sometimes it's hard to know exactly what the truth is. All I know is that she's hurt, and maybe that's all that really matters. “Maybe he realized that he did something wrong,” I say slowly. “The earrings...and even ignoring you...maybe he was just trying to make it right again somehow.”

Zelia's voice is so soft I can barely hear it. “But I feel so... I don't want to be there, with him.”

“Do you want to come here?” I ask slowly.

“Do you think your mom would let me?”

I pause. I still feel angry and confused. I can't stop thinking about what she said about Max. “I don't know,” I say. “I can ask.”

MOM IS IN
bed but her light is on, so I knock softly.

“Mom? I just got off the phone with Zelia. She's getting out of hospital this weekend. She wants to know...can she come here?”

She puts down her book. “Sophie, you know she can't.”

I feel an unexpected rush of relief. “I know.”

Mom pats the bed, and I cross the room to sit down beside her.