Sometimes Never, Sometimes Always (21 page)

“We looked up, and there he was, covered in … ” She fills in some disgusting thing, and that’s how the stories end, the stories about the baby. Gross.

Mom laughs in her own charming way, playing the role she loves so much—the mother with the perfect family. It occurs to me again, watching her, how I might be a disappointment to her, how she might have wished for a different daughter altogether. Maybe one who sings beautifully. Maybe one who builds houses for the homeless or plays first-chair violin. “How lucky for your mother to have people close by to look out for you when she has to go away on business,” says my mother. “You should come to dinner at our place whenever
you’re home alone. It gets so lonely, all by oneself.” She sips her cup of hot apple cider and smiles, but her eyes are pensive.

“Mom, don’t embarrass her.” What was that about? My mom isn’t lonely. She has things she does, things that keep her busy during the day. Church things, mostly. I follow her eyes as she gazes at the people smiling and talking, laughing and sipping coffee—complimenting each other, teasing, flattering, gossiping—all around the basement of the church. These people are the reason my mom was able to keep her smile. They make up her system of care and nourishment, and the faith they all share makes up her system of hope. Why don’t I feel that connection, that community? She probably wishes for a daughter who could enjoy being here with her instead of grimly enduring each minute or lying to get out of it.

“Oh, but she’s right,” says Drew, a shade too eager. “I would love to come for dinner sometime, Mrs. Randall. And I’m sure my mother would love to have you all over sometime, too.”

I shake my head a little. There is no way my parents can meet her mom. No way. Doesn’t she realize that the first thing they’ll want to talk about will be her aunt and uncle and Lainey and Baby Simon with his adorably disgusting anecdotes? Doesn’t she realize that we can’t actually be friends?

Oh god. I’m a horrible person. My throat seems to swell.

Then Drew winks at me, a tiny twitch of her right eye as she’s looking away, so I know it’s all a part of the pretending. Good. But it’s too late, because I’ve already started seeing beyond what I thought I knew about Drew Godfrey. I’ve already realized the selfishness behind my request, what this will cost her. And it’s occurred to me, though I push the difficult thought aside, that despite her bad skin and her social inadequacies, Drew is a more interesting person than I am.

At last we slip free of my parents and step outside to wait for them in front of the church. Our breath makes frosty clouds in the night, and I shiver even inside my down jacket and thick wool hat. The street is dark and empty, a light glaze of ice glinting in the streetlights.

“Did you see they’re having a special session for parents this Sunday after church?” Drew doesn’t wear a ski jacket or a regular dress coat like everyone else; instead, she has these flowing, velvety, cape-type things, several of them. She stands perfectly still, like a mountain emerging from the base of the church steps. “They’re talking about that tarot card blog again, warning parents about the dangers of sorcery.”

I’m three steps above her, and I can see the fuzzy line of her part. I wish she would wash her hair. It’s not like she couldn’t be presentable if she would make a few changes. I see her house, the sleek sophistication of her bedroom. Maybe she’s this way on purpose. Maybe it’s some kind of pretending, like everyone else. Pretending she’s in control of who she is.

“What’s the big deal with this blog, anyway?” I ask. It makes me nervous to think of the church getting involved. But really, what are they going to do about it? It’s the Internet. They don’t own the Internet. And, okay, so they could convince the school not to let the newspaper advertise the blog, but it wouldn’t matter because everyone’s already heard of it, and nobody at the
Gazette
knows where that ad came from. Kayla and Eric know, but they’re not going to turn me in. I’m certain of that. Except, as soon as I think about it, I’m less certain. Kayla could tell because she’s mad at me or bored with me, or because she’s having a bad day. And Eric could tell because he’s worried about me.

“Have you seen it? I think it’s fantastic,” Drew says, ducking her head and looking over her shoulder. “But to hear Pastor talk, it’s a sin to even read it.”

Even though I just got done thinking about the people who know betraying me, I have this almost undeniable urge to tell Drew that it’s me. It’s like somehow I want to make it up to her, for all of it—that I’m “using” her, that we can’t ever be real friends now, that I haven’t stood up for her at school. It’s like a part of me wants to give her this power over me—and over the Vomit Vixens, a little bit—but of course I don’t tell her the truth. Or anyway, not much of the truth.

“I saw the first one,” I tell her, which is not a lie.

“You don’t think it’s a sin, do you, Cass?” She reaches around to tug her hair toward her mouth. “Like, do you think it would be unforgivable to ask her a question?”

“Ask who a question?”

“Divinia Starr.”

“I told you before, I don’t really believe in sin. It doesn’t make sense, eternal punishment.” I’m not completely certain on this, but it feels good to say it, like I’m confessing a crime. “I don’t believe in hell, either.” See, if I believe in one thing—like God, or Heaven—then I have to believe in all these other things too. Angels, demons, saints, miracles, eternal reward
or eternal punishment. And it’s not logical. People are so complicated—how could you ever decide which eternity they deserve?

“But then, what would keep people from murdering each other?”

“I mean, murder is pretty messy,” I say.

She turns around and tips her head up to look me right in the face, and for a second I think she’s offended, that I’ve been too flip about her beliefs, but then she laughs, and I laugh, and it only takes a second before we’re both giggling like we’re goofy. Like we’re friends.

“Hey,” she says when the wave of giggles subsides, “do you want to come over for a while? You could sleep over, and Kayla could pick you up from my house tomorrow.” Her hair is back in her mouth, and the easy confidence she had earlier when telling stories about her cousin’s baby is overtaken by her usual awkward self.

Eric waves at me as he exits the church. “I’m bringing the van around,” he says. “You want to come with?” It’s his version of a truce—saving me from Drew the Shrew, even though he still thinks I’m a big meanie.

I jump down the three steps to the sidewalk. “Yeah, coming!” I look back at Drew standing there, solid as a mountain in her heavy cape, her face stoic, prepared for the worst. I think of my mom, talking about loneliness. I could leave Drew here, make up some lame excuse, and things could go on like they have. It’s what she expects me to do, probably. Or I could say yes, go to her house for the second time, and then what? She’ll want to talk to me at school. She’ll hang around, and I’ll be forced to choose between being mean to her again, which I cannot stand to do, or defending her to Annika and Britney. And maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. It’s not like I really want to be friends with them, but it’s not that simple either. I can’t go back to being an unknown, flying below their radar. I think of the gossip, the way they turned on Kayla. I think of how they took Drew’s poems, and my face heats up with the knowledge of my own cowardice. I know the truth, and it sucks: I’m too chicken to stand up to them. I’m despicable.

I stare up a Drew, a lame excuse cued up in my mouth, but she smiles and shakes her head. “Oh, you know what? I just remembered, my mom told me I couldn’t have anyone over while she was away. Maybe when she gets back in the country?”

I nod, too quickly, and tell her thanks one more time for everything, and then I almost trip over my own feet as I run to catch up with Eric. “I’ll call you later!” I say, glancing back over my shoulder as I hurry away.

Her face is wistful, and when we come back with the van, she’s gone.

33. Your ideal future …

I manage to get a quick peek at the blog while my parents are in their bedroom changing out of their church clothes and having some kind of serious discussion. It could be anything, but the low murmur of concern I can feel rumbling down the hall makes me think it must be about me. They might be talking about my C in English, which already has them in a tizzy even though they’re unaware it’s dangerously close to turning into an F if I don’t rewrite my poem. They could be worrying about my trip to Minneapolis tomorrow. Or maybe they’re talking about the tarot blog, judging by what Drew said about that parent concern meeting or whatever.

I log into my Divinia Starr account, and there are
one hundred
sixty-two
messages. Again, about half of those are comments on the blog and about half are people wanting me to read for them. It’s weird. I never knew it would feel like this, to get so many responses—it’s like my entire body feels lighter, somehow, like I’m having trouble staying seated in my chair. People are reading my posts. They’re interested in my blog, interested in
me.
Granted, they don’t know that it’s me, but still.

It feels too disjointed to read the comments in my email window, so I click over to the blog itself, where I can see the whole conversation, everyone talking to each other in the little window. It’s surreal, all these people who never speak to me at school, people who don’t know I exist, commenting on something I wrote. Some people use their own names or something similar, and a few have a photo of themselves as their icon. A lot of the comments are anonymous, though, or the user accounts have weird names and icons with their favorite TV show character or singer or whatever.

I only get a chance to skim over a few comments before I hear a sound down the hall, like the scrape of a door against the bedroom carpeting, and I use my quick keyboard-shortcut skills to flip over to an open document, my fingers automatically typing up the opening line of Whitman’s poem—the words that keep running through my brain now, though nothing will come after them.
I celebrate myself, and sing myself, and what I assume you shall assume …
I celebrate myself. I am Divinia Starr, and I have a hundred and sixty-two messages in my inbox.

My pulse races and I hold my breath for a second, listening. I can still hear their low voices, trading off. I can hear Dicey’s music playing, farther down the hall. I flip back to the blog and keep reading.

The comments start out supportive—people congratulating Nervous Nellie on her relationship or writing things like
Awwww! So sweeeeet!
—but my smile falters a little as I go
farther down the thread. It starts when someone called sk8rgrrl writes,
What the hell is the point of a promise ring?
Instantly, a string of people start agreeing with her, and their comments range from calling the ring
the desperate act of a controlling bitch who can’t bear the thought of all the hot chicks her boyfriend is going to bang in college
to illiterate and lewd suggestions about sexual favors that would be more welcome to the boyfriend than
some stupid girly ring
.

I flip over to the open document again, my heart pounding. This … it’s not what I wanted. I’ve only skimmed through half the comments, but it makes me uncomfortable that people
are saying these things after all the work I went through to make my post balanced and hopeful. I feel like I should post, too, to say something to these trolls, but maybe that ruins the whole thing, you know? Divinia Starr in her own comments begging for people to play nice doesn’t seem very mystical.

Besides. Okay, so the people are getting a little out of hand, but it’s not like anyone’s being any worse than other places on the Internet. Significantly better than other places on the Internet, in fact. It’s not my fault. It’s the Internet. People will say anything online, hiding behind their anonymity. Okay, so I’m doing the same thing with my anonymous blog, but I’m not being mean about it, even though Kayla wanted me to.

Still, I’ve got to admit some of the comments are kind of funny. Of course I’d never say them myself, and if someone said them in real life, I’d like to think I’d be the kind of person to speak up and say they’re being rude. Should I delete the comments?

My ears are trained on the sound of my mom and dad. Their voices seem a little louder now, and tense. Almost like they’re arguing, but that doesn’t happen. Sure, they have an occasional disagreement, but never anything ongoing. Mom and Dad are a united front.

After reassuring myself that they’re still occupied, I flip back over to the blog. A few jerks starting a little drama, that’s all. Welcome to the Internet. A couple of commenters bring the conversation back on track by saying that the promise ring is a sweet gesture, and a bunch more people jump in to agree, once again. It’s funny how people do that, the way they hang back, waiting for someone to say what they’re thinking, letting someone else be the first one to go against the main sentiment, and then they’ll jump in. How many people are there, looking on, waiting for someone brave? The trolls are mostly forgotten, an ugly blip in the comment stream. In my head, I picture them as Ronnie and Blake. I’m glad I didn’t have to get in the middle of it, to be honest.

I finish skimming and flip back to Divinia’s inbox to find an interesting problem for my next reading.
Is my boyfriend cheating on me? Will I get into any of my top choice colleges? Will anyone ask me to Prom? Will my mom’s cancer stay in remission?
Yikes. I’m definitely not going to tackle that one. Again, I think about the power of my words here, if people look at this as something to actually believe in. They don’t, right? They realize it’s just an advice column and not magic? If it were magic, I’d write my own question.
How do I get my best friend back?