Amends: A Love Story

Amends: A Love
Story

by E.J. Swenson writing as Shanda Fisch

Copyright © 2014 by E.J. Swenson

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any
form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information
storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from
the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote
short excerpts in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents either are products of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.

Prologue

Love is a familiar. Love is a devil. There is
no evil angel but Love.

–William Shakespeare

From Laird's Sent Items,
marked unread

Subject line: Please
don't delete this email

Dear
Amity,

I've stopped texting you
like you asked. And I'll never see you again, if that's what you
want. I'm writing this email to explain what I did, not to justify
it. If you can understand why I did it, maybe you'll be able to
forgive me. Or, at least, know me for the flawed human I am, and
not some cruel, heartless beast.

When I found you here at
Adams, all I wanted was to make amends. To do something, anything,
to make up for what I'd done. You see, I had a plan. I was going to
study you, discover your most cherished dreams, and make them all
come true. Then I was going to forget you and try to live my life
with a somewhat lighter burden of guilt. (Of course, I will always
feel immense sorrow for what I did to your mother. To your entire
family. Nothing can change that.)

What I didn't count on
was how I was going to feel when I first saw your pale blue eyes
brimming with sweetness and compassion. Remember when we first met
at the cemetery? And then another lifetime later on Registration
Day? You thought you were hiding behind your long, lovely hair, but
I saw you. You didn't just touch my guilty conscience, you touched
my heart. I wanted to wrap you in my arms right there. To make sure
that nothing else bad would ever happen to you. To protect you from
the world and from me. When you opened your mouth and I heard your
careworn angel's voice, I was hooked. Irretrievably, irreversibly
hooked.

At first, I thought my
feelings for you would be part of my long-overdue penance. I would
follow my plan and keep my feelings to myself. Knowing I could
never have you seemed like a fitting punishment. In a sick way, I
was happy about it. I'd daydream about how badly I'd hurt and for
how long. I knew it wouldn't truly balance the scales—nothing
will—but I craved the sacrifice.

Then I got to know you,
and things got really fucked up. I couldn't stay away. Every day I
told myself I would confess. Tell you who I really was and what I'd
done. And every day I failed, because I knew that would mean losing
you. I just couldn't give you up. There was no way you would have
stayed with me if I'd told you everything. I knew that then, and I
know it now for sure.

Bottom line? I was
stupid and selfish, every inch the criminally entitled piece of
shit you think I am.

And Ember? She hasn't
been my girlfriend for years. It's just that the twisted guilt and
regret between us were so intense that I could never quite cut her
off. We had a strange, bewitching bond grounded in fear and self
loathing. If you were the Heaven I didn't deserve, she was the Hell
where I belonged.

Enough excuses. Ember
and I are done. For good.

Why am I writing? Mostly
to say I'm sorry. Always and forever. I know you can't forgive me.
For any of it. But if you ever need anything, all you have to do is
text me, and I'll be there. No questions asked. Even if the thought
of hearing from me makes you sick, I hope you'll save my number,
just in case.

Yours in love, sorrow,
and regret.

Laird
Conroy

p.s., I will think of
you with every breath until I die.

Book 1: The accident

Even death has a heart.

–Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

Chapter 1: Amity

I walk the gauntlet every day.

"Amityville Horror," whispers a tiny girl
with violently red hair. She's popular, takes Honors English, and
is convinced that she's terribly witty. I disagree. My name is
Amity. Everyone has called me the Amityville Horror since I was the
only girl in first grade to wear white orthopedic shoes. The doctor
said they would correct my gait. All they really did was mark me as
an outcast.

"Calamity Jane," snickers the captain of the
debate team. He claims my stammer lost us the county championship
and not his inability to distinguish between correlation and
causation.

"Spaz-spaz-spaz," chants a tall boy with
floppy platinum blond hair. His girlfriend, Sistine, is one of my
teammates on the cross country squad. I remind myself she's never
beaten me yet, no matter how awkward I look when I run.

I'm almost to homeroom when something soft
hits my face and drops to the floor. I'm just grateful it was no
way wet or slimy. I keep walking without changing my pace or
looking down.

"It's a sandwich, Calamity," says one of the
cheerleaders, obviously concerned for my health. "You should think
about eating it."

As I make my way into the classroom, I remind
myself that I only have to endure another six months at this
school. I've applied for early admission to five colleges. I'm
hoping I'll get into at least one. If I do, it will almost make the
past four years of daily insults and petty cruelties worth it. My
torments have become raw material for a moving personal essay about
surviving high school with mild cerebral palsy. No admissions
officer will be able to resist. At least, that's what I'm
hoping.

How did I end up with minor factory defects?
When I was born, the umbilical cord somehow got wrapped around my
neck, cutting off the oxygen to my brain for a minute or so.
Apparently, those first sixty seconds of suffocated life were
enough to give leave me with an unpredictable stammer and an odd,
rolling gait. These glitches haven't stopped me from taking
Advanced Placement classes or joining the debate team or making the
cross country team. I'm smart, argumentative, and fast. But I'm
also an easy scapegoat—and maybe just a little bit bitter and
defensive.

I take a seat in the far back row, so I don't
have to worry about anyone sticking Post Its on my back or gum in
my hair.

I put my bag on the floor and notice a box on
my desk labeled EAT ME in pink marker. I open it and discover what
appears to be a small batch of genuine, homemade chocolate chip
cookies. Despite my better judgment, I'm tempted. I haven't eaten
breakfast, and I love cookies. But I don't dare touch them. They
could contain anything from laxatives to concentrated THC that
could get me kicked off the cross country team for a dirty blood
test.

My phone chirps softly. A new text. It's
Maggie, my best friend. She's strong, brave, and doesn't care what
people think. She's also acquired an undeserved reputation as the
school slut by virtue of her daring, less-is-more approach to
fashion and the fact the she takes poetry classes at the University
Extension in Jasper Heights. Her Facebook page is littered with
somewhat older friend-boys from the Extension, but they treat her
like a pesky kid sister, even when she wishes otherwise. Nope,
there's nothing even remotely slut-worthy about Maggie's life right
now.

How was the gauntlet?
she writes.

Same old same old. I have possibly poisoned
cookies for your dining pleasure.

Any word?

I sigh. She wants to know if I've received
any replies from the many colleges I've applied to.

Nope, got to go.

I tuck my phone into my bag before Mrs.
Carnegie starts taking attendance. I feel bad about lying to
Maggie. My Inbox is filled with emails from all six of my colleges,
but I'm too much of a wuss to read any of them and learn my
fate.

/////////////////////////

It's lunchtime, and I'm alone with a slice of
pizza, a Coke, and a bag of M&Ms. As always. I have no idea how
some of my classmates have gotten the idea that I have anorexia.
Sure, I'm tall and skinny like my mom, but I eat unholy quantities
of garbage food. If they really wanted to tag me with a plausible
eating disorder, why not bulimia?

"Um, excuse me? Is anyone sitting here?"

I swivel my head around to see who's crept up
behind me. He's a tall, well-built guy who looks vaguely familiar.
Probably a senior, although I'm not sure. The only members of my
class I know on sight are my fellow brains from the Advanced
Placement classes. And, yes, they're just as mean to me as
everybody else. More so, really, because their facility with words
means their cruelties are infinitely more clever and memorable.

I stare at him goggle-eyed as I try to figure
out what he wants. I wonder if he's a new kid and doesn't know any
better than to sit with the Amityville Horror. Or maybe the popular
kids have given him a test, a task to prove his mettle and utter
lack of compassion. If he mocks or humiliates me in some novel way,
then perhaps he will advance one level in the social hierarchy at
Triple Marsh High School. I narrow my eyes and allow my long hair
to hang into my face a bit for added protection. My hair is a deep
chocolate brown and falls to my waist in shiny, citrus-scented
waves. It's by far my best feature.

His face creases with gentle confusion
because I'm still gaping at him. "It doesn't look like anyone's
sitting here. Do you mind if I sit down?"

He smiles, and his wholesome, handsome face
looks as open and harmless as a daisy. He's wearing a thin gold
chain with a tiny golden cross around his neck, which, to me, means
nothing. Plenty of bullies think they're good Christians.

I shrug. "Go ahead."

He sets his tray down, and I notice it's a
model of healthy food selection. A carton of milk. An orange. A big
California salad piled high with chicken strips and grilled
veggies.

"I'm Chris, it's nice to meet you," he says,
smiling again. God, he's ridiculously good looking. It has to be
some kind of a trap, waiting to spring shut on Amity the Calamity.
Maybe he'll ask me out and then stand me up. Or try to coax me into
sending him a topless cam photo or declaring my love for him on
Facebook. I steel myself against his friendly, toothy smile. This
is the kind of shit that might have actually worked on me freshman
year. But not now. Absolutely not now. I'm going to smash the trap
and throw it back in Chris' deceptively cute face.

"I'm Amity," I say. He looks expectant. I
waver for a second—his eyes seem so sweet and honest—but I refuse
to be fooled. "Look, I don't know if you're new here, or playing
dumb, or what. But everyone here calls me the Amityville Horror. Or
Calamity. Or Spamity. Or just plain ole Spaz. Now you can go tell
whoever sent you to mess with me to go fuck themselves, okay?"

I gather up my tray and my bag and prepare to
flee the cafeteria—my stomach's churning too much for me to
consider eating any more. Chris' face has turned red, and he seems
to be choking on his two-percent milk.

"Sorry," he sputters. "I wasn't trying to
mess with you. I just moved here a week ago. I thought you looked
like a nice person."

"My mistake," he mutters as I turn to walk
away.

Fuck yeah, I think, and try to ignore the
weird stinging sensation in my eyes.

/////////////////////////

I'm walking through the parking lot,
lumbering under a heavy load of books. I try to keep my pace steady
and even, so my limp isn't as noticeable. A car pulls up alongside
me. It's a black pickup truck decorated in high Gothic style. Red
roses grow from cracked white skulls.

"Hey bitch," growls the driver, "want a
fucking ride?"

"Fuck yeah," I yell, smiling for the first
time all day. The driver is Maggie, and her freshly bleached hair
has been sculptured into myriad spiky peaks. She unlocks the door,
and I clamber into the cab, dropping my bag into the back seat.

Once inside, I take a quick glance today's
fashion statement. This time it's a red velvet bustier the same
dusky red as the roses inked onto her wrists. It's beautiful, and I
feel a small, unworthy stab of envy. I am, as usual, drab in an
oversized gray sweatshirt and BigMart jeans.

"How's it hangin', girlfriend?" she asks with
a wild grin.