Every Last Word (7 page)

I kick hard underwater and try to lock in my song, but nothing comes. As I pop up and start the fly, my strokes feel sloppy, uneven, and by the time I turn and kick off the wall, I’m at
least four strokes behind everyone else. I climb out of the pool and get in the back of the line.

Jackson Roth looks over his shoulder at me. “Coach is in a mood today, isn’t he?”

“I guess.”

We’re down to a small group of swimmers now that school’s started. The numbers will keep dwindling as fall’s extracurricular activities begin, homework picks up, and it becomes
harder to squeeze in team workouts at the club. I’m looking forward to that. I prefer to come here at night, swimming under the stars with the adults. They keep to themselves.

I press my fingertips hard into my temples, ignoring everyone around me, while I breathe and try to focus my energy. When it’s my turn, I step onto the blocks again, slide my thumb along
the surface three times, and dive in, waiting for a song—any song—to come.

And one finally does, but it’s not one I expect. Those notes AJ played the other day start running through my head, and as soon as I surface, I know what song will be taking me back and
forth across the pool. I speed up the tempo, and my body follows suit until I’m flying through the lane, pushing hard off the wall, throwing my arms over my head, feeling that adrenaline
surge every time I lift my chest out of the water.

The tune is clear in my head, but now I want to remember the lyrics and I can’t.
Lazy ray
…I think he was singing about the sun going down. There was a line about sunlight
dancing on your skin and another about a crack in a fence or something.

What was that line?

I’m still trying to piece it together as I step into the shower to rinse off the chlorine. I’m alone in the locker room, so I start humming as I pull on my sweats and pile my hair
into a messy bun. On the drive home, I leave the stereo off because I prefer his song over anything I have on a playlist. And I have to remember all the lyrics. It’s driving me nuts.

It’s easy to stay lost in my thoughts during dinner. Paige got sent to the principal’s office today for talking back to a teacher, so she has my parents’ undivided attention.
My family is arguing over the distinction between “clarifying questions” and “back talk,” while I drift off to a better place.

I’m picturing that room and its walls, covered in torn notebook pages and ripped-up napkins, pieces of brown paper lunch sacks and fast-food wrappers, and how all that chaos and disorder
gave me such a strange sort of peace. I can visualize the exact spot AJ slapped up those words. But that’s all I have. I can’t download the song and listen to it on repeat, looking up
the lyrics online and deciphering them like I typically would.

I have to get back down to that room.

I’m starting to recognize this for the obsession that it is, but it doesn’t bother me. It’s innocent, like solving a puzzle. My mind has certainly come up with more dangerous
fixations.

“Are you okay, Sam?” Mom asks.

Her voice snaps me back to reality, and when I look up from my plate, Mom, Dad, and Paige are all staring at me. Dad has a huge grin on his face.

“What?”

“You were singing,” he says.

“And humming,” Mom adds.

I was?

“Earworm,” I say. “This song has been stuck in my head all day.”

“It was really pretty,” Paige says.

Under the table where no one can see me, I scratch my jeans three times. “Yes, it was.”

I’m about to pop a sleeping pill when completely different words start forming in my mind. I feel an overwhelming urge to write them down.

I haven’t thought about the notebooks in years, but they’re still on the top shelf of my bookcase, and I remember exactly what Shrink-Sue said when she gave them to me. I was to
write every day, in the notebook that best matched how I was feeling: the yellow notebook was for happy thoughts. The red notebook was for when I was angry and needed to vent. The blue one was for
when I was feeling good. Peaceful. Not happy, not angry. Neutral. Somewhere in the middle.

I open the blue notebook first and see handwriting that belonged to a much younger me. I’d clearly followed Sue’s advice for a while, but about a quarter of the way into the book,
the entries end.

The red book is filled with thoughts written with a heavier hand. My penmanship is different, but I don’t know if that’s because I was older or angrier. I read a few lines but stop
quickly. It’s depressing.

But not as depressing as seeing that the yellow notebook is completely empty.

Tossing the red and yellow ones on the floor, I crawl under the covers with the blue one. Pen in hand, I flip to the first blank page, but nothing’s happening.

I don’t know what to write about.

I could write about my OCD. Or the number three. Or uncontrollable thought spirals that come out of nowhere, demand my undivided attention, and scare me when they won’t stop. Or how
I’m terrified about Alexis’s birthday tomorrow and it doesn’t seem right to be afraid to spend the day with your best friends.

Poets need words. Even when I have the right ones, I can never seem to spit them out. Words only seem to serve me when I’m in the pool.

The pool.

I put pen to paper, and off I go, writing about the one thing that makes me feel healthy and happy and…
normal
. Cutting through the surface. Hearing the
whoosh
and the
silence. Pushing off that cement wall with both feet, feeling powerful and invincible. Loving how the water feels as it slips over my cheeks.

Two hours later, I’m still going, still writing fast, still turning pages. When I get to the end of the next page I check the clock and realize two things: it’s after midnight and I
forgot to take my sleep meds.

Normally, that would worry me, but it doesn’t tonight. I’m too elated to sleep.

I return to writing, filling my blue notebook, until I finally drift off on my own, somewhere around three a.m.

W
e’re all singing along with the music as we pull into the spa entrance, but then Alexis’s mom turns the stereo off and we all
fall silent, looking around, taking everything in.

The long driveway is lined with lush green trees and pale pink rosebushes, and as the car winds up a steep hill and past a vineyard, I roll down the window and breathe in the scents of freshly
cut grass and sweet-smelling lavender.

“Wow,” Olivia says from the backseat.

“No kidding,” Kaitlyn adds.

“I told you,” Alexis says.

I turn to Mrs. Mazeur. “This is incredible. Thank you.”

“You’re going to love this,” she tells me.

Hailey would have loved this, too.

We pull up to a circular driveway with an enormous fountain in the center. It must have a gravitational pull because I start walking toward it, and then I stand there, staring at the water
cascading over the edge, listening to the thick droplets land with soothing plinks into the pond below. I close my eyes and let my mouth turn up at the corners the way it wants to.

“Come here, girls!” Mrs. Mazeur is standing at the back of the car, and we all gather around her. “I have a surprise.” She pops the trunk, reaches inside, and pulls out a
bright green terry cloth bag with Alexis’s name embroidered in white. “One for you, birthday girl.”

As she reaches into the trunk again, Alexis unzips the bag and sifts through the contents, pulling out body lotion and cuticle cream and facial scrub.

“And one for you,” she says, handing Olivia the same personalized bag in red, her favorite color. “Of course purple for you, Kaitlyn,” she says.

Mine will be blue.

She closes the trunk and wraps her arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry, Samantha. I tried to order another one yesterday, but it was too late.”

“That’s okay.” I feel my lower lip start to quiver, so I bite it hard.

“But I have something extra special for you. I want you to pick out anything you want from the gift shop, okay? And I mean
anything
.”

She squeezes my shoulder and takes off, dramatically gesturing toward the entrance. “Okay, follow me, everyone.”

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Inside, the spa smells clean, like cucumbers and mint, and I’m relieved to see another fountain in the corner. I stand next to it and scratch the back of my neck three times, until a woman
at the front desk calls us over, gives each of us a fluffy white robe, and assigns us a locker.

I change quickly, text Mom to tell her everything’s going well, and join everyone in the waiting area. We’re sipping cucumber water and whispering about how incredible this place is,
when I hear my name.

Alexis waves at me. “Have fun.”

The aesthetician leads me to a room with peaceful, Zen-like music and reclines my chair. “I have you booked for our signature antiaging facial,” she says in a soft voice. “All
you have to do is relax and close your eyes. Tell me if you need anything.”

I’m not sure how to tell her I’m sixteen and don’t need an antiaging facial, so I stay quiet, even when she starts chattering about the harmful effects of the sun. Eventually,
I stop fixating on the mistake and let my thoughts drift back to one of the poems I wrote last night. I repeat it in my mind, over and over again, until my ninety minutes are up.

As we’re all dressing in the locker room, Alexis’s mom announces that we’re late for lunch and we need to hurry. A few minutes later, we’re in the car, winding back down
the long driveway and heading into town.

The five of us troop single file along a narrow brick walkway and up a short staircase to the restaurant. “I knew this place was really popular, but this…” Mrs. Mazeur looks
overwhelmed as she scans the packed café.

While we wait for her to get our table, Olivia reaches into her bag and removes her new lotion and passes it around so we can all try it. Alexis can’t stop buzzing about the new
convertible she thinks will be waiting in the driveway when we get back to her house.

A few minutes later, the hostess tells us to follow her. She stops at a tiny table with three chairs squeezed around it.

“There are five of us,” Alexis’s mom says.

“The reservation is for two tables, ma’am.”

“And the person I spoke with yesterday assured me the tables would be together.” The hostess shifts the stack of menus from one arm to the other, and her eyes dart nervously around
the room. “It’s okay,” Mrs. Mazeur says. “If you could add another chair to this table, I’ll sit alone at the other one.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t do that. Fire code.”

No one says anything, but after a few uncomfortable seconds, I feel Mrs. Mazeur thread her arm through mine. “Want to keep me company?”

“Sure.” I bite the inside of my lip three times. Alexis doesn’t seem to know what to say.

“We’re ordering two desserts. Each,” she says to the group, and when the hostess steps in front of us, we follow her to the next table.

One. Breathe.

Two. Breathe.

Three. Breathe.

The two of us make small talk for the next twenty minutes while I try not to stare at my friends laughing and chatting and waving sympathetically at me from the other side of the room. When my
salad arrives, I awkwardly pick at it. Finally, I excuse myself to go to the restroom and hide behind a potted plant out of view, holding back tears as I text Mom, telling her about my
not-so-perfect spa day. She must sense the panic in my words, because after a bunch of texts telling me it’s not so bad, she says:

Then she follows with back-to-back messages:

I’m in control.

I take some deep breaths and return to my salad.

The car pulls into my driveway and I can’t get out fast enough.

She never wanted me to come.

Alexis tells me she hopes I feel better. Kaitlyn and Olivia echo her words, yelling out the window as they drive away.

“We’ll miss you tonight,” Kaitlyn says.

No you won’t.

“We love you,” Olivia adds.

No you don’t.

As soon as I close the front door behind me, the tears start falling and the thoughts flood in faster and faster, tumbling over each other, pushing themselves to the front, fighting for my
attention.

I shouldn’t have gone.

The sun is setting and it’s dark and quiet in the entryway. I slide down to the floor and wrap my arms around my knees, letting myself cry, allowing the thoughts to come as fast as they
want to. The surrender feels good in a weird way.

The knock on the door makes me jump.

“Just a minute,” I yell, dashing into the hall bathroom to check my face. The mascara I carefully applied at the spa is everywhere
but
my eyelashes, and my whole face is
bright red and puffy. I clean up as fast as I can and look through the peephole.