Glass Girl (A Young Adult Novel) (5 page)

“Like he’s the entertainment. Like he’s there to fetch equipment so they can laugh if he falls. They invite him to parties to see if alcohol improves his coordination.” She shrugged. “He never goes.”

Stunned, I said nothing. The way her mouth twitched when she talked about Thanet and the team played to my worst fear—that I’d get to school Monday and discover that the place was run by egomaniacs who would hate me on principle.

“Not all of them are that way,” she admitted. “A few of them are very respectful. They’ve been raised to recognize differently-abled people, you know?”

“Yes,” I said. “I know.”

“He’s amazingly bright. He’s hoping to go the University of Chicago where his dad and I met.”

“Then that’s where he’ll go, right?” I met her gaze and smiled.

“Most likely.” She took my empty mug and stood. “What grade are you in, Meg the runner?”

“I’m a junior.”

“Thanet, too. Are you nervous?”

I stood slowly, yanking my t-shirt down to cover my running tights. “I could lie and say no, but I think you’d know better.”

“It’s a small school and the kids are nice.” She touched my arm. “You’ll make an impression, though. What about your siblings?”

“I’m an only child.” As many times as I’d said that in my head, practicing for the inevitable question, it still knocked the wind out of me. The four words erased Wyatt. “It’s just me.”

Annie seemed wistful. “We always wanted more, but after Thanet’s diagnosis I just couldn’t bear it. I wanted to be completely devoted to his little heart and body. I felt really guilty. Moms have a heck of a time with guilt.”

I knew that. The moms and guilt thing. I knew it well, but I couldn’t exactly commiserate and still guard my secret. “He’s nice. Thanet. I like him.”

“Me, too.” She looked up, scanning the half of the second floor that was visible. When she found him, she smiled. I looked up, too. Thanet leaned casually against a shelf and flipped through a book. He’d been listening. The tips of my ears flamed and I adjusted my hair to hide them.

“I wondered if you might be looking for part-time help here,” I said.

“Really?” She studied my face and then called up to Thanet. “Do we need Meg to work part-time, honey?”

“Yes,” he called. “Yes, we do.” He smiled down at me.

“Eight dollars an hour?” she said. “Ten to fifteen hours a week?”

“Sounds good,” I said, shaking the hand she held out to me.

“Come on, I’ll show you around.” Annie walked me through the store, pointing out cool nooks and crannies in the old building. She talked quietly and made self-deprecating jokes that reminded me of my mom on her best days. The days when she connected everything in the world to one odd, tiny thing and made me love her more than anyone else. “At least I produced someone who will always get my jokes,” she’d say.

I jogged home feeling lighter and it had nothing to do with the exercise.

Dear Wyatt—

I woke up and couldn’t picture your face. Pictures on my laptop don’t look like you anymore.

I just want to remember your eyes, if nothing else. I know they were brown, but I can’t see them. I have a sense of you, like an outline, but when I focus on the details, you disappear. Are you leaving me?

This is you:

Sandy blond hair—always messy and in your eyes. Perpetually in need of a good haircut.

Brown eyes—they were kind and probing. You had unnaturally long eyelashes—so long that when they were wet, they would tangle together and lie flat against your skin. You were never afraid to stare. You usually had dark circles under your eyes because you wandered around a lot at night.

Your mouth was thin like Dad’s. You smiled a lot. When you weren’t smiling, you were smirking. Like you were so beyond kids your age. But you were never mean. You listened to people like they mattered.

Tall and thin. Your jeans always hung off your hips because you hated belts. Long-distance running made you strong. But not in an obvious way. It was like you had this hidden, disciplined restraint.

Tell me, Wyatt, that you’re having trouble sleeping wherever you are now. That you miss me and you’re making a list of what I look like.

Meg

M
y old high school had nearly four thousand students, and it boggled the mind how crowded the halls were. I’d come home bruised from bumping into the corners of binders being carried down the hall. The guy with the locker above mine stepped on my feet every single day of sophomore year.

Chapin High School, a mercilessly unimpressive building built in the 1960s, looked like a military bunker with tiny windows in each classroom. It might hold five hundred at full capacity.

My stomach turned over as I parked. I hadn’t been able to eat breakfast—nothing would’ve stayed down anyway. Not that anyone at my house noticed. Dad left for work before I got up. Mom stayed in bed curled around memories of Wyatt. After all, the first day of school was a fresh reminder that her son wouldn’t be attending school ever again.

I followed a line of cars into the parking lot. Wyatt’s Jeep, with its wickedly treaded tires, looked like most of the other cars. Anything with four-wheel drive seemed acceptable here and a spare tire strapped on top appeared to be a status symbol.

Dad told me last night that they were thinking of buying me a car, something smaller. I used all my persuasive abilities, though, to convince him to let me keep Wyatt’s Jeep. Everything in it screamed Wyatt—his CDs, his books and papers, his cologne. I hadn’t even cleaned it out.

I parked and cut the engine. Kids piled out of cars next to me. They were glad to see each other because they’d been together since they were babies. I found the athletes, slapping each other on the back and laughing loudly. Cheerleader types followed closely behind them.

There were kids that looked like they would be more at home on a rock cliff than in a classroom. A lot of the guys had really long hair; a couple of them even had dreadlocks. A group of kids stood around in a circle by the edge of the building, smoking and comparing piercings. And, as I expected, the majority of the others looked like they were somewhere on the cowboy spectrum—the type that had been up since dawn doing something dusty with livestock.

A smaller group of girls passed, talking quietly. They had potential. They reminded me of the circle of friends I’d had at Canning Mills High—smart and quiet, pretty, but not obvious. I scanned the lot for Thanet but didn’t see him.

When the parking lot emptied completely, I stepped out, unable to control my shaking. It helped to pretend Wyatt was here, walking me into the school, smiling and relaxed. Opening the heavy metal front door, I slipped inside and let it close behind me. That’s when Wyatt left me.

Kids laughed and pushed and hurried to class, and not one of them noticed me. This was the first time I’d been in a school full of people who had no idea Wyatt Kavanagh had lived and breathed. They didn’t know he was amazing. They’d never heard him laughing with Harris. He wasn’t their long-distance champion.

I couldn’t do this after all. I was more like my mom than I’d ever dreamed—too empty to be with normal people. I turned to leave, making it as far as the first row of cars in the parking lot. My legs were shot, though, wobbly as gelatin, and I couldn’t go any further. So I stood, like an idiot, on the curb, positive that people had crowded around the tiny windows of the school to stare out at me.

“Hi, there,” a woman called from the walkway behind me. “You look a little lost.” She smiled when I turned her way, and she waved with a handful of blue forms. “I’m Ms. Ewing, the principal here. Can I help you with something?”

There were so many ways I could answer that question, but none of them sounded right enough to say out loud so I just shook my head. Looking concerned, she headed toward me.

“You wouldn’t happen to be Megan Kavanagh, would you?” She glanced down at one of the blue forms in her hands. “From Canning Mills High?”

I swallowed back a whimper and nodded. “That’s me,” I said, my voice higher than normal and cracking with effort. “I go by Meg, though.”

“Well, we can take all the time you need, Meg. I’ll stay here with you until you’re ready.” She came and stood next to me, looking out over the parking lot, like she had work that could be done out here, too. Behind us, the school speakers buzzed on and announcements started. Life moved on here, just like it had in Pittsburgh.

Ms. Ewing and I continued our parking lot vigil through the pledge of allegiance and the moment of silence. I began to worry more about the things she needed to be doing than about my problems.

“Shouldn’t you be patrolling the halls or helping with schedule problems, or something?” I whispered. “I can handle this.” I closed my eyes and twirled a piece of my hair, tying it in a knot over and over.

“I’m doing something more important right now.”

“What’s that?” I looked at her closely for the first time. She was small, maybe a little over five feet tall, and had a pleasant face. One of those faces to which you can’t attach an age, you just know she’s old enough to know a thing or two, but not so old she can’t relate.

“I’m helping a new student who’s dealing with a lot of heartache.”

I sighed and let the disappointment wash over me. I hadn’t expected the news to precede me. “How did you know?”

“Your former principal, Mr. Reynolds, called me last week to give me a heads-up. He thinks a great deal of you and wanted to make sure I knew.” She switched the strap of her bag to her other shoulder, clearly suffering from the weight of it.

I surrendered and turned toward the school. “Should we go to your office?”

She smiled. “We should.”

The small, wood-paneled front office held a simple desk positioned between two smaller offices labeled “Principal” and “Assistant Principal.” The receptionist looked up when we came in. “There you are,” she said. “We thought maybe you’d hit snooze too many times.”

“Have I ever once been late?” Ms. Ewing laughed and stopped at a low credenza to pour a cup of coffee. She held a cup up to me and raised her eyebrows in question.

I shook my head and showed her my shaking hands. I didn’t need the caffeine on top of the adrenaline. I was disappointed in how my body had shown up for work today. It couldn’t be trusted. Because it was…mercurial and it had been for months.

I had little chance of controlling my image here. Somewhere close, a vibration started—the ringing of glass that has very little damping. This one would break soon. I told myself I could not shatter right here in my new principal’s office. A heater kicked on inside me; sweat ran down my back and gathered on my face.

“Come in, Meg,” Ms. Ewing said warmly, as she walked through the door of her private office. She gestured with her chin toward a chair for me and I sat, briefly wondering what I was missing in first period.

“Do you mind if I close the door?” Before I could answer, she lightly tapped the door until it swung shut.

“No, I don’t mind.” I sat, though, at an angle, keeping my eyes on the knob of the door that represented my quickest escape.

She sat in a chair close to mine and leaned toward me. Her legs were crossed. Her hands rested quietly in her lap. She was going into counselor mode; the determination to help me washed over her features.

“This will be a hard day for you,” she said. “There’s really no way to change that and I’m sorry.”

“How many people know?” I forced the question through my chattering teeth. “I’d hoped I could blend in and be normal here.”

My breath came out in little pants. I glanced at the closed door.

“Just me, so you can relax,” she said. “Really. You can take as long as you need in that chair, getting used to being in this new building. After that, we’ll do the next thing. And then the next.”

Doing the next thing was how I’d survived so far. It was the modern remix of one step at a time. “Thanks.” I tried not to stare at her widow’s peak and then I concentrated on where the term
widow’s peak
came from anyway.

“What I know about your family is not in your file,” she said. “I don’t plan to put it there unless you want me to.”

I nodded, willing my clenched muscles to give up.

“Sometimes, though, it’s nice to know that the adults around you are on the same page.” Ms. Ewing leaned back in her chair and sipped her coffee, watching my reaction. “If you’d like, I could speak to your teachers about it. I promise they’ll respect your privacy.”

I swallowed hard against the lump forming in my throat.

“Thank you, Ms. Ewing, but I really just want to be like any other kid here. I’m kind of surprised Mr. Reynolds called you.”

“He was concerned,” she said, gently. “It’s hard enough to be a junior in high school without having to deal with this. He said you and your brother were extremely close.”

The tension in my shoulders eased a bit. This was good. She understood.

“I want to make a deal with you, though. If it all gets to be too much and you need someone, my door is always open for you. I’ll never be too busy to sit and talk.”

“Okay. I’ll keep that in mind.” I looked away from the concern in her eyes. Empathy like that is dangerous. It kicks in doors that shouldn’t be opened in public.

“I’ve got your schedule here,” she said as she took a form from a file. “We put you in the electives you requested and your four core AP classes.” She read through the form and then smiled. “Your transcript from Canning Mills is something else. Have you thought yet about universities you’re interested in?”

“No, not seriously. My parents went to the University of Pennsylvania and that’s where my brother had been accepted. That would probably be my first choice.”

“Well, I think the world is wide open for you, Meg. When you’re ready, I’ll walk you to your first class,” she said. “We don’t get many new students, and it’s kind of a thing I like to do.”

I sighed audibly through my teeth, unable to hide my disappointment. How anonymous could I be when the principal was introducing me?