Losing Faith (8 page)

She nibbles at her lip like this question is just way too difficult.

Come on, Amy. You can do this. I’m fine, really,
I try to say with my eyes.

“A few people got together at Tabitha’s.”

“Tabitha’s?” I say quickly. “Cool. Who was there?”

She glances both directions as we cross another hallway. “Oh, you know. The usual.”

Silence. She’s certainly not making this easy. I wonder if she feels guilty about that night. About not coming into the hospital with me. But I know Amy well enough not to bring it up. She doesn’t deal with guilt well, and would definitely get defensive.

“So was Steph there? Or Dustin? I haven’t talked to him since the funeral.” My mind races to keep my part of this discussion going as long as possible. “I probably should’ve
called him this weekend, but then I thought … I mean, I could’ve …”

Crap. Somehow I meandered back to home life.

“I haven’t seen either of them,” she says, looking straight ahead. “But I’m sure Dustin will understand that you didn’t call.”

I study her profile to make myself believe what she’s just said. During my last three months with Dustin, all she’s ever told me was that I wasn’t doing or being enough and I better pick it up. The thought of her suddenly being so supportive and caring right now makes tears well up behind my eyes. I blink a couple times to diffuse them.

“They had an assembly last week. About Faith,” she adds.

I cringe. I don’t want to picture the whole school sitting in the auditorium trying to process what I can’t even seem to process. I scratch at my jeans, unsure of how to change the subject.

“I’ve got Chem.” Amy stops in front of an open classroom.

I give her a quick hug, which feels strange. Neither of us are really huggers. But I have to tell her, without actually saying it, how much I appreciate her company. “I’ll see you at lunch?” I ask, another weird question. We always eat lunch together.

She offers a quick nod before ducking into her class.

My first class, English, I make it just through the door when my teacher catches sight of me.

“Oh, Brie. You’re back,” Mrs. Edwards says from her desk. “How are you doing, dear?”

Just the mention, the out-loud recognition, seems to make the surrounding students uncomfortable and they move away from me like I’m a drop of oil in their otherwise placid water.

I don’t want
this
kind of attention. I give Mrs. Edwards a slight nod, but keep my head down all the way to my desk. This seems like enough to give her the hint and she leaves me alone through the rest of the hour.

At Dustin’s locker between classes, I study myself in the window across the hall while I wait for him. Even in a reflection, the wrinkles in my shirt are obvious. I pull at the bottom of it in a vain attempt to flatten them out and wonder if I should be wearing something more somber than my bright orange retro tee.

My hair is no better. I guess I forgot to straighten it this morning. Or brush it. I run my fingers through until I hear Dustin’s loud voice and turn to look for him.

“Oh. Brie.” He sounds surprised to see me.

“Hi.” I smile, glad that my voice comes out steady. But I don’t touch him. Let him make the first move.

He pulls me in and slides his arm around me. At first, I’m
relieved and let out a long-held breath, but then he kisses my neck and nuzzles into it and I feel smothered, like I can’t get any air. “You want to go somewhere?” he whispers.

I pull back, but his grip on my back holds strong. Turning my head, I take a big, calming breath. I guess I wasn’t expecting just to fall back onto the
losing my virginity
train so quickly. “Um, no,” I say. But in a flash, I wonder if I’m overreacting. He’s being nice to me and I should appreciate it. He hasn’t taken offense because I didn’t call all week and I don’t want to say or do anything I’ll regret.

But I can’t go off alone with him and make out. I just can’t imagine his mouth on mine right now. The thought of not being able to breathe brings me to a cold sweat. And after the way I almost cried with Amy earlier, I might totally fall apart on him. I just need some time to get my footing. “I mean, I’ve got Geometry next. I was gone all last week so I really can’t miss it.”

He stares at me but doesn’t let go, and I’m really starting to feel panicked, trapped.

When Evan walks up behind him and grabs his shoulder, Dustin jumps and pulls away in one motion.

“You coming, or what?” he asks Dustin, giving me a half nod.

“Oh, yeah, right.” Dustin looks back at me, then raises his eyebrows. “I’ll see
you
later.”

Later is okay. It’s better than now. I force a smile and suck in another lungful of oxygen.

When Dustin and Evan turn the corner and move out of sight, I realize how few people are left in the hallway. In fact, only one person remains.

Tessa Lockbaum.

She leans beside the water fountain, and when I look at her, she doesn’t avert her eyes the way most people would. I wonder how long she’s been there. Was she watching Dustin and me?

The next bell sounds, which means I’m officially late. Perfect. But at least my classroom is in the opposite direction of where Tessa stands. I scurry down the hall away from her, trying to ignore Faith’s humming.

When lunch rolls around, I can’t find Amy anywhere in the cafeteria. Either I missed her or she’s starving herself again. Since Dustin’s a senior, he has a different lunch period. Steph and the other girls Amy and I usually sit with are laughing and chatting across the cafeteria. I’m tired and don’t feel like putting in the effort of a strong front right now. Instead, I plop down at a lonely table and ignore the eyes and whispers of those at the tables around me.

What can I expect on my first day back? I knew it was
going to be weird. I guess this is just a different weird than I anticipated.

“Give it time,” I tell myself.

The rest of the afternoon, I keep to myself, which my classmates make extremely easy for me. I walk home alone and when I round the corner onto our street, a big, rectangular truck with the Family Thrift Store logo sits in our driveway. I catch my breath. It’s way too soon for this. Dad must have seen the packed-up boxes and decided to just get them out of the house. But I wonder, in his super-efficiency, if he’s packed up the rest of her stuff as well. I gave Faith’s room only a cursory glance. What if I want to keep something else?

When I get closer, I see Mom at the front door. She’s still in her robe and slippers, shaking her head violently at the pudgy man in gray coveralls. Sections of her hair stick out like legs on a spider. She holds her hand up like a stop sign, and even though I can’t picture this man busting into our house to steal all Faith’s possessions, I don’t blame Mom for the added caution. Before I reach our driveway, the man heads for his truck and hops back into the driver’s seat. Mom still stands with her hand outstretched.

“Hi,” I say when I get to the door.

This seems to break her from her
trance. She lowers her hand and nods, but looks like she won’t even be able to say hello without breaking into tears.

“Let’s go back inside,” I tell her, and don’t have to give directions beyond that. Silently, she lumbers up to her bedroom. I think about following her upstairs to peek into Faith’s bedroom, but I’m not sure I’m ready to see it in case it’s empty and bare.

The doorbell rings a few minutes later. For a second I’m worried it’s the thrift store guy being pushy, but I answer it to another outstretched casserole.

“That’s so nice of you,” I say, “but my mom … Well, I’m really hoping she can get back in the kitchen soon. To take her mind off of things.”

“Put it in your freezer, dear,” Mrs. Ramirez says. “It’s there if you need it.”

I thank her and Nuisance nuzzles his nose into the opening when I attempt to close the door.

“All right, I’ll take you for a walk.”

Normally when I walk Nuisance, it’s not really a walk, more of a sprint, with me being dragged behind. But today he meanders, like he’s waiting for me to take charge. At least choosing a direction gives me something to think about. Something to distract me from my other thoughts, like whether or
not I should call Dustin. Or if it’s still too early to invite Amy to the house. Or maybe I should make plans to go out with her. I need to get a foot back into my social life, but I’m just not sure how to do it right now. Even the thought of spending a whole evening hanging out seems exhausting.

For half a second I consider talking to Amy about what I’m going through. But the thought doesn’t take root. She’s my path back to normalcy. Besides, she’s not the type to get into heavy emotional conversations.

When Nuisance and I get back to our street, there’s another van in our driveway. I jog to the house, hoping they haven’t rung the bell yet so I can intercept them before Mom has to deal with whatever it is. Nuisance keeps pace, but I’m sure it’s using all his resources.

“Hello,” I call to the sandy-haired guy walking to the doorway.

When he turns, I see the vase of flowers in his hands. “Is this the Jenkins house?” he asks, reading from a swatch of paper stuck in the arrangement.

I nod. “Thanks.” After taking the flowers, I open the door and put them on the hall table. They’re buds, of course. I turn to offer one more thank-you, but the delivery guy is already back in his van. After closing the door, I scan the buds until I find a small card nudged in the top.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, and Brie,

So sorry I couldn’t be with you at the memorial service for Faith. My grandmother is having health problems and we had to leave town suddenly to be with her. I don’t know when we’ll be back, but my heart is with you all during this difficult time.

Love,
Celeste and the Schwartz family

I prop the card beside the flowers. Poor Celeste. As if losing your best friend isn’t enough. I consider e-mailing her, but what would I say? It’s not like we were really close, and I don’t seem to even have any comforting words for my own parents.

I head to the living room where the cushions and blankets sit balled up in a pile at the end of the couch. I pick one up and start folding. Toast scraps decorate a plate on the hutch beside haphazard papers. They must be Mom’s since Dad has been at work all day. I’m glad she’s at least eating something.

Everything looks different. Of course the only real changes to the room are the mess and the little empty spot on the mantel. A ring of dust sits where JC used to be. Maybe Mom
threw Jesus in the garbage. I don’t know why, but the thought makes my gut clench like I’ve swallowed a coat hanger. Whatever she did with the thing, I don’t want to know.

Dad marches through the door just after six. I take it upon myself to heat a pot of church-donated stew. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything to Mrs. Ramirez. She’s probably already passed on the message to the rest of the church ladies.

“When’s Mom going to cook again?” I ask Dad. “Don’t you think it would help distract her or whatever?”

Dad shrugs and then turns to the window. “Did you hear that?”

I concentrate, and Faith’s hum resonates loud and clear in my head. I’m starting to like the sound, even need it. And now I wonder if Dad can hear it too, since he moves across the kitchen in perfect rhythm. He looks out the window, and then shakes his head, as if it was nothing.

Going to the fridge, he grabs the milk and pours himself a glass. When he’s done, he slides the milk into the cupboard where the glasses go.

“Dad? You okay?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, honey. Just had kind of a rushed day.” His voice, gravelly like he just got out of bed, makes me wonder if he spoke to anyone at the office, or just locked himself away until five-thirty.

He sits and stares across at the refrigerator. I follow his eyes, expecting them to be on the church meeting schedule he keeps there, but instead he focuses on our wipe-off family calendar, at an entry in the right bottom corner, written in red:
Faith—Contact lenses. 3:00.

Most girls are eager to get contacts, but not Faith. Mom had to talk her into making the appointment. “They’re nice to have for special occasions,” she’d told her again and again. Finally, almost eighteen years old, Faith was getting them. More for Mom than for herself.

I never involved myself in the conversation. I was the prettier sister, at least with my hair and makeup done, and I kind of liked it that way. She had confidence and innocence, solid friends and beliefs, not to mention an amazing voice. But now my mind wanders back to my red sweater and I wonder if it was no coincidence that she’d finally decided on contacts. I wonder if she really was jealous. Of
me
.

“Did you walk the dog?” Dad asks, breaking me from my thoughts.

I nod. So strange hearing Dad call Nuisance “the dog.” Dad named Nuisance when I was in kindergarten, making a big show of his brilliant sense of humor. Mom laughed and laughed, so the name stuck. Faith and me, even to this day—well okay, until last week—we rolled our eyes every time
he called Nuisance in that tone that made it obvious he still thought it was hysterical.