Losing Faith (9 page)

And that’s not the only household item he christened. The fridge is “Ms. Frostbite,” his van is “Ol’ Granny,” and the TV remote is “The Maestro.” But I guess Faith and I will never roll our eyes at any of those things again. In fact, the thought of the nicknames suddenly seems sad.

While Dad’s head is down, I take the milk out of the cupboard and slide it into Ms. Frostbite. I place a bowl of stew in front of him.

He blinks at it, then murmurs, “Thanks.”

I perch on the chair across from him with my own bowl. “Mom’s been upstairs all afternoon.”

He clinks his spoon around his bowl a few times. “Give it time, honey.”

“I know.” I take a bite. “I’m just sayin’.”

After a few minutes of slurping, Dad asks, “How was school?”

“Weird, actually.” I chomp a big bite of bread, thinking of how to explain this. “No one really wants to talk to me.”

He nods and I wait while he processes so he can give me an insightful “Dad” answer.

“Give it time,” he finally says again.

I get my practical side from Dad. I’ve said the same phrase about
fifty times to myself already and I know he’s right. The more I can get on with life, the more normal it will become.

“Did work go okay?” I ask, just to say something. It’s not like we ever have deep conversations, but this one feels so forced.

He stares into his stew, and I’m not sure if he heard me.

I look down and blurt out in one big breath. “Hey, that Pastor, uh, Scott, the youth guy, he said something at the service about Faith not being in youth group much lately.” I spin my spoon. “Do you know what he meant by that?”

“Hmm?” Dad clears his throat. “I don’t think he said that, honey. You know Faith’s been, or was …” His tone is annoyed, probably because I asked a question that forced him to answer. He clears his throat again. “She was always involved with youth. You know that, Brie.”

He’s trying to shut down the topic, I can tell, but I’m not ready yet. Just saying her name, I realize how much I need to talk about this. About her. “Yeah, but Pastor Scott said—”

“I’m sure you misunderstood, sweetie.”

His jaw tightens, he picks up his bowl and spoon, and heads for the sink. He clanks his bowl on the counter and walks out of the room.

I wish I’d never asked.

Halfway through cleaning the stew pot, the phone rings. I hope it might be Dustin or Amy,
even though they’ve never called on the home line. But I wonder if my cell’s turned on. I dry my hands and head for the handset on the kitchen wall. On the fourth ring, I pick up and say hello, but I guess I’m too late because a click sounds on the other end. Then silence. Out of habit, I scroll through the caller ID.

Missed Call. 6:37 PM

E. & T. Lockbaum

Tessa. I drop the phone on the kitchen counter and hug my arms across my chest.

What does she want from me?

chapter
EIGHT

Plan F: Find my long-lost social life.

The next day at school, I catch Amy in the hallway. The first bell rings, and I can tell she’s in a hurry, but I grab her by the shoulder anyway.

“Hey.”

“Oh, hey.” She glances around like she’s trying to find an escape route.

Maybe the whole dealing-with-tragedy thing is too much for her. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t find her at lunch yesterday.

“I’m okay, Amy. You don’t have to avoid—”

“I’m not avoiding you,” she says, way too fast. “The bell … Henderson hates it when I’m late.”

I run alongside her. “No, not just today. We haven’t hung out since before Evan’s party.” I know that’s mostly my fault, but at school it should be easy enough to get back to normal. I’m trying to make it easy.

“Oh, that. Yeah, I guess I’ve just been busy.” Her eyes don’t leave the hallway in front of her, but even from her profile I’m sure I see the guilt. “Have you talked to Dustin?”

She’s changing the subject. “No, not really.” It’s hard to talk with saliva in my ear. But I don’t say that. Amy would be way disgusted. She fiddles with her books, itching to get away, but instead I offer a solution. A way to make up for leaving me at the hospital. “You could be there for me now,” I say in just a murmur, like it’s a subliminal message.

She stops suddenly and faces me. “All you can think of is yourself.” She points a finger at my chest. “Did you ever consider maybe this has nothing to do with you, or your sister who you didn’t even give a shit about until she died?” She turns her head so I can’t see her eyes.

Stunned into silence, I back up a couple of steps. I know I pushed her too far, pushed her into defensive mode, but did she really just say that?

She takes my retreat as an ending to the conversation, spins, and stalks off to her class.

History class: always a great opportunity for thinking, doodling, and writing bad poetry. Mr. Clancy, Clairvoyant Clancy, knows I need a break, a chance to process. He told me so yesterday, but today when he says it again, I can’t stop thinking about Amy’s words.

Once I’ve calmed down I’m not all that surprised that she went from zero to bitchy in 2.7 seconds. What I am surprised about is how her words hit home. Maybe I didn’t give a shit about Faith until she died. Maybe I do think about my own needs too much.

The other students work feverishly on this week’s test that I don’t have to take.

Not today, I decide in a flash. I don’t want special treatment. I’m fine. It’s everyone else who thinks that I’m not. Marching to the front of the class, I’m about to snatch up the sheet of test questions and head back to my seat, when I notice Clancy already holds a copy outstretched toward me. He looks at me but doesn’t say a word.

I scan the quiz twice and quickly realize this was not my best decision. Without much choice, I fill in the only historical figures I can drum up in my mind. Napoleon, Christopher Columbus, Thomas Jefferson. It’s been weeks since I’ve opened my textbook.

By the time I finish scribbling in answers that don’t make any sense, I’ve decided I’ll back off for a while with Amy and everything will be fine.

After the lunch bell sounds, I stand at my locker feeling very alone. If I go to the cafeteria, who will I sit with? I won’t want to approach Amy’s table—my table—and the rest of the student population can barely look at me. While I rearrange my books, then rearrange them again, trying to appear busy for the hall monitors, I mull over the possibility of finding somewhere outside to eat.

A bang on the locker next to mine startles me. But I don’t look over. That’s Tessa Lockbaum’s side.

The binder I’m fiddling with falls to the ground and I scramble to pick it up.

“Hey,” she says, talking to someone she knows behind me. Even though I can’t remember her ever talking to anyone so casually, I don’t bother to check who it is. Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I shove my binder into a space that suddenly seems too small for it.

“Hey, Jenkins,” she says.

My heart stops. During middle school it was obvious why she never spoke to me. My churchy reputation didn’t exactly fit with her death metal, extra-black-eyeliner image. “Rockin’ Lockbaum”
was the nickname she had for herself. Terrifying Tessa, Troublesome Tessa, Tormenting Tessa—those are what we actually called her.

“Hey, Jenkins,” she says again.

“Me?” I ask, which is over-the-top stupid, since I’m now the only one in the school with that last name. I turn toward her, but keep my eyes on her black leather boots.

“Pretty screwed up what happened to your sister, huh?”

What’s even more screwed up is that you’re talking to me about it.
“Yeah,” I whisper. And when the word comes out of my mouth, something changes. It feels good to have someone talk to me. To talk about
it
. Even if it is Tessa Lockbaum.

“Meet me in the bathroom on the second floor after last class,” she says. “We’ve got something to discuss.”

Her tone makes my throat go dry. What would she have to discuss with me? And why can’t we just discuss it right here and now? But I’m not sure how to challenge Tessa Lockbaum and by the time I look up to respond, she’s gone.

I feel sick all through lunch, and even though I head out to a stoop at the back of the school with my brown bag, I don’t bother to open it.

Plan G: Talk to Tessa.

After last class, I’m on my way to face her when I practically barrel into Dustin, still sweaty from P.E. A strand of his sandy hair sticks to the side of his face.

“Hey, babe.” He tries to hug me, but I put a hand to his chest as a knee-jerk reaction. When I realize what I’m doing, I pull my hand away and move in close to him.

“Hi.” I feel a bit better with the proximity today and take quick, shallow breaths.

He ignores my jilt and whispers in my ear. “We should do something tonight, just us.” He plants a sloppy kiss at the base of my neck.

It seems like all he wants to do lately is grope me, and I try to remember if he’s always been like this. After all that preparation of how to answer him, he hasn’t even asked how I am.

I realize a second later that I’m probably overreacting. Any girl at Sharon High would give up her first car to date a guy like Dustin. And here I am thinking of throwing it all away. But I need to find an excuse to take things a bit slower. Just for a while until I’m a little more balanced.

“I can’t tonight,” I tell him. “My parents have this thing planned.” I don’t mention that “this thing” is the fact that they’ll probably never let me leave the house again at night after what happened to Faith.

He scowls at the word “parents,” but I don’t care. I push him harder with my hand. And for a second he looks offended.

“You going for a shower?” I try to pass it off and scrunch my nose for effect.

The offense fades as he remembers the sweat dripping down his chest. He leans in for one more quick, slobbery kiss to my cheek before heading off in the direction of the changing rooms.

I walk to the second-floor bathroom, resetting my thoughts on Tessa and taking deep breaths the whole way. I know I need to face this or I won’t sleep tonight. But only two girls are in the bathroom applying makeup at the mirror, and neither of them is Tessa. I head to get my things, relieved. She probably just wanted to scare me.

When I turn the corner, Tessa stands in front of her locker. I consider heading home without my backpack, but then remember that I need to face this eventually.

“Hey,” I say, forcing a calm, cheerful tone. I don’t look at her when I sidle up beside her.

She doesn’t respond. Did I imagine our whole conversation earlier? I dial my combination and push my binders into the bottom of my locker in a big pile.

Tessa’s door slams beside me. I jolt, but keep my eyes
focused into my cavern. My heart beats so loud, I swear it’s echoing through the hallway.

“So are we meeting, or what?” she demands.

“Um, I have to get home.” Pure nervousness makes the excuse fall out of my mouth.

I feel her studying me, like she’s not sure if she can believe this.

“I guess I can stay a few minutes,” I force out, knowing I need to get this over with.

“Good. Let’s go.”

Following Tessa down the hall and up to the second floor, I ignore the stares of the few stray students still left in the building.
So what if she wants to meet me in a bathroom,
I tell myself.
We’re still in the school, and surely someone will hear if she bangs me up against a stall door or something.

But when I step off the top stair, the upper floor is deserted. When Tessa pushes open the bathroom door, the same two girls are still in there with makeup strewn across the counter.

Tessa kicks the bathroom door to the wall, which instantly brings their conversation to a halt. The girls grab their purses, shove the strewn makeup into them, and rush out the door.

“Come on,” Tessa says.

I swallow, moving inside, but glue my backside to the wall
nearest the door. “You wanted to discuss something.”

Tessa faces me and leans up against the counter. “Does everyone act idiotic about Faith’s death, or just the freaks near our lockers?”

I’m so surprised by the question, I don’t know what to say.

“You’d think people would grow up a little by the time they reach high school,” she adds.

I have a difficult time grasping where she’s going with this. Could Tessa be the most levelheaded person I’ve spoken with in ages? “I guess people just don’t know what to say.” My words are quiet, but in the small space they’re enough.

“My sister died when I was … six.” She mutters it like she’s figuring out which class she has first thing tomorrow. “I get it. Kinda.”

I feel her eyes on me, but I’m still a little scared to look up from the counter.

“What’s even more messed-up than funerals,” she says, “is the way people treat you after the funeral. Like you’re diseased or something. I mean, come on.”

“Yeah. You’re right about that.” I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. Or I guess she’s having the conversation. Mostly I’m just agreeing.

I look up at her for the first time. Her eyeliner doesn’t seem nearly as scary close up. It’s as if the black marks are there
to hide her eyes, not to make them spine-chilling. I remember her glaring at me from the back of the church. Or was she just watching?