Never Said (7 page)

The last time Garret was in this room the aurora borealis colored the sky. A phenomenon, Dad said earlier when we all went to stare at the view. Garret snuck in late by climbing up on the roof and into my window like Romeo had for Juliet.

I greeted him with a kiss, my arms around his neck. Not one bit of shy at all. We'd talked, lying in my bed on top of the covers, then I'd slept snuggled against him till his phone woke us. It was three a.m. by then, and it was his mom calling, wondering where he was and then, believe it or not, a few minutes later my mom knocked on the door.

“Sarah? Sarah? Why is the door locked?”

Garret didn't have time to do anything more than fall to the floor.

“I'm sleeping, Mom,” I'd said, but I'd opened the door still wearing the clothes I'd had on that day. Not realizing until it was too late.

Mom looked me up and down. She said, “What's up?”

Dim light fell in from I-don't-know-where and the window
screen was right there against the wall, and my boyfriend lay on the floor, sort of hidden. Nervous laughter filled my throat. There were so many clues.

“Annabelle King is on the phone.” Mom stood there. Her hair looked like she'd run a brush through it. How? When I wake up, I wonder if rats have made nests.

“Why?” I blurted the word out.

“You tell me,” Mom said.

We stared at each other.

“You woke me.” The almost truth.

She nodded. Turned and headed off down the hall, waving her hand at me. “That better be all,” she'd said. “And that woman better not call here again.”

I closed the door, on fire for so many reasons, and Garret sat up. “Doesn't sound like your mom likes my mom very much.”

I shrugged, then fell across the bed, kissing him as he sat there, putting my hands on his face. He tasted like spearmint, even this late at night. I kissed him once more out the window, leaning onto the roof to murmur my goodbye.

We did that a lot. Spent the nights together. Talking. Dreaming. Kissing.

If I'd slept with him, if he had asked, if we hadn't decided early on we'd wait until marriage, would he have stayed? No matter what his mother said?

annie

In my drawer I hide essentials.

Things to get me through the night

If I cannot sleep.

Snickerskitkatsm&m'srolosbighunks
Lay'spotatochipsgrandma'schocolatechipcookies-
jalepeñocheeto's
Gummywormschocolatecoveredcinnamonbearsseafoam
Doubledippedchocolatealmondstwizzlers
skittlesstarburstsreecespeanutbuttercups

My secrets.

When the dream comes

sometimes

I wake up eating

Eating

in my sleep.

annie

he stands at the foot of the bed
the ghost
I
recognize

sarah

G
irls,” Mom calls. “I need help with dinner.”

I take a deep breath, meet my sister in the hall, who hugs me (!!!), and we go downstairs to cook.

“Oh, Annie, have you . . .” Mom says when we come into the kitchen.

I feel Annie tense up next to me.

Mom pauses. When she talks it's like she's in pain. “That outfit is not becoming at all.” The room seems to go darker, even though outside the storm slides past with a rainy slush. So weird how Mom notices this one thing. Not that I've been crying or that I didn't come out of my room after we talked with Dad or that I'm feeling sad.

Now the late afternoon sun shines on the snow and tries to slip into this part of the house.

Our mother hands me the makings for a salad. I don't have to hide my eyes because she's doesn't look at me. She shakes her head. Tsks.

“When our guests arrive, you make sure to put on a black dress,” she says to my sister. “It's slimming. I can't believe how much we still have to do. You know Daddy's clients are coming in from the city for a couple of days. You know we have to be ready.”

“I'll be ready,” Annie says. Cold like outside.

But Mom doesn't seem to hear. She has her head down. Pulls plates from the cabinets. Grabs silverware. She is not happy.

I want to say, “What does a black dress have to do with anything?” but I don't get the chance because Mom says, “Not too many onions, Sarah.” She doesn't wait for my, “Yes ma'am.”

And she doesn't see Annie give her the finger.

sarah

A
nnie's in her room. Door shut.

I jiggle the handle. Knock.

“I can talk to you about the flier now,” I say, keeping my voice low. I rest my cheek on the door. It's cool. The paint smooth. “If you want to see it, Annie, I printed a copy downstairs.”

My sister stays silent.

annie

Private time is not

What it used to be.

When I got the beginnings of breasts
(long before Sarah)
I stopped going shirtless
even though my sister
teased me.

When I got my period (two years before Sarah)
I was over
sharing a bed with her and
letting her walk in on me while I was bathing and
even done letting her borrow my clothing.

I closed up in this world of
Changing body
Admired myself
Curled my hair
Whitened my teeth
All while Sarah stayed a little girl
And I became a woman.

Now
Now I don't want this privacy
Though I lock my door
hide my journal
say to myself that it will be okay.

I want my mother to ask
what's wrong?
Not mention my dress size
or say I'm bigger
or unbecoming

I want my sister to snuggle me close.
Want my father to
find the bad guys and stop them.

I have kept my family away for so long that

they cannot see my distress

so I must defend me.

sarah

I
t looks good, that flier. And the assistant principal said this kind of club is a terrific idea.

Consideration. Judgment Free. Everyone Welcome.

Date.

Time.

Room number.

A faded face behind it all. Words where eyes should be. Where the mouth and nose should be.

I was scared to death to show it to Ms. Cleland. But Mrs. Staheli said I'd need to or Annie would, and after yesterday's closed door, I wasn't sure she would do it. Mrs. Staheli looked at me like I shouldn't be worried to talk to anyone in the office.

Out the door I went when the bell rang. Making my way, slow as I could without seeming like a weirdo.

And then it happened. Me standing in the hall, trying to calm my nerves. People racing. Passing me like ants going around a rock. The office was ten steps away by then and I was giving myself a pep talk. Ms. Cleland appeared, like magic, in the doorway.

“Walk forward,” I said. “Take a step.”

I forced my body to move. Stepped in the path of a train. Someone running straight into me. The flier crunched in my hands. His books went flying.

“Sorry. Sorry,” I said. “Sorry.”

Ms. Cleland helped the boy gather his books. “That was some hit, Jackson,” she said, laughter in her voice. “And you, Sarah. Are you okay?” She offered to help me to my feet, but I ignored her. The floor was damp. Gritty. I stood. My ears rang. My shoulder ached. “I didn't see him.” And ouch, I'd bitten my tongue.

“I saw that.”

Then I handed the paper to her. “I . . . I wanted to give this to you? For approval? To see what you think?”

I'm glad that meeting Ms. Cleland (in the hall, not even planned, even though there was a huge wreck) is over. My heart pounded for more than half an hour after the fiasco. But the neck ache was worth it for Annie.

sarah

I
'm not sure why my getting approval for Annie's club makes me remember last summer and when she was madder than anything. Is it that she was a different kind of pain in the neck for me then? That she caused me real grief? The family too?

No. It's that I think summer is when I really saw a big change. The moment when things began to fall apart. And my wanting to help her now brings back the memory.

At the time, I had no idea what was going on with Annie. Why she felt so angry. Why some days she was happy, giddy-in-love happy about some guy, and then all-of-the-sudden furious. The back and forth made me dizzy.

This was a fury time.

She bit everyone's heads off for at least a week. Slammed doors. And when she didn't show up for work, Mom had to run me in to take my sister's place at Dad's office.

“That Annie,” Mom had said, and we hurried to the city proper. She wore lipstick and there were dark circles under her eyes. “What are we going to do with her?”

And it wasn't like on TV where the mom is pretending to be sad or worried but is really happy, really proud and just wondering for the sake of some script. No. This was the real deal. A real question. Real heartbreak.

The whole way to work I'd said, “I don't want to do it, Mom. Please. Not the front desk. I can't.”

And Mom repeated, “What am I going to do with her? What?”

I sweat handprints onto my shorts. Smelled of BO. Could have cried our whole way to drop me off (I did cry, later in the bathroom. Several times.).

Looking back at it now, I have to wonder what it was like for our parents to have one daughter who hardly spoke and another who ran her mouth all the time. They wore two expressions. There was the one with me, the can't-you-grow-out-of-this pose. The new look for Annie was to cringe anytime she came into the room. Who would she be today? What might she say or do next?

“I don't want to work the front desk,” I said when we pulled into the real estate office parking lot.

Mom stared at me. Frazzled? Maybe. I bet she hadn't heard a word I'd spoken.

Our lives were twisting then, going this way and that. Annie was growing bigger. Heavier. And what Mom and Dad had taught us was normal — beauty queen, terrific college material, scholarships — seemed out of reach for her. She wasn't their normal anymore.

Usually Annie worked for Dad in the front lobby. Dressed up, complete with high heels. I only helped when Dad needed an extra hand, filing important paperwork. I kept to the back of the building, out of sight.

“I don't like to be where people are,” I said, opening the car door. “Please.”

The sun was too bright. The jean shorts I had on, and the nice top, were too hot. Too tight.

“I don't want to hear it,” Mom said. She looked away from me. “And it'd be nice if you'd get a learner's permit.”

I didn't answer. There was no way I was driving. I closed the door, and when I got to the office, Dad was waiting.

“Where have you been?” He didn't yell. But his words were rocks.

“I feel sick.” And I did. It was no lie. I wanted to throw up. “Daddy . . .”

“Just answer the phone, Sarah, and take messages,” Dad said. ”I'm in a terrible bind.” He was all dressed up. “What's so hard about that?” He looked at me, checked his watch, and shaking his head, took off down the hall. Another meeting and no competent daughter to secretary for him.

That day I sat at the desk, trembling. Vomit edged up the back of my throat. Tears filled my eyes, and I had to keep wiping them on my shirt. I wanted to run home.

Where was Annie? I should go where she'd gone.

I stared at pictures of three guys I thought she was going out with at the time. She had taped the photos to the shelf, eye-level.

The whole office wandered by. Bringing notes for me for when certain people called. Reminding me of their phone numbers. Asking where Annie was.

David came by speaking baby talk on his cell to one of his kids. “Hey,” David said, covering the mouthpiece. “You're looking pretty, Sarah.”

I fake smiled.

He put his elbows on the desk. Rested his chin on one hand. Took a Jolly Rancher from the jar between us.

“Where's your sister?” he asked. “I'm talking to Van, and he loves her.”

I shrugged. Waited for him to leave. Hoped the office phone wouldn't ring.

Emma Jean hurried up from the back. She wore a dark suit and her hair was pulled up in a way Mom always said was most unbecoming. “She's had tons of cosmetic work done,” Mom said. “Her face. Her body.”

Dad said Emma Jean helped seal the deal on more than her fair share of houses, so he didn't care what she did cosmetically, and by the way, he thought she looked terrific. I handed Emma Jean a stack of manila folders, some several inches thick.

“Covering for that sister of yours?” Emma Jean asked.

What kind of question was that? One I didn't need to answer. But Emma Jean stood there. Waited.

“Yes,” I said.

She nodded and left.

No wonder people bought houses from her. They were afraid not to.

Two of the boys in Annie's pictures I recognized from school. Had she met the other one on the Internet? Here? At a party?

The phone startled me when it rang. I told the person everyone was in a meeting, could I take a number? Sweat rolled down my back. I hung up.

About eleven thirty, Paul wandered in. He's older than Dad. They started this real estate company together, Paul using Dad's ideas, Dad using Paul's money.

Paul saluted me. Something green was stuck between his front teeth. He looked at me so hard that I felt uncomfortable. And then he said, “Sarah.” His eyes were too blue—for an old man, I mean.

“What?” I'd almost yelled at him.

“Where's that looker of a sister?”

I flinched. Shrugged. Wasn't that sexual harassment or something?

The whole day was stressful and long. I stayed late with Dad because he said so, because Annie did sometimes, and then, at long last, the two of us drove home, Dad talking business the whole way.