The Tear Collector (5 page)

“That was wrong. It’s just that our breakup is lasting longer than the relationship,” he says, then laughs again. Some people laugh at their pain. I normally don’t know such people.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask.

He shakes his head, then says, “That’s what got me into that mess.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, but he pauses, looking unsure. “Scott, you can trust me.” I wonder if he knows that “you can trust me” are four words no one should ever believe.

“Well, I was new here and didn’t know anybody,” he says, then stops again. Scott seems like he wants to talk to me—or maybe just talk—but the words come hard. More than rich and poor, or even black and white, I’ve noticed a bigger division that runs like a raging uncrossable river in this school. On one side are people like Scott and maybe Samantha, who are—for whatever reason or history—shy, and those people like Cody, Brittney, Robyn, or me, who are not.

“I remember being the new kid,” I say. “Was it hard for you?”

“Some people were nice, some people were—”

“Assholes,” I say. I curse to let boys to know it’s okay to act natural and relaxed around me.

“But still there was a lot of that sitting alone in the cafeteria,” he says softly. I’d like to tell him I could relate, but it’s not the same for girls. Almost any girl with some self-esteem, a sexy smile, and the right or tight clothes can find boys to sit with at lunch. I always have.

“You’re not sitting alone now,” I say. He lets his hair fall in front of his face again as if that could hide the blood racing into his blushing cheeks. “So, why Samantha?”

“I’m in Honors English with her, so I know she’s smart,” he says. He doesn’t know that is what fascinates me most about Samantha. Most Goth girls wouldn’t be caught alive in honors classes since that’s the conformist and normal thing to do. Like me, Samantha seems someone who is at war with her very nature. He sighs, then says, “It seemed like we should get together.”

“Really?” I arch a skeptical eyebrow. “No offense, but you don’t seem the type to hang out with Samantha.” Other than wearing long hair and black Chucks—the choice of emos everywhere—Scott doesn’t come off as outside the mainstream. He’s pure middle-of-the-river.

When he doesn’t respond, I push ahead. “So what happened with Samantha?”

“I thought I could help her,” he says, and I sip my water bottle a little faster. “I just want to help people, but it didn’t work out. In fact, I think I made things worse.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Scott.”

“Everybody’s breaking up,” he says. Obviously, word about Craig and Robyn is in the bloodstream. “It must be the weather. You know, dark storm clouds in the spring and all.”

“Not everybody’s breaking up,” I say, throwing out more bait. I lip balm up and wait.

“Right, you and Cody,” he says, and I bury my smile. He knows a lot about me. “With Robyn and Craig out of the way, you can waltz right into king and queen of the prom.”

“I don’t think
that’s
going to happen,” I say with huge exaggeration. He laughs again, which is such an unfamiliar sound. Robyn’s always so serious, while Cody’s pretty damn dull.

“I’d vote for you,” Scott says, then looks down. “Well, if I was going.”

“Robyn’s available,” I say. I’m not as good at matchmaking as I am at heartbreaking. Having Robyn distracted by another boy works against me, but I can’t stand to see her hurting. I know better, but I’m too close to Robyn. Maybe Maggie’s right about me becoming selfish.

“Right, like
that
is going to happen,” he says, then laughs again. I echo the same. We’re not the only people talking or laughing in the library, but it seems that way. It’s as if the rest of the world is silent and there’s only the two of us occupying this round table, this planet. I snap out of it when I hear the loud sound of books knocked off a shelf near us. I look up, and two feet away stands Samantha, her eyes rage red and piercing as she stares at us.

Scott looks like he wants to say something; I suck on my water bottle to silence myself. Samantha knives us both with her eyes, then stomps back the length of the library. We watch as she shuts the door with such force that I’m surprised everyone’s not showered in shattering glass.

“Sorry about that!” he says loudly over the growing din. It’s as if everyone in the library feels the need to comment on the scene. Scott sighs, then whispers, “Love sure is hard.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“If love were easy, then it wouldn’t hurt,” he says. “If it didn’t hurt, it wouldn’t matter.”

I want to say something, except the word “love” means nothing to me. Scott and I fall into silence as the noise level increases. I look at the door and see Kelsey standing with a small group of girls chatting about Samantha’s stunt. She stops talking long enough to shoot me a smug smile.

“Again, I’m sorry about that,” Scott says as the bell rings, ending the lunch period.

“Don’t be sorry,
Scott
, it’s not your fault,” I say, putting the emphasis all on his name.

“I’m Catholic; I feel guilty about everything,” he says, then laughs.

“Me too,” I add. The Catholic part is true; the guilt part is a total lie.

“So why didn’t you defend religion this morning, Cassandra?” Scott asks, firmly but nicely.

“Because you were doing such a good job,” I whisper, then stand up. He smiles through his shyness and gathers his books. It’s time for class, so we toss tiny waves before going our separate ways. Like a stone hitting the water, I wonder if today’s talk with Scott will result in tiny ripples or a big splash.

CHAPTER 5
THURSDAY, MARCH 12

Promise me, will you please promise me, Robyn?”

“I promise,” Robyn replies as her Impala roars out onto the interstate. It’s the first time I’ve seen Robyn in six days. Telling her folks that she’s sick, Robyn’s missed school every day. Despite my pleas to visit, all we’ve done is talk on the phone. I finally convinced her to join me this evening. She picked me up after school, and now we’re driving down rain-slicked pavement toward the Holly Recreation Area. In a few weeks, my family reunion will take place in one of the parks there. Right now, however, it’s just Robyn, me, and the world that’s crashed around her.

“Hey, slow down or you’ll get a ticket.” I notice the speedometer races past eighty.

“What if I do?” she asks. “Just more disappointment for my parents, more drama for me.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” I’m firm yet friendly. “No one expects perfection.”

“Oh God, Cass, don’t use that peer counseling tone on me,” she says.

“You got me,” I mutter. Robyn and I were two of the first peer counselors at school, so she sees through my tricks. I don’t say anything in return, using silence as bait. Instead, I hand her my iPod, filled with songs carefully selected for this important drive. Robyn hooks up my iPod to the car speakers, then clicks on the music—the magnificent “Let It Be” by the Beatles.

After a while, we pull off I-69 and onto the two-lane road toward the park. Robyn turns down the music but keeps up the speed. “I don’t understand why Craig would do this to me.”

“Robyn, that’s not the way to heal,” I tell her.

“What do you mean?”

“You need to stop asking questions that have no answers,” I say. “Listen to the song, when you find yourself in times of trouble, just let it be.”

“How do I do that?” she asks. “Where do I start?”

“You start healing by crying out the pain,” I remind her. For almost a week, we’ve had the same conversation. She can’t move on, it would seem, because she’s swimming in circles.

“No. What would people think of me?” she says. “I need to stay strong.”

“Don’t worry about what people think.”

“But I always do,” she says, sounding almost sad.

“Robyn, come on, everything is going to be okay after a few months.”

“No, it’s not. I need this to end. This hurt, this humiliation,” she says. “This life!”

She’s waiting for me to speak, but I’m drowning in a whirlpool of conflicted desires.

“I know, I promise I won’t do anything,” she says, taking a big curve at a fast speed.

“Good,” I say, and maybe mean it. I’m like a toy top trying to spin against my rotation.

“I can’t go back to school tomorrow,” she says. Every night when we talk, Robyn promises that I’ll see her at school the next day. Every morning so far this week, she’s broken that promise. The old Robyn was perfect and kept every promise; I don’t know about this new Robyn yet. “I know everybody is going to be laughing at me, especially Brittney.”

“Nobody’s laughing at you,” I reassure her. “You just—”

“But everybody’s talking about it, right?” she asks.

“Everybody’s on your side,” I answer with a slight lie. Most at school seem sympathetic toward Robyn and angry at Brittney and Craig. But some girls—with long-hidden resentment of Robyn now bubbling to the surface—are against her. The jocks seem divided; half support Craig, while the other half support Robyn’s sudden availability. “It will blow over and—”

“I’m just so tired.” She cuts me off and takes another curve at well over the recommended speed. “I’m tired of all the high school drama.”

“You’re just tired with all that you do. And with Becca, now this—”

Robyn cut me off. “You know what I wish for more than anything?”

“Brittney’s head on a plate?” I answer, but there’s no lame joke that will put a smile on Robyn’s face tonight. Robyn slows down, then pulls the car onto the dirt shoulder. We have a perfect view of a tranquil lake in the twilight hours, yet Robyn’s anything but at peace.

“I wish I could trade my life for Becca’s,” she says. “That’s all I want right now.”

“Robyn, that’s not possible,” I say with eyes staring at the floor below me.

“Everybody would be happier,” she says. “My parents won’t admit it, but I know they’d take the offer in a second. I’m surprised they’re not having another kid to mine the marrow.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“I know, Cass, that’s what I’m telling you,” she says. “I’m a
terrible
person. I’m supposed to love my sick little sister, but sometimes I resent her so much. I get so
angry
at her.”

“You’re human,” I remind her.

“I’m tired of everyone carrying on about Becca like I don’t exist. If we could just trade our lives, everything would be perfect. I’d take my life and by some miracle, transfer it to her.”

I go silent. There’s so much I want to say to Robyn, but I can’t force out the words.

“But there are no miracles, just more heartbreak and more hurt,” she says. “I want it to end.”

“Craig’s just a silly boy, but you’re talking murder.” I force out these words of mercy.

“I just want the hurt to end,” she says. “It’s not Craig; it is everything and it is too much.”

“Suicide is mass murder, Robyn, because it kills everyone around you,” I say. “I know you’re not that angry at your parents, at Becca, Craig, or even Brittney. I know you.”

She cackles, but that’s just the sound of the levee leaking. She starts to cry as she says, “Nobody knows the real me. Can you see the real me?”

I don’t answer because she’s right. I don’t know the real Robyn, and she doesn’t know my reality. We’re not Best Friends Forever. We’re friends doing our best for each other for now.

“I’m
not
the perfect cheerleader. I’m
not
the girl with the cute boyfriend. I’m
not
the girl who loves her dying sister,” Robyn says, drowning in self-pity. “I’m nothing.”

I wait for her. Finally, she lays her head on my shoulder, soaking it with tears. Against the backdrop of the lake, a small pool of her tears flows over me.

“Craig and I came here,” she says once the tears stop. I hand her my handkerchief.

“That is so romantic,” I say, thinking about the beauty of
this spot compared to the sofa in Cody’s basement or backseat. Robyn wipes her wet eyes, while I try to wipe away my envy.

“It
was
romantic. Everything is a
was
,” she says, her voice barely audible.

“It will be okay,” I say. Once again, all I offer is sympathy, not empathy. Romance isn’t something that enters into my relationships, which is one reason I’ll never end up like Robyn. If you don’t feel love—and don’t mind being alone—high school becomes very easy.

There’s a long pause as Robyn collects herself and returns the moistened handkerchief to me. “I can’t live like this. It hurts too much.” Her tone is growing more desperate.

“Healing equals tears plus time.”

“I don’t have any more of either,” she says, then sighs. “Cass, would you ask him?”

“Ask who?”

“Would you ask Craig if he’d take me back?”

“I don’t know,” I say slowly, conflicted between my loyalties and selfish motives.

“Tell him—tell him I would do anything to get back with him,” she says.

“Don’t do that,” I say sharply. “Don’t sacrifice your
self.
”

She laughs, not a real laugh, but rather just a sound to express her shock at my words. “I don’t have a self anymore, Cass. When Craig dumped me, he took it with him.”