The Everafter Page 5

  her mother doesn't want her to. She says she just can't, not

  when her mother needs her so much.

  Two days ago, when Sandra invited me to her house for

  a birthday sleepover, I was crazy excited. It's been ages since

  we've spent the night together.

  I should have known better. Mrs. Simpson is a mastermind

  at ruining my time with Sandra, and I should have

  expected her to pull it off tonight, too. Except I guess I

  thought that, this being a birthday, her mother would go

  out of her way to make it a nice night for Sandra.

  No such luck.

  Five minutes ago, Sandra's mom knocked on the bedroom

  door, stuck her head inside, and said, "I'm so sorry,

  girls, but I have a migraine coming on. I'm afraid that Madison

  is going to have to go home."

  "Please, Mom," Sandra begged. "We'll be quiet. I promise.

  We haven't had a sleepover in ages."

  Mrs. Simpson started crying. "I'm so sorry, darling. I

  wanted so badlv for this to be a perfect night for the two

  of you. Maybe Daddy can take me to a motel so I can have

  enough quiet to recover. I'd just be so lonely there all bv

  myself. Your dad would have to come back here to check on

  you. And I get so scared when I'm so sick. I can't get up by

  myself if I need to. But I'll call Madison's mom and tell her

  not to come get her if your father says—"

  "No, Mom," Sandra said. "We understand. We'll do it

  again some other time."

  Except / definitely don't understand. I want to cry. I'm

  feeling ripped apart inside. My best friend isn't really my

  S<

  best friend. My best friend wouldn't let her mother do this

  to her. How can Sandra not see this is all an act on her

  mother's part? That her mother wants to ruin our time

  together?

  Sandra's mother leaves the room, and I look at the devastated

  expression on Sandra's face. Her brownish-green

  eyes are wide and glittering. She's holding her own arms

  like she's hugging herself. Even her normally bouncing,

  curly hair seems to drag along the side of her face. Guilt

  washes over me.

  None of this is Sandra's fault.

  The doorbell rings. My mother is here. I still haven't

  found my socks. I don't want to leave Sandra here by herself

  wearing that desperate expression . . . on her birthday of all

  days. But now I can hear my mother's voice in the entryway.

  She's asking for me. Forget the socks. I know it's a bizarre

  idea, but I figure that they can stay here and keep Sandra

  company for the night.

  I give Sandra a hug. A sob starts to wrack her body,

  but as her mother walks back into the room, she chokes it

  down.

  "Bye," I whisper, letting go and rushing from the

  room.

  oge 16

  I pull some books from my locker, and a pen slides out. I

  try to catch it, but my hands are full. It lands on the floor

  and makes a rolling escape toward Sandra, who's standing

  right next to me at her locker. She yanks hard on the handle

  of the locker's jammed door. It suddenly gives up its fight

  to protect her books from the odious duty of accompanying

  her to class. But lockers are not above simple revenge.

  Books, notebooks, even a pencil case, slide off the top shelf.

  She jumps back to avoid the avalanche.

  I'm laughing at the bizarre look on her face when I hear

  a voice behind me say, " H e y . . . "

  Obmygod. Go away, I think. Thankfully, I have the presence

  of mind not to let the idea slip out of my mouth. Nausea

  rises in my stomach at the sound of Gabe's voice. Must be

  the memory of Kristen's wedding.

  That and the rumor I heard earlier today that he's planning

  to ask me out.

  By the time I turn around, he's helping Sandra pick up

  the mess on the floor.

  "Thanks," she says as he hands her a pile of papers that's

  fallen out of a book. I'm such an idiot. Why am I standing

  here instead of helping them?

  Useless now. They're done.

  Gabe turns toward me. As his eyes meet mine, my stomach

  lurches craztly.

  Gabe says, "So, I hear Kristen and John get back from

  the honeymoon in a few days."

  I should be able to handle a few sentences of small talk,

  right?

  My eyes skitter away from his, and I look to Sandra for

  help, but she's kneeling in front of her locker, going through

  papers on the locker floor. She hasn't bothered to clean anything

  in there all year. She's obviously trying to eavesdrop.

  She's also obviously not going to bail me out.

  "Yeah," I say. I'm such a brilliant conversationalist. I

  scour my brain for things to add to this exchange.

  "Hawaii... wow, what a great honeymoon."

  "Yeah."

  "I hat's an encouraging streak," he says.

  "What do you mean?" I ask.

  "A couple of 'yeahs' rio;ht in a row. Shall I go for another

  one?"

  Dread descends. I know what he's going to ask.

  "So there's a party this Friday at Allan Redford's house.

  Want to go with me?"

  Yeah, I do. Only I can't say that because I also don't

  want to go.

  Sandra's behind Gabe's back making go-fbr-it-girl gestures

  at me.

  "Well, actually, I can't. My family has plans and my

  mother really expects me to be there. . . . " I can tell from

  his face that he's not buying it.

  "Oh, well, then. Maybe another time?"

  I swallow and this time manage, "Yeah." But then feel

  compelled to add, "Maybe."

  Gabe doesn't waste any time getting away from me

  "Later, then," he says, and walks away.

  I turn to face Sandra The look she's giving me is even

  worse than the look my mother gave me when I got caught

  cheating on a test in seventh grade . "For God's sake, why'd

  you do that? Are you crazy? You've had a crush on Gabe

  since, what, like, sixth grade?"

  "Sixth," I mumbled.

  "Which just makes it worse! What are you thinking?"

  "It's just, well . . . it's—I'm not so sure. . . . Well, you

  know how when you've bsen eating something right before

  you get the flu and then every time you even think about

  that kind of food—for, like, the next year—you think you're

  i^oing to be sick again?"

  Sandra looks at me as if I'm crazy. It takes her a minute

  to put the pieces together. "Wait. Are you trying to tell me

  that Gabe makes you feel nauseated}"

  "Uhmm . . . yeah? Well, not exactly him. Just the memory

  of him at the wedding."

  "Oh, for God's sake, Maddy. Take some Pepto-Bismol

  SB

  or something. But get over it. That's the stupidest thing I've

  ever heard." Sandra slams her locker and glares at me.

  I can't quite explain everything to her. She wouldn't

  understand that Pepto-Bismol might help with the nausea,

  but it's not going to help with all the other things ihat are

  roiling inside me.

  Like total embarrassment over falling out of my dress

  in f
ront of Gabe.

  Or fear of picking up a rebound boyfriend and losing

  him within days—the way I did in eighth grade. Two weeks

  of going with me was enough to drive Paul back to a girl

  who'd only been his girlfriend for a couple of months. What

  chance do I have of keeping a hot guy like Gabe, who's had

  the same girlfriend for two years? And, okay, so she's one of

  the witchiest girls I've ever met. Still, she must have some

  redeeming qualities if Gabe stayed with her that long.

  And then there's that awful kiss I shared with Paul back

  in eighth grade. I've kissed a few boys since then, but no one

  that I actually liked. They were just guys at a party looking

  for someone to make ouc with. What if I kiss Gabe and be

  laughs at me because I'm doing it wrong?

  I'd rather be lonely every Friday night for the rest of my

  life.

  Sandra begins to walk away. "Wait! Where are you

  going?" I ask. We always walk to class together.

  She gives me an "oh, phase" look. "You know exactly

  59

  where I'm going," she says. Then she turns and starts walking

  again.

  She's right. I do know where she's going. She'll catch up

  with Gabe and tell him not to give up, that he should ask

  me out again.

  Trying to stop her wil I be useless. I'm both terrified and

  relieved by the realization.

  I close my locker, noticing that my pen is still on the

  ground. I reach for—

  age 7

  "Kitty, no!" I shout, just as her little irincer paws land in my

  carefully sorted piles of beads. Purple, pink, and turquoise

  beads scatter across the tabletop before pattering onto the

  floor.

  At first, our new kitty is startled by the noise. She jumps

  backward on the table, bumping into a bowl of fruit. But as

  the beads continue bouncing across rhe floor, her ears prick

  up and fascination gleams in her eyes.

  She pounces.

  More beads roll across the table and plunge to the floor,

  followed by the soft plunk of a four-pound kitten chasing

  them.

  "No, no!" I shout again, frantically trying to gather the

  beads back together. I'm only halfway through the necklace

  ' -C

  Mom grabs a hanger from the closet next to the kitchen

  and starts sweeping it bslow the stove. A rainbow of beads

  emerges, and Mom moves on to sweep the area under the

  refrigerator.

  "I hope I've got then all," Mom says, but I'm not really

  paying attention to her anymore. Kristen is setting the kitty

  in my arms.

  And the kitty is purring. For me. She likes me. Her little,

  soft padded paws bat at my cheek. She begins to play

  with mv hair.

  "Look at that," Mom says in amazement.

  The kitty snuggles her head between my neck and

  shoulder, settling in for a little rest.

  "She looks cozy there, doesn't she?" Dad says.

  "Can we name her that?" I ask. I want her to be cozy

  with me forever.

  "Sure," Mom agrees "That can be her everyday name."

  "Everyday name?" Kristen asks. "What's that supposed

  to mean?"

  "Well, according to T. S. Eliot—"

  "Ugh," Kristen groans. Mom loves poetry, but Kristen

  can't stand it when Mom starts talking about her favorite

  poets.

  Mom ignores Kristen. "According to T S. Eliot, a cat

  needs three names. One's an everyday name, like Cozy. But

  then he says a cat needs a more dignified name. Something

  I'm making and if I lose these beads, I won't have enough.

  Ine new kitty is batting at the beads, chasing them

  around the kitchen. Several roll under the refrigerator.

  More travel under the stove.

  "Stop it, kitty," I moan.

  Mom puts her arm around my shoulder. "It's all right,

  Madison," she tells me. "We'll get them out somehow."

  "But what if I don't have enough to finish my necklace?"

  Kristen and Dad are now intentionally kicking the beads

  around the floor, laughing as the cat chases them.

  "This is all part of having this cat you've been asking for

  for months now."

  It's true. I've been asking for a cat for a long time. And

  I was so happy a half hour ago. Tiny, furry, blue-eyed . . .

  my dreams came true when Mom walked through the door

  with her.

  But now . . . now I'm thinking this might be a bad idea.

  Sure, "hard work" and "responsibility" were mentioned, But

  no one thought to tell me a kitten would ruin my necklace.

  Kristen picks up the kitty, who starts to purr immediately.

  I'm jealous. She hasn't purred for me yet. "Let me

  have her," I say.

  "In a minute," Kristen says.

  "Help me get your beads," Mom says before I can wrestle

  the cat from Kristen.

  01

  that allows it to keep its tail straight up and proud. Something

  so unique, no other cat in the world will have it.

  Cozycorium is a name I think Eliot would approve of."

  The cat's purring vibrates against my chest. It almost

  feels like I'm purring, too. "But we can still call her Cozy

  for short, right?" 1 say.

  "Right," Mom says.

  "Wait," Dad says. "You mentioned three names. What's

  the third name?"

  "Oh, well, Eliot says a cat will have a secret nime that

  only it knows. It's a name that we'll never figure out. But

  whenever we see that she's deep in thought, she'll be thinking

  about her secret name."

  "No," I say. "She's not allowed."

  "Not allowed to what?" Dad asks.

  "Have secrets from us. She can't have a third name."

  Kristen laughs at me. "You can't stop her," she tells me.

  "Cats pretty much do what they want."

  "I can too stop her," I insist. "I'm going to take her

  upstairs and show her my room now." I'm already halfway

  to the stairs.

  "Madison," Mom calls after me, "what about .ill these

  be—"

  : • . ' b)

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HKKH£&!MQs£wbfefisn

  IT SEEMS TO BE a pinecone. It has edges like one, and its

  round shape tapers toward the top the way pinecones do.

  But I can't figure out how to make this thing work. The

  other items that have taken me places have been easv. I've

  tried imagining what it was like to hold them. To hand them

  to someone, to drop them, to put them on.

  Something always works.

  But not with this pinecone.

  Maybe it's the Lniverse's idea of a joke. Let's put ibis object

  with ber that sbt can't quite figure out bow to use, it's thinking.

  See bow long it takes ber to go crazy.

  Uh-huh. Not long. A person who's dead and conscious

  M

  and revisiting her life at every opportunity must already be

  crazy.

  Still. . . it's almost as big a mystery as this whole howdid-I-even-die-any way thing. How many different things

  can you do with a pinecone?

  Maybe that's not even what it is.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT f OR SALE

  htanw.!£M(ns £ub$$SHS<
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  beyond the boundaries

  o| any one l i fe

  Age 17

  Ohmvgod, if I don't find that assignment rigbt now, my

  English grade is going down the toilet!

  I scurry frantically, pulling things out of my book bag

  for the third time this morning. I look everywhere. Everywhere.

  I glance at the c l o c k . . . . Twenty minutes until Gabriel

  gets here to pick me up for school. I worked so hard on that

  paper, and now I can't find it. I did it last night at Gabe's

  house and emailed it to myself. I'll have to reprint it.

  I switch on the computer quickly, and while I am waiting

  66

  for everything to boot up, I scramble to the bathroom for

  my toothbrush.

  When I return, I log into my email account and open

  the message I sent from Gabe's house last night.

  Ohmygod. Unbelievable. There's no attachment. How

  could I have sent an email to myself with the sole purpose of

  attaching that paper—then have forgotten to do it?

  I grab my cell phone to call Gabe.

  No answer.

  My eyes smart as they fill with tears. Gan I remember

  any of that paper? I'll have to try to rewrite it in fifteen

  minutes. I flip open my English textbook. There are the

  two poems by Emily Dickinson that I'm supposed to hand

  in an analysis of—first hour:

  664

  Of all the Souls that stand create—

  / have elected— One—

  IVben Sense from Spirit— -files away—

  And Subterfuge— is done—

  When that which is— and that which was—

  Apart— intrinsic— stand—

  And this brief Tragedy of Flesh—

  Is shifted— like a Sand—

  When Figures show tbeir royal Front—

  And Mists— are carved away,

  IS

  Behold the Atom— I preferred—

  To all the lists of Clay!

  1732

  My Life closed twice before its close—

  It yet remains to see

  If Immortality unveil

  A third event to me

  So huge, so hopeless to conceive

  As these that twice befell.

  Parting is all we know of heaven,

  And all we need of hell.

  Reading these two poems this morning causes me to

  shiver in a way that I never have before, and I've read rhem,

  well, probably a hundred times. Perhaps I'm anticipating

  my own exit from this world into the next when my parents

  see my English grade—minus this one-hundred-point

  assignment.

  No time to think about it now. Must write down whatever

  I can remember about my original paper.