A/N: Another try at an old story. Give it a chance; it might surprise you.
Chapter One.
"I think people don't understand how lonely it is to be a kid, like you don't matter."
-Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
My first memory, the very best one I have, is my parents dancing together. Just in our living room, nothing special, except that it was to me. I remember clapping my hands as my father twirled my mother around to Frank Sinatra's crooning, and thinking she looked like a princess, even in her stretchy jeans and oversized blouse. My sister Sophie was curled up on the couch fast asleep, oblivious to the scene taking place in front of her closed eyelids. My father was murmuring the words to the song, staring at my mom like she was this amazing piece of art. Their love was too big, almost suffocating, and suddenly the room seemed to small to hold all of us. So I gathered up Sophie in my arms and left quietly. And the funniest thing of all is, I don't think they noticed.
Memories are so random they can only be described as cruel. The good and the bad are all mixed together in a jumble of remembering, both surfacing when you least want them to, making you wish, above all, that you could just forget. But you can't just make yourself forget. Because thinking about forgetting makes you remember anyway.
"That's it!"
My brother Christopher slammed his palm down on the kitchen table, making the silverware I'd placed down earlier clatter noisily. I looked up, startled, and noticed that his coloring seemed high. Or maybe that was my imagination; it was hard to tell against his rosewood tan.
"What?" I asked. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Chris's wife Penelope staring at her plate as if it were suddenly very interesting.
"I can't take it anymore, Kim," he said. His voice was somehow fierce and soft at the same time. "You need help. You're not eating well, you barely ever talk, and what happened to your friends? They haven't come around in ages."
I flushed, embarrassed to be called out. "I have a lot of schoolwork lately," I mumbled pathetically, knowing Chris wouldn't buy it.
And he didn't. "Bullshit," he declared. "You're depressed, and that's fine. I get it. I do. But I'm not going to sit around and do nothing about it."
I'm not depressed! The words never reached my mouth, would never reach my mouth, because even I couldn't deny the truth when it was so obvious. Sophie fidgeted in her chair, her head bouncing back between Chris and I like she was watching an intense match of tennis.
"Penelope and I have discussed this," Chris continued. I was thankful he didn't comment on my silence. "And we agreed that maybe seeing a counselor would be good for you."
"A counselor?" I repeated blankly.
"A psychiatrist," he said. "Or, I guess, a therapist."
"I'm not crazy," I blurted out. "I'm not sick and—and there's nothing wrong with my head."
"Sweetie," said Penelope. "There's nothing wrong with talking to someone. I went to a therapist when I was younger, when my parents separated."
Her voice, meant to be comforting, seemed unbelievably condescending. I felt my spine stiffen and poked at a piece of my steak with my fork. "I guess I get no say?"
Instead of answering my question, Chris repeated, "It will be good for you."
I weighed my options carefully. I could fight it, and waste energy I didn't have, or I could go see some old lady and spend time that would otherwise be spent staring at the walls of my room. I didn't really believe in therapy and I certainly didn't think I would benefit from it, but at this point I didn't have much to lose.
"Fine, whatever," I said.
Both of them looked placated, and I wondered if this was it. Was this caring for my well-being love? Having little to no experience with the concept, I couldn't be sure.
Little Ethan made coughing sounds from his highchair, and Penelope immediately jumped up to tend to her son. It was odd to live with my brother's family, the family he'd chosen and not the one he got stuck with, and I got that same feeling I'd had all those years before, like I was intruding on something. I glanced over at Sophie, who was eating her food looking like she didn't have a care in the world. Maybe she didn't, being a nine-year-old girl and all.
"Shh, calm down, baby boy, cough it out," Penelope was murmuring. She settled Ethan into the crook of her arm and did this jiggly thing that usually makes him fall asleep right away. Penelope was one of those mothers who worried about everything, from brain development to contagious illnesses. Ethan, sadly, was going to be subjected to a childhood filled with bilingual baby shows that claimed they would make him smarter in the future, and also a mother who would never let him walk into school by himself.
"I can't eat anymore," Sophie declared, pushing away her plate. There was still more than half of her food left, but Sophie was not a big eater. "I'm going to my room."
"Me too," I said.
Chris looked like he might object but didn't. Penelope insisted that we all sit down for dinner every night, which is something that had happened next to never in my old house. I would have preferred to just take the food up to my food every night, but it's hard to say no to Penny.
The house that they'd bought together was nice, but not big enough to accommodate five people. That wasn't in the Plan, so to speak. Penelope had never wanted more than one child, and now she was stuck with two that weren't even hers.
Because of the size issues and my wanting to separate myself from the rest of the family, I opted to take residence in the attic rather than sharing a room with Sophie or the baby. It wasn't a bad trade-in, because even though the ceilings were low and there was only one little window, the attic was big enough to move in my queen bed and desk. When I'd first moved in, Penelope had insisted on a shopping day, and she bought me a new comforter and some throw rugs, which gave the otherwise freaky attic a slightly homey feel. The only problem was the only way to get up there was a ladder that extended down into the garage, which would have been awesome when I was younger but now was just annoying.
I sat down on my bed at first, wondering if it was too early for me to fall asleep. Then, growing restless, I moved over to the window and looked out. It was getting dark and no one was out at the beach, which I could see just over the house across from ours. Penelope was always complaining that we were so close to the ocean but without a view, but she was wrong, because I got a perfect view of the cliffs and the choppy water. But when I looked out that window, it wasn't usually the ocean I watched.
And I know it's stalkerish and if anyone found out I would die, but watching Jared Thail's room has become something of a pastime for me. His house was one of those really big, stilted ones along the residential coast that are built to survive any kind of weather the sea could send their way. I had a perfect view of it from my room, just across the way, and I knew for a fact that Jared's room is the second on the left of the second story. He spent a surprising amount of time in his room for someone who gets invited to so many things. He always left his lights on and his curtain opened so at night, like now, I could make him out perfectly. I thanked God for his gigantic windows.
It looks like he was doing homework, but I couldn't be sure. He was sitting on his bed scribbling something, hunched over in concentration. You can't make out facial features from so far away, but I liked to think I had Jared's memorized. He has a Face, one of those ones you could never forget once you saw it. People stare at that Face everywhere he goes, and he knows it. How could he not?
As I watched, Jared picked up his cell phone and talked for a few seconds before putting it down again. He ran a hand through his hair and I could practically hear the sigh he let out. A few minutes passed, and I tried to look away for a while, but a new movement caught my eye.
Someone entered his room, and it didn't take a genius to know it was a girl. I couldn't tell you who it was, only that she had a body that would have put a supermodels to shame. I took in a sharp inhale of breath as Jared got up from his bed and walked over to her. She wrapped her arms around his waist and then, like a sharp bolt of lightning to my heart, Jared's eyes and mine suddenly connected. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe.
There was a second, just a second, of eye contact, and then Jared snapped his blinds shut.
And even though I knew he couldn't see me anymore, I shut mine, too.
It's raining.
Not that that's saying much – it's always raining. But today the rain fell in hard and even pellets, like gunshots, and it didn't let up one bit. These are the days when everyone would just like to fall back into bed, but the La Push school system doesn't operate that way. We never have storm days and we barely have snow days. The reservation is so small that if you're car doesn't start up or the roads are iced over, walking is always a feasible option.
I like to listen to the rain as I fall asleep, but that's about it. Still, no matter how passionate someone's loathing of the rain is, if you live in La Push, you're at least used to it. I, for instance, know exactly the order of clothing to avoid being dripping wet and freezing all day. Bra, long-sleeved shirt, tank top, sweater, sweatshirt. Underwear, jeans, sweatpants. It took me all of grammar school to perfect my routine, but now it's second nature.
"Don't forget your lunch," I reminded Sophie. Penny had insisted she wear a big winter jacket – even though it was still a few weeks away from December and hadn't begun to snow yet – and she looked like she'd spent the morning throwing a fit. Penny and her were always fighting, mostly because Sophie had turned into a gigantic brat in the past year, but also because Penny knew just how to push a little girl's buttons.
"Let's go," urged Sophie, picking up her pink flowery lunchbox and leaving before Penny could say anything else.
Penny sighed, and I smiled sympathetically at her, but it was all fake, a show to make us look and feel like we were something we weren't, a real family. We were all actors and we knew it, but acting was better than giving up all shreds of whatever family we'd once had.
"Have a good day," she told me.
"Yeah, you too," I said back.
Sophie was sitting in my car, her arms folded across her chest, something that looked almost comical with her huge jacket. Her light cheeks were flushed from the cold and from the tears that were streaming down her face. I opened the door, giving it a hard tug because lately it had been sticking, and turned on the heater before I turned to face her.
"I hate it here," she said, and let out a shuddery kind of cry.
Me too. "Don't say that," I said. "Penny and Chris are doing the best they can for us."
Eight-year-olds crying are not a big deal. It's not out of the ordinary or significant, nothing that should make another person cry, but I had to fight back the tears anyway. Because Sophie's not crying about a lost Barbie doll or a mean teacher or a playground fight. She's crying over real things, things that would make anyone cry, and it isn't fair, and I hate it. I want to make it go away and I can't, and that's the worst feeling, knowing the problem isn't something that's fixable.
"I just want to go h-h-h-home," she said, kicking the glove compartment in front of her with all her might.
"Hey!" I said. "Stop it, Soph. You're being a baby."
"I don't care!" she said indignantly. "I'll be a baby all I want. I wish I was a baby, like Ethan, because all he does is cry and nobody hates him."
"Nobody hates you," I said.
"Yes they do! Everyone hates me, nobody wants me here, all I do is cause p-problems. I wish I was dead too!"
I guess, all things considered, her words shouldn't have shocked me so much, or at least made me so angry. But they did. Suddenly I was livid, like something locked up inside of me had just been released, and I exploded. Really exploded, right in my little sister's face in my car parked in the driveway of my brother's house. I wanted to scream and cry and hurt something. Because life was unfair, to her and to me, and that's just how it was going to be from here on out. No one was going to cut us any slack, not our family or friends or God, or whoever calls the shots in this massively fucked up world. And we just had to be okay with that, because if we weren't, no one was going to bother picking up the pieces.
"Are you crying?" Sophie asked, sniffling herself.
"I'm not crying," I said. "Shut up and buckle your seatbelt. We're going to be late."
I drove too fast, faster than the rain allowed, daring to get a ticket or worse. And the whole time I was thinking this isn't me, this isn't me. But I was doing it, wasn't I? So obviously it was me. The idea that I could do anything at all made me feel oddly powerful, but not in a good way – in a scary, unbalanced sort of way.
When I finally dropped Sophie off, I wasn't crying anymore. I didn't cry often; tears didn't solve anything, after all, so they were no good to me unless there was a very special reason. I wiped off my eyes and straightened my shoulders and in a few minutes, I'll pretend like this never happened. Maybe if I went to that therapist like Chris wanted me to, I'd learn better ways to deal with all this emotional crap, but this is all I have right now.
The student parking lot wasn't crowded, because obviously whoever had built the school had overestimated the population of La Push by a lot. As far as I knew, no more than two hundred kids attended school, and barely a fourth of those drove in. The cars that were there were nice for the most part, new and shiny, because besides being sparse, La Push's residents were also known for living over their budget.
My car wasn't that out of place, really. It was a 2005 make, which made it older than most, but the black paint job was as spotless as ever. I don't really know how it was decided that the car would be mine, and I'm not sure I really even wanted it, but I got it. It smelled like my dad, all cologne and minty, not unpleasant but somehow eerie, like he'd just been driving it yesterday.
It takes a long time for death to rip away everything from a person. For months, everything reminds you of them, your deceased loved ones, and then slowly that goes away. And then, like now, a year and a half later, it's the car you drive and the smell of cologne that gets you.
Because of the lack of students, the reservation's high school is two buildings, one story, and a small quad that never gets used because of the rain. The only part that's worth anything is the cafeteria, which was recently renovated by the council using money the government gives us annually. It's really big and fancy, with chairs that aren't plastic and hardwood floors. A lot of parents got mad when the council used the money for that rather than new books or something, but almost every kid at the school will say the cafeteria's worth more to them.
I park my car where I always do, in a tight spot three rows from the entrance to the school. My backpack is heavy and it hurts my shoulder, but unlike Lily Donovan, a few cars down from me, I don't have a boyfriend to carry it for me. And, I reflected, if I did have a boyfriend, I doubt he'd carry my stuff. I'm not the type of girl people worry themselves with – nothing about me seems vulnerable, just average and plain.
"Paul, don't play that game with me," Lily was saying in her feminine little voice. I used to be jealous of Lily, and I guess I still am, but it hurts to be jealous of someone for long.
"I'm not playing any games," said a deep, low mutter that I knew belonged to Paul. I could imagine his face as he said it, annoyed and vaguely amused. I'd known Paul since I was a baby, since before I could remember, but we weren't really friends. If I ever really needed him, I suppose he'd be there, and vice versa. But that's just the product of being in the same playground until we could make friends for ourselves. And Paul did a pretty good job of that.
"Yeah, whatever," Lily huffed and stomped away, glancing at me on her way out. I lowered my eyes, realizing how rude I was being, standing there listening to their conversation which was obviously private.
"Hey, Kim," Paul said, catching up with me quickly while still managing to maintain a lazy stride. He had both hands shoved in his pockets and looked awkward, like he wanted to say something but couldn't.
"Oh, hey Paul," I replied.
There was silence; not exactly a tortured silence, but still an uncomfortable one. Finally Paul just came right out and said, "So, you okay?"
I was silent for a while before replying. It wasn't the first time Paul had asked me that; he'd taken to asking me it every time he saw me. And I'd always answered the same way, a simple, "Yeah, thanks." But now I felt different. I didn't want to lie, not to Paul or anyone. So I said, "No, not really, but thanks."
Paul looked shocked and a little alarmed. "Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked.
I stopped walking and turned to face him. He was so good-looking, all chiseled and handsome, and even though he had temper problems and was sometimes an unreasonable asshole, he cared, at least for the time being. "No," I said. "Probably not. Thanks, though."
"Yeah, of course," he said. He cleared his throat. "Well, I'll see you around, Kim."
I nodded, wondering if he'd ignore me the next time we saw each other. And then I wondered if I cared.
My AP Lit teacher looks like a bird. Not a baby bird or an owl or anything, more like a hawk, a bird of prey. She's got real pointy features and when she looks at you, it's always through her thin rectangular spectacles. Her name is Mrs. Stick, and a lot of people say she has a major stick up her ass, but I don't think so.
In class we're supposed to be talking about The Metamorphosis, a book that depressed me more than it did entertain, but all I can think about is how Jared isn't here. With my last name Thames and his Thail, and the fact that all of our teachers insist on alphabetical seating charts, we sit next to each other in every class we have together, which is four out of seven.
I wonder if he's sick, but he can't be, can he, seeing as how he was just fine last night. Maybe he's still sleeping, all worn out from…but I didn't want to think about that. I gave my head a firm shake and paid close attention to whatever Mrs. Stick was saying.
Lunch comes fast that day. There aren't periods of lunch because the entire student body fits comfortably into the cafeteria. Sometimes I wish there were periods, though, because having a bunch of different lunches gives you leeway to say, It's not that I'm sitting by myself because I don't have friends…it's because my friends don't have this lunch. Instead, you have to make friends to sit with the best you can, because these are the people you're going to be eating with for the rest of your high school career.
I come out of the lunch line with an apple and chicken nuggets on my plate and make a beeline out the door. The administration will say that you can only eat lunch inside the café, but they're lying. If you make friends with a teacher, they'll let you eat in their classroom most of the time, and the library is always an option. That's where I head now, the library, right next to the lunchroom but somehow seeming far away from all those people.
"Kim, you're not on one of those crazy diets, are you?" the librarian, Mr. Stark, asked me when I sat down at one of the small tables and took a bite out of my apple.
"Do I need to be?" I asked.
Mr. Stark and I go way back. When I was in middle school, he was my English teacher all three years, and we got along well. He moved to high school the year I did, because he'd always wanted to be a librarian more than a teacher and the old librarian got pregnant or something. He's got big, thick glasses that are either really lame or trendy and he's always reading an article out of a magazine, like he is now.
"Apparently seventy-six percent of teenage girls have considered an eating disorder," he informed me. "Eight-three percent think they're weight isn't ideal."
"Wow," I said. I couldn't be counted among that percentage. Naturally I have a quick metabolism and it's not like I eat a lot, so I've always been slender. I have fine curves, C-cups that I could be proud of and hips that were maybe a little too small. I used to run track, so my legs are toned too. "What magazine are you reading, Mr. Stark?"
"Teen Vogue," he told me, and made a face while he flung it on the desk in front of him. He plopped down across from me and smiled kindly. "So how's it going, Miss Kim?"
"Alright," I said, taking a stab at a chicken nugget with a fork.
Mr. Stark frowned at that, his bullshit detector on high. "Love problems?" he asked sympathetically.
"I don't know that you could call them love problems," I sighed.
"Of course you can," he said. "I'm telling you, Miss Kimmie, you're too good for that Jared piece of trash."
"You don't even know him," I said, feeling like I had something to defend.
"I know he waltzes around this school with girls dangling off him like he's some kind of God," he said. "And believe me, that has a way of getting to someone's head."
From the story I've heard, Mr. Stark was quite the catch when he was attending school here. He's still good-looking, thirty-years and several gray hairs later, but more in a paternal, safe way, like he's someone who wouldn't hurt a fly. Jared could never look like that, not if he lived to be ninety years old. His looks are more chiseled and dangerous. But anyway, Mr. Stark got a little cocky and that cockiness led to several years of thinking he was something he wasn't. It took him five extra years, he said, to figure out he didn't like women. Now he lives in a condo on the east side of town with his partner, who used to work with my dad.
"Yeah," I said. "Well, I guess he's got a new girlfriend or something, because I saw him with some girl yesterday."
Mr. Stark rolled his eyes. "Did she look like the others?"
"I didn't get a good look," I admitted. "But I'd venture to say yes."
"Screw him," Mr. Stark said decisively. "You get yourself out of here in two years, go to Harvard, Penn State, Duke, wherever. And Jared's going to be another boy who lives his whole life in La Push because he never had the opportunity to leave."
"I don't know, he's pretty smart," I said. 'Pretty smart' didn't quite cover it. I knew for a fact that Jared was in the top ten, maybe top five, of the graduating class this year. I didn't know where he was going to college, but he could get in somewhere far away too.
"Mark my words, Kimberly, he's going to be in La Push for a long while."
But for some reason, the idea of Jared Thail remaining in La Push for the rest of his life didn't make me feel satisfied.
Actually, it made me feel sort of depressed.
A/N: I realize my Kim might seem like a bland character right now, but as I get to explaining more of her history she gets less 2D, I promise!
Please review, that would brighten my day! :)