Dreaming of Antigone (5 page)

CHAPTER 9

In French, Natalie keeps throwing out suggestions. The river. The mall. The zoo. I am getting a headache.

She sighs and pats me on the shoulder. “Don't worry. We won't make you drive to Six Flags. This is for you. And I don't think Iris would have made you go somewhere just because she liked it either. Trista will get over it.”

I'm thankful that Natalie hasn't changed through all of this. She is still my shy best friend, sad that we've lost Iris, but patient with me and Tris both in our depression. Natalie is still our mother hen, as well as the best defense player our girls' soccer team has ever had. And if she's gotten closer to Trista over the past few months, that's probably because I've pulled away from her.

By the time I get to third block, I put my head down on my binder. I'm grateful that I don't know anyone in this class. No one bothers me in here. I never thought I'd be grateful for the blissful droning of my algebra teacher. Just before I drift off, I notice new lines scribbled across the top of my desk:

A chill flutters over my skin. Walt Whitman. I saw that poem in the book Alex was cataloging yesterday. Oh God. Please don't let him be the desk poet. I wanted it to be someone mysterious and dark and moody. Anybody but mysterious and dark and moody Alex Hammond.

I erase the words. We both ponder the same dark themes, apparently. I can't help but shiver. It would be so easy to be friends with Alex. In theory, at least. But it would also be wrong. He dated my sister. Was a Bad Influence on my sister. Probably copying the moody poetry as his own way of mourning. I decide not to write anything back. This needs to stop.

Even though I found a poem yesterday by Longfellow that would be perfect.

I try to pay attention as the teacher drones on about polynomials. I think about Alex jogging in the middle of the night because he can't sleep. I think about how close we were standing on my porch that night, hiding from the neighbor.

And then I try to remember him stoned as Iris picked him up from band practice with Thing One and Thing Two, how he let her steal joints from his pocket. He might not have forced her to do drugs with him, he might not have shot up her arm with heroin, but yes, he was definitely a Bad Influence.

I know Iris was crazy about him, and that they dated for several months, but she never confided to me how serious they were. I never asked. I never cared.

I wonder if he ever told her he loved her. I wonder if he's haunted now with regret.

Oh, what the hell.

I'm nervous about going to the library today. I don't know if I should ask Alex about the desk poems or if I should keep it a secret that I know. Maybe it's not him after all. Or maybe he's known it's me he's writing to all along. What if it's just a game to him? What is he getting out of it?

 

That afternoon we sit side by side in the library, silently skimming through the stacks of poetry. I start to have my doubts. He occasionally writes something down in his notebook, but would he do that right in front of me if he knew I knew about the desk in math?

“Who is your favorite poet?” I finally ask.

Alex turns his body toward me, as if he's been waiting all along for me to say something first, to let him know it's okay to talk to me. “It changes from week to week,” he says. “This week I like Walt Whitman. Who is yours?”

Oh God, it really is him. “It changes for me too,” I say, and look back at my computer screen. If I told him Longfellow, would he get the hint? I don't know which block he takes his math in, so he might not have seen my desk poem yet. And I am reluctant to tell him the truth. He might decide to quit writing. I can't help but look forward to seeing his handwriting on my desk every day. “My all-time favorite is Sylvia Plath,” I say finally.

He nods. “Good stuff.
Ariel,
‘Lady Lazarus.' ”

I frown. He would like the depressing ones. “ ‘The Moon and the Yew Tree'?”

He rubs his hair again self-consciously. “I started reading poems out loud to myself because I like to hear the rhythm and the sound of the words. To me that's just as important as the meaning of the words. Plath's way with word crafting is magical.”

I get this. He's a songwriter. Of course these things are important to him. I want to ask him if he also likes to commit random acts of graffiti with his favorite poems. But I can't. I want to keep his secret to myself just a little while longer. What if there's someone else who sits at our desk, someone else he's writing to? I shouldn't mind, but for some stupid reason, the thought bothers me. “I think the older poems have more of a rhythm. They're more song-like.”

“Are you going to the party at Lucy's this weekend?” he asks. Now that he feels it's safe to talk to me, it's like he doesn't want to stop. “Calcifer is going to play.”

The band drifted in limbo for the three months he's been in rehab. Thing One and Thing Two didn't bother looking for another singer. They were content to spend their weekends playing the Xbox and getting baked. Alex apparently has the band back in business. Well, good for him.

“Not really into the senior parties,” I say. “But congratulations on going back to your old life.”

His eyes lose their sparkle, and I feel like a bitch. I didn't mean for it to come out sounding so bitter. Well, maybe I did, but I didn't mean for it to hurt him so badly.

“It's not the same,” he whispers. “I don't want to go back to my old life. I want—”

But before Alex can tell me what he wants, the double doors to the library bang open and Verla pushes another extra-large plastic tote full of books inside. She slides the tote across the room to where we are. I swear a cloud of dust rises up from inside it.

“Look! The family found another closet they hadn't gone through,” she says. “Could be another fifty or sixty books in here.”

Which means at least one more day of cataloging and data entering. I don't know if I can still do this without strangling Alex. Or without him wanting to strangle me.

He stands and grabs the tote from her, lifting it easily onto the table. “Ooh, more brooding Victorians,” he says, peering inside. His eyes light up as he pulls out a book and hands it to me.

Christina Rossetti. I shake my head with a tiny smile, ignoring the way my stomach flutters.

Paging through, I find the words I will write on the desk in algebra tomorrow.

CHAPTER 10

 

I awake to my alarm and Sophie's tail wagging violently against my dresser, which is a surprise. A whole night's sleep without any nightmares. I'm suspicious, but definitely grateful. Even if I don't feel particularly rested. I might not have dreamed of Iris, but I tossed and turned for hours worrying about her. Why I never knew she was taking drugs. Why I never knew how unhappy she was. Even if she didn't die on purpose, something made her unable to cope and made her think drugs were the only way to escape. Something was making her miserable. And she felt trapped.

What could I have done differently? I should have known. I should have been there for her.

My cell phone lights up and vibrates on my bedside stand. It is six thirty in the morning. And there are two words on my phone's screen when I pick it up.

I tear myself out of bed, leaving my phone in the folds of the sheets. My heart pounds, and I feel a tingly dizziness in my head from jumping up so fast.

The snooze tone goes off again, and I have to pick it up before it wakes anyone else up. My fingers are shaking as I reach for the phone.
Dammit, just do it, Andria.

And the screen is blank when I finally screw up my courage to peek at it again. I press the “Home” button, to make my phone light back up, but the text message is gone.

It was just a nightmare. Or am I starting to hallucinate things? I haven't changed the doses on any of my meds lately, but I slept horribly. I think I'm just suffering from severe sleep deprivation.

Maybe I need to lay off the coffee. Try some warm milk at night before bedtime.

Blech. I should talk to my doctor about sleeping pills. I've read that not getting enough sleep can lead to memory loss. And I don't want the nightmares to be the only thing I remember about my sister. I don't want to forget the good Iris memories, of staying up late together on Christmas Eve or sharing birthday cakes or when she held my hand on the first day of kindergarten. Or the time I held her hand on the first day of seventh grade.

I pull a long-sleeved pink shirt out of the back of the closet. This would surprise Trista and Natalie, along with most of my school. Would they think I'm trying to dress like my sister?

Then again, the pale pink shirt does say, “On Wednesdays We Wear Black.” It's from the last season of
American Horror Story,
a show Iris and I watched together. She liked horror movies even more than I do. I decide to wear the shirt, not to pretend to be Iris, but because it makes me remember good things about her. Happy things.

I know Mom hopes one day I'll dress more like her friends' daughters, more like Iris. But I'm comfortable in my clothes. And it's not like I have strange piercings or tattoos or wear vampire contacts. Iris never got yelled at for wearing trampy short shorts and halter tops around the house, but the moment I wear a very proper, skin-covering black hoodie with sugar skulls, I get pained looks and am kidnapped to the department store for an armload of pastel polo shirts.

Goth rehab.

It's chilly enough this morning that I end up covering the pink shirt with my sugar skull hoodie. Maybe I won't be brave today. Even if I tell myself I'm not being chicken. It's just that I don't want to deal with people staring at me. I don't like the extra attention.

But I can still think of Iris and the night we binge watched the first two seasons of
American Horror Story
and made ourselves sick with kettle corn.

I keep my pink secret through first and second block and even when it gets warm in third block because Mrs. Davis cranks her heater up. She is a frail, gray-haired little thing who has no body heat of her own. So the rest of us must suffer and smell each other's sweat while she teaches. This is another reason why I fall asleep in algebra.

My heart tingles in my chest when I see that someone has answered my Christina Rossetti with more Rossetti. From the same poem, actually. Just two lines.

He knows. This definitely means he knows. I think. My head swims. Or possibly swoons. I could so easily fall in love with this boy. But I know that would be dangerous.
He's not for you,
I tell myself. He never was. It's best that I erase the words and focus on trinomials and such.

I promise myself I'll erase it at the end of class. I'm too busy admiring the penmanship. His
a
's are printed while the rest of his letters are a sharp but neat cursive. It's definitely the handwriting of an artist. A dreamer.

My mind goes blank as I try to think of another poem. The bell rings, and I still don't have anything to write. With a sigh, I erase his words. Maybe I'm reading things into these lines that aren't really there.

 

At lunch, I sit with Natalie and Trista in the quad, keeping an eye out for Alex. His friends aren't out here, so I wonder if they are skipping today. I can't ask Trista about them, though, without her asking a million questions.

But a fight breaks out on the far side of the courtyard. Thing Two and someone I don't recognize. A senior, I think. After a lot of screaming and hollering, the fight is broken up and the two boys are taken to the principal's office to wait for the police. Our school has a zero tolerance policy. You get in a fight, you go to jail.

Hank appears behind us, apparently pretending he had nothing to do with the altercation. He puts one arm around Natalie and the other around me. “Who's going to come see us play Saturday night at Lucy's?”

I pluck his arm off of me. “Sorry. Too busy watching paint dry.”

“Ouch,” Hank says. “Ladies?” He moves his hands to Trista's shoulders, massaging her neck in an almost NC-17 way. “You should all be there. I've asked Pluto to bring the good organic shit his friend from rehab makes.”

That swoony, fluttery feeling I had in my chest earlier this morning is gone, replaced by cold lead. How could I be so stupid to believe Alex could change?

“I assume you're talking about some awesome organic coffee,” I say. There's the tiniest possibility I'm jumping to conclusions.

Hank laughs at me. “You are adorable. Marry me.”

Trista turns around and slaps him on the arm. “Ass hat.”

“Hey. Zero tolerance, remember?” Natalie says, nodding toward the assistant principal, who is still talking to the teacher who was on duty out here when the fight broke out.

Hank smirks at Trista. “Come home with me and you can beat me all you want.”

“Ugh,” Trista says.

“Besides, we have soccer practice today,” Natalie adds. “No beatings for you. What was that fight about?”

Hank shrugs. “Caleb didn't like something that guy said.”

Natalie's eyes get huge. “Really? What did he say to him?”

But Hank won't elaborate and the bell rings and we have to go to English. I hear snippets of rumors in the halls about the fight, but no one knows what happened, other than the fact that both boys were taken away in handcuffs in the back of a cop car.

Mr. Herrington proclaims today a silent reading period, but I can't concentrate on the book I have. Natalie has given me a light paranormal romance from her locker. It's cute, but I get more and more agitated as I wait for the end of school. If Alex wasn't here at lunch, he probably won't show up in the library this afternoon. This is a good thing. I'm sure I can get much more work done without him there to distract me.