Positively Beautiful (17 page)

I don't know if I can take much more of this. Whenever I think of the future, it's covered by a bleak, gray fog. I am getting lost in the limbo and I don't know how to find my way back.

My e-mail dings and I open Ashley's message:

I swam with some dolphins the other day. I was out on the boat and I saw them, so I jumped in. You're not supposed to, because they're wild animals and they can ram you with their beaks if they get scared or just pissed off. Heck, they can take out sharks, they do it all the time.

But these guys were cool. They pretty much ignored me, but every once in a while one would rub up against me, and it was so weird, because I felt part of something so much bigger than me, but so small at the same time. We're all connected like that, down to the genes inside our bodies. We're interconnected, but inside our heads we feel all alone.

I guess I'm trying to say that you're not alone. You may feel like you are, but none of us are. We're a part of something so much bigger.

Five days before my mom starts chemo again, I feel up Faith.

It goes down like this: I'm late, so I'm hurrying, trying to avoid the dance kids who are doing some sort of routine in the middle of the hall, and as I round the corner by the gym, I see someone there. I put out my hands to keep from running into her and get a handful of boob. This, naturally, is Faith.

“What are you doing, freak?” she cries. “Get away from me!”

My momentum sends me into her and I end up knocking her backward. She lands on her butt. This part, at least, is satisfying.

“Oops,” I say.

A couple of her friends help her up and glare at me. Other people are stopping to watch and laugh.

“Aren't you going to say you're sorry?” Faith asks, brushing off the seat of her immaculately white pants.

I think about Va-jay-jay Girl and the picture of me kissing Chaz and don't say anything.

“You're such a
nothing
,” Faith hisses at me.

“ ‘Having nothing, nothing can he lose,' ” I say. It's cheesy but it's the best I can do. I make my escape.

“What the eff?” Faith says behind me. “She is so
bizarre.
”

“It's Shakespeare, dummy,” volunteers a passing emo in skinny jeans and a scarf who sits behind me in AP English.

At my locker, I'm shaking. I don't know why I care, but I do. Why does she hate me? What is wrong with me?

I get out my phone and check my e-mail. The report should be here and I'm reduced to checking my phone a thousand times a day.

Nothing.

“Hey,” Michael says.

We haven't spoken since the day he asked me about what happened with me and Chaz.

“Hey.” I tilt my head down so my hair sweeps my cheek. It's automatic, this hiding, and Mom bugs me about it all the time but I can't seem to help myself.

“You okay?” He looks at me.

For a moment I debate telling him about my mom, about the waiting, waiting, waiting on the genetic report, about Faith, and Trina, and my crush. On him. For a minute I want to say everything, and it perches on my tongue like an avalanche just needing a tiny sound to let loose.

“I don't think Faith likes me,” I say instead, trying for funny and “Oh well, what do you do?” and ending up with “My life sucks, no one likes me, why don't people like me?”

He hesitates. “She's got a lot going on. When things get bad for her, she goes on the attack. Inside … she's not that tough. I guess I understand, feeling different inside than people think you are. Once you get to know her, you get used to her.”

“I can probably get used to hanging if I had to, but I don't really want to.” Another favorite Memaw-ism.

His lips quirk. “That's why I like you. You make me smile.”

“But you
don't
smile. I've never seen you smile. Or laugh either, for that matter.”

He shrugs, all lean and slouchy, with his dark, straight hair and dimple in his chin, which I really think I'd like to kiss.

“Maybe—” he says.

Maybe? Maybe we can go out sometime? Maybe we can get together over the weekend? Maybe I might be falling for you?

“Look, I've got to get to class,” he says. “Only two more days until summer.”

And
maybe
is left hanging.

The world is far below and it's just me and Tweety Bird. And Stew. I want it to be just me and Tweety, but what if something happens? Stew hasn't touched the controls in weeks, allowing me to take off and land and navigate all by myself, but still. Still. He's there. Just in case.

Right now he looks like he's sleeping. I glance over at him, and he's got his eyes closed. It must be nice to get paid to nap. I want
that
job when I grow up.

But I am content. It's a clear day, the wind mild, but even so I feel like we're driving down a rutted-up road as we bounce from one air pocket to another. When you're in a small plane, every bump feels big. I roll Tweety into a big turn, not even flinching as I hang in the harness so I can peer down at my house. Mom's car is there and my chest feels fluttery when I think about her chemotherapy coming up. Four more days. I hate it. I
hate
it.

I know she's worried about me. And that makes me feel bad. I want to be there for her, and she wants to be there for me, but evidently neither one of us can master this trick of
being there
right now. And a little part of me is mad, not at her, but fate, or God, or whatever, that this is happening to her. To me. Why us?

Without warning, the motor dies.

I look over and see Stew has his eyes open, and he's watching me. He puts his hand back on top of his stomach mound, but I see he is clutching the keys in his fat little paw.

“What the—?” I scream. Tweety has already lost speed and begins a steady slide toward the ground. My first instinct is to yank the nose up, but cold concentration centers me. Instead I push the nose down a little to keep up my speed, and pull the throttle to idle. I think about trying to snatch the keys out of Stew's hand, but I'm afraid to take my attention off flying for even a moment. I'm not sure how far he is planning on taking this, so I look around for a place to land. I see a field nearby, and I turn the plane slowly toward it, trying not to lose too much speed and altitude. I'm totally focused, my hands light on the yoke, making as few corrections
as possible, because everything I do makes the plane go down quicker.

I line up with the field, and check quickly for trees and power lines. It's clear, except for a fence at one end and a couple of power lines in the distance. It's going to be tight, but I think I can do it.

I wipe my damp hands on my jeans, and get ready to land.

And Stew puts the key back into the ignition.

“Are you INSANE?” I say as the motor roars to life and I slowly pull the nose up and circle away from the field. “I can't believe you're allowed to do that!”

He shrugs.
Whatever.
“You get your medical like I told you?”

I nod. A few weeks ago I went to an aviation medical examiner for a physical exam, and the guy made a big deal about me signing the student pilot certificate. I am now officially allowed to fly solo, whenever Stew decides I'm ready.

He looks at me a long moment, chewing ferociously on his gum, as I circle back around toward the airport. Then he sighs. “Study for the pre-solo exam. I'll give it to you the next time I see you. And then …”

I'm holding my breath, not sure whether I want to hear him say the words or not.

“Then I'm going to endorse you to solo. You're ready, so quit farting around.”

The next day, the rumor is I'm a lesbian and that I attacked Faith in the hall. I don't know why she is bothering. But for some reason Faith is getting a kick out of torturing me.

And it
is
torture. I hate people talking about me. I hate the giggles as I walk past, the barely audible comments—“Hey, look it's Va-jay-jay Girl; you better hide, girls!”—and the answering laughter. When I get to my locker, I see someone has papered it over with fliers from the LGBT club. It's stupid, it's juvenile, but it stings.

Only one more day, one more day, and it's over. Blessed, people-free summer is almost here, reading to my heart's content under the old oak in the backyard. Pure bliss until next year. My senior year, which is supposed to be the best year of my life. Somehow, I'm not seeing it.

That night, my mom goes to bed early and I tell her I'm
going to study for my physics final. Instead, I write in my journal. Tears run down my face as I write. I've been checking my e-mail obsessively, but still no report from the BRCA website. I think about stealing one of my mom's sleeping pills and sleeping through a couple of days.

Ding
from my e-mail.

It's from Ashley. The last couple of weeks we'd been e-mailing and texting like crazy and I'd e-mailed her earlier telling her about the stupid lesbian rumor and how everybody is laughing at me.
Again
.

Ashley writes:

I'm thinking about jellyfish. I know, weird, right? But here it is. Jellyfish thrive on pollution and since that's what we've been pouring into our oceans, they're creating these huge slimy jellyfish kingdoms where they attack everything: sharks, fish, humans. The funny thing is that jellyfish are usually the not-so-lucky-ones-that-get-eaten, but feed them enough crap and they band together and create this humongous glutinous empire that destroys everything they touch. I'm thinking people are like that too. Every day we get fed a load of crap and we're starting to turn into jellyfish, banding together so we can wipe out everything clean, and pure, and good. I mean, there are good people, but sometimes it seems like most people aren't like that. Most people seem to take unholy pleasure in tearing down anything that shines too bright.

Hold your head up. You're better than them.

The next day, I don't want to go to school. I
really
,
really
don't want to go to school. I'm so over it, but I have finals to take and it's only
one more day
.

Something has changed when I get there. I'm still getting the whispers and the stares, but it feels different from yesterday. No one is calling me Va-jay-jay Girl, no one is laughing. The room gets quiet as I go into history. I hear my name rustle like a breeze through summer leaves as I sit down. But the tone is wrong. What the heck is going on?

“Hey, Erin, I'm, like, real sorry about your mom,” says Lynn Mitchell, who sits beside me. She's been ignoring me since she heard about me kissing Chaz, but now she looks at me with her eyes all big and sad.

“
What
did you say?” I twist around in my seat to stare at her.

She flinches. “I heard about your, you know, mom. That's totally crazy. I'm sorry.”

“Just to be clear,” I say slowly, “exactly
what
did you hear?”

She's uncomfortable and winds her hair around her finger until the tip turns white. “You know, about the
cancer
.” She whispers the last word, as if it makes it less awful if you say it quiet. Like she's at a funeral.

“And where did you hear that?” I ask.

She twists the hair tighter. “Like, everybody knows. I heard it from two or three different people. So, you know, I'm sorry.”

Everybody knows?
This is a new form of torture, but from an old source. And I know exactly who it is.

I snag Trina as she comes out of Spanish.

“What the hell did you do?” I say, and I'm not quiet about it.

“Erin.” The expression on her little face is guilt and defiance and I know she did it.

“How could you tell everybody that?” I say. We're attracting a crowd.

“Catfight!” someone says. “I put ten dollars on Va-jay-jay Girl.” And someone shushes him with “
Didn't you hear about her mom?
”