Oh My Goth Page 15

  As I spill the details, she listens raptly, interrupting every so often to ask a question. When I finish, her eyes are filled with tears.

  “Do you believe us?” Mercedes asks, hopeful.

  “Yes, of course. I’ve always known there are forces in this world that go beyond what we can see and hear.”

  That isn’t the new Goth version of her talking. That’s my real grandma Beers, who used to read me stories about heaven and hell, light versus dark.

  “Your mother... I had no idea...should have seen the symptoms...” She wrings her hands. “Miranda had issues, Jade. Issues your father and I agreed to keep from you.”

  “I told you I remember Mom as she was. I haven’t romanticized her.” One day she would be euphoric, the world a playground, the next she would be down in the dumps.

  “Yes, but you don’t remember everything.”

  My chest clenches. Clenches so tight that the emotions I’ve hidden inside my heart begin to leak out. “All right. What did you guys keep from me?”

  “Miranda...she...she suffered from depression. Actually, depression only scratches the surface.” Grandma wrings her hands harder. “Back then, mental illness was taboo and treatment wasn’t a viable option. Your mom...she tried...” She stands, squares her shoulders. “You need to hear this from Miranda, not me.” Head high, she ushers us into a bedroom in back, where boxes are stacked next to the bed. Boxes filled with journals.

  I wish he’d burned the others.

  “Thank you.” A lump grows in my throat as I trace my fingers over the corners of a box.

  “I’ll leave you alone.” Mercedes is unusually subdued as she steps into the hall. “Take as long as you need.”

  The door closes, sealing me inside. I’m trembling as I sit on the bed, open a journal and dive headlong into an abyss...

  One passage reads:

  I hate myself. And I hate my life. I feel as if I’m standing on top of a mountain screaming, screaming, screaming, but no one hears me. Why can’t I be happy like everyone else? I don’t even have a reason to be upset, or sad or tired. I’m so tired. My baby was supposed to make me better not worse, but I’m worse. Why am I worse?

  Choking back bile, I run a trembling finger over the words. There’s an invisible knife in my chest, and no matter how hard I tug, I can’t remove it. The wound is soul-deep, more of my emotions leaking out. No, not leaking. Pouring. Pain and fear and anguish fill me, drowning me. My lungs constrict, and I wheeze. Hot tears streak down my cheeks.

  On the bottom of the page, I read:

  Having her was a mistake. This world is a terrible place, and it will ruin her. I can’t let it ruin her.

  The words cause a flash of memory to take center stage in my mind. She’s perched behind the wheel of a car, and I’m in the passenger seat. She looks over at me, her eyes wet and wild. There’s black mascara streaked over her cheeks.

  “I’ll make things better for you, too, love,” she says. “I promise.”

  Realization punches me, my brain rattling against my skull. My dad lied to me about the crash. Another car didn’t hit us. My mother drove off the ledge, hoping to end her misery and stop me from being “ruined.” She wanted to die.

  She wanted me to die.

  Death happens to all of us. No one gets out of this world alive. But death—cutting a life short—isn’t the solution to a problem. Nor is hiding from my pain, and that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.

  Mom got that part right.

  I’ve been a coward, so afraid of losing someone else, of hurting again, hurting more, that I shut down. I didn’t want to be happy; I survived when my mother did not, and part of me felt like I didn’t deserve to be happy.

  I sit on the bed all night, my mind in turmoil. I don’t want to hurt anyone else. I don’t want to hurt myself anymore. Happiness intrigues me. Why fight against it? Why not fight for it?

  In the quiet, I think I hear a faded beep, beep, beep. The TV? I also detect a whispered conversation.

  “—going to pull through this.” I frown. That is my dad’s voice. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “How could you have known?” Fiona replies.

  Are they here? “Dad,” I call, but only silence greets me.

  Their voices fade...but that infernal beeping continues. Suddenly the bed tilts—no, I’m falling, stretching out, a waft of sweet perfume teasing my nose. A waft I recognize. I roll to my side and...meet my mother’s gaze. I’m too dazed to be surprised, too raw to react properly.

  In her eyes I see shame and guilt. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I hated for you to know, but you needed the truth. And this is my chance to make it up to you. I will not fail you.”

  “I’m not going to kill myself, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I croak.

  “Death comes in many forms, my love. The loss of a smile. The inability to laugh.”

  “I’ll smile. I’ll laugh.” One day. Maybe. But not today. Not with her death—her suicide—fresh on my mind. My pain...it is visceral. I’m raw inside. Bleeding. “I’m ready to go back to the real world. Send us back. Please.”

  “No. Not yet. There’s still more to do, more to learn.”

  The real reason she forced this change on Mercedes and me finally clicks, and I flinch. “I’m not here to help Linnie and Kimberly.”

  “That is just a bonus.” Her image begins to fade. “Make things better for yourself, and you’ll make things better for those around you.”

  I reach for her with a trembling hand, but she’s gone. A sob bubbles up, but I swallow it back. No more tears. Not here, not now. What’s done is done and can’t be changed. I’ll rage later, might even hate her. Here, now, I want only to forge ahead.

  But how? How do I go on from here?

  Sunlight pushes through the windows, and my awareness. A soft knock sounds at the door.

  Mercedes peeks in, her eyes wide with curiosity but also concern. “Well?”

  My eyes burn. From tears I desperately need to shed or fatigue? Probably both. With a grimace, I pull myself into an upright position.

  “I spoke with her,” I say. “Making life better for Linnie and Kimberly isn’t our main objective. It’s a bonus.”

  Practically vibrating with anticipation, she flies into the room and crouches in front of me. “And?”

  “And she says we have to stay, that there’s more to do, more to learn.”

  Her shoulders slump. “So, what is our main objective? What do we do now?”

  “We go back to Oklahoma City. Go to class, as we promised my dad. Our objective is as simple as it is complicated. We have to stop hurting people—including ourselves.”

  * * *

  By the time we’re parked at school, my phone is filled with a thousand texts from Charlee Ann.

  Where are you?

  Are you mad at me?

  I want to host a party this weekend. You’ll come, right?

  What are you going to wear?

  There are messages from Bobby, too.

  Why aren’t you returning my calls?

  I know we’re off but there’s nothing I want more than to be on.

  You mean everything to me, baby.

  In an effort to be more open and kind—or less hurtful—I tell Charlee Ann I’m not mad at her, and I’ll think about the party. I tell Bobby we can be friends, nothing more.

  Even my dad has messaged me.

  Did you read the journals?

  Are you all right?

  Come straight home after school, okay?

  I don’t want him to worry all day, so I tell him I’m fine, and I will do as he requested.

  And it’s the truth. I’m totally fine—if “fine” means “a mess.”

  I also reply to Clarik and let him know I’m free, and I’d like to see him.
No response comes, and I begin to understand why people stare at their phones so much. I will the stupid thing to chime.

  “You ready to do this?” Mercedes asks.

  “No, but I’m going to do it, anyway.”

  I open the car door, but she latches onto my wrist. “Smile at me,” she commands.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Smile at me. Show me your ‘kind face.’” She uses air quotes. “Because if you’re going to stop hurting people, you’ve got to have the right look.”

  I force a smile.

  She studies me for a moment and grimaces, then peers up at the sky. “How am I supposed to work with this, huh?”

  “Dude. Ask yourself if you’re off to a good start.”

  As I pull from her hold and march toward the building, she calls, “I’m off to a great start, thank you very much. I didn’t flat-out say how ridiculous you look, now, did I?”

  I fake-smile my way through Mr. Parton’s class, just like I’ve seen Mercedes do pre–reality switch. Clarik is there, and we lock gazes multiple times, even smile at each other, but we don’t have a chance to speak.

  Dang him, why hasn’t he responded to my text?

  He’s gone as soon as the bell rings, so I don’t have a chance to ask.

  On my way to my second class, I call out the most ludicrous greetings to people. Like “Hey, Karen! Are you working hard or hardly working today?” And “Good to see you, Deborah! Let’s be sure to get our lunch on soon.”

  I’m nice to Charlee Ann and Bobby when we run into each other. Bobby takes it as a sign that I want to get back together, and I end up snapping at him. But that is my one and only slipup.

  I receive multiple hate-glares from Linnie and Kimberly, but I keep my smile in place and wave.

  On my way to my third class, I see a girl intentionally trip Mercedes. Everyone laughs, and I debate my options. Do I help her, perhaps hurting her, too, because she’s supposed to be torn down before she can be built back up? Or do I walk away, hurting her another way by abandoning her yet again? By the time I decide to go with option one, she’s already picked up her scattered books and rushed away.

  By the time lunch rolls around, I feel strung out and as fragile as glass. This cannot be the path to happiness.

  Also, I’m kind of in awe of Mercedes. She made it look so effortless.

  The biggest perk? Being admired rather than reviled, and getting my admiration fix.

  I wait at the cafeteria doors. When Mercedes arrives, I take her hand and lead her outside.

  “Well?” I ask, letting the smile fade at long last as soon as we’re holed up inside our car. Wow, my face hurts. “Are you playing well with the other children?”

  “Yes! Even though they suck donkey balls,” she grumbles.

  With a groan, I scrub a hand down my face. “We’re going to be here forever, aren’t we?”

  “Maybe not. I’ve been thinking. Maybe you need to have a heart-to-heart with your dad,” she suggests. “That will make him happy, right? Since he’s one of the most important people in your life...and your mom loved him...”

  “I hate to say this but... I think you’re right.”

  “Wait. What? I need you to say that again, only louder this time.”

  I roll my eyes. “We’ve got to be on the right track.”

  “Let’s take it up a notch, though. Let’s be nicer.”

  Another groan escapes me.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  My head whips toward the window, and I gasp. Clarik is standing beside the car, holding three brown paper bags and smiling. His smile is genuine. Awareness makes my nerve endings tingle.

  “What’s he doing out here?” Mercedes asks.

  Let’s find out. The tingling gets worse—or better—as I lower the window, cool air gusting inside. “Hey.”

  Sunlight bathes him, painting a halo over his head. “Hey.” He hands a brown paper bag to me, then to Mercedes. Then he climbs into the back of the car. He smells like strawberries and cream today. And—I sniff. The bag smells like turkey?

  My mouth waters as I open the top. There’s a sandwich and bag of chips inside.

  The superhot guy brought us lunch. I mean nice. Supernice guy.

  “I thought we could eat together.” He opens his bag and digs in. “And maybe you two could tell me why you’re being so weird.”

  I share a look with Mercedes before unwrapping the sandwich and taking a bite. Not bad. Not as good as yesterday’s hamburger, but still tasty.

  “We accept the food and the company,” I say, meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror. “But our weirdness isn’t up for discussion.”

  The corners of his mouth curve into a grin as he nods. “Fair enough.”

  Mercedes stares at her food for a long while. As long as it takes me to eat half my sandwich, in fact. Her eyes are a little wild, her nostrils flaring as she breathes. She’s ravenous, I know she is.

  She holds her breath until her cheeks turn red. Fighting the craving? Fearful of Nadine’s reaction if she gains a single pound?

  Pang. I don’t fight it, and I don’t hide from it. It hurts me to see her like this. “I think I’m starting to like you, and it has nothing to do with your size.”

  She nibbles on her sandwich; it’s not much, but it’s something, and I’m proud of her. “This is good. Thank you.”

  “Welcome,” Clarik says.

  “It was a very kind thing to do.” Deep in thought, she taps a manicured nail against her chin. “You gave me food, and it was kind. Gave. Giving. Kindness is giving.”

  As she babbles, I meet his gaze in the review mirror a second time. Those electric blues aren’t watching her, but me—and they are blazing with heat. They burn through my armor. Shivers don’t just overtake me; they overpower me.

  “To me,” he says, “kindness is treating people the way I want to be treated.”

  “So...like the queen of the world. Got it.” When I open my mouth to reply, she reaches over to press a finger against my lips and quiet me. “Shh. I’m going to be kind to you, and give you a moment alone with Clarik, since you all but called eternal dibs on him. And look at me, learning my lessons, doing my part. Try to keep up.”

  I try to bite her finger, but she’s too quick.

  Laughing, she flies out of the car. The door slams shut with a thud that shakes the entire vehicle.

  Heat spills over my cheeks, and I’m not sure why I’m embarrassed about her admission. Clarik and I have already admitted we’re attracted to each other.

  “One second.” I exit the car, shut the door and call, “Mercedes.” I fear she’s going to go inside and make herself throw up.

  Her step falters and she slowly pivots, clearly reluctant to face me. No hint of her amusement remains. “What?” she snaps.

  “Beauty comes in every size, okay? I think you’re hot, and if I were into girls I’d probably be all over you. It’s just...being healthy matters most.”

  Twin circles of red paint her cheeks and it is then, that moment, I realize we are more alike than I ever thought possible. I have starved myself of emotion, and she has starved herself of food. We’ve been falling apart.

  “Why do you even care?” she snaps now.

  “I...don’t know. I just kind of...do.” She is my ally, no ifs, ands or buts about it, and I do care about her well-being.

  Softening, she gives me an almost imperceptible nod before resuming her trek into the school. Halfway there, she pauses to say over her shoulder, “And, Jade? Just so you know, nothing romantic can ever happen between us, so stop hinting.”

  “You are such a brat,” I call.

  I think I hear her giggle as she disappears beyond the doors.

  I draw in a deep breath and slide into the car. Clarik is now behind the wheel.

  Anticipation practicall
y bubbles from him, as if he’s been eager to get me alone. He wastes no time, saying, “Tell me something you live for.”

  So like the real world! Before, I didn’t have an answer for him. Today I’m ready. “I live for...my first taste of happiness. What about you?”

  He doesn’t need to ponder. “My mom.”

  Before either of us can say anything else, the bell rings. We have five minutes to get to our next class. Well, crap.

  He holds my gaze for several seconds, searching...searching... I’m not sure what he’s hoping to find. Finally he says, “Come over to my house later? My mom has to work, and my uncle will be passed out on the couch. It’ll just be you and me.”

  Spend time with him. Alone. In his home. I’m breathless with anticipation as I say, “Yes.”

  Chapter 12

  Even the smallest light can be seen in the darkest night.

  —Jade Leighton

  I sail through the rest of the day, and my smile takes a lot less effort, even when I have to wait for Mercedes to complete detention.

  “Thanks for that,” she mutters on the ride home. “I had to go to delinquent central for being rude to Mr. Parton, a crime I didn’t commit.”

  I’m not going to lie. Satisfaction fills me. “Did you enjoy the experience?” I ask, not even trying to hide my smugness. Perhaps I’m even bordering on happy.

  “You know I didn’t.”

  “Well, then. Congrats! Punishment for no reason is what truly sucks donkey balls. Maybe you can begin to understand how I felt when you let other students read my personal thoughts.”

  She humphs but doesn’t speak for the rest of the drive.

  At home, we find Dad, Nadine and Fiona in the kitchen. Fiona is directing a team of painters to color the walls dark gray while trying not to steal glances at my dad. Nadine is sitting at the counter, typing into a laptop as she goes over patient files. My dad is fetching bottled waters for the painters.

  “Jade.” Relief glitters in his eyes. He sets the remaining bottles on the counter and motions for me to follow him.

  I cast Mercedes a glance before dragging my feet to the backyard. Like my mom, he sits on a swing. Apparently swing sets are the new black. I sit beside him.