Saving Zoë

Twenty-eight

Remember how I said I like having the house to myself? Well being home alone for the whole entire day is like Heaven. Seriously. And with my mom finally gone and fully convinced that I’m planning a day of bed rest (but that I won’t hesitate to call her if necessary), I grab the diary and take it downstairs, where I make myself a nice, healthy (well, kind of) breakfast.

I pour some frosted cereal into a bowl then add more sugar and nonfat (that’s the healthy part) milk, then I prop the diary before me and begin reading, trying to get the spoon from the bowl to my mouth without splattering the pages.

Today is the second official day of my vacation and I really thought it would be nice if I could spend it with my boyfriend but apparently he has other plans. Some big effin secret he refuses to tell me.

And to be honest, I’m really getting sick of it I mean, it’s not like I keep secrets from him, at least not about anything he actually needs to know about. But this is different, this is important. I can just tell.

But you know what? Screw him! I’m just gonna spend the whole day at Paula’s, laying by the pool, and not even think about him or his stupid secret. I’m just gonna pretend that he and his little mystery don’t even exist.

I know I probably sound like a brat, but it’s just that lately, every single passing day is starting to feel exactly the same as the one before it. Like my life is just one long, continuous rerun, with no new episodes scheduled. And it’s starting to make me feel really really restless, and more than a little anxious about the future. I mean, I know everything about my life probably seems pretty normal, and not all that bad compared to some, but the thing is, I never wanted to be normal and I certainly never wanted to be just like everyone else. I’ve always dreamed of something bigger and better and brighter

I’ve always wanted more.

Like, you know how when you watch those teen reality shows on MTV and stuff? And how everyone’s always out shopping, or going to parties, or fashion shows, or clubs, or charity events, or whatever, and then how after their turn on the series is over they all get magazine covers, movie deals, recording contracts, product endorsements, and regular spots in the tabloids? When just one year before they were just another kid with a normal life, in a much-better-than-normal town? Well, that kind of stuff makes it so crystal clear just how slow and boring it is here. Not to mention how I’m missing out on some mega opportunities, all because my parents are determined to live in this wasteland — this stupid, boring, totally fucked-up zip code.

I mean, it’s not like MTV would ever even consider coming here. So I think it’s obvious that if I really want to make something of myself (of my life!), then I’m really left with no choice but to get the hell out of this dead-end town. Seriously. And even though my parents are already starting with the big expectations and college talk (well, as college professors they’ve actually been at it for years, only now it’s more focused and serious), I have to find a way to tell them that their hopes and dreams have nothing in common with mine. And as far as college goes, well, it’s just not gonna happen for me.

Because, let’s face it, my grades are total sliders — good enough to pass class and not get yelled at too much, but nowhere near their Ivy League standards. And if they think I’m going local, then they’re completely loco. I’d never go to the same lame school where my mom and dad teach.

It’s like, let Echo go to Harvard, since she’s the brainy one who cares about all that intellectual, deep stuff. Let her be the one who makes them proud. I mean, maybe I’m just not smart like that. Maybe I’ve got other (better) things to do. And going to college just to please them will only end up putting me four years behind.

So lately I’ve been thinking about graduating early. I figure I can either beef up my credits (not exactly sure how, but I plan to find out), or take my GED and say an early adios. I mean, I’ve always wanted to be a model/actress — seriously, ever since I was a really little kid that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. And I just read this article in one of my magazines about some 14-year-old girl who’s storming the European runways! Seriously — the chick is only 14! And I’m already 16 — and then next year I’ll be 17 — and it’s just gonna keep on going like that! Which means I really can’t afford to waste any more time messing around with my friends and waiting for my boyfriend to call.

I’ve got to start making a plan for escape. So I can ditch this town and go live my dream before it’s too late!

I mean, if Carly and Paula want to lay around the pool all day, making dates with perverts in exchange for free beer, before moving on to junior college and husbands and babies and a bin full of smelly diapers and never once being interviewed on Access Hollywood, then that’s fine. Whatever makes them happy.

But that kind of mundane life will never be enough for me. So with that in mind, I’ve decided to put my Web page to better use. I’ve decided to make it work forme. And no way am I mentioning it to Marc.

Because if he can have a secret then I can too.

Went shopping for back-to-school clothes with Mom and Echo, and when Mom refused to buy me the jeans I wanted, I just pulled out a wad of cash and bought them myself Hah! The power of employment! And seeing her face go all tight and twisted made it totally worth spending all of my hard-earned dough.

“You’re the one who wanted me to work,” I couldn’t help but remind her. “You’re the one who found me the high-paying job!”

I swear, I can’t wait ’til I’m a model making a gazillion trillion dollars, driving a Mercedes, living in an awesome penthouse apartment chock full of Jimmy Choos and Prada bags, and sending my parents on vacations in exotic locales — just to get them out of my hair! Let’s see who judges me then!

After shopping we went for lunch, and just as I stuck my fork in my salad Echo announced that she’s already completed her summer reading list and is getting a head start on the books she heard she’ll have to read during the school year.

Jeez! Sometimes I can’t believe that we’re actually sisters. Seriously. I mean, I love her, I really, really do, but sometimes it seems like she’s from another planet. Or maybe it’s me. Maybe I really am adopted like I used to dream about when I was younger. Because despite having my father’s eyes and my mother’s nose, there’s no way in hell I’m even remotely DNA connected to these people.

Oh yeah, I also got these really awesome shoes, a couple new sweaters, and a really cute fall coat with a fake fur collar (since I would never wear real fur, I love animals too much, and I plan to make sure that’s included in all of my modeling contracts).

But it’s not like I can actually wear any of it right now since it’s still so freaking hot out. But still, maybe I’ll just pack it all up and drag it over to Carly’s so she can take some photos of me in it. I need some new pictures for my page since I’m planning a complete overhaul. I’m totally gonna delete all the slutty, stupid, bullshit quotes, and any and all comments regarding drinking, sex, or partying. I’m even gonna switch the background wallpaper to something clean, and sleek, and modern. I’m gonna make it like my online portfolio. So it needs to look as professional as possible.

And even though I still haven’t told Marc anything about it, last night when we were all at Kevin’s, Paula totally let it slip.

“Omigod,” she said. “Remember when we put that picture on your site, the one where you had your top off and then all those guys started instant messaging you?”

I just sat there, totally bugging, and thinking how I was going to kill her the second I could get her alone.

But then Carly goes, “That was my site, dummy. Zoë doesn’t have a site, remember?”

And then Paula looks at me, and goes, “Oh yeah, duh! Somebody pass me another beer! Ha ha!”

And then everyone laughed, including me because I felt like I had to, to make it look real.

Marc was the only one who didn’t laugh. Marc just stared.

One week down, two to go! Been hanging at Paula’s every day, read the first two pages of one of the books from the eleventh-grade summer reading list — boring! Saw Marc every night except for one where he acted all mysterious so I acted like I didn’t care.

Still working on the revamp of my new Web page, though I’m still not all that thrilled with the photos Carly took. I mean, right after I uploaded them, I waited for the usual comments to come pouring in, but mostly I just got stuff like:

So I guess that means if I wanted to be a porn star I’d be set. But that’s not gonna happen — / mean, disgusting! Not to mention how the only lingerie ads I’d ever be willing to do are for Victoria’s Secret. I mean, if it’s good enough for Giselle, then it’s good enough for me, but otherwise, that kind of stuff is usually sleazy and cheesy.

Anyway, I think it’s getting painfully obvious how I definitely need to get some professional pictures taken by a real photographer, in a real studio, as opposed to a bunch of cell phone digitals taken by my drunk, burnout friend in her poorly lit bathroom.

And then, wouldn’t you know it, just when I was actually considering returning those awesome two-hundred-dollar jeans (that I already wore) so I’ll have more money to add to the professional photographer savings account I keep stashed under my mattress I get a message from a professional photographer!

Seriously! Apparently he stumbled across my page and saw my photos and thinks I have potential but the pictures are way too amateur! Duh. So he told me to check out his Web page to see some of his work, and to let him know if I’m interested.

So of course I clicked right over and checked out his pictures, which I gotta say are completely amazing! Seriously nice high fashion black-and-whites, along with some really great head shots, some of which feature models that I’m actually familiar with! And I was so majorly excited I was just about to e-mail him back, when Marc called. So instead I just bookmarked the page, figuring it’s probably better to wait a few days and not look all desperate and overly eager.

But still — kismet fate, destiny, providence, big-time amazing luck — call it what you want, it’s finally starting to happen for me!

I’m totally freaked and don’t know what to do. And the worst part is I can’t tell anyone, at least not until I know what it means, because maybe it won’t end up meaning anything. But at the moment, I just can’t seem to figure it out. And believe me, I’ve tried.

Okay, so I was just out with my dad, on our way downtown, and just as we drove past the office where I work I saw Marc opening the door and going inside. And even though I immediately turned around in my seat and did a total double take just to make sure it was him, the whole thing happened so fast I just couldn’t be positive.

But I still have to stress how it really, really, really looked like him. I mean, let me put it this way, how many guys in this town are that good looking and just happen to dress in all black and wear Doc Marten boots when it’s one hundred and two in the shade?

Only one that I know of

And it’s not like it would be such a big deal, except for the fact of how he told me he was going to be home all day, doing some work on his car. So right after the sighting, I tried to reach him on his cell, but he must’ve turned it off cuz it went straight into voice mail. Which, okay, fine, maybe he doesn’t want to have it on when he’s working on his car, I mean, that makes sense, right?

But then here’s the thing — the only people who occupy that office are two shrinks. My boss, who I know for a fact is away on vacation, and the other one who’s this psychiatrist (which, I recently found out, means he went to school even longer so he can make even more money and prescribe drugs) who doesn’t leave for vacation ’til my boss gets back.

And then I remember that comment Mark made that one day about my boss having a goatee, and how it got me all wondering how he would even know that since it’s not like they’d ever met or had ever seen each other.

And even though I shrugged it off at the time, now I’m starting to wonder just how many secrets he’s actually keeping from me.

Because to be honest, it seems like they’re starting to multiply.

That photographer dude just sent me another message, which seems a little weird and desperate. But then Carly goes, “Well maybe he just wants to be the one who discovers you, because if you become famous, then it’s like big-time kudos for him, right?”

And when you think about it, she really does have a point Anyway, I didn’t message him back yet, ’cause I’m meeting Carly soon and I need to concentrate on that right now. I mean, I finally broke down and told her all about how I saw Marc at the shrink’s office and how weird things have been with us lately.

And then she was all, “What’s that about?”

And I’m like, “Who knows?”

Then she says, “Well, don’t you have a key?”

And I go, “Yeah, but it’s only to the front door and his office. Not the other guy’s place.”

And she goes, “Well, it’s a start.”

Marc just called to make plans for our two-months-since-we-first-kissed anniversary and I don’t even know what to say. I mean, just two days ago I would’ve thought that was extremely romantic, but now it’s kind of creeping me out. I guess it’s because of what I found out. Or more like what I kind of found out. Because sometimes having only a partial answer is worse than not knowing at all.

Finally called Marc back (I know, I know, bad girlfriend). Anyway, I told him dinner at Giorgio’s tomorrow night sounds good, but that I wouldn’t be able to see him ’til then.

But still, the more I think about it, the more I think it’s probably nothing, since he’s never done anything major to weird me out before (and you’d think I’d know by now if he had psycho tendencies or something). And I’ve definitely never seen him do anything remotely violent or destructive, and the only time he’s ever playing with fire is when we’re smoking, which doesn’t really count as playing with fire, right? (Just playing with your health — ha ha!) Anyway, I’m actually starting to wonder if maybe I’m the one who’s crazy!

I mean, I love him — I really, truly, totally do! And I can hardly believe the way I’m totally overreacting to something that in all likelihood is probably nothing! And I really have to stop acting like this because if I don’t then I’m

totally going to sabotage the only relationship I’ve ever had that’s actually made me feel extremely happy.

Not to mention how I need to learn to give him some space and respect his privacy since it’s really not necessary for two people to know absolutely everything about each other. In fact, it’s better not to. At least that’s what they say in Cosmo.

But still, I just can’t stop wondering why Marc wouldn’t tell me that he’s seeing a shrink. Unless it’s because I always make fun of my boss and the psychos who see him, in which case, I feel even worse.

Today I went shopping, thinking I’d buy something new and exciting to wear to my anniversary dinner tonight with Marc. But since everything that’s out now is pretty much for fall, and with the daytime temperatures still in the triple digits — and the nighttime only slightly cooler than that — I decided to just save my money and wear something I already have. Besides, it’s not like I’m all that excited about it anyway, not to mention how I need to start saving as much money as possible to invest in my photos, my future, and my one-way ticket out of this hell town.

And then just as I was about to leave, I remembered how Echo’s b-day is totally coming up. And since I was already out shopping, I figured I might as well get a head start and buy something early, as opposed to picking up something in a last-minute panic like I usually do.

But since she’s not all that into clothes yet, and since she barely wears any makeup or perfume, and since she doesn’t seem to focus much on her hair, that pretty much ruled out all of my areas of expertise.

So I headed over to the bookstore, where she likes to spend all her free time, but even though it’s not like it was the first time I’d ever gone in there (I mean, I’m not retarded, I just don’t like to read), still, walking around and trying to choose a book for her was basically impossible. I mean, there’s like so many titles, by so many writers, and that’s just in the teen section! And knowing Echo, she’s probably read every last one of them anyway. And not wanting to give her a repeat, I decided to bail.

Then just as I was on my way out the door, I spotted this display with like, all these book accessories and stuff, which I know probably sounds stupid since it’s not like people actually dress up their books like you do a doll, I just mean stuff like fancy jeweled and beaded bookmarks and little metal clip-on reading lights and stuff like that. And then just as I was thinking about getting her a bookmark/reading light combo gift set, I noticed this whole other shelf filled with diaries just like the one I’m writing in now!

And I thought, oh my God, that’s it! I’ll get her a diary. I mean, she’s going into eighth grade, and that’s pretty much when all the big drama starts, right? And it might be nice for her to have something private to record it all in, like when she gets her first crush, or first kiss, or starts fighting with Jenay and Abby, or reads a really exciting sentence in one of her books! (Just kidding about the last one because I know it sounds mean.) And since she’s so into reading

and writing and stuff, I figure she’ll probably end up writing in her diary even more than I do mine.

So at first I reached for the cobalt blue one — I guess

I’m just naturally drawn to that color — but then I thought how it’s probably better if she doesn’t have the exact same one as mine. I mean, for starters we’re complete and total opposites which means we don’t share the same taste in color either, and second, can you imagine if we had the exact same ones and then they somehow got switched!

And since that’s the kind of risk I’m just not willing to take, I ended up buying her this really pretty turquoise one.

Still blue, only different, calmer, like Echo. And since I still feel so guilty for never taking her to lunch (even after I promised I would if I survived that first Internet hookup meeting thing with Carly — which obviously I did), I bought some really pretty silver wrapping paper (instead of using old Xmas paper like I usually do), a pretty cobalt blue bow (so she’d know at first sight it’s from me), and then this little vanilla-scented candle to go with it, so that she can close her door, light her candle, and write about all the amazing things that happen in eighth grade.

And then after I came back home and wrapped it all up,

I hid it in the back of my closet, behind my big stack of shoe boxes so she won’t find it. I just hope I don’t forget that it’s there — because you know how it goes, outta sight, outta mind and all that.

I drop the diary and bolt upstairs to Zoë’s room, my hands shaking and my heart racing as I dive straight into her closet, pushing aside the tall stacks of shoe boxes, desecrating a space that’s been preserved for well over a year.

And sure enough, just like she promised, there’s a dark green shopping bag hidden in the back. So I take it over to her bed, where I sit on the edge, anxious to get inside.

But the moment that silver-wrapped box is on my lap, I’m suddenly reluctant to open it. Because this was meant to be unwrapped in a room full of laughter, family, and friends. It was never supposed to happen like this.

Though knowing Zoë, she’d want me to open it no matter what. And since so few of her plans had turned out as she’d hoped, I wasn’t about to disappoint her now.

I remove the bow gently, smiling as I tuck it behind my ear, remembering how Zoë and I always used to do that on Christmas morning, posing together like two Tahitian goddesses, red and green ribbons woven through our hair, while our dad stood before us, taking our picture. Then I slip my finger under the tape, taking more care than usual not to rip the paper as I unfold the edges, lift the lid, and retrieve the diary.

When I open it, the first thing I see is Zoë’s familiar loopy scrawl:

And then right below that:

Then I unwrap the candle, bringing it to my nose and inhaling its still surprisingly warm scent. Then I replace all the shoe boxes, putting them back the way they were, before going to my room, depositing her gift on my bed, removing all of my clothes, and heading for the shower.

And just as I’m closing the door, my cell phone rings. But knowing it’s either Abby or Jenay, or maybe even Marc, I just turn the taps up even higher, letting the spray beat hard and hot against my back as I sink down to the ground, bring my knees to my chest, shield my face from the deluge, and finally let myself cry.

I never cry. Even at Zoë’s funeral, when everyone was falling all over each other, falling all over themselves, I wore dark sunglasses, a stiff upper lip, and refused to give in to any of that. I guess I’ve never been comfortable with public displays of emotion. Because those kinds of moments, where I let myself cave and totally lose control, are always saved for when I’m alone. I mean, they’re really no one’s business.

And with my parents being such absolute basket cases, I knew even then that someone had to stay strong. And since it obviously wasn’t going to be them, I figured it had to be me. Besides, the last thing I needed was for a bunch of relatives, people who hadn’t seen Zoë since she was a baby, hugging all over me, crying on my shoulder, and giving their heartfelt condolences for a loss they could never begin to imagine.

And even though I know that may sound awful, the truth is that no matter how sorry everyone may have been, there wasn’t a single person on the planet who could ever understand how I felt about Zoë. How much I missed her. And the huge gaping hole she’d left in my heart.

But now, with everything veering so out of control, I know I can no longer go it alone. But wouldn’t you know it, Marc, the one person I trusted enough to turn to, turns out to be one person I never should’ve gone near.

When the water starts to run cool, I turn off the taps, dry off with a towel, then slip on a pair of my favorite old sweats. Then I pull my wet hair back into a tight ponytail and head down the stairs to the couch in the den, tucking the afghan tightly under my feet and picking up the diary from where I left off.