Saving Zoë

Eight

By the time I get home, the house is mostly dark. And as I tiptoe upstairs and peek into their room, I’m surprised to find my parents already asleep. I mean, normally, well, I guess normally I don’t go to parties, but still, for the last year, every time I left the house unchaperoned, I always returned to blazing lights, a flickering TV, and at least one, if not both, of my parents staying up late, playing night sentinel.

But maybe this is a good sign. Maybe things are finally looking up. Maybe my parents’ paranoid period is coming to an end. Or maybe, this is just the result of my mom’s addiction to happy pills, and my dad’s utter exhaustion.

I change out of my clothes and slip into my pink-and-white striped pajamas, then I pad into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face of what little makeup I bothered to wear. And as I peer at my reflection, I lean closer to the mirror, noticing how my lips are all red and swollen, and my cheeks all flushed and tender, and I watch them grow even redder when I realize it’s because of Parker.

I guess I just never imagined something like that would happen to me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I planned to join a nunnery, or take a vow of celibacy, or anything crazy like that. Heck, I even assumed I’d get married someday, giving birth to the requisite number of kids. But all of that seemed so distant and far away. Like it was just one more thing on life’s big “To Do” list. Just stuff that grownups did, like subscribing to a newspaper or paying bills.

I guess I never thought about the whole attracting part of it. And how I might feel about someone. And how they might feel about me.

And it’s not like I’m hideous or anything. I mean, I’m pretty much your basic, ail-American, standard issue girl. But still, it’s not like I’m fun and sparkly like Jenay. And I’m certainly not amazing like Zoë. So I guess that’s why it’s

hard for me to make sense of that kiss. And how afterward, Parker stuck by me for the rest of the night.

When I wake up soaked in sweat at 3:06 A.M., feeling panicky, with my face all wet and my throat all tight and sore as though I’ve been sobbing in my sleep, I force myself to just lay there, slowly breathing in and out as I count, starting at one hundred and working my way down, just like that shrink suggested that time I accidentally told him about my dreams.

But even after counting, even after changing out of my damp pajamas and into clean dry ones, even after drinking a glass of water and assuring myself that there’s absolutely no reason to panic, I still can’t seem to relax enough to fall back to sleep. And then I make it even worse when I start thinking about my party, and how everything’s changing so fast in a way I once anticipated, only now that it’s happening, I’m no longer so sure.

i mean, my parents didn’t wait up, and a boy actually wanted to kiss me. And even though at the beginning of the night those two things would’ve sounded amazingly cool, now at o dark thirty, they no longer do.

Because, let’s face it, there’s comfort in being cautious. And there’s peace in the predictable.

But now, if everything’s going to be different, if everything’s going to be filled with possibility and opportunity, how will I know if I’m ready? How will I know how to deal?

And it’s not like Zoë ever worried about these things. “Better to ask forgiveness than permission,” she’d say. And God knows she doled out her fair share of apologies. But still, nothing ever fazed her. Nothing ever tripped her up. She just moved through life at lightning speed, expecting nothing but cooperation, approval, laughter, and fun.

Zoë was street smart and naive.

She was thoughtful yet reckless.

She was sexy but innocent.

She was a walking dichotomy.

And I want to be just like her.

I climb out of bed, grab my backpack, and retrieve the cobalt blue book that Marc gave me. Then I switch on my reading light, slip back between the sheets, and with totally shaking hands, turn to the first page, shivering when I see her familiar, round, loopy scrawl, and read:

This is Zoë’s diary. And you should NOT be reading it!

I knew she was right. But I also knew she had something to teach me. So I ignored the warning, and turned the page.