“Speech! Speech!” Alex says. Jamie raises his glass.
“To us,” he says. And we drink to that.
38
Winter hits me hard this year. There is no sky this winter and not a single leaf clinging to a single twig. The icy wind burns through my gloves and my fingers ache until they fall numb and silent.
I cannot find anything to read. I wander through the shelves of the library, and take piles of books with me, but each one disappoints after fifty pages and I let it drop to the floor.
After school, I take naps in my bed and at dinnertime get up without fixing the sheets again. By then the sun is already setting, and there is nothing to do but eat and get through as much homework as I must before going to bed. I know that I should stop sleeping through the afternoons; I’ve started waking an hour or more before my alarm, and I lay awake in the dark and watch my window go from black to gray.
That’s when I think about things that I never let myself think about during the day.
At school, I am exhausted from my early waking, and by last period, I have a terrible struggle to stay awake. My English teacher doesn’t like me as much as I think she should. When she sees me doze off twice in class, she decides that I’m not a good student no matter what I write or say in class. I stop participating in the discussions.
When I come home in the afternoon and the cold gray hours are stretching on before me, I cannot stop myself from sliding under the covers and hiding in obliviousness.
I fight with Jamie because he doesn’t understand anything I say. I hate him for not truly knowing me deep down inside, and at the end of our dates, I cling to his coat and beg him to never leave me. He says he never will.
It snows a few times, but a wet sloppy snow that collects dirt and makes puddles. It is never enough to cancel school, never enough to be beautiful.
It makes sense that Finny loves Sylvie and doesn’t miss me.
At least once a week, he and Aunt Angelina come to dinner, or we go to them, and The Mothers talk while we eat, and afterward I say I have homework and I go upstairs or cross the lawn alone. I cannot sit in silence watching television with him. I cannot bear our small talk as he passes the remote to me. He is the better one of the two of us; he always was. Perhaps he is relieved to not have me holding him back anymore. He has so many friends now. He has Sylvie. It makes sense.
My father is back to his old schedule, no more Family Dinners, and I am angry with my mother for being upset. She should have expected this, she should have known better, and I hate her for making me sad for her. I have enough without having to worry about her too.
My hands are dry and red and my lips chap. I look in the mirror and do not think I am pretty. Some days, I do not bother to wear my tiaras, until people’s comments and questions make it easier to just grab any old one on my way out the door. I do not bother to see if it matches my outfit.
I cannot write anything good. I try and I fail. I realize now that it’s all fake. It always was. I turn off my computer and rip up my paper.
I used to say to myself that I just have to get through winter, that I just have to wait. That things would get better then.
And I know that winter is supposed to end, but things are not always the way they are supposed to be.
39
My mother sits down on my bed. I am lying on my side, facing the window. If I ignore her, she might go away.
“Autumn?” she says. Her voice is low. She thinks I am sleeping. “Autumn, we need to talk.” She runs her fingers through my hair and I let her; it feels good. She keeps stroking and the bristling resentment relaxes. I sigh.
“About what?”
“Can you sit up?”
“I’m tired.”
“I’m worried about you.” I shake her hands from my hair and sit up.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m just having trouble sleeping at night. It will be okay when winter is over. I just have to get through winter.”
“I think it’s more than that, honey,” she says. “I’ve made an appointment with Dr. Singh.”
At first, the statement is so ordinary that I do not know why she is telling me. Dr. Singh is her psychiatrist. She sees him every few months. But she keeps looking at me.
“For me?” I say. She nods and tries to touch my hair again. I flinch away again.
“I’m not depressed,” I say. “You are.”
“I know the symptoms,” she says.
“No. You’re just projecting on me. Everything is fine. When it’s warm again, I’ll feel better. That’s the only thing that’s wrong.”
“I’ll be picking you up early on Thursday,” she says, and she starts to get up.
“I don’t need drugs,” I say. She closes the door behind her. Her footsteps going down the stairs are the only sound. At dinner she says nothing, and the next day she lets me sleep.
***
The call from the office comes fifteen minutes into English class. I begin to pack my bag as soon as the intercom beeps. I want it all to be over already.
“There isn’t any homework,” Mrs. Stevens says. “Is there somebody you can get notes from?”
“Yes,” I say. I am standing now.
“Who?” she says. This is why I do not like her. I suspect her of suspecting things of me.
“Finn,” I say, and then I remember Jamie and Sasha have this class too. It wouldn’t help to take it back now. Mrs. Stevens looks surprised. She likes Finny; perhaps she doesn’t think he would associate with someone like me. The scattered whispers I hear tell me that a few of my classmates are surprised too.
“I can drop them by tonight,” Finny says. I wonder if he is sort of defending me. I don’t look at either of them when I leave.
***
My mother is sitting in the office in a tailored suit with leather pumps and a clutch purse in her lap. Her ankles are crossed and the secretary is laughing with her. She rises when I open the door and smiles at me.
“Have a nice day,” the secretary says to her, smiling too. I’m sure she could never imagine the rest of my mother’s life, the medication and the fights with my father, her times in the hospital. Sometimes I admire my mother’s ability to appear perfect; today I hate it.
My mother’s shoes click evenly on the linoleum as we walk down the hall.
“What class are you missing?” she asks.
“English.”
“Oh. Sorry. Too bad it couldn’t have been math,” she says. I shrug. “I love you,” she says.