do you mean? What’s wrong with Tootsie Roll Pops and Smarties?”
“Usually you get chocolate,” I said.
“Yeah, and then I wind up eating what’s left. Best to get rid of the temptation. But don’t worry,” she smiled. “Flor is coming over later and she’s giving out the good stuff. I’ll ask her to save you some.”
“Thanks.”
“How . . . how has school been since . . .”
“The grief counselors have gone, so I guess we’re supposed to be over it by now.”
“Well, it doesn’t exactly work that way, you know that. Did James have many friends? Have they thought about memorializing him in any way?”
“He was a bully, Shirley.”
“Eleanor, you know I hate—”
“Well, he was. And I’m sure he must have had some friends, but . . . I don’t know. The thing is, I’m still trying to figure out why it all upset me so much. It’s like I feel this need to understand why he would . . . why he needed to . . .”
Suddenly, Shirley was holding me, and something must have opened up inside me because I was weeping. Really, James, like chest heaving and snot everywhere.
“We may never know, sweetheart. And I wouldn’t dare tell you how to feel, but—”
“But?”
“But the reason was his. It doesn’t matter so much now. What matters is what remains.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Eleanor, when I was feeling depressed, if I had tried to tell you, if I had successfully articulated what was going through my mind, it wouldn’t have necessarily solved anything. In fact, it wouldn’t have made you feel better. It may not have even helped you to understand. Sometimes life and who and how we are just doesn’t make sense. It just is. We work with what we’ve got.”
“But he couldn’t. He couldn’t work with it.”
“No, but again, it’s about the remainder. Being as alive as you can possibly be. To understand who you are and . . . well, keep going, I guess.”
Shirley wiped my nose as though her fingers were a tissue. Gross, I know, but that’s what moms do, I guess, and all I could do was smile.
“I’m not ready to call you Mom,” I said, nervously.
She just stared at me and I worried she was going to break down. Then, she said in an almost-whisper, “I understand. You let me know when you are, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.”
Then, the doorbell rang, and we had a slew of ghosts and Power Rangers and some costumes we weren’t exactly sure of and the night rolled on.
Tuesday, November 2
Dear James,
Dara actually talked to me today. She dropped a note on my desk in math class.
Eleanor, can we talk? I feel like it’s been 4ever. Maybe we can sit together on the bus after school? Dara
Before I headed out the door after class, I turned to look at her and nodded. I may have smiled a little too. I guess I figured she hated me and had no interest in making up. It didn’t seem like she told my secret to anyone.
On the bus ride home, it felt so strange to be sitting next to her again even though it really hadn’t been that long. And yet, I felt like so much had changed. Although my hair was growing in, I really liked it short. I’ve begun to play around with it a little, using gel and mousse, some days slicking it back or letting it be like a wild thunderstorm jutting from my scalp. Shirley keeps asking if I’m going to let it grow out, but after cutting it, I can’t imagine it the way that it was. This is me now.
“Hey, I bought a bag of your favorite chips—barbecue. Want some?” Dara opened the bag and brought it closer to me.
“Sure.” I leaned in and dipped my hand into the bag.
“So, what’s up?” Dara crunched on a chip and half of it plunged into her lap. Barbeque powder rained like New Year’s Eve confetti on her thigh. She swatted it away, waiting for my response.
“I failed my Spanish test,” I blurted.
“Oh yeah? I’m doing pretty good in Spanish. I can help you with conjugation or whatever.”
“Yeah, maybe. What’s up with you?”
“My parents are probably getting a divorce.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Dara.”
“My dad was sleeping in the basement for weeks and I finally just asked him what was happening. They’re calling it a separation, but . . .”
“Well, maybe they’ll change their minds. You never know.” I said this, knowing they probably won’t.
“Maybe. Remember the beach this summer? Feels like so long ago. I had a feeling then. They were being so nice, and I don’t know, something felt off. Remember?” Dara’s voice drifted and I could tell she was quite sad about it.
“Yeah. Gosh, that really did feel like so long ago.”
I spent two weeks in July—before Gret went away—on Long Beach Island at Dara’s family’s beach house. We lived on hot dogs and fried everything and one night, we walked outside in our pajamas and howled at the moon (kind of) and fell asleep in the sand underneath more stars than we could ever count in our lifetime.
“I thought maybe you’d apologize first,” she said.
“I’m not sure what I’d be apologizing about. You’re the one—”
“You just ran out of my house that day! Didn’t call or anything. And then you came to school and all your hair was gone. I’m supposed to be your best friend.”
“You are. You were.”
“And you’re . . . you know . . . and you didn’t even tell me that.”
“Gay? Did you happen to think that maybe I wasn’t ready to even say anything? I haven’t even told anyone yet. Have you?”
“No, Eleanor. I wouldn’t blab. It’s yours to tell, but. Are you really? I mean, how do you even know?”
“How do you know?”
“How do I know what?”
“How do you know you’re not gay?” I asked.
Dara just looked at me as though I had asked her the most ridiculous question.
“Eleanor,
