her brain melted or something. Not like she didn’t make sense, no, not that. More like, she was at a loss for words. For understanding.
I didn’t know you liked to cook. I don’t really know anything about you, really. I wonder what your favorite recipe was. James, did you leave a note? Did you tell anyone beforehand? Who was your best friend? Did you ever get to be in love? Did you ever kiss anyone?
At the end of group, people started folding the chairs, putting away the cups and napkins, grabbing the last of the cookies, chatting a bit. I motioned to Flor that I was going to talk to Helaine. When she mentioned your name, I think Flor understood as well.
“Hi,” I said to her.
She was looking at one of the few pieces of art on the walls. Some kind of landscape with a setting sun.
“H-hi,” she said, still staring at the painting.
“I’m fifteen too,” I said, hoping maybe she’d make the connection.
She turned to face me. “Oh.”
“Um, I knew him. James. I mean, we weren’t exactly friends, but—”
Suddenly her skin grew pinker. “You did? You . . . did you have any idea? Did he tell you—”
“No, no, I . . . we didn’t speak, but he was in my English class. He didn’t really talk in there either.”
“What’s your name?”
“Eleanor,” I said. “Eleanor Fromme, but I doubt James ever mentioned me.”
She shook her head.
“I’m . . . I’m so sorry for your loss.” Even as I said it, I hated every word. Why do we apologize when someone dies as though we caused it, as though we could have stopped it? Could I have?
“Thank you, dear. Tonight was . . . good. Maybe I’ll get Burt to come.”
“James’s . . .”
“Father. He blames himself. He . . . he’s a pastor. Always hoped James would be more . . . oh, I don’t know . . . Christian.” She smiled.
I definitely didn’t know what to say to that.
“May I . . . may I ask what causes you to come here as well?”
I took a deep breath. “My mom.”
“Oh, Eleanor, I’m so sorry—”
“Actually, she’s still alive. I mean, she tried to kill herself, but she’s okay now. I’m not so sure what okay really means. I’ll always be waiting, you know? Scared that she might try again, even though she promises me she won’t. I see her every day, but what happens when I’m in college and it’s just her and—”
“So much for a young person to think about,” she said.
“Yeah, well, I’m sure I’ll put her through a lot too,” I laughed.
“Maybe I’ll see you next Thursday, Eleanor.”
James, I can’t pretend that it wasn’t strange to speak to your mom after there were days I’d go home after being bullied by you and thinking a monster must have raised you to turn you into one. But she’s warm and even in her sadness, she seems so kind.
On the ride home, I told Flor about Helaine and feeling guilty that I still have my family member, while so many people in group lost theirs. Sometimes I feel like an imposter.
“Eleanor, you are everywhere you are supposed to be,” Flor said.
P.S. Your mom smells like banana bread.
Friday, October 22
Dear James,
It is so strange to ignore someone I used to tell all my secrets to. And I wonder if Dara feels the same way. On the bus to school, I had to sit next to Ross, who smells like old grape jelly sandwiches. Dara and I always sat together. I thought maybe she’d apologize. But it’s like I was invisible to her. And then of course, I had this terrible fear. I mean, she’s the only person that knows that I’m . . . just write it, Eleanor . . . A LESBIAN! What if she tells people? What if the whole school replaces you as my bully. What if James, you got to die with all of your secrets. I guess we all have them.
I don’t even know who your friends were. Sometimes I wish I could talk to one of them and ask what you were like. I don’t really think you were the monster I thought you were. After meeting your mom, I realized there must have been some of that kindness in you too, right?
There is a poster in our health class with a boy in mid-punch leaning toward a scared-looking boy. I think they’re in a cafeteria, maybe? In giant bold lettering, it says: BULLIES GET BULLIED SO DON’T BE A BULLY! I’m sure someone was mean to you and you just did what you saw. Mr. Giore (my history teacher) said that history happens over and over, so there is no past, just present-tense re-runs.
Greta used to bully me all the time. She’d boss me around and if I put up a stink, she’d yell at me. Sometimes she’d steal my favorite toy and hide it. She was worse than when Dad and Shirley would punish me. I’m sure I’ve bullied too. Maybe I’ve even bullied Dara. Bossed her around. Made her feel bad. I don’t know. What things can we forgive? And are there things we just can’t let go of? James, writing to you really digs at my apple core. I know I’m still so mad at Shirley for doing what she did. Maybe I won’t ever forgive her. But being in that support group helps. Maybe that’s why I stay, so I can try to let go of what she did. So I can trust her again.
Sunday, October 24
Ms. Raimondo said that to tell a story, one must start at the beginning. But who remembers that? I couldn’t speak when I began. I can’t remember what my first word was, probably Mom or Dad but certainly not enough vocabulary to tell my story. Or a story.
But Ms. Raimondo said something else, which I guess is why I’m writing this. She said that stories find their meaning once they are written down. You were there that day, weren’t you? When she said that? It meant something because I actually wrote it in my notebook and I’m not really the best note-taker—I usually start and then lose interest—but I wanted to understand it better.
Anyway, I never told anyone about that night. Last March. Maybe if I write it down, I can let go of it. Forgive you, maybe. It was so cold outside, but I had to get out of my house. Shirley had her book club people over. Every month they discussed romance novels as though they are . . . I don’t know . . . works of art or something. But that’s how Shirley met Flor, so I guess good things come out of weird things, right?
Everyone was smoking cigarettes, and it was like the tar was tiptoeing up the stairs, into my bedroom. I piled on a sweater over my long-sleeved shirt and another sweater over that with long thermal underwear beneath my sweatpants and I felt like a polar bear swallowed by another polar bear. Plus, two scarves, my winter coat and my Walkman with a mix tape made by Dara. I remember everything.
“Bored!
