Saving Zoë

Five

Every day gets a little easier. But not because the whispering stops, or the staring ceases, or the teachers stop giving me that “Oh, you poor sad thing” look. Nope, all of that remains as blatant as ever. The reason things are getting easier is because every day I get a little better at ignoring it. It’s like, if no one else is willing to change, then I’ll be the one who does. So, I’ve simply stopped reacting. I mean, now, when people whisper as I pass in the hall, I refuse to hear it. And when my English teacher gives me that look, I avert my eyes. And when I walk through the cafeteria and everyone stops eating and talking so they can point and stare, I absolutely refuse to care. I just focus on eating my sandwich, drinking my Snapple, and watching Jenay flirt with Chess.

“Omigod, do you think he’ll ask you to homecoming?” Abby asks, just seconds after the lunch bell rings and Chess and Parker head for class.

But Jenay just gazes down at the ground, blushing and shrugging like she hasn’t even considered it.

“Homecoming? Jeez, I haven’t even thought about going,” I say, walking alongside them and gazing at Jenay, knowing that in a race between the three of us, she’s definitely the best bet. I mean, the odds are pretty much against a trifecta, at least with me in the race, and since Abby’s also like me, and has no idea how to flirt, I’m placing my wager on Jenay, for win, place, and show.

“He likes you, anyone can tell,” Abby says, smiling when she sees her blush.

But Jenay just shrugs. “Well, I guess we’ll just see what happens next weekend then, won’t we?” she says, waving over her shoulder and heading toward class.

“What’s going on next weekend?” I ask, searching Abby’s face, wondering what they could possibly be keeping from me.

But she just shrugs. “You know Jenay.” She laughs, bringing her finger to her temple and making the universal sign for looney toons. “See you after school?”

“Not today,” I say, watching her go and wondering if she heard me.

After school I have an appointment with a shrink. Though I guess when most people are seeing someone like that they usually say “my shrink.” As in, “after school I have an appointment with MY shrink.” But I don’t like to think of him like that. I mean, I can barely stand the guy, so I certainly don’t want to think of him as mine.

Besides, it’s not like I see him all that often anymore. And it’s not like he actually ever helped me when I did. I mean, okay, so this completely horrible thing happened to my family. I still can’t see how sitting in his office and sobbing my eyes out to the tune of $150 for a fifty-minute hour is ever going to benefit anyone other than him.

But my parents, being intellectually minded, called on their most sought-after colleague, who, according to my mom, actually gets away with charging twice that amount, and who “out of kindness, compassion, and as a huge favor to our family has decided to give us a deeply discounted rate.”

So because of all that, I was pretty much forced to spend every Tuesday after school, for almost my entire eighth grade year, sitting on that brown leather couch, with a beige floral Kleenex box placed squarely before me, as the Dr. Phil wannabe tried to trick me into saying the actual words, to verbalize and not euphemize what really happened to Zoë.

But even though I like to read and write, and even though I really do believe that words do hold the power to harm or heal, this was just one of those cases where words didn’t seem all that important. And no way was I giving in, just so he could feel all smug and accomplished and like he just might actually know what he’s doing.

But since I haven’t been to see him since the beginning of last summer, today is supposed to serve as some sort of checkup or progress report or something. I guess since it also happens to be the one-year anniversary of Zoë’s disappearance, my parents figured it was a good idea to have me stop by and pay the good doctor a little fifty-minute visit.

“Echo, come in. How’ve you been?” he asks, as I slide onto the familiar brown couch, eyeing the strategically placed tissues.

“I’m okay.” I shrug, gazing around the room, noticing how some of the artwork has changed but knowing better than to mention it. I mean, these people analyze everything you do, from the moment you arrive to the moment you leave, so extreme caution is advised.

“How’s school?” he asks, gazing at me through the upper part of his glasses, like he thinks wearing them down around the tip of his nose makes him look smarter or something.

“Fine.” I cross my legs and fold my hands in my lap, but then I immediately undo it since I don’t want him to think

I’m feeling anything other than totally relaxed, happy-go-lucky, and free.

“How are your classes, your teachers?”

“Good, and good,” I say, cracking a smile so he’ll know just how light and breezy I’m feeling today.

“And your friends? Still hanging around with those two girls?”

“Yup, pretty much since the beginning of time,” I tell him, gazing at his bald head and pathetic goatee, and wondering why he can’t see the oh so obvious symbolism in that

“Any boyfriends?” He smiles gently.

But I refuse to answer. He’s always pushing me to talk about boys and sex and stuff. But instead, I just give him a baleful look.

“Zoë always had lots of friends and boyfriends.” He says that like he used to hang out with her or something. Like he knew her really well, better than me.

“Yeah? Well, I’m not Zoë, am I?” I fold my arms across my chest, even though I know full well that he’s only trying to bait me. “And even though she may have had a lot of friends, she only had one boyfriend,” I say, wondering just how crazy you have to be to pay three hundred dollars for fifty minutes of this.

“Are you still angry with Zoë?” He leans back in his chair and crosses his legs, causing me to catch an unfortunate glimpse of his brown argyle socks and flaky white shin that is almost as bald as his head.

“Why would I be angry with Zoë? She was my friend, and my sister, and I loved her.” I roll my eyes, shake my head, and focus hard on my watch.

He sits there, watching me carefully, not saying a word. But I’m not buying it. This is just another one of his traps. I mean, I watch enough TV crime dramas, and I’ve read enough thrillers to know that cops, journalists, shrinks — they all rely on the same lame tricks. They all worship the power of the long penetrating stare and lingering silence that practically never fails in getting their suspect to divulge all of the personal, private information they never intended to spill.

But unlike most people, I’m not afraid of silence. And I couldn’t care less about being stared at. In fact, I’ve grown so used to it that it doesn’t even faze me.

So we sit. Him staring at me. Me staring at my watch. Seeing the second hand go round and round, knowing that each silent minute is costing my parents another three bucks.

And when our time is finally up, he looks at me and says, “Echo, are you ready to talk about Zoë?”

But I just grab my backpack and head out the door. “Zoë’s gone,” I tell him, closing it firmly behind me.