Saving Zoë

Twenty-six

At first I was worried how Parker would act. Would he be angry, dismissive, sad, happy, euphoric, grateful?

But then I decided not to care.

And it’s not because I was the least bit proud of the way I’d handled things. To be honest, I wasn’t proud of much of anything I’d done, it was more like now that it was over, I was over it too.

Though I was determined to deal with Teresa. I mean, I still had no idea what her motive might be, not to mention why she insisted on even hanging with me in the first place. And I needed her to know, once and for all, that she was wrong about me, that no matter what she thought, she and I were totally different, we had nothing in common, we were nothing alike. And that any secrets I may have had, I was now more than willing to blow right open.

So right before lunch I stand by her locker, just waiting for her to show. And when she sees me she waves and smiles and says, “Hey! Let me just dump these books and we’ll head on over.”

But I just look her right in the eye and recite the speech I’d been rehearsing all day in my head. “I’m not eating at the table,” I say. Tm hanging with Marc. And just so you know, I don’t care who you tell, or what you say, because I’m all out of secrets. But don’t forget, I still have yours.” Then before she can even respond, I turn and walk away, heading over to where Marc sits, feeling the weight of her stare the entire way.

It feels good to have nothing to hide. To no longer care what everyone thinks. Because knowing the real truth makes nothing else matter. And the real truth is that the only thing Marc has ever been guilty of is loving my sister. Despite what these small-minded people still say.

Because the fact is, Zoë never told him! I read it for myself. And if he didn’t know what she was up to, then how was he supposed to stop her? How could he possibly have done anything to save her?

And even though I feel pretty awful to admit it, I really need a break from Abby and Jenay. I mean, I love them, don’t get me wrong. And the last thing I’d ever want is for them to feel hurt or abandoned by me. But all the stuff they’re into now, everything they care about, is just so standard-issue teen — so normal and typical and boring and mundane, like they’re living in a sitcom, instead of the real world like me.

And it’s not that I don’t wish I could live like that too, because I really truly do. But unfortunately, that’s no longer an option. And no matter how much I might want for things to be different, there are some things I just can’t change. I mean, they don’t know what it’s like to live under the shadow of a sister like Zoë. They don’t know what it is to live with a vacant, numb, pill-popping mom and an absentee dad, and to have the whole town point and whisper whenever you go by. They’ll never know the pain of hearing the exact same people who left angels and cards for my sister’s memorial, gossiping behind her back, slandering her character, and acting like she somehow deserved it.

But I do know what it’s like to live like that. And that’s why I’ll never be able to blend. I’ll never be able to care about pep club or which jeans to wear to a party or who will ask me to a dance.

I’m a freak. There’s just no getting around it. And even though it wasn’t by choice, now that it’s a fact I have to find a way to live with it. And hanging with Abby and Jenay and all of their “normalness” only emphasizes my “weirdness.” So I need to find a place where I won’t always feel so strange and obtrusive. I need to be with someone who’s a lot more like me.

“Hey,” I say, sliding onto the bench next to Marc and tapping him on the shoulder, since he’s wearing earphones with his eyes closed, which means he can’t hear or see me.

He opens his eyes and smiles, then scoots over to give me more space.

And when he removes his earpiece I say, “Is it okay if I sit here with you?” I tear into a bag of chips, then thrust it toward him, offering him first pick.

“What about your friends?” he asks, looking at me intently, his deep dark eyes traveling over my face.

But I just shrug. “I thought you were my friend.”

He looks at me for a moment, then nods and inserts his earpiece.

And I eat my lunch while he listens to music. And even though it may look strange on the outside, on the inside, where it really counts, I’m finally at peace.

Abby and Jenay were so freaked about lunch, the whole way home it’s pretty much all they talk about. “I just don’t get it,” Abby says, while Jenay nods in agreement.

“There’s nothing to get,” I tell them, trying to maintain my calm, yet feeling completely annoyed at having to defend myself.

Abby shakes her head. “Urn, actually there’s plenty to get. Like your sister for instance? Not to mention what everyone’s saying.” They both look at me.

Before I respond, I take a deep breath, reminding myself not to get angry, that they’re my best friends and they only want what’s best for me.

But it doesn’t work, so I shake my head and say, Tm only going to say this once so I hope you both listen. Marc is in no way, shape, or form, the least bit responsible for what happened to Zoë.” I look at them. “And if you guys think you or anyone else in this town knows more about it than I do, well, you’re wrong. Because I’m the only one in this school, the only one in this whole entire town — outside of the cops and my parents — who knows all of the facts and details. And believe me, sometimes I wish I didn’t, but I do, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m also well aware of what all these small-minded idiots are saying, and how ninety-nine percent of it’s lies.” I shake my head and fold my arms across my chest. “But the worst part is knowing that half the people responsible for those lies used to be Zoë’s friends. So I’m hoping you guys can do a little better. I’m hoping you can be a better friend to me than they were to her, and try not to judge me or second-guess me, because I just might know something you don’t.”

By the time I’m finished I’m totally shaking, and my friends just stand there, eyes wide, mouths open, not saying a word. And feeling kind of embarrassed for going off like that and not knowing how to recover, I just turn away and head toward home.

Later that night Teresa calls. But when I see her number on the display I completely ignore it. And then right before I’ve almost fallen asleep, it rings again. Only this time it’s Marc.

“I’m outside. Wanna go for a ride?” he offers.

And after throwing on some jeans, boots, and my favorite sweater, I brush my hair, swipe on some lip gloss, spritz some perfume, open the french doors, shimmy down the tree, and run across the wet frosted grass toward his car.

As he navigates the dark quiet streets, I wonder if we’re going to the park. But when he brakes at the top of old Water Tower Hill, all I can do is laugh.

“You’re joking, right? The water tower?” I say, shaking my head. “I mean, if you’ve really got your own guesthouse all to yourself, then why are you bringing me here?”

During the day Water Tower Hill is known as the local eyesore. But at night, it’s known as the local underage make out place — where teens from as far as three towns over come to park, drink, smoke, and hook up. It even has its own creepy legend that seems to attract more people than it scares away.

Rumor has it that a long time ago, like back in the seventies or something, some girl from the next town over came here to cheat on her boyfriend. But evidently he was on to her, because he followed her here, parked far away, then crept toward her car. When he peeked in through the window and saw her and her lover kissing, he freaked out so bad he reached for his gun, pressed the barrel against the glass, and pulled the trigger twice, one shot for each head.

Apparently the impact of the blast tore them apart, leaving one hanging half out the window, and the other slumped over the seat. And it wasn’t until he opened the door and the lover fell out that he realized he was a she.

So now the story goes that the two slain lovers both haunt the place, protecting all the young innocent girls from men with bad intent.

And when I gaze at Marc I wonder about his intent, because I know I’m innocent, though maybe not for long.

Besides, it’s not like I’d ever actually believe a story like that.

Because ghosts are only real if you don’t really miss someone. When you do, they’re just a cruel joke.

“It’s beautiful up here. Just look at the lights,” he says, the leather of his jacket squeaking as he rolls the window down just a crack.

“Yeah, the only time this town ever looks good is when you’re looking down on it,” I say, wondering if Zoë’s looking down on us, and if so, what it is that she’s thinking.

He kisses me then, as I knew he would. I mean, why even come here, if you’re not gonna try?

My fingers are tangled in his hair, the pads of my thumbs smoothing those glorious, high cheekbones, as my mouth moves hungrily against his, wanting to capture this moment, willing it to never end.

“Zoë,” he whispers, lifting my sweater as his hands search for my breasts.

I lean in, kissing him even harder, feeling his fingers fumbling with the clasp at my back. “Here, let me help you,” I say, reaching behind.

But then he pushes me away, until I’m back in my seat, his face a horrified mask when he realizes what he just said.

But I don’t mind. In fact, I prefer it. So I lean toward him again, my mouth seeking his, but settling for his cheek. “Don’t worry,” I say, my lips grazing against the coarse black stubble that grows along his jaw. “It’s okay, really. I like being her.”

But he shakes his head and pushes me off, dropping his head in his hands as he says, “Oh God, Echo. Oh my God, what have I done?” He hides his face in shame, as he trembles and shakes, mumbling a whole string of words I can’t understand.

I just sit there, wanting to comfort him, desperately wanting to rewind and pick up right where we left off. But then he wipes his face with his sleeve, reaches for the key and turns it hard, startling the engine back to life. “I’m taking you home,” he says, staring straight ahead, no longer willing to look at me.

But I just fold my arms across my chest and glare at him, refusing to be discarded, refusing to let go of the best thing that ever happened to me. “No,” I say, my eyes narrowed, my mouth set.

He rubs his eyes and shakes his head, and suddenly he looks so much older and so incredibly tired. “I’m taking you home, Echo. We’re leaving, now. So please fix your top, so we can get out of here.”

I sit there, staring out the window, my lips trembling as though I might cry. Doesn’t he realize how much I need to be here? Doesn’t he realize how I’d much rather be Zoë than me?

But he just looks at me for the longest time, then he rubs his eyes again and says, “Don’t you get it? I’ve done enough damage. I can’t go hurting you too.” His jaw is quivering, his eyes black and hard, and he looks like he’s on the verge of something he can barely contain.

And when I realize his words I feel a chill down my spine. So I straighten my sweater, hug my knees to my chest, and stay like that the entire way.