Alyson ël - Saving Zoë

“Oh, is that why you stole my boyfriend?” I asked, which I know was stupid since it’s not like I care. I guess I just couldn’t stand to listen to her stupid, fake, best-friends-forever-and-ever-and-ever bullshit speech, especially since it’s no longer true.

So she goes. “You were over Stephen and you know it I can’t believe you’re acting like such a bitch, over a guy!”

But I didn’t say anything. Seriously, I refused to get sucked in any further.

So then she goes, “Seriously, Zoë, I’m worried about you. Everyone’s worried about you. I mean, how well do you even know him? ’Cause lye heard some pretty scary stories about his private school years. Why do you think he had to enroll in public again? It’s because he had no choice, nobody else would take him. Honestly, I think that whole quiet and mysterious act is totally played. Because the truth is, he’s just weird. And I know you know what everyone says about his family, right? I mean, they’re bad news. It’s like, he shows up at parties, but then barely even talks to anyone. He’s got all that money but he drives that old, beater car. He’s like some rich-ass grease monkey, and his mom is like a total pharm-hound boozaholic, not to mention she’s been married like a zillion times, not to mention how his dad’s supposed to get out of jail anytime now and Marc will probably go live with him — a convicted felon! A former prisoner! I mean, have you even thought about any of this?”

I know I shouldn’t have let her get to me, I know I should’ve just ignored it, but I couldn’t just let all that go. So I said, “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Everything you just said is all rumors and bullshit! None of it’s true! And if you were my friend then you would believe me, not judge me, and stand by me no matter what!”

But she just goes, “Sorry Zoë, but I just can’t do that.”

So I go, “Then you know what, Carly? I guess you’re not really my friend.”

When I hung up I felt pretty bad, I mean, we really did used to be best friends. But then I used to think I had a lot of friends. I used to think everyone loved me and cared about me, and only wanted the best for me. So it feels pretty bad to know they’re all talking shit about me instead.

But still, if I’m forced to choose, and apparently I am, then I choose Marc. And it’s not like I owe Carly or anyone else an explanation for that.

Because if you’re gonna make someone choose, then you shouldn’t be surprised when they don’t choose you.

July 7

Almost got caught taking a catnap at work today. Big time, serious close call. Normally I’m way more careful about stuff like that — / even set the alarm on the computer for ten minutes before the appt ends. But I guess I just didn’t hear it go off, cuz the next thing I knew Doctor Freud was standing over me, fingers scraping against his graying old scraggle chin, going, “Zoë? Are you okay?”

Luckily, I was slumped so far down my face was practically in my lap, so without even flinching I just opened my eyes, reached down, and grabbed the pen that had fallen on the ground. Then I looked up at him and smiled and said, “Yeah, I was just looking for this.” Then I held up that blue ballpoint, like it was solid evidence of a hard day’s work. And even though I don’t really think he bought it, he still just nodded, and then headed for the can. And by the time he got back his next appt was already there.

But the truth is, I was exhausted from Marc. And the fact that he spent the night last night! Seriously — the whole, entire, wonderful, glorious, outrageous, world-changing, life-altering night!

Since Echo left for her annual “Cerebral Campers” week or whatever they call that Camp Brainiac thing she goes to every year, Marc scaled the tree, came in through her room, crept down the hall, and spent the whole night with me until I heard both my parents making their way down the stairs in the morning.

It was the first time we’d actually slept together, first time we had sex together! And even though we’ve been dating for only two weeks — well two weeks ago since the first time he kissed me, then he left me hanging for a while but still, he’s pretty much the one that made us both wait. He said he didn’t want to rush it, that we should give it time to build.

I gotta admit, that worried me at first. I guess because I always figured he’d slept with a lot of girls. I mean he’s so hot, and so cool, and so sexy, and so mega rich, and definitely has that mysterious bad-boy vibe going. So I figured there were tons of ritzy, ditzy, country-club sluts just lining up to be with him. But he said he was done with all that, after his last girlfriend a little over a year and a half ago, and now, I swear this is what he actually said — Now all he wants is ME!

I wanted to believe that, but I kind of had my doubts. Also, I felt like I had to test him, so I could see if he really wanted me for me, or for the me that he wanted me to be. So I told him about all the guys I’d done it with, starting with the blow job I gave Bryan Boxer back when I was thirteen. And even though there really aren’t all that many guys (I mean thirteen was just three years ago), and I was with Stephen for a full year and a half (minus the two times I cheated) but still, most guys freak out at that kind of information, which is why most girls lie. Isn’t it funny how guys and girls always lie in opposite directions? Guys add, girls subtract.

Anyway, Marc just lay there beside me, listening patiently, and when I was done, he just shrugged and said he didn’t care. “Each step brings you closer to the next,” he said. “And that’s where we are now, the next step.”

So then I asked him about the next step after me.

But he just kissed me on the forehead and said, “Shh. All we ever have is now.”

How could I feel good about my life after reading that? Seriously. How could I possibly settle for my super nice, but ultimately boring (fine, there, i finally said it, okay?) boyfriend, and our low-to-no-passion makeout sessions, when I now know (albeit secondhand) just what it’s like to have the real thing?

I mean, I know I should probably just set the diary down and back away slowly, go cold turkey and never peek at it again, since all it seems to do is feed my disappointment and make me yearn to be someone and to have something that was never meant to be mine.

But now that I’m so far in, I can’t find my way out. And the truth is, with what I now know, I don’t ever want to go back.

I have to break up with Parker. I mean, it’s the right thing to do. Because staying with him, going through the motions, and pretending to be happy isn’t fair to anyone, especially him. But I feel so inept, and inadequate, and meek, and stupid, that I’m just not sure how to do it.

Not to mention that I’m just not sure if I’m up for all the fallout. You know, all the wheres, whats, whys, and hows that’ll ultimately follow. And what am I supposed to do at lunch? Do we still sit together, acting all amicable, while pretending it never happened? Or does one of us have to move? And if so, will it be me?

On the night of Teresa’s party, Abby was no longer trying to play it cool. And after calling me like a ton of times trying to decide what to wear, she moved on to e-mailing me photos of her top three choices, all laid out and spread across her bed, with empty sweater arms waving hello, unfilled pant legs river dancing, vacant shoes pointing in every direction, while her most beloved childhood dolls and stuffed animals stood in for her head.

She’d decided to go with Jax. Ever since the day Jenay invited him to sit with us at lunch and he turned out to be not only nice, smart, and funny, but also pretty cute. And since technically this is Abby’s first date, there’s no way she’s leaving anything to chance. Seriously, she has it all planned out. Even down to the conversations she expects to have.

I want to help her, really, I do. But my mind is totally stuck on Zoë’s diary, as I skim through the pages and reread certain parts, reluctant to move ahead, not wanting it to end.

“Okay, so which is better?” Abby asks. “Winnie the Pooh wearing the white blouse, blue corduroy vest, and jeans? Or Lisa Simpson in the flowy blue skirt and sweater?”

“Neither. I’m liking the Bratz doll in the black sweater, black boots, and jeans,” I say. “Although her head looks disproportionately small, and a bit lost inside that turtleneck. And that could make some of those well-scripted conversations more than a little bit awkward. Not to mention the kiss good night. So maybe you should switch to a V-necked sweater instead, you know, to even it out.” I laugh.

But Abby’s way too freaked to have a sense of humor. “Okay, that’s it. I’m calling Jenay,” she says, hanging up before I can even apologize.

I stare at the phone and think about Marc. Remembering how his number’s still probably stored from that one

time he called. And hating how I’ve been acting like such a wimp and determined to do something bold, I scroll down to his name and push talk. And before I can chicken out and hang up, he answers.

I sit on my bed, frozen, unable to speak. “Echo?” he says. “You okay?”

And I remember how the display works both ways.

“Urn, yeah.” I clear my throat while my fingers pick at a loose thread on my blanket.

“Where are you?” he asks, sounding calm, if not interested.

“Home,” I mumble, wondering what to say next.

“So, how are you?” he asks, the background music growing softer as he turns it down.

“I miss her,” I say, before I can stop.

He sighs. Then he says, “Wanna go for a ride?”

I would answer, but there’s a speed bump in my throat, and it’s stopping all my words.

But he doesn’t need an answer. “I’ll be right over,” he says, before closing the phone.

I grab my purse and run downstairs, stopping by the kitchen just long enough to tell my mom that I’ll be right back.

“Where are you going?” she asks, turning away from the sink just long enough to see what I’m wearing. For someone who was never much interested in fashion, she sure makes it a point to always take the time to check out my clothes now. But I guess that’s just another lesson learned during the whole Zoë thing, and how the cops need that kind of information so they can fill in the “last seen wearing” box on the police report.

I pause long enough for her to get a good look, then I head for the door, yelling, “I have to run an errand, so HI see you in a few.” And before she can even respond, I’m out the door and sprinting toward the corner, hoping to meet up with Marc without anyone seeing.

And when he turns onto my street, and I see the shiny midnight blue of his restored Camaro glinting in the hard winter sun, I feel happier than I can ever possibly explain.

“Hey,” he says, as he leans across the seat and props open the door.

I settle onto the black leather, noticing how the interior feels deeper and darker than my parents’ cars, almost like a cave. And I remember how Zoë used to call it The Coffin, and how that used to be funny, but not anymore.

“Park okay?” he says, glancing at me before pulling away from the curb.

I just nod and gaze out the window, feeling excited for the first time in days.

We don’t really talk along the way, we just listen to music by some band I’ve never heard. And when we get there, he parks the car and reaches behind my seat, the sleeve of his brown leather jacket brushing against mine.

Then he tosses me a bag of breadcrumbs and we head for the lake, where the ducks are already gathering, waiting to be fed.

I settle onto the grass beside him and start tossing crumbs, wondering if the view looked better to Zoë, less polluted, more serene, like maybe being in love somehow improved it.

Tm reading it,” I finally say, knowing I owe him an explanation for pulling him away from his day. But my throat feels tight, and my eyes start to sting, and it’s hard to say more, so I don’t.

But he just looks at me. “I know.”

I glance at him, wondering how.

“You called. And you’re no longer angry.” He shrugs.

“I was never angry,” I say, pulling my hand away from an overly aggressive beak.

“Just give him the rest, so they’ll all go away.” He laughs.

I empty the bag and bite down on my lip, feeling this weird sense of comfort sitting so close to him, someone who I know so much about, and who knows that I know.