Alyson ël - Saving Zoë

I push into the empty bathroom, dump the contents of my lunch pack into the big green trash can against the far wall, then run cold water over my hands until the nausea passes. Then I smooth my hair, straighten my shirt, and head right back outside, and straight into Marc.

“Echo,” he says, his dark brown eyes peering into mine, as his pale slim hands clasp nervously at his sides. Up close, he seems thinner, and his hair looks darker, hanging long and loose around his angular face. But he’s still amazing, only different. Less contrived, more authentic, yet also kind of lost.

I just stand there, smelling the nicotine wafting off of him, remembering how it was Zoë who got him started.

And just as he opens his mouth to speak, Abby runs up and grabs hold of my shirt. “Echo! Hey! Let’s go,” she says, tugging on my sleeve and pulling me away.

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.

My friends are acting weird. And if I didn’t know better, if I was the more paranoid type, I would probably start to wonder if they still wanted to be my friends. But since we walk to school together every day, meet at break, sit together at lunch, and then walk all the way home again, it’s not like they’re trying to ditch me. It’s more like they’re trying to keep a secret from me. One that Jenay almost keeps giving away, which causes Abby to glare at her with narrowed eyes and a shaking head. I mean, I don’t know what they’re up to, but it definitely has something to do with this weekend.

“So, any b-day plans?” Abby asks, slipping her arm through the strap on her bag and hoisting it onto her shoulder.

I gaze at the ground, retracing the steps toward home, while remembering my last birthday, which, having fallen right in the middle of all the Zoë stuff, was hardly worth celebrating. And I seriously doubt this year will be any better. I mean, from here on out, every time I make it to another year, it will only remind me of how Zoë didnt And tell me, Where’s the “Happy” in that?

But I don’t want to share that with my friends and drag them down too, so instead I just go, “I don’t know. We’ll probably go to dinner or something.” I shrug. “Though my mom did promise to bake my favorite cake, so if you guys wanna come over after, it’s probably okay.”

“Pineapple upside-down?” Jenay asks, her eyes lighting up as she smiles.

“No, that’s your favorite. Mine’s red velvet.” I adjust my backpack, redistributing the weight so I won’t end up all lopsided and bent when I’m old.

“I love red velvet. Just give me a time and I’m there.” Abby smiles.

“I don’t know, eight, eight thirty?” I say, glancing up just in time to catch them exchanging a secret look.

The second I slip my key in the door, my cell phone rings. And I freeze, trying to decide which is more important, turning the key and beginning the long process of getting inside, or answering my phone. Because with two more dead bolts and a knob lock to go, there’s just no way I can accomplish both.

I heave a loud sigh, drop my bag, and ransack through the books and papers as i search for my cell. And by the time I find it, it’s almost too late, so instead of checking ID I head straight for hello.

“Echo?” The voice is definitely male but decidedly unfamiliar. I mean, the only male that ever calls is my dad.

“Yeah?” I mumble, curious who it could be.

“It’s me. Marc.”

“Oh.” I just stand there, clutching the phone, wondering what he wants. I mean, after that first day at school, I’ve definitely seen him a few more times, but it’s not like we stop and talk. But then, nobody talks to Marc anymore. And even though that makes me feel pretty sad on his behalf, that doesn’t mean I want to talk to him either.

“I know this is weird, but I was kind of hoping I could see you,” he says.

I gaze at the driveway and the long crack that runs down the center, as I search for a way out. “Oh, I don’t know. I mean, I’m kind of busy and all,” I finally say, cringing at how false that sounds.

“Listen, I know it’s awkward. And I know how your parents don’t want me around. But I also know that tomorrow’s your birthday, and I have something for you, something I think you’re gonna like. So, how ’bout it? Will you meet me?”

I hesitate, gripping the phone and weighing my options. Then I hoist my bag onto my shoulder, slide my key out of the lock, and go, “Where should we meet?”

There’s this lake in a park not far from my house that I always used to go to as a kid. Even though it’s not the kind of lake you’d ever want to swim in, since the water is murky and polluted and full of Big Gulp cups and beer cans floating along the top like they have every right to be there. I mean, someone would pretty much have to hate you to actually throw you in. But still, every weekend, people show up by the dozens, toting picnic baskets and spreading out towels, eager to spend the day lazing around, gazing at the scenery, and pretending they’re somewhere better. And even though I used to like to do that too, heading there now reminds me of just how long it’s been.

I see him sitting by the water’s edge just before he sees me. And even though I hate to admit it, my first instinct is to bolt. To just take off running, as fast and far as I can, as though my very life depends on it. But since I’m pretty sure he doesn’t deserve that, I force myself to keep putting one foot in front of the other until I’m standing directly before him.