Alyson ël - Saving Zoë

She’s the reason they invented spotlights.

And she left anyone standing next to her feeling like a dull, spent bulb.

But what did surprise me was the way I felt as I was reading. So close to Zoë, like she was sitting right there beside me, whispering the words in my ear, and urging me to turn the page.

And it feels so good to finally have her back, that I switch off the light and close my eyes, saving Zoë for another day.

By Monday at school Jenay and Chess are officially a couple. Though that’s really no surprise for those of us forced to watch them make out for the remainder of my party. And as I head for the lunch table that has gotten so crowded weVe merged with the one beside it, I actually have to fight the urge to just turn around and bolt.

I mean, where would I go? Back to junior high? Because obviously, that’s no longer an option. So instead I take a deep breath and smile at everyone, including Parker — who I’ve managed to avoid until now.

“Hey,” I say, dropping my lunch on the table, and easing onto the long yellow bench.

Jenay smiles then goes right back to her story, and by the time she’s finished everyone is laughing. Well, everyone but me. Since it’s the one about how when she and Abby were watching her baby brother and he squirted them both in the face just as they were changing his diaper, which believe me, I’ve heard like a million times before.

So I just reach into my lunch pack and retrieve my sandwich, trying to ignore the fact that Parker is waving at me, trying to get my attention.

“Hey, wake up,” he says, leaning toward me and smiling. “I called you last night but it went straight to voice mail. I got your number from Jenay. I hope that’s okay?”

“Oh, sorry about that,” I say, twisting the top off my Snapple and taking a sip. “My phone was off, and by the time I realized you’d called…” I just shrug, letting that trail off to nothing. Because the truth is, it’s not like I was going to call him back anyway. And it’s not because I don’t like him, I mean, I’m not exactly sure how I feel about him. It’s mostly because I’m so freaking lame I don’t know what to say after “hello.”

“Did you have a good weekend?” he asks.

I think about the book I read, the homework I finished, Zoë’s diary, and shrug. “Yeah. You?”

He nods, still leaning toward me, still smiling, still gazing at me with those deep blue eyes.

But when I see him looking at me like that, ignoring everyone else just so he can concentrate solely on me, it makes me feel so freaked out, so nervous, and so totally inadequate, that I stand up and say, “Urn, I’ll be right back.”

Then I abandon my lunch, abandon the table, and run out the door, desperate for fresh air and a temporary respite from the worst part of me — the pathetic, fearful, morbidly insecure part. The part that wonders why a guy as cute as Parker would ever like a girl as dorky as me, why anyone anywhere would ever like me.

I run past the burnout tree, the one where all the hard-core partiers hang, thinking how they’re the only group in this whole entire school who never point, stare, or whisper as I pass. But maybe that’s because they’re just too stoned to care. I mean the cheerleaders, the song leaders, the drill teamers, the mascots, the jocks, the drama freaks, the band geeks, the science nerds, the fashionistas, the club leaders, the council reps, the Goths, the Preps, the ROTC marchers, the girls who starve to be skinny, the girls who barf to be skinny, the scrawny guys, the wannabes, the techies, the sluts, the virgins, the cutters, the Future Farmers of America, the alterna artists, the rainbow kids — the one thing they all have in common is that they all stare at me. Every single one of them. But the major druggies? Not so much. So it feels pretty safe to pass by.

I head toward the bathroom, even though I don’t really plan on going inside. But it’s good to have as a decoy route in case Abby decides to come looking for me again. And then just as I turn down the hall where I’d planned to lean against the wall until the bell rings, I see Marc sitting not two feet away.

“Oh. Hey,” I say, surprised to not only run into him again, but also to see that he’s smoking, on campus, as though it’s actually allowed or something.

He just looks at me and nods, squinting his eyes as he takes another drag.

“I was just on my way to—” I point straight ahead, feeling the need to explain my presence, yet feeling embarrassed by how fake I sound.

But he just drops his cigarette, smashes it with his thick, rubber-soled boot, looks up at me, and goes, “Did you read it?”

I gaze down at the ground, not wanting him to know.

Then he gets up from the bench and brushes right past me. “You will when you’re ready,” he says, walking away.

“Where the heck did you go? Parker thinks you hate him.” Jenay merges her brows together and shakes her head. “He waited so long, he was late to class.”

“Why would I hate him?” I ask, focusing my guilt-ridden gaze on the sidewalk, as we head toward home.

“Uh, because you ran off and never returned? I’m serious, Echo, you should’ve seen him. He just sat there with your lunch right in front of him, wondering if he should save it, eat it, toss it, or what.”

She’s staring at me, I can feel it. But since Abby’s in the middle, that means I’ll have to go through her if I want to confirm it. And I feel really uncomfortable talking about all of this, partly because it makes me feel weird, inept, and embarrassed, but also because I know Abby likes Parker too. She has for years. She just won’t admit it.

But Abby’s totally on to me, and she’s not about to let me off easy. “Don’t be going all AWOL on my account. So what if I think he’s cute. I think a lot of guys are cute. And it’s not like I was all attached or anything,” she says, kicking a rock out of her path and shrugging like she really doesn’t care. “So if you really like him, then just go for it, Echo. Don’t hold back because of me.”

“Do you like him?” Jenay asks, her eyes growing hopeful and wide as she waits for a definite answer.

Only the thing is, I don’t have a definite answer. Because I’m not really sure how I feel. Though I do know there’s a “right” answer, one that will make her happy, and hopefully put an end to all of this. So I take a deep breath and say, “Totally. I mean, why wouldn’t I? He’s cute, and sweet, and smart. And it’s not like there’s anything wrong with him, right?”

The second that’s out, Abby starts cracking up. I mean full body bent over laughing, while Jenay just rolls her eyes and shakes her head and goes, “That’s it? You like him because there’s nothing wrong with him? You like him because he has no obvious defects? Jeez Echo, that’s real romantic stuff. I mean, you’re just head over heels then, aren’t you?”

“No, I just…” I gaze back down at the ground, wondering who I’m trying to convince more, me or her. “I like him,” I finally say. “Okay? Happy now? He’s really nice, and a really good kisser too.” I peek at both of them, feeling relieved when I see Jenay smile, hoping that means she believes me.

“Then it’s settled. He can ask you to homecoming and you won’t say no?” Jenay asks, her voice full of hope. “Cause it would be really fun if we could double date, don’t you think?”

I nod at Jenay and then gaze at Abby. But she’s no longer looking at me. She’s busy staring straight ahead.

Two days before the dance, I tell my mom I need a dress. Though of course Jenay had already bought hers, like the day after my party. And Parker, just naturally assuming I’d already gotten mine too, kept quizzing me about the color so his mom could order a matching corsage.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I hadn’t bothered to even think about a dress, much less go look for one. So I lied and said I was torn between a black one and a white one, so any old flowers should do.

“It would’ve been nice if you could’ve given me just a little more notice,” my mom says, shaking her head as she trolls through the racks, trying to find something pretty and affordable that won’t make me look like a slut.

I just stand there, amazed by the show of emotion. It’s been so long since she’s expressed sadness, annoyance, or anything stronger than zombie-like calm.

“Zoë and I always used to make a day of it. We’d buy the dress, have lunch, and then go looking for a bag, jewelry, and shoes. But this, this two days’ notice.” She shakes her head again, this time pursing her lips. “What if we need alterations? Did you ever consider that?” She looks at me, eyes clearly alarmed at the thought. Well, as alarmed as those happy pills allow.

But I just shrug. I mean, even though it’s nice to see her thawing out of her usual, icy numbness, I really don’t appreciate having to compete with Zoë. Especially when I’m so clearly the loser. I mean, I may be the good, obedient, straight-A daughter, but Zoë was the exciting one. Zoë was the fun one. Zoë was the glamorous one. Zoë was the kind of daughter you actually miss.

“Well, I guess if it’s too long, I’ll just get higher heels or something,” I finally say, determined to ignore that last slight of hers and get through the rest of the day unscathed.

But she just ignores that, presses a handful of dresses into my arms, and goes, “Here. It’s a start. Now where the heck is that salesgirl?”

If you were going to categorize my mom, you’d obviously choose words like “organized,” “controlling,” and “type-A personality.” But that doesn’t mean she can’t be relaxed, compassionate, or fun. Though in the last year, it’s like she’s been riding an emotional roller coaster, and it’s been kind of hard to adjust to all of the surprising twists and turns.

I mean, everything started off all fine and well. One of her papers finally got published and she was actually awarded tenure, which is like a really big deal. But then the whole Zoë thing happened, and she headed straight into this rapid descent, her tears and depression building at an alarming speed until one day, after an extended couch-sitting, food-avoiding, sleep-depriving crying jag, she reached for that bottle of doctor-prescribed happy pills, and ever since it’s been miles of flat track, allowing for a safe but boring ride.

But that little show of annoyance back there in the store, when she compared me to Zoë and got all upset? Well, that’s something she’s never actually done before. And I wonder if it signals another drop ahead, one that I won’t realize until it’s too late.

“Well, under the conditions, I’d say that went much better than I anticipated,” she says, carefully placing her linen napkin across the lap of her jeans, but not those high-rise, tapered-ankle, multipleated “mom jeans” (thank God), but still, dark blue and no-nonsense. “And you’ve got quite the figure, young lady. Who knew?” She raises her thin, arched eyebrows and cracks a brief smile.

“Yeah, quite the stick figure,” I say, gazing down at my nearly concave chest, wondering if it will ever progress.

“Don’t kid yourself. You’ve got your great-aunt Eleanor’s figure.” She nods, her short, brown, wash-and-wear hair barely moving. “And she was a model for Saks.”

I think about Zoë, and how she always wanted to be a model, and I wonder if my mom ever said that to her.

“So tell me about this young man.” She leans forward, taking a sip of iced tea.

I gaze down at my lap, knowing she’s only trying to connect, and wishing I felt more comfortable talking about things like this. “Well, I’ve known him forever, but we never really hung out until now, and I don’t know, his best friend asked Jenay, and so, he asked me.” I shrug, using my straw to move the lemon wedge and block of ice that’s impeding my progress to the good stuff below.

“Do you like him?” she asks, as though we always engage in these heart-to-heart girl talks, as though nothing’s changed, like we’re just picking up right where we left off. And it’s been so long since she even tried, that it makes me want to give the right answer, the one that will keep it going, the one that will keep her feeling this way.

But I also don’t want to lie. So instead, I just nod.

“Well, your father and I are looking forward to meeting him. And I’m so glad we went with that cobalt blue dress, aren’t you? I was thinking maybe a silver purse and shoes? What are your thoughts?”

I reach for my menu and pretend to read it. “Urn, I guess something cute and dressy, that I can actually walk in without falling over.” I shrug.