Page 115 of Intermission
Sure, we both know Mom can be moody. Temperamental. Kind of vindictive sometimes. But shehitme. She said horrible, vile things. She made me go that clinic and...
I meet my sister’s eyes. Concern lines her brow. There’s compassion there, too.
What if Gretchendidbelieve me? Could she... help?
“Why are you shaking your head?”
I stop. “Sorry.” If I tell Gretchen what Mom did to me, and if she believes it, she will absolutely say something to Mom. Maybe even make a scene, right here in this store.
And I’ll be the one to pay for it later, at home.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Her frown deepens. “I want to respect that, Faith. But the way you’ve been acting today? It’s not like you.”
“I’ll be fine. Really.” Every detail is on the tip of my tongue, begging me to let it out, but... what’s the point? It’s not worth the effort.
I’m on my own.
“Okay.” She sighs. “But if you change your mind... I’m here.”
I have to swallow again. “Thanks.”
We go to a few more stores. I try on the things she and Mom tell me to. I nod or shrug my acceptance of the purchases. But viewing the excursion through a fog of humiliation, a haze of shock, and an overwhelming sense of loss, I don’t truly notice the excess of our shopping trip until we’re home, unloading the bags from the trunk.
Hollister, Abercrombie, Old Navy, Dillards, Scheels, Forever 21, Sephora...
Bag after bag after bag . . . It’s ridiculous.
Wait. Scheels? The sporting goods store? I don’t even remember darkening the door, but I must have, because I have the Under Armour and Adidas to prove it. In fact, this one shopping trip has added enough clothes, shoes, and accessories to my closet that I could probably outfit myself and five of my friends andstillhave clothes left over.
I stare into my closet, remembering what my sister said earlier in the day. Is this evidence that Mom feels some sort of guilt?
Maybe.
I don’t need this much stuff. I don’t want this stuff. Yes, I will enter the eleventh grade in style, but for reasons that make me sick.
School starts two weeks later.
I’m nominated for Student Council again, and without putting an ounce of effort into my campaign, I score enough votes to be named Junior Class Vice President. I know it’ll look good on my college applications, but I can’t make myself care. All I think about is Noah.
What is his flat like? Has he made friends? Of course he’s made friends. He’sNoah. Does he like his classes? Has he been to see a show on the West End yet?
In October, I take a calculus test without bothering to study for it. When I receive the test back, a harsh red C- mars the white page, startling me back into my life.
I’ll be filling out college applications soon, and every single gradecounts toward my dream.
My escape.
If I’m going to get into a good college, if I’m going to get away from this place, I have to wake up and work for it.
Broadway.First, a good college with a great Musical Theatre program and then Broadway.
And in the meantime . . . Eight, nine. Eight-seventeen.
Noah.
Someday, Noah.
