Still a Work in Progress (21 page)

I force myself to sit up. When I pull the covers off, I feel cold and exposed but more awake.

“We should eat,” I say.

My parents look at me like they’ve never heard my voice before. But really it’s just that they’ve never heard me take charge before.

I get out of bed and pull my covers up in a halfhearted attempt to make it. My mom smiles appreciatively, and I know she’s probably thinking about her co-worker’s daughter.

I reach for her hand and pull her up. Then we all go downstairs, the Captain following behind.

Dinner is pizza delivered from our old favorite place before Emma went vegan and there wasn’t anything on the menu she would eat. I help my mom set the table, and my dad pours us all soda, which we rarely have, and certainly not without a comment from Emma telling us how much sugar and other bad ingredients it has.

We eat slowly. The tomato sauce and cheese taste stronger than I remember. Sweet and salty. The root beer bubbles sting my tongue. Everything tastes different, and I savor it. The forbidden, greasy cheese. The second glass of root beer. My parents eating food they’ve probably been craving just as much as I have but were always too afraid to eat in front of Emma in case it made her lose her appetite, which is the excuse she always gave.

Every so often, I look at Emma’s empty place and feel guilty. But at the same time, it feels so good to fill my body up with food. To eat until I’m full. I try to imagine Emma enjoying this feeling. I make a silent wish that someday she will. Someday she’ll want to pig out with me and not want to make herself sick after. Someday, she’ll be normal again.
Please let her just be normal again. I’ll make her bed for the rest of her life if she’ll just come home and be OK.

But I have this horrible feeling that things will never be normal. As my parents and I eat pizza as if it’s the last time we’ll have a meal like this, I start to feel sick to my stomach. All the salty greasy cheese that tasted so good five minutes ago suddenly feels like it’s choking me.

“Do you want another slice, Noah?” my dad asks. “There’s still plenty more.”

The way he looks at me, like he is begging me to eat and enjoy it, makes me force myself to take another slice. I force myself to smile as I chew what now tastes disgusting to me. I do it for them, because I can tell watching me eat this forbidden food is making them feel something they need to feel, even if I don’t know what that is.

As I chew, I look at Emma’s empty chair again and start to hate her. To hate her and miss her and love her all at the same time. As I do, I feel all that cheese and sauce and pizza crust churning in my stomach, begging me to let it all out. But I know if that happened, if I threw up now, it would destroy my parents. So I take another sip of soda, swallow it down, and pretend that this is the best meal I’ve had in ages.

Ryan and Sam ignore me the next day at school. In fact, no one really talks to me. They all kind of look at me and back off, like I could explode again at any minute. Fine. I’d rather be left alone anyway.

In art, I get some clay and work at a table by myself. No one asks what I’m working on. Not even Ms. Cliff. I have this strange feeling that they all secretly decided that no one should bother me. I try to shut everything out but the clay in my hands, how it feels cold and hard at first but then softens as I work it, slowly shaping nothing into something. It doesn’t matter what.

Every so often, I catch Ms. Cliff watching me out of the corner of her eye, as if she can’t help herself. But she manages not to ask me how I’m doing or tell me I should come to chat in her office.

Even the Tank leaves me alone in class.

The only one who doesn’t seem to have gotten the Don’t Talk to Noah memo is Curly. She follows me around like a puppy would, rubbing against my legs and sitting on my lap from class to class. Sometimes I think she knows when someone needs a friend. Not that I need a friend. At least, not the kind of friends who talk nonstop about nothing. I’m really starting to understand Emma’s list of beasts and why she made it. Doesn’t anyone care about stuff besides who broke up with who and who has crappy taste in music and who probably cheated on the French quiz? If I had to make a list today, I think they’d all be on there. But maybe that makes me a beast, too.

At lunch, I sit by myself until Lily comes over and gives me a disapproving look.

“Way to go, Noah. I hope you’re satisfied,” she says before stomping off.

I have no idea what she’s talking about, and I don’t really care. But then Belle storms over to me and waits for me to look up.

“Did you hear?” she asks, all know-it-all-ish.

“What?”

“Molly and Sam broke up.”

“And?”

“Good going,” she says. “I always thought you were nice, but I was so wrong.”

“What do I have to do with it?” I ask.

“Your little outburst made them get in a fight.”

“Why?”

She looks at me like I’m an idiot.

“Because of all the things you said. Molly thought you were a jerk, and Sam stood up for you, and then they both started arguing, and then they broke up.”

Curly comes over and rubs against my leg.

“Sam stood up for me?”

“Of course, stupid. Aren’t you best friends?”

I don’t know what to say.

“Don’t ask me why,” she adds. “You said some pretty mean things. I hope you’re proud.”

“I’m not. I was just . . . really mad.”

“No kidding.”

“Whatever,” I say.

“Great attitude.” She looks at me like I’m a rat. I think about the kid who doesn’t make her bed and imagine that’s Belle. I want to yell at her and tell her how unimportant and stupid Sam and Molly’s relationship is, but instead I pet Curly and ignore her.

“Just because your sister is sick doesn’t mean it’s OK to act like a jerk,” she says before walking away.

“What does she know?” I ask Curly quietly.

Curly licks my hand and walks away, too.

After school when I go up to my room, there’s a letter on my messy-but-made bed from Emma. My dad must have put it there. I can hear him in the kitchen making dinner, which means he left work early again. I hope he doesn’t get fired.

I sit in the beanbag chair Emma gave me and listen to the beads settle in their comforting way. The envelope is decorated with little peace signs and funny faces. I take my time checking out each face, trying to see if the people are supposed to be anyone I know, or just random. One has glasses, and I think that’s Sam. One is pouting, and I tell myself that’s Ryan, not me. I try to imagine Emma at the treatment place, sitting at some unfamiliar desk or table, decorating this envelope for me. I wonder what she was thinking about. I wonder if she was missing me — us — and wanting to come home.

I turn the letter over and over before I finally get the nerve to open it. I don’t know why I’m scared. I just somehow know that inside, I could find the real Emma or the pretending Emma. The one who tells the truth or the one who lies. My sister or the demon that took over her soul. What if I can’t tell the difference?

Slowly, I tear the envelope open and slide out the neatly folded paper inside. At the top, she’s written my name in cute bubble letters in different colors.

I read the note again, looking for any secret clues or possible lies. I study all the decorations for hidden meaning. The hearts. The smiley faces. The flowers.

Did she drink the hot chocolate? Did she eat the candy cane? Is she still insisting on her vegan diet? Did she try to puke it all up anyway? Why did she call me an only child? Does she really think I would want that? She’s trying, but does that mean she’s succeeding?

I fold the paper and put it back in the envelope.

Food smells waft up from downstairs and make my stomach growl. I go to my desk and tear out a piece of paper from my social studies notebook.

DEAR EMMA,
I write in block letters. Then I make shadows around the blocks and use my colored pencils to fill in the letters.

Wait. Should I really say that? Don’t I
want
her to feel sorry? I erase the sentence.

I stop. I am terrible at writing letters. My mom makes me write thank-you notes to my grandparents whenever they send me presents, even though they’re usually lame. But that’s my only practice.

Will that make her feel guilty? Or like she needs to get better faster so she can come back and save me?

Ugh. Would Emma really care about this? But I want her to know how much her present meant to me. I keep it.

I start to erase the last sentence, then decide to keep it. It’s the truth.

I reread my note, then add decorations. I draw a stocking overflowing with presents with a speech bubble that says, “Emma, open me!” And myself, looking miserable in the carpool car. I make sure to draw Stu and Harper really exaggerated, with Harper’s big nose and Stu’s big head. I draw Curly with a Santa hat on. I draw the Captain farting under the Christmas tree. I try to fill every free space on the paper with something funny. Then I color everything in. I put it in an envelope and start to write the address from the letter Emma sent. It feels strange to write her name with the wrong address. It should be 10 Atkins Road, not this other place. This other city. I decide not to decorate the outside. I just can’t.

“Noah! Dinner!” my dad calls.

I leave the envelope on my desk and go downstairs.

Dinner is lasagna, my old favorite. We haven’t had it in ages. Not like this. With real ricotta instead of Emma’s weird almond cheese that doesn’t taste like cheese.

“Nothing like real cheese, huh?” my dad asks. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile without forcing it in a long time.

“Where’s Mom?”

“She had a meeting. I thought we’d have a nice early dinner and then maybe watch a movie or something.”

“Dad, it’s a school night. I have homework.”

He waves his hand. “You can do it later, can’t you?”

“I guess.”

“I just thought it would be nice to hang out. Just the two of us.” He cuts a piece of lasagna and then passes me a basket filled with garlic bread. Everything smells delicious. The bread is slathered with real butter and sprinkled with parmesan cheese. When I take a bite, the flavors are almost too strong.

“This is amazing, Dad,” I say, since he seems so excited about it.

My dad’s mouth is full, but I can tell he’s still smiling. He gives me a goofy thumbs-up.

We eat mostly without talking, stuffing our faces with cheese and pasta. But just like with the pizza, about halfway through the meal, everything starts to taste wrong. My stomach tightens. I put down my fork.

“What’s wrong?” my dad asks.

“I think I ate too fast,” I say.

“Drink some milk. You’ll feel better.”

I sip some milk and notice it’s cow’s milk, not soy.

I feel like I’m going to throw up.

“Hmm,” my dad says. “Maybe you’re just not used to all this dairy. Maybe we’ve all become lactose intolerant.”

I don’t know what that means, but I don’t ask, because I’m pretty sure that’s not what’s wrong. I’m pretty sure what’s wrong is that I feel guilty for eating things Emma is against. I feel guilty knowing that I can eat this and not feel like I have to punish myself for it after. I feel guilty because I’m here with my dad, and she’s not. And it feels like by eating this stuff, we’re being unfaithful to her. Like we’re lying to her.