“We miss you in trig,” he says.
Which no doubt is weird but is meant as something positive, so I’ll take it. It almost makes me want to draw a pink triangle and then measure the angles and sides and figure out the functions.
In humanities class, Ms. Steck concentrates on our previous discussion about Plato’s Allegory of the Cave. She asks, “What do you think Plato meant to say when he talked about the freed people returning to the cave? Did he think they couldn’t handle the outside world? Did he feel they needed to be controlled? What does that compare to in our society? Do we have places like the cave?” She glances at me when she asks this, but she doesn’t call on me, and I send love to her for it. Ms. Steck, I know you sat in that faculty room and heard every stupid rumor. I love you because this discussion is exactly what I needed.
I will not be like Kristina and go back into the cave.
During the final five minutes of humanities, she says, “Only one week until Socrates week! Are you all ready?”
Clay shouts, “Hell yeah!” like he’s at some basketball game or something, and it makes us all laugh.
“I want all paradoxes on my desk by Friday,” Ms. Steck says. “If you want to change it, you’ll have until project day to do that. But I want something from all of you by Friday. Got it?”
We all say, “Got it.”
During fourth-period study hall, I sit in the back corner of the auditorium, as far away from the Koch twins as I can, and when the teacher calls roll, I say, “Here,” and no one makes me move. Students turn around and look at me. Some empathetically. Some meanly. Some just fly-catchingly, like codfish. I tell myself that the majority of people in study hall are fine people. The Koch twins are just lame. Kristina was right. They’re probably jealous because of Jeff.
Speaking of Kristina, she’s not here today. Which means it’s just me against the world—all by myself.
Before American lit, I see a sign outside Ms. Steck’s door. It reads: MS. STECK ’S PUSSY. Is it wrong for me to want to at least correct the misplaced apostrophe before I rip it off the wall and stuff it in my backpack?
Mom is still in bed when I get home.
They say: Did you hear Claire Jones is sick?
They say: That kind of news could kill a person.
I hear the low murmur of Mom talking to Ellis through the bedroom door again—the two of them giggling and chatting about something giggly and chatty, so I knock.
I stand outside the door for a few minutes, and the two of them stay quiet. Then I slink to my room and close the door.
I call Kristina, and she answers on the first ring.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
“You ever coming back to school?”
“Maybe Friday. The Houcks are taking a last-minute autumn vacation to see the glorious leaves of New England,” she says.
“Aren’t the leaves all done already?”
“I don’t know. It’s all bullshit because my mother is still freaking out. Jesus. You’d have thought I killed someone.”
“Have you talked to Donna?” I ask.
“We’re texting, mostly. I don’t want to piss off the parental units too much. But I told them that I love her, and I’m guessing it’ll sink in one day. Maybe the leaves of Vermont will help them not be amoral ass**les.”
“So it’s Astrid against the world this week, eh?” I ask.
“I guess. Believe me, I’d be there if I could. Being stuck in a car with these two for a few days is probably worse.” I know it’s not really worse. Mrs. Houck will probably let her drink fancy coffee drinks and eat pastries to make everyone feel better about their ruined lives. “Anything else?” she asks.
“Uh, no, I guess.”
“I have to pack, you know?”
“Yeah. Of course,” I say. “Have a nice trip.”
She hangs up before she can even hear me say that.
Dad and I eat alone again. Pizza this time. He takes half of it upstairs, where the exclusive Mommy and Me–type slumber party is going on without us. He’s too stoned to talk, and eats like a college student. I don’t see Ellis until we meet in the hall outside the bathroom on our way to wash up before bed.
“You go,” she says quietly. “I can wait.”
“So what’s with you?” I ask.
She sighs and crosses her arms. “Look, just leave me alone, okay? And whatever you do, don’t talk to me in school. Let’s just pretend we’re not sisters for the rest of the year.”
“Wow,” I say. “That’s shitty.”
“You want to know what’s shitty? Everybody in my homeroom calling me a dyke!” She points to herself. “What’s shitty is having to explain to people that it was you, not me, who was caught in a seedy g*y club. What’s shitty is what this whole thing has done to Mom. She can’t even get out of bed. She knows everyone is talking about her.”
I so want to tell Ellis that Mom can get out of bed. She’s not paralyzed. She’s just using this as another way to pull Ellis closer to her and farther from me. But I don’t say that. Instead, I say, “She knows everyone is talking about her?”
“And me.”
“And you,” I say. “About her and you?”
“Yes, Astrid, I know the whole world is talking about you, too, but you are the one who chose to go out and shake your booty with your g*ys, you know?”
I stare at her before I turn around to leave. Ellis, I love you even though you are a complete idiot. It doesn’t work. Ellis, I love you even though you are brainwashed. Nope. Still doesn’t work. Ellis, I’m sorry. I tried to love you, but right now I wish you weren’t my sister, either.
33
NOTHING MATTERS.
WEDNESDAY. I avoid looking up at school anymore.
People say: I think Astrid Jones is gonna commit suicide.
They say: I hear Kristina Houck dumped her.
They say: She should just kill herself now.
As I walk down the halls, I see them shackled to the waxed tile floor, ankle cuffs digging into their skin. I see how many of them need to be in the cave. I see the ones who will never leave and the ones who have to return because they can’t handle what’s outside. Which is: nothing. Nothing is outside. Rumors don’t matter. Unity Valley reputations don’t matter. Whether I’m g*y or not doesn’t really matter.
This is an extremely freeing thought. I smile all the way to my homeroom wing only to find some idiot has drawn this in red crayon on the block wall above my locker: