Read Online 34 Pieces of You by Carmen Rodrigues - Free Book Online
Authors: Carmen Rodrigues
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should go to her. I want to tell her everything. I want to let her rub my head until it falls forward in perfect submission. But I can’t. The world has shifted too much, and I don’t know where to go from here.
9.
I’m c o nvinced I c o uld stand in the middle o f the r o ad and n o t b e hit b y a car. I am invisi b le. I d o n o t exist.
Jessie
AFTER. JANUARY.
Mrs. Medina calls me to her desk after class. She waits until the room has emptied and the final bell for the next period—her planning period—has sounded before she asks about Sarah. Back when Sarah cared about school, Mrs. Medina was her favorite teacher. It’s the reason why I worked so hard to get into her class.
“Jess? Did you hear my question?” Mrs. Medina clears her throat and says hesitantly, “Jess? Look at me.”
“Yeah.” I stare at a balled-up sheet of paper just shy of the garbage can for a few seconds, and then I force my eyes to hers. Her gaze is so reassuring it unnerves me.
“It’s okay,” she says. “You’re not in trouble.”
“I know.” I stare at her blankly.
“Do you?” she asks, but we both know this is a rhetorical question. “Look, Jess, you’re doing a fantastic job given the circumstances, but you’re so quiet in class. You used to talk before . . .”
The dot-dot-dot is standard speak around me now. When your very popular sister has accidentally overdosed and unenrolled from school, people tend to ask you questions with the dot-dot-dot attached. So the silence that follows isn’t as uncomfortable for me as it is for Mrs. Medina.
“Jessie, I’m worried about you.” She presses a hand to her neck and pauses to consider her words. “Maybe I should have a conversation with your mom—”
“No! Please, Mrs. Medina, don’t.”
Mrs. Medina raises her eyebrows. I’ve never exclaimed anything to her before.
“It’s just my mom . . .” I stop to take a deep breath. “My mom’s going through a lot, and I don’t want her to worry.”
This is true. Lately, Mom’s hands are more nervous than ever. I want to take them into my own and say, Please just be still. But I know that won’t help. So I try hard not to add to her stress, by being extra careful with my responsibilities at home and at school.
“But what are you going through?” Mrs. Medina says. Thequestion seems obvious, but she’s the first to ask it since everything fell apart.
“I’m fine.” I slip my eyes downward, toward the crumpled paper. I wonder if it is a love note someone dropped by mistake or a blank sheet discarded only because it was torn. The latter possibility seems unbearable.
Mrs. Medina’s hand slides forward like she’s reaching for me.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, and her hand slides back. She sets it on her hip and waits. I wait too.
Finally, she says, “Okay, Jess. If that’s how you really feel . . .”
It takes some doing, but I give her the confidence stare, the one that makes teachers believe you know the answer to any question they might ask. In return Mrs. Medina offers a kind but concerned smile. She says, “Okay, Jess, you can go for now.”
At her door she hands me a hall pass and sighs. I carry the weight of her breath for a long while.
BEFORE. JULY.
I didn’t understand what Meg was saying when she burst into my bedroom, shouting. I just knew that Meg was being Meg and I was being me.
Meg was eleven, slightly tomboyish, and happy to fightabout everything from sparkly stickers to bike horns. My mom often called her “the little shouter,” and it wasn’t unusual for her to fly into a room, excited about something.
It was Saturday, which according to Lola was pedicure day, and even with the sudden disruption her steady fingers still moved swiftly across her toes. “Meg, just go and play with your Barbies, okay?” she murmured, without looking up.
“I don’t play with Barbies,” Meg said, but the whole Barbie world set up in the corner of our basement
9.
I’m c o nvinced I c o uld stand in the middle o f the r o ad and n o t b e hit b y a car. I am invisi b le. I d o n o t exist.
Jessie
AFTER. JANUARY.
Mrs. Medina calls me to her desk after class. She waits until the room has emptied and the final bell for the next period—her planning period—has sounded before she asks about Sarah. Back when Sarah cared about school, Mrs. Medina was her favorite teacher. It’s the reason why I worked so hard to get into her class.
“Jess? Did you hear my question?” Mrs. Medina clears her throat and says hesitantly, “Jess? Look at me.”
“Yeah.” I stare at a balled-up sheet of paper just shy of the garbage can for a few seconds, and then I force my eyes to hers. Her gaze is so reassuring it unnerves me.
“It’s okay,” she says. “You’re not in trouble.”
“I know.” I stare at her blankly.
“Do you?” she asks, but we both know this is a rhetorical question. “Look, Jess, you’re doing a fantastic job given the circumstances, but you’re so quiet in class. You used to talk before . . .”
The dot-dot-dot is standard speak around me now. When your very popular sister has accidentally overdosed and unenrolled from school, people tend to ask you questions with the dot-dot-dot attached. So the silence that follows isn’t as uncomfortable for me as it is for Mrs. Medina.
“Jessie, I’m worried about you.” She presses a hand to her neck and pauses to consider her words. “Maybe I should have a conversation with your mom—”
“No! Please, Mrs. Medina, don’t.”
Mrs. Medina raises her eyebrows. I’ve never exclaimed anything to her before.
“It’s just my mom . . .” I stop to take a deep breath. “My mom’s going through a lot, and I don’t want her to worry.”
This is true. Lately, Mom’s hands are more nervous than ever. I want to take them into my own and say, Please just be still. But I know that won’t help. So I try hard not to add to her stress, by being extra careful with my responsibilities at home and at school.
“But what are you going through?” Mrs. Medina says. Thequestion seems obvious, but she’s the first to ask it since everything fell apart.
“I’m fine.” I slip my eyes downward, toward the crumpled paper. I wonder if it is a love note someone dropped by mistake or a blank sheet discarded only because it was torn. The latter possibility seems unbearable.
Mrs. Medina’s hand slides forward like she’s reaching for me.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, and her hand slides back. She sets it on her hip and waits. I wait too.
Finally, she says, “Okay, Jess. If that’s how you really feel . . .”
It takes some doing, but I give her the confidence stare, the one that makes teachers believe you know the answer to any question they might ask. In return Mrs. Medina offers a kind but concerned smile. She says, “Okay, Jess, you can go for now.”
At her door she hands me a hall pass and sighs. I carry the weight of her breath for a long while.
BEFORE. JULY.
I didn’t understand what Meg was saying when she burst into my bedroom, shouting. I just knew that Meg was being Meg and I was being me.
Meg was eleven, slightly tomboyish, and happy to fightabout everything from sparkly stickers to bike horns. My mom often called her “the little shouter,” and it wasn’t unusual for her to fly into a room, excited about something.
It was Saturday, which according to Lola was pedicure day, and even with the sudden disruption her steady fingers still moved swiftly across her toes. “Meg, just go and play with your Barbies, okay?” she murmured, without looking up.
“I don’t play with Barbies,” Meg said, but the whole Barbie world set up in the corner of our basement
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