Not then, but afterward, I started to think about time, and how it keeps moving and draining and flowing forever forward, seconds into minutes into days into years, all of it leading to the same place, a current running forever in one direction. And were all going and swimming as fast as we can, helping it along.
My point is: maybe you can afford to wait. Maybe for you theres a tomorrow. Maybe for you theres one thousand tomorrows, or three thousand, or ten, so much time you can bathe in it, roll around in it, let it slide like coins through your fingers. So much time you can waste it.
But for some of us theres only today. And the truth is, you never really know.
I wake up gasping, the alarm bringing me out of darkness, as if it has brought me up from the depths of a lake. It is the fifth time Ive woken up on February 12, but today Im relieved. I switch off the alarm and lie in bed, watching the milky white light steal slowly over the walls, waiting for my heartbeat to go back to normal. A swath of sunlight ticks upward over the collage Lindsay made for me. In the bottom shes written in pink glittery ink, Love you 4ever. Today Lindsay and I are friends again. Today no ones angry at me. Today I didnt kiss Mr. Daimler or sit bawling my eyes out alone at a party.
Well, not totally alone. I imagine the sun filling Kents house slowly, frothing upward like champagne.
As I lie there I start making a mental list of all the things Id like to do in my life, as though theyre still possible. Most of them are just plain crazy, but I dont think about that, just go on listing and listing like its as easy as writing up what you need from the grocery store. Fly in a private jet. Eat a fresh-baked croissant from a bakery in Paris. Ride a horse all the way from Connecticut to California but stay in only the best hotel rooms along the way. Some of them are simpler: take Izzy to Goose Point, a place I discovered the first and only time Id ever tried to run away. Order the Fat Feast at the dinera bacon cheese-burger, a milk shake, and an entire plate of cheese friesand eat it without stressing, like I used to do on my birthday every single year. Run around in the rain. Have scrambled eggs in bed.
By the time Izzy slinks into my room and hops up into bed with me, Im actually feeling calm.
Mommy says you have to go to school, Izzy says, head-butting my shoulder.
Im not going to school.
Thats it: thats how it starts. One of the bestand worstdays of my life starts with those five words.
I grab Izzys stomach and tickle her. She still insists on wearing her old Dora the Explorer T-shirt, but its so small it leaves the big pink stripe of her bellythe only fat on her bodyexposed. She squeals with laughter, rolling away from me.
Stop it, Sam. I said, Stop it!
Izzy is shrieking and laughing and thrashing around when my mom comes to the door.
Its six forty-five. She stands in the doorway, keeping both of her feet neatly aligned just behind the flaking red line from all those years ago. Lindsay will be here any minute.
Izzy slaps my hands away and sits up, her eyes shining. Ive never noticed it before, but she really does look like my mom. It makes me sad for a minute. I wish she looked more like me. Sam was tickling.
Sams going to be late. You too, Izzy.
Sams not going to school. And Im not either. Izzy puffs out her chest like shes prepared to do battle over it. Maybe shell look like me when shes older. Maybe when time starts marching forward againeven if I get swept out with it, like litter on a tideher cheekbones will get high and shell have a growth spurt and her hair will turn darker. I like to think its true. I like to think that later on people will say, Izzy looks just like her sister, Sam.
Theyll say, You remember Sam? She was pretty. Im not really sure what else they could say: She was nice. People liked her. She was missed. Maybe none of those things.
I push the thought out of my mind and return to my mental list. A kiss that makes my whole head feel like its exploding. A slow dance in the middle of an empty room to really great music. A swim in the ocean at midnight, with no clothes on.
My mom rubs her forehead. Izzy, go get your breakfast. Im sure its ready by now.
Izzy scrambles over me. I squeeze the chub of her stomach and get one last squeal out of her before she jumps off the bed and dashes out the door. The one thing that can get Izzy moving that quickly is a toasted cinnamon raisin bagel with peanut butter, and I imagine being able to give her a cinnamon raisin bagel with peanut butter every single day for the rest of her life, filling a whole house with them.
When Izzys gone my mom looks at me, hard. Whats this about, Sam? You feel sick?
Not exactly. One thing that is not on my wish list is to spend even one second in a doctors office.
What, then? There must be something. I thought Cupid Day was one of your favorites.
It is. Or, I mean, it was. I sit up on my elbows. I dont know, its kind of stupid, if you think about it.
She raises her eyebrows.
I start rattling on, not really thinking about what I want to say before I say it, but afterward I realize its true. The whole point is just to show other people how many friends you have. But everybody knows how many friends everybody else has. And its not like you actually get more friends this way or, I dont know, get closer to the friends you do have.
My mom smiles a tiny bit, one side of her mouth cocking upward. Well, youre lucky to have very good friends, and to know it. Im sure the roses are very meaningful to some people.
Im just saying, the whole thing is kind of sleazy.
This doesnt sound like the Samantha Kingston I know.
Yeah, well, maybe Im changing. I dont mean those words either, until I hear them. Then I think that they might be true, and I feel a flicker of hope. Maybe theres still a chance for me, after all. Maybe I have to change.
My mom stares at me with this expression on her face like Im a recipe she cant quite master. Did something happen, Sam? Something with your friends?
Today Im not so annoyed at her for asking. Today it strikes me as kind of funny, actually. I so wish that the only thing bothering me was a fight with Lindsay, or something dumb Ally said.
Its not my friends. I grasp for something thatll make her cave. Itsits Rob.
My mom wrinkles her brow. Did you have a fight?
I slump a little farther down into the bed, hoping it makes me look depressed. Hehe dumped me. In some ways its not a lie. Not like he broke up with me, exactly, but like maybe we werent ever serious serious in the way I believed for so long. Is it even possible to go out with someone seriously who doesnt really know you?
It works even better than I expected. My mom brings her hand up to her chest. Oh, sweetie. What happened?
We just wanted different things, I guess. I fiddle with the edge of my comforter, thinking of all those nights alone with him in the basement, bathed in blue light, feeling sheltered from the whole world. Its not so much of a stretch to look upset when I think about that, and my bottom lip starts to tremble. I dont think he ever really liked me. Not really really. This is the most honest thing Ive said to my mother in years, and I suddenly feel very exposed. I have a flashback then of standing in front of her when I was five or six and having to strip naked while she checked me all over for deer ticks. I shove down farther into the covers, balling up my fists until my nails dig into my palms.
Then the craziest thing in the world happens. My mom steps straight over the flaking red line and strides over to the bed, like its no big deal. Im so surprised I dont even protest as she bends over me and plants a kiss on my forehead.
Im so sorry, Sam. She smoothes my forehead with her thumb. Of course you can stay home.
I expected more of an argument and Im left speechless.
Do you want me to stay home with you? she asks.
No. I try to give her a smile. Ill be fine. Really.
I want to stay home with Sam! Izzy has come to the door again, this time halfway dressed for school. Shes in a yellow-and-pink phasenot a flattering combination, but its kind of hard to explain color palettes to an eight-year-oldand has pulled on a mustard yellow dress over a pair of pink tights. Shes also wearing big, scrunchie yellow socks. She looks like some kind of tropical flower. A part of me is tempted to freak out at my mom for letting Izzy wear whatever she wants. The other kids must make fun of her.
Then again, I guess Izzy doesnt care. Thats another thing that strikes me as funny: that my eight-year-old sister is braver than I am. Shes probably braver than most of the people at Thomas Jefferson. I wonder if that will ever change, if it will get beaten out of her.
Izzys eyes are enormous and she clasps her hands together like shes praying. Please?
My mom sighs, exasperated. Absolutely not, Izzy. Theres nothing wrong with you.
Im feeling sick, Izzy says. This is made slightly unbelievable by the fact that shes hopping and pirouetting from foot to foot as she says it, but Izzys never been a great liar.
Did you eat your breakfast yet? My mom crosses her arms and makes her strict parent face.
Izzy bobs her head. I think I have food poisoning. She doubles over, grabs her stomach, then immediately straightens up and begins hopping again. I cant help it; a little giggle escapes.
Come on, Mom, I say. Let her stay home.
Sam, please dont encourage her. My mom turns to me, shaking her head, but I can tell shes wavering.
Shes in third grade, I say. Its not like they actually learn anything.
Yes we do! Izzy crows, then claps her hand over her mouth when I give her a look. My little sister: apparently not a champion negotiator, either. She shakes her head and quickly stutters. I mean, we dont do that much.
My mom lowers her voice. You know shell be bugging you all day, right? Wouldnt you rather be alone?
I know shes expecting me to say yes. For years thats been the buzzword of the house: Sam just wants to be left alone. Want some dinner? Ill bring it up to my room. Where you headed? Just want to be alone. Can I come in? Just leave me alone. Stay out of my room. Dont talk to me when Im on the phone. Dont talk to me when Im listening to music. Alone, alone, alone.
Things change after you die, thoughI guess because dying is about the loneliest thing you can do.
I dont mind, I say, and I mean it. My mom throws up her hands and says, Whatever, but even before its out of her mouth, Izzys charging through my room and has belly flopped on top of me, throwing her arms around my neck and screeching, Can we watch TV? Can we make mac and cheese? She smells like coconut as usual, and I remember when she was so small we could fit her in the sink to give her a bath, and she would sit there laughing and smiling and splashing like the best place in the world to be was in a 12" 18" square of porcelain, like the sink was the biggest ocean in the world.