Her distress was palpable. We hurried into the school building and I held Noe’s hair as she threw up the detested substance.
“You understand,” Noe had said. “My best friend at my old school was all, ‘Oh my God, you’re bulimic,’ and I’m like, ‘Bulimics eat an entire chocolate cake and puke it up. I’m just trying to get this dead animal out of my body, if that’s okay with you.’”
I’d felt a wave of protectiveness toward her, this vulnerable girl with oily black hair who the Senior Leaders had force-fed horse hooves. A wave of pride, too: I was not the shrill, childish friend of eighth grade. I was the one who understood.
I could be the friend who understood. It was better than being a monster. I had known Noe for only ten minutes, but already I could feel that protecting her would give me a purpose, give my tortured energy somewhere to go.
I had hardly spoken all day—all summer, it felt like—but walking next to Noe, words started spilling out of me. It was as if the cold hand that had sealed me off from the rest of humankind had left one airhole open, the airhole of Noe. I found to my surprise that I could breathe again, and laugh. The effect diminished when she paused to talk to teachers, and came back again when we walked on. I observed it with fascination, this loophole in my otherwise complete suffocation. I could be a normal human, as long as I was interacting with Noe.
Noe wanted to know where I lived, and which school I had gone to before E. O. James, and if I had heard that Ms. Kravenko was the hardest for math, and if I wanted to sign up for gymnastics with her because I looked like I would be good at it. She told me all about her old boyfriend, Sean, and a summer camp with a weird name where she was going to be a junior counselor the next year.
By the time we’d settled into our auditorium seats to hear the motivational speaker, I was completely devoted to her.
With Noe beside me, I never got lost in the halls anymore. I stopped worrying about Louis Vallero. I kept her always in my field of vision, a guiding star.
“You found a friend,” Mom said. “That’s wonderful.”
I peeled the pepperoni off the pizza we were sharing and stacked it dutifully on the edge of my plate.
7
ONE OF THE HAPPYFUN ASPECTS OF the first day of school this year was that the Senior Leaders spent the whole day pelting people with candy.
There was candy in the halls and candy in the bathroom sinks and candy in the cracks between the auditorium seats. Someone threw a Tootsie Roll at the motivational speaker, causing Mr. Beek to hand out the first suspension of the year.
By two p.m., the school was filled with weightless wrappers that floated around the halls like shiny ghosts.
“This is appalling,” Noe said as we walked through an entire hallway full of Reese’s Pieces that made rickety crunching sounds underfoot.
Steven crouched and scooped up a handful. Noe slapped at his hand, but he got it to his mouth and crammed the candy in.
“Some would call it delicious,” he said.
8
WHEN I GOT HOME FROM SCHOOL, Mom was sitting at the kitchen table sorting through a pile of mail. She was still in her uniform, her brown hair pulled into a ponytail, her feet still laced into the Converse sneakers that made her look even younger than she was.
“Hey, Annabean,” she called when I walked in. “Have a sandwich. I brought home a whole tray.”
Mom works the checkout at No Frills. One frill of working at No Frills is employees get to take home the premade deli sandwiches at the end of the day. They come wrapped in stretchy plastic with a capital letter slashed on in permanent marker. T for turkey, H for ham, R for roast beef, V for veggie. I didn’t think the limp and mustardy sandwiches were much of a frill, but Mom loved them.
“They’re meat,” I said, ducking into the kitchen to inspect the shrink-wrapped array.
“Pick it out.”
My mother’s advice generally boils down to “Pick it out,” whether you are dealing with a slice of baloney or an arrow in the heart.
I took a sandwich marked T and started to dissect it, picking out the turkey and everything that had touched it and filling the newly empty space with leftover guacamole.
“Come take a look at this,” Mom said.
I wandered to the table with my modified sandwich, and she tossed me a glossy booklet from Northern University.
“Ooh,” I said, and sank down into a chair across from her.
Mom had gone to Northern for one year before dropping out to have me, and she talked about it like it was the best place on earth. Some people would hate the place where a terrible thing had happened, but to her, it was a paradise interrupted. She didn’t say it in so many words, but we both knew it would mean a lot to her for me to go there. That it would mean everything.
I flipped past the sections on academics and sports and went straight to the photos of the dorms. Back in June, the day before Noe left for Camp Qualla Hoo Hoo, we’d spent all afternoon browsing the IKEA website and fantasizing about our future college dorm room. We were going to get a Winkl bead curtain and a Gulört rug and a set of Buffwak bowls and cups for when we felt like eating cereal for dinner instead of going to the cafeteria. I’d loaded the Northern University website Mom and I had been looking at the night before, and we’d pored over the list of campus clubs and decided which ones to join: People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, the Northern University Sophisticated Tea Party Society, the gymnastics team for Noe, and the Campus Outdoors Club for me. We’d get a cactus plant named Hector and a goldfish named Boris, and in our second year, we’d move off campus so we could get a cat.
“There’s a bunch of stuff from E. O. James, too,” said Mom. “Did you want me to write a check for the senior camping trip?”
She slid the flyer across the table. I picked it up and skimmed it. Three nights in the Tuscarora wilderness, led by Ms. Hannigan and Mr. Von Ekelthorpe. My cousin Max had gone in his senior year. They’d hiked under the moonlight and gone swimming in freezing water. One night, a bear had wandered through their campsite and started rummaging through the food they’d forgotten to put away, and Ms. Hannigan scared it off by banging on a pot and singing “Old MacDonald Had a Farm.”
“I have a gym meet that weekend,” I said.
“Can’t you skip it?” said Mom.
I shook my head, annoyed. “It’s important,” I said. “You can’t miss the first one.”
Noe had already enlisted me to help her take photos for the yearbook and videos for the team website she was setting up. We were going to work on it at her house after the meet.
“Too bad,” Mom said. “You’ve been looking forward to it ever since Max told you that story about the bear.”
It bugged Mom when I changed my plans because of Noe. And it bugged me that she made such a big deal out of it.
“Mom,” I said. “You know we only have one class together this year. It’s really important to Noe for me to be there, and I’m not just going to ditch her. I don’t know anyone who’s going on the camping trip anyway.”
Her disappointment was a fine mist that clung to my clothes all the way upstairs. I took the new leotard out of my drawer and held it for a moment, its synthetic shimmer a promise of the newer, shinier person I might finally become.
9
I BROUGHT THE NORTHERN UNIVERSITY booklet to school. In English, Noe scrutinized the Food Services page.
“The freshman cafeteria doesn’t sound that great for vegetarians,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the list of food options.
“It says they have a salad bar,” I said helpfully.
“That can mean anything,” said Noe. “Bacon bits. Tuna. Chicken.”