The same as I feel inside.
I stop a few feet from the wet sand and plop down, drawing my knees to my chest. Morning tide makes a great companion when you don’t want to be around people. It soothes and comforts and doesn’t ask for anything. But the sun does. The higher it gets, the more I am reminded that nothing stops time. There is no escaping it. It slips by no matter if you’re looking at a driftwood grandfather clock or the sun.
My first day of school without Chloe has arrived.
I wipe the tears from my eyes and stand. I scrunch my toes in the sand with each step back to the house. Mom waits for me on the back-porch steps, smoothing out her robe with one hand and holding a travel mug of coffee in the other. Set against the gray-shingle beach house, she looks like an apparition in her white robe—except apparitions don’t have long ebony hair, shockingly blue eyes, or drink espresso. She smiles the way a mother should smile at a daughter who is overwhelmed by loss. And it makes my tears spill bigger and faster.
“Morning,” she says, patting the wood next to her.
I sit and lean into her, let her wrap her arms around me. “Morning,” I rasp.
She hands me the mug and I sip. “Make you breakfast?” she squeezes my shoulder.
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”
“You need some energy for your first day of school. I could make pancakes. French toast. I’ve got the stuff to make some good garbage eggs.”
I smile. Garbage eggs are my favorite. She hunts down whatever she can find and puts it in my eggs—onions, bell peppers, mushrooms, hash browns, tomatoes, and whatever else might or might not have a place in an omelet. “Sure,” I say, standing.
* * *
I smell the concoction from the bathroom and try to guess what’s in it as I step out of the shower. Smells a lot like jalapeños, which brightens my mood a little. I fling my towel on the bed and pull a shirt off a hanger in the closet. I didn’t feel like shopping for new school clothes, so my classmates will have to accept my old standby—T-shirt, jeans, and flip-flops. That’s what everyone will be wearing in two weeks anyway, when the new wears off their carefully planned outfits. I twist my hair into a sloppy bun atop my head and secure it with a pencil. I reach for my makeup bag and stop. Mascara is not a good idea today. Maybe some foundation would be okay. I pick up the bottle—the shade is “porcelain.” I slam it on my dresser in disgust. It’s like putting Wite-Out on a blank sheet of paper—pointless. Besides, I can be porcelain all by myself. I’m practically made of porcelain these days.
Trudging down the stairs, a spicy aroma stings my nose. The garbage eggs are beautiful. They are piled high, steaming, and full of stuff. It is a shame that I mostly just push them around my plate. The glass of milk next to it sits untouched, unneeded.
I glance at my dad’s old place setting at the head of the table. It’s been two years since the cancer took him, but I can still remember the way he folded his newspaper beside his plate. The way he and Chloe fought over the sports page. The way the town’s only funeral home smelled the same at his service as it did for hers.
I wonder how many empty place settings a person can look at before they begin to crack.
Across the table, Mom slides a key toward my plate, hiding her expression behind her coffee cup. “Feeling up to driving today?”
I’m surprised she doesn’t wrap it up with “hint, hint.” Or maybe a banner that reads, YOU NEED TO START DOING NORMAL THINGS, LIKE DRIVING YOURSELF AROUND.
I nod. Chew. Stare at the key. Chew some more. Grab the key, shove it in my pocket. Take another bite. My mouth should be on fire, but I taste nothing. The milk should be cold, but it’s like tap water. The only thing that burns is the key in my pocket, daring me to touch it. I set the dishes in the sink, grab my backpack, and head for the garage. Alone.
* * *
As long as no one hugs me, I will be fine. I walk down a hall of Middle Point High School, nodding at the kids I’ve known since elementary school. Most of them have enough sense to just throw a sympathetic glance in my direction. Some talk to me anyway, but nothing too dangerous, just neutral things like “Good morning” and “I think we have third period together.” Even Mark Baker, Middle Point’s quarterback-slash-deity, gives me a supportive smile through the school-colored war paint smeared on his face. Any other day, I’d be texting Chloe to inform her that the Mark Baker acknowledged my existence. But the whole reason I don’t is the same reason he acknowledged me in the first place: Chloe is dead.
They all lost their track star. Their bragging rights. In a few weeks, they won’t even realize something’s missing. They’ll just move on. Forget about Chloe.
I shake my head but know it’s true. A few years ago, a freshman riding on the back of her older brother’s motorcycle died when he ran a stop sign and careened into a car. Flowers and cards were taped to her locker, the student body held a candlelit vigil in the football stadium, and the class president spoke at a special memorial the school arranged for her. Today, I can’t for the life of me remember her name. She was in a few of the same clubs as me, some classes, too. I can see her face clearly. But I can’t remember her name.
I test the combo to my new locker. It opens, third try. I stare into it, feeling as hollow as it looks. The hall takes awhile to clear out, but I wait until it does. When it is quiet, when the classroom doors ease closed, when the hall stops smelling like perfume and cologne, I slam the locker shut as hard as I can. And it feels good.