Alyson Noël - Saving Zoë

“Echo.” I smiled. “My name is Echo. And you can keep the picture. Zoë would’ve liked that.” Then I ran outside to catch up with my parents.

Zoë and Echo are Greek names, even though we’re not at all Greek. Zoë means life, and Echo, well, I know you know what it means, so I’ll just say that it’s also a nymph who pined away for some guy named Narcissus until nothing was left but her voice. Which is something, by the way, that I would never do. You know, fade away over some guy. I mean, not even Chess Williams, the cutest guy in my class since fourth grade, is worth crumbling for. Anyway, it’s basically a Greek mythology thing, and I guess that’s why we got names like that. Nothing to do with nationality, and everything to do with academics.

My parents are big on academics. Which I guess is why they’re both professors. And, knowing I’ll risk looking like a total brainiac nerd, I’ll just go ahead and admit, right now and for the record, that I’m pretty big on academics too. But Zoë? Zoë hated all that. She was beautiful, and wild, and too busy getting into trouble and sneaking out of the house to ever slow down long enough to actually finish a book. Yet she was so sweet about it, and had such uncontained enthusiasm (for everything but homework), that no one ever held a grudge or judged her too harshly.

“Life is too exhilarating to read about! You gotta get out there and live it!” she’d say, just moments before sneaking onto my balcony and down the old oak tree, as I lay in bed reading one of my numerous library-issued novels.

But I’m nothing like Zoë. I’m average, not beautiful. I mean, my hair is medium brown and kind of limp, not rich and wavy like hers. And where she had amazing dark eyes with extra-thick long lashes, mine are light hazel, which may sound nice on paper, but believe me, they’re far more functional than special. And my body, well, I’m really, really hoping that the years between fourteen and sixteen will be as kind and generous to me as they were to her (though so far, I’m a couple weeks shy of fifteen and there’s nothing to report). And I’ve definitely never been in any kind of trouble. Well, at least not the serious kind. I mean, so far my biggest offense is returning a library book two weeks late because I liked it so much I decided to read it again.

But Zoë? Well, let’s just say that had she actually made it home that day, she would’ve been in for it big time.

“Echo?” my mom calls from the bottom of the stairs. Tm leaving. Are you sure you don’t need a ride?”

“Nope. Have a good day.” I peek around my bedroom door, catching a quick glimpse of her as she heads outside before locking all three dead bolts, even though I’ll be leaving in less than two minutes.

But that’s how we live now, overly cautious, verging on completely paranoid. And it took a solid fifty-five minutes of carefully argued debate, during last night’s meatloaf, steamed asparagus, and garlic mashed potatoes dinner to get both of my parents to let me walk to school, as opposed to getting door-to-door service from one of them.

And it’s not like I’m going it alone or anything, since all I have to do is go halfway down the block to my best friend Abby’s, before we both stop on the corner to pick up our other best friend, Jenay.

Though I guess it’s pretty much a miracle my mom decided to go back to teaching in the first place. I mean, right after everything happened she took a sabbatical so she could stay home and “look after me.” I guess my parents blamed themselves for what happened. Thinking that their busy, working lives didn’t allow for the kind of constant vigilance required to protect us.

But really, how much can you actually protect someone before it turns into imprisonment? Because just a few months into it, that’s exactly how I started to feel, like a prisoner in my own home. I mean, at first I thought it would be nice to spend more time with my mom, especially after what we’d all just been through, but it didn’t take long before she started acting more like a warden. And all she required of me was to go to school, come straight home, not to talk too much, and never to venture past the front door without:

A valid reason and detailed explanation containing all of the whos, hows, whys, and wheres and an approximately exact ETA and ETD.

But none of that would’ve been so bad if I hadn’t been so lonely. I mean, Abby and Jenay didn’t come over nearly as much as you’d think. Mostly because their parents wouldn’t let them, always mumbling some excuse about our family “needing our space during our difficult time.” But I knew that wasn’t the reason.

It’s like when something really horrible and tragic happens, pretty much everyone starts giving you these sad, regretful looks as they slowly back away. Like our tragedy was contagious. Like our once warm and inviting home was now a place of darkness and doom, where extreme caution was clearly warranted.

So basically, all last year, when I wasn’t at school, I was pretty much alone. I mean, my mom mostly stayed curled up on the couch, clad in her old blue terry cloth robe, staring blankly at the TV, tears pouring down her cheeks, while my dad lingered at work, staying later and later, and only rarely making it home before my bedtime.

And the weekends? Well, that’s when they argued. Hurling accusations back and forth like blows in a boxing match, never tiring of their need to prove, once and for all, just who was more responsible for what happened to Zoë.

I used to think that tragedy brought people closer. But now, from everything I’ve experienced, I know it pretty much tears them apart.

Then again, all of that happened before my mom started taking her “happy pills,” which enabled her to get off the couch, out of her robe, and back to work. The fighting stopped too. Only to be replaced with a flood of formality and excessive politeness, like we’re all just strangers on a cruise ship, forced to eat our meals together, and act like we’re interested.

And even though on the surface we seem to be doing better, the truth is my dad still “works” late, and my mom’s eyes are more vacant than ever.

And as much as I miss Zoë, as much as my heart aches, as much as I’d do anything in the world just to get her back, there are times when I actually hate her too. Because this is what she’s done to me. This is what she’s left me with. Two broken, deeply suspicious, hollowed-out shells for parents, and the morbid curiosity of everyone I encounter.

Tucking my hair behind my ears, I grab my backpack, run down the stairs, lock all three locks, and head toward Abby’s. But before I’m even halfway there, I see her heading toward me.

“Hey,” she says, her long black ponytail swinging from side to side as her face breaks into a smile, exposing the blue metal braces she can’t wait to get off, as her brown eyes squint against the sun.

“Am I late?” I ask, glancing at my watch, then back at her.

“I’m early. Aaron’s driving me crazy, so I bailed,” she says, shaking her head and rolling her eyes as we head toward the corner where we’ll pick up Jenay. Abby’s brother Aaron is two years younger and pretty much the bane of her otherwise extremely orderly existence.

“What’s up with Aaron?” I ask.

“What isn’t up with Aaron?” She shakes her head again. “He bugs me so bad, sometimes I wish he’d just disappear, never to return. Then I’d have some peace. I mean, just this morning—” Suddenly she stops walking, stops talking, and just stands there, gaping at me, her mouth hanging open, her brown eyes full of sorry and regret. “Oh God, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” I say quickly, forcing my face to smile. “Seriously. So you were eating breakfast and…” I loop my arm through hers, leading her toward the corner, and hopefully away from her guilt. Everyone is always apologizing to me now, and sometimes I wonder if it will ever stop.