Alyson Noël - Saving Zoë

like to pretend they were friends with Zoë, makes me feel completely naked and exposed. Like a regretful “life art” model being stared at and scrutinized as everyone takes it all in, draws it all down, and interprets everything they see in their own biased way.

And even though I kind of expected this, that doesn’t mean I can actually handle it. And there’s just no way I can finish my lunch with everyone whispering, pointing, and gawking.

So just as Jenay starts talking to Chess, so casually and easily you’d think she’d been at it for years, and Abby scoots even closer to Parker — who she’s secretly crushed on forever — I rise from the table and move for the door, hoping I can make it safely inside the bathroom before I start hurling.

It’s weird how you can hire a bodyguard to protect you from physical harm, yet there’s no one who can keep you from emotional harm. And as great as my friends have been, doing their best to shield me from everything they can, there’s just no way they can defend me from all of the prying eyes, pointed fingers, and loudly whispered, “ Omigod! That’s her! You know, the little sister!” that follows me wherever I go.

I push into the empty bathroom, dump the contents of my lunch pack into the big green trash can against the far wall, then run cold water over my hands until the nausea passes. Then I smooth my hair, straighten my shirt, and head right back outside, and straight into Marc.

“Echo,” he says, his dark brown eyes peering into mine, as his pale slim hands clasp nervously at his sides. Up close, he seems thinner, and his hair looks darker, hanging long and loose around his angular face. But he’s still amazing, only different. Less contrived, more authentic, yet also kind of lost.

I just stand there, smelling the nicotine wafting off of him, remembering how it was Zoë who got him started.

And just as he opens his mouth to speak, Abby runs up and grabs hold of my shirt. “Echo! Hey! Let’s go,” she says, tugging on my sleeve and pulling me away.

Every day gets a little easier. But not because the whispering stops, or the staring ceases, or the teachers stop giving me that “Oh, you poor sad thing” look. Nope, all of that remains as blatant as ever. The reason things are getting easier is because every day I get a little better at ignoring it. It’s like, if no one else is willing to change, then I’ll be the one who does. So, I’ve simply stopped reacting. I mean, now, when people whisper as I pass in the hall, I refuse to hear it. And when my English teacher gives me that look, I avert my eyes. And when I walk through the cafeteria and everyone stops eating and talking so they can point and stare, I absolutely refuse to care. I just focus on eating my sandwich, drinking my Snapple, and watching Jenay flirt with Chess.

“Omigod, do you think he’ll ask you to homecoming?” Abby asks, just seconds after the lunch bell rings and Chess and Parker head for class.

But Jenay just gazes down at the ground, blushing and shrugging like she hasn’t even considered it.

“Homecoming? Jeez, I haven’t even thought about going,” I say, walking alongside them and gazing at Jenay, knowing that in a race between the three of us, she’s definitely the best bet. I mean, the odds are pretty much against a trifecta, at least with me in the race, and since Abby’s also like me, and has no idea how to flirt, I’m placing my wager on Jenay, for win, place, and show.

“He likes you, anyone can tell,” Abby says, smiling when she sees her blush.

But Jenay just shrugs. “Well, I guess we’ll just see what happens next weekend then, won’t we?” she says, waving over her shoulder and heading toward class.

“What’s going on next weekend?” I ask, searching Abby’s face, wondering what they could possibly be keeping from me.

But she just shrugs. “You know Jenay.” She laughs, bringing her finger to her temple and making the universal sign for looney toons. “See you after school?”

“Not today,” I say, watching her go and wondering if she heard me.

After school I have an appointment with a shrink. Though I guess when most people are seeing someone like that they usually say “my shrink.” As in, “after school I have an appointment with MY shrink.” But I don’t like to think of him like that. I mean, I can barely stand the guy, so I certainly don’t want to think of him as mine.

Besides, it’s not like I see him all that often anymore. And it’s not like he actually ever helped me when I did. I mean, okay, so this completely horrible thing happened to my family. I still can’t see how sitting in his office and sobbing my eyes out to the tune of $150 for a fifty-minute hour is ever going to benefit anyone other than him.

But my parents, being intellectually minded, called on their most sought-after colleague, who, according to my mom, actually gets away with charging twice that amount, and who “out of kindness, compassion, and as a huge favor to our family has decided to give us a deeply discounted rate.”

So because of all that, I was pretty much forced to spend every Tuesday after school, for almost my entire eighth grade year, sitting on that brown leather couch, with a beige floral Kleenex box placed squarely before me, as the Dr. Phil wannabe tried to trick me into saying the actual words, to verbalize and not euphemize what really happened to Zoë.

But even though I like to read and write, and even though I really do believe that words do hold the power to harm or heal, this was just one of those cases where words didn’t seem all that important. And no way was I giving in, just so he could feel all smug and accomplished and like he just might actually know what he’s doing.

But since I haven’t been to see him since the beginning of last summer, today is supposed to serve as some sort of checkup or progress report or something. I guess since it also happens to be the one-year anniversary of Zoë’s disappearance, my parents figured it was a good idea to have me stop by and pay the good doctor a little fifty-minute visit.

“Echo, come in. How’ve you been?” he asks, as I slide onto the familiar brown couch, eyeing the strategically placed tissues.

“I’m okay.” I shrug, gazing around the room, noticing how some of the artwork has changed but knowing better than to mention it. I mean, these people analyze everything you do, from the moment you arrive to the moment you leave, so extreme caution is advised.

“How’s school?” he asks, gazing at me through the upper part of his glasses, like he thinks wearing them down around the tip of his nose makes him look smarter or something.

“Fine.” I cross my legs and fold my hands in my lap, but then I immediately undo it since I don’t want him to think

I’m feeling anything other than totally relaxed, happy-go-lucky, and free.

“How are your classes, your teachers?”

“Good, and good,” I say, cracking a smile so he’ll know just how light and breezy I’m feeling today.

“And your friends? Still hanging around with those two girls?”

“Yup, pretty much since the beginning of time,” I tell him, gazing at his bald head and pathetic goatee, and wondering why he can’t see the oh so obvious symbolism in that

“Any boyfriends?” He smiles gently.

But I refuse to answer. He’s always pushing me to talk about boys and sex and stuff. But instead, I just give him a baleful look.

“Zoë always had lots of friends and boyfriends.” He says that like he used to hang out with her or something. Like he knew her really well, better than me.

“Yeah? Well, I’m not Zoë, am I?” I fold my arms across my chest, even though I know full well that he’s only trying to bait me. “And even though she may have had a lot of friends, she only had one boyfriend,” I say, wondering just how crazy you have to be to pay three hundred dollars for fifty minutes of this.