“Nothing. She tried—never mind.”

  I want to know everything. I want details. This apparently also means I want to torture myself. Even and I are friends. Just friends. I turn away, not wanting him to see my rosy cheeks because I have the growing desire to be more than friends.

  “Listen, let’s get you on the bike and forget Thanksgiving,” Even says.

  “Yeah, let’s.”

  We go to the parking lot of the school, but it’s mobbed because of band rehearsal. I direct Even to the church parking lot, hoping God forgives me if our purposes are unholy.

  I get my leg up and over the saddle and look up at the glowing steeple. I feel the tug on my pants as they strain against my thighs. The only thing that might have the chance of diminishing the crushing rejection I feel is something sweet. Short of that, a ride on this motorcycle will have to do. I bow my head and cross my heart. My thoughts briefly flit to my dad and the image of him astride his bike, and I can’t help but wonder about God’s sense of humor.

  When I’m about twenty yards away from where I set off, two things collide in my mind: Even is not jogging by my side as he normally does, offering commentary and tips as I progress. More importantly, I’m cruising along, on my own, verging on the edge of freedom. I continue, not stopping to see if he’s going to catch up because I might lose track of this feeling.

  Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, I think. I’m doing it. My breath comes in short bursts. I can’t stop the bike. Not because I physically can’t, but because I don’t want to. If I stop, I won’t be able to see where I can go. The growl of the engine drowns out any potential for distraction as an invisible compass moves me forward.

  I loop around, but am not ready to see Even as I process what is even larger than I am. Riding the motorcycle is open-sail, bird-on-the-wing, wind-in-my-hair, full-bodied liberation. I pass the empty parking places lining the back of the church and continue out onto the road. I don’t have my license yet. I take it slow. I also don’t imagine one of the few cops in town will pull me over.

  I hardly notice the familiar landmarks breezing by me as I whoop loudly, pumping my fist in the air. I don’t blink, so as not to let this moment pass me by.

  I pass by a bar near the box factory when tires skid on the gritty pavement. Reality crashes back to me. A Ford took the turn ahead much too fast and slammed into the telephone pole on the other side of the road. When I get closer, I slow and try to get a look in the cab. It’s Nash’s truck. I pull out my phone and try to do my best to pilot the motorcycle as I dial. I feel like I’m losing control of the bike and don’t want it to be a double accident, so I steer to the side of the road. I call 911 and then take off as quickly as I dare, hoping Even is still in the parking lot.

  Even leans against my car with his hands in his pockets. It doesn’t escape me how relaxed, cool, and attractive he looks in the shower of the dim light, but this isn’t the time to think about that.

  “Even, hurry. Hop on. Your dad.”

  He doesn’t ask any questions. I assume he understands what’s happened, given his father’s history.

  When we get there, a cruiser blocks the road and blue light bounces around in the darkness, disorienting me.

  The officer tries to hold Even back, but he explains it’s his father. I maneuver the Harley to the side of the road and get off, remembering I’m not supposed to be riding it. I hope that this escapes the cop’s notice.

  Sirens wail in the distance. I stand off to the side, praying. Eventually Even appears out of the fray of emergency workers. He looks grim.

  “Is he OK?” I ask.

  Even shrugs stiffly. “He’s been worse. Why people like him are allowed to drive or drink for that matter is beyond me.” He speaks with a hint of disgust in his voice, but I catch a glimpse of his eyes before he gets on the bike. They’re moist.

  “I’m going to bring you back to your car,” he says.

  “I would have just called you and told you to meet me here in my car, but the keys were in my pocket. I’m sorry I took off. I just needed to clear my head,” I explain. It sounds lame in light of what just happened.

  “No worries. Good thing you did; he may still be laying there,” Even says. With that, he guns the engine and we’re off. I can tell he wants to go faster, if only to escape his thoughts, but holds back. When we get to my car, I ask him if he’s going to the hospital. He nods.

  “Can I come with you?” Silence, just a slight incline of his head.

  I follow in the Honda.

  In the glaring light of the emergency room, I smooth my windblown hair and try to be strong for Even. I think the last time I was here was when Skunk dared me to jump from the trampoline into a big pit of old couch cushions and I fractured my collarbone. Then a more recent memory replaces that one. I recall Mama, her body spilling from the stretcher after she hurt her knee. I shudder.

  “You OK?” Even asks.

  “I should be asking you the same question,” I reply.

  A nurse calls him into the triage station, and I wait. I’m nervous and itchy and low from finding Nash. I desperately crave a Snickers bar from the vending machine down the hall.

  Why?

  Because it tastes good.

  Why else?

  Because I’m hungry.

  No, I’m not.

  Why, really?

  Because this is incredibly difficult.

  Because being here reminds me of pain.

  Because inside I hurt for myself, for Mama, and for Even.

  Because if I have something sweet I won’t feel the ache quite as sharply.

  Bingo.

  As plainly as if it’s written on a doctor’s chart in front of me, I suddenly see that when I feel bad, sad, mad—whenever I feel anything, I turn to food. I recount the most recent times I did this. Earlier today, I binged on some warm cinnamon buns topped with ice cream when I felt anger mixed with disgust at the enormous mess I had to clean up after Mama went to the bathroom. And yesterday morning when I went to get ready, I saw that Skunk, likely in a drunken state, must have missed the toilet completely and peed in the cabinet all over the towels: the ones that I wash, dry, fold, and put away. That time, I turned to a box of frozen waffles doused in almost an entire jug of Aunt Jemima syrup.

  Each time I was upset, I fled to the kitchen in search of food. I think back over the previous days and the cherpumple. I tremble with interest, confusion, and desperation as the truth about my relationship with food surfaces.

  Even reappears, shunting me back to the brightly lit hall, my hand resting on the vending machine. I pull it away as if the plexiglass window was in flames.

  “He’ll be OK. Broken arm. Some stitches. He’ll be here overnight. Let’s go.”

  I know Even isn’t a coldhearted person, but I also know how much anger he has for his father after eighteen years of pain and resentment. I walk, unsteadily, out of the hospital. Even out of the glare of the ER, I’m still shaken by how vulnerable and fragile I am. How we’re all so vulnerable to food, drunk driving, and life. In the parking lot, I ask Even if he’s going to be all right.

  “Me? Of course.” He dips his head. “I’m gonna go dream about my route west. And you. I’ll see you bright and early.”

  As I wind my way home, Even’s last words pop into my mind. “I’m going to dream about my route west. And you . . .” Did he mean “And you?” As in, what am I going to do? Or as in “And me, I’ll see you bright and early”? Or did he mean he’s going to dream about me? I can hear his voice in my head, but can’t be sure of where he placed the pause, emphasis, or the upturn of the word into a question.

  By the time I am back home it all blurs together, but I can’t stop thinking about him. I’ve never had a crush on a boy, not really. In grade school there was James McCarthy, but he drooled over a girl named Sasha and then got pimply when we hit eighth grade. I’ve fixated on various heartthrobs on television, and very briefly, freshman year I was interested in a kid who played trumpet in the marching band, but when I realized how fat I was, I let the idea of him go. It wasn’t worth it because it would never happen. However, the thing about all of those boys is that my relationship with them lived in a fantasy in my head. I’d never spoken to any of them, and I doubt they knew I existed; certainly the TV stars didn’t.

  But here I am, friends with Even. We’ve hugged. He’s said sweet and kind things to me. He listens so well, plus he’s arguably the dreamiest guy at Johnson Regional High School, but doesn’t know it nor has he fought for it by playing football or doing some other studly activity to gain the attention and adoration of all the girls.

  Then there’s Allie. She’s certainly taken notice of him. What did he say about her on Thanksgiving? Never mind. And he was drunk. I sink into my pillow and fret. What if they—but I don’t allow myself to go there. I’m Even’s friend. That should be enough.

  As I drift to sleep, Skunk comes into the house as loud as ever. Something thuds and then he stumps up the stairs, slower than usual. He groans at the top. When his door creaks open, it sounds like he puts down something heavy. His door closes, and then I’m asleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Finals prep has the school in a tizzy. As if anyone there, students or teachers, really cares. At the start of each year, I take bets on who’s going to make it to graduation—a handful drop out, some get pregnant, and others move. What rattles everyone is the fact that we’re forced to take these tests and our grades depend on the outcome.

  The students at Johnson Regional are a rebellious lot. It’s because there’s a general disinterest in higher education, and we’re New Hampshire bred and live by the motto “Live free or die.” We bristle at the thought of required exams. Required anything. Also, we’re all so bored with our lives that when something comes along that’s different from the usual, we battle against it, just to be contrary. Instead, we could go with it and make something of ourselves.

  For these reasons, I’m not surprised when someone pulls the fire alarm during second period, essentially ending school for the day.

  The fire and safety department has to inspect the entire school unless someone fesses up. No one does. I shiver in the cold, and snowflakes flurry down, meeting the dead grass for the first time since the big storm back in November. I hope for snow on Christmas; it’s the only gift I want. Mr. Hammons scolds some guy for hugging his sophomore girlfriend to keep her warm, so I don’t make an effort to find Even, since we can’t leave our homeroom cluster.

  After a time, we get the OK to go into the cafeteria and gym while they examine the rest of the school. There’s no sign of Even. This is worse than study hall, lunch, or even just sitting at a desk doodling while the teacher drones on about the Civil War. I take a seat at an empty table in the cafeteria, thankful I had the sense to grab my backpack as the alarm blared. I pull out a book and start to read, hoping to make practical use of this time, when girlish giggling grabs my attention. It’s not the kind of laughter that belongs to a good-natured group of people joking, but the kind that tells me I might be the butt of the joke.

  I exhale, forcing myself not to give whomever it is the pleasure of turning around and acknowledging them. The giggles continue. I reread the same sentence over and over as I bristle with curiosity. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction.

  Something hits the back of my head. It doesn’t hurt, but I rub the spot anyway. I sneak a peek under the table. A paper airplane lies upside down on the floor. I step on it and slide it to where I can reach. There’s no telling what it might say, if anything. Better to be safe.

  Five minutes pass. I’ve managed to turn the page, and again, something hits the back of my head. Then another. I have three airplanes under my shoe. Amidst the laughter, someone snorts like a pig. Brandon, no doubt. I turn around, ready to give him the finger, when Hillary, Allie, Will, Alexis, and a few others sitting on or around the table behind me all go straight-faced, pretending to be occupied with their hair, nails, or whatever.

  My face flushes. Couldn’t Even have at least told his cousin to leave me alone? I turn around. They laugh. My eyes fill with tears, blurring the words in my book as I try to ignore their juvenile game.

  Suddenly, a shadow darkens the pages in my book. Floral-scented shampoo and a straightened sheet of hair breezes by my shoulder. Allie’s voice hisses in my ear, “Listen, fat-ass, I really like Even, and on Thanksgiving I got the feeling he liked me, but you are becoming a problem. It seems your neediness is taking up too much of his time. Either that or he can’t get around your enormous body and flee to safety. But I’m telling you to back off. Got it?”

  She’s gone. I bury my head in the book, letting my own hair form a privacy partition as I cry. Tears dot the table and the crisp pages of the paperback. I try not to let myself shudder, knowing they’re probably all watching me.

  The principal calls for our attention and says, “It’s safe to return to your classes now, everyone. Whoever pulled the alarm had better not do it again. Please walk in the halls. That’s all.”

  It isn’t much of a reprimand, but it also isn’t safe to return to my class. I have Spanish this period, with Allie and Hillary. I bend over for my backpack and pick up the airplanes. Dark lines of ink bleed through the thin white paper. I open one to see a sketch of me from behind, just as I sat moments before at the cafeteria table. Whoever drew it depicted me as taking up the whole thing, fat rolls dripping down my sides, my butt crack showing, and right in the center, a curly pig’s tail. Ears are drawn at the top of my head, too.

  I crumple all three airplanes and toss them in the trash on my way out. Instead of going to Spanish, as I was dutifully intending, I exit and shuffle home. Never mind Even. Never mind Allie. Never mind the rest of them. I want to be alone. Well, almost.

  I quietly creep into the house, hoping Mama doesn’t hear me. I riffle through the kitchen cabinets and find an outdated box of Ho Hos and some Funyuns, and I take a full two-liter bottle of Orange Crush up to my room. Never mind Skunk.

  I flop on my bed and inhale the snacks. I will do anything to drown out the sound of their laughter echoing in my head, to get the smell of Allie’s shampoo out of my nose and the sight of the cartoon of pig-me, burned into my mind, out, out, out. I let the act of eating, the surge of sugar and salt, carry me away from my body. I don’t care. Never mind me.

  Skunk must have left school after the fire alarm, too, if he even went. I hear him moving around the house followed by a skittering, a stream of curses, and then Mama shouting. That lifts me out of my stupor. I clod downstairs. Skunk looks at me in surprise.

  “Why the hell aren’t you at school?”

  “I didn’t feel good.” It isn’t entirely a lie. Also, now I actually really don’t feel good. My stomach punishes me after I topped off my binge with half the soda. “Why aren’t you at school?” I ask.

  He ignores my question. “Keep your germy hands away from me, then.”

  With pleasure. “Why’s Mama hollerin’?”

  “She thinks she saw a mouse,” Skunk says.

  I furrow my brow. “She thinks she did or she did? Big diff.”

  “Whatever. She’s on so many pills she probably imagined it.”

  I roll my eyes. Mama isn’t afraid of much, in fact just one thing, rodents. I begged for a hamster when I was in second grade. Not a chance. Once a mouse got in the house, which is really no surprise, since it’s in such disrepair, and she stood on a chair in the middle of the kitchen for a full four hours until Fat Henry got home and trapped it. It’s a wonder the chair didn’t break.

  I edge into Mama’s room. She is as white as a sheet.

  “What’s going on, Mama?”

  She points across the room. She’s shaking so much the large swath of flesh on the underside of her arm vibrates. She continues to point at a heap of blankets, towels, and clothing on the floor. It does look like it would make a nice nest.

  “M-m-m-mouse,” she says, her voice echoing the shaking of her body.

  “Did Skunk say he is going to trap it?”

  She shakes her head no.

  I let out an annoyed sound. I don’t especially like mice either, but can’t have her freaking out like this. It’s not good for her already elevated blood pressure. I poke around the room, but don’t see any sign of a mouse. I continue pulling things apart for about a half hour when something falls above me on the second floor, and then I hear more scurrying. Skunk comes thundering down the stairs. I go to see what the fuss is all about, and he dashes out the door. I go back to Mama’s room. By now, she’s smoked half a pack of cigarettes to calm her nerves.

  “Listen, Mama, Skunk went to get some traps.” This is what I’m hoping anyway. “I don’t think it’s in here, so I’m going to look around the rest of the house. ’K?”

  Mama nods vaguely, lost in her afternoon soaps. She’ll probably nap soon and forget this ordeal.

  I peruse the rest of the house, but don’t see a mouse anywhere. Grabbing a container of honey-roasted party nuts, I go back to my room. Aside from the nuts, all I can think about is what’s in my closet: a needle, thread, and virgin fabric.

  I settle on my bed, imagining what I’d like to create, when I notice a message on my cell phone from Even: Where are you?

  I don’t want to answer. The scene in the cafeteria crashes into my mind. What did Allie mean about Thanksgiving? What wasn’t Even telling me or what was he telling her? Am I a needy nuisance? Is he hanging out with me out of pity? I don’t want to believe it, but he could seamlessly blend in with the cool crowd with his good looks, charm, and the fact that he rides a motorcycle. I wonder why he does hang out with fat, worthless, and stupid me?

  I pour a handful of nuts into my mouth and chew them until they’re smooth like peanut butter. I clutch my phone, wondering if I should text him back what I’m thinking. Nah, if he’s playing some stupid game with me and reporting to Allie, Hillary, Will, and the rest of them, I’m not going to go along with it.

  Darkness comes early in December, but by then I’ve stitched a skirt in crepe de chine in the lightest of yellow sunshine. It’s calf-length with an underlay of toning yellow to make the sequins, which I’m laying out to form a sunburst pattern starting at the hip, pop like beams of light.