big stone wall that surrounds the park. When I was little, I would inch my sneakers up the gray stone of the rock, lift my arms, and pretend I was riding the back of a whale.
Now I’m sitting here with Cassandra Wolfe, of all people. My legs are pulled up, my arms locked around them. Cassandra sits cross-legged, her hair lifting off her forehead in the breeze.
She says, “So I hear you had a crazy summer too.”
Eamonn. For a moment, I think, Does my dad and Oliver and everything else add up to … that? Not really. Still, I say, “I guess we could write some pretty dire ‘What I Did on My Summer Vacation’ essays.”
“Whose horror story first?” she asks. “Yours or mine?”
“You already know mine.”
Cassandra tilts her head to one side, recites, “Girl dares to have actual fun. Then she has actual fun with someone who is supposedly ‘someone else’s’—whatever that means. Girlfriend suddenly realizes she wants him back, so back he goes.
They’re
all happy.Other girl is branded slut by whole school for the sin of not being boring.”
I smile. Cassandra’s odd, theatrical way of talking is like a secret language; it makes me feel like we’re in a club of tough, clever people.
She says, “You don’t do the boyfriend thing, huh?”
“Not successfully.”
She shrugs. “Maybe you don’t want to. Maybe you don’t care. I’ve noticed: you kind of float around. This guy, that guy.” She raises an eyebrow. “I mean, really. What is that? Don’t you know that as a female in high school your sole mission is to permanently attach yourself to a male in order to receive oxygen, sustenance, and social significance?”
“Crap, I knew I was forgetting something.”
“You broke the rules,” she scolds. “What were you thinking?”
“That I wanted to have some fun?”
“Bitch.”
“I know, right?” I sigh. “So that’s my horror story. What’s yours?”
She rolls her eyes. But I notice she pulls her legs up, wraps her arms around them for protection. “I’m sure you’ve heard it.”
I shake my head. Because I’m not one hundred percent sure which horror story we’re talking about, boyfriend or brother.
“Hasn’t Ella told you? It’s one of her favorites.” She looks out at the Hudson River. “So much excitement. So much fun. When it’s not your pain.”
I almost say, Yeah, Ella does talk about you—because she’s worried about you. But Cassandra meets my eye, danger in her expression. This is not the time to defend Ella.
Then she shakes her head, as if annoyed with herself. “Zuh. Long story short: I fell madly, madly in love with a beautiful, dark-eyed lad who proved to be a lily-livered barstid. He dumped me, alas, alack. Having convinced myself that he was my own true love and read
Romeo and Juliet way
too many times, I tried to off myself.”
She holds up her wrists. Now I see the scars, faint tracings on her skin. I imagine them open, bleeding.
“Can you believe that?” she says, dropping her arms. “How lame was I?”
“I don’t think it’s lame,” I say truthfully. “It hurt. What’s so great about pretending it didn’t?”
“True,” she agrees. “But really? My aim was way off. I should have slashed
his
wrists. Or his face. He was such a pretty boy.” She sighs wistfully.
“Why didn’t you?” I joke.
“Blinded by hormones? I don’t know. No”—she gathers herself up—“I was a different person then.”
“How’d you manage that?” I ask.
“Ah, I—”
Then she stops. Wrinkling her nose slightly, she looks toward the river.
“You what?” I prompt.
“That’s a long story.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“No, it’s—” She waves her hands in agitation—the first time I’ve seen her rattled. Almost to herself, she says, “How much craziness can I show you and not have you flee screaming?”
“Tell me.”
She sits for a long moment, staring at my face.
“Not yet,” she says finally.
Then she stands up.
Now I’m sitting here with Cassandra Wolfe, of all people. My legs are pulled up, my arms locked around them. Cassandra sits cross-legged, her hair lifting off her forehead in the breeze.
She says, “So I hear you had a crazy summer too.”
Eamonn. For a moment, I think, Does my dad and Oliver and everything else add up to … that? Not really. Still, I say, “I guess we could write some pretty dire ‘What I Did on My Summer Vacation’ essays.”
“Whose horror story first?” she asks. “Yours or mine?”
“You already know mine.”
Cassandra tilts her head to one side, recites, “Girl dares to have actual fun. Then she has actual fun with someone who is supposedly ‘someone else’s’—whatever that means. Girlfriend suddenly realizes she wants him back, so back he goes.
They’re
all happy.Other girl is branded slut by whole school for the sin of not being boring.”
I smile. Cassandra’s odd, theatrical way of talking is like a secret language; it makes me feel like we’re in a club of tough, clever people.
She says, “You don’t do the boyfriend thing, huh?”
“Not successfully.”
She shrugs. “Maybe you don’t want to. Maybe you don’t care. I’ve noticed: you kind of float around. This guy, that guy.” She raises an eyebrow. “I mean, really. What is that? Don’t you know that as a female in high school your sole mission is to permanently attach yourself to a male in order to receive oxygen, sustenance, and social significance?”
“Crap, I knew I was forgetting something.”
“You broke the rules,” she scolds. “What were you thinking?”
“That I wanted to have some fun?”
“Bitch.”
“I know, right?” I sigh. “So that’s my horror story. What’s yours?”
She rolls her eyes. But I notice she pulls her legs up, wraps her arms around them for protection. “I’m sure you’ve heard it.”
I shake my head. Because I’m not one hundred percent sure which horror story we’re talking about, boyfriend or brother.
“Hasn’t Ella told you? It’s one of her favorites.” She looks out at the Hudson River. “So much excitement. So much fun. When it’s not your pain.”
I almost say, Yeah, Ella does talk about you—because she’s worried about you. But Cassandra meets my eye, danger in her expression. This is not the time to defend Ella.
Then she shakes her head, as if annoyed with herself. “Zuh. Long story short: I fell madly, madly in love with a beautiful, dark-eyed lad who proved to be a lily-livered barstid. He dumped me, alas, alack. Having convinced myself that he was my own true love and read
Romeo and Juliet way
too many times, I tried to off myself.”
She holds up her wrists. Now I see the scars, faint tracings on her skin. I imagine them open, bleeding.
“Can you believe that?” she says, dropping her arms. “How lame was I?”
“I don’t think it’s lame,” I say truthfully. “It hurt. What’s so great about pretending it didn’t?”
“True,” she agrees. “But really? My aim was way off. I should have slashed
his
wrists. Or his face. He was such a pretty boy.” She sighs wistfully.
“Why didn’t you?” I joke.
“Blinded by hormones? I don’t know. No”—she gathers herself up—“I was a different person then.”
“How’d you manage that?” I ask.
“Ah, I—”
Then she stops. Wrinkling her nose slightly, she looks toward the river.
“You what?” I prompt.
“That’s a long story.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“No, it’s—” She waves her hands in agitation—the first time I’ve seen her rattled. Almost to herself, she says, “How much craziness can I show you and not have you flee screaming?”
“Tell me.”
She sits for a long moment, staring at my face.
“Not yet,” she says finally.
Then she stands up.
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