Part 17 (1/2)

Why can't this -- life, living -- come easier to me? My parents and their insane fragility scare the c.r.a.p out of me, all of this looming possibility that seems beyond my reach, the idea that I'm not good enough, the notion of being lonely and alone for the rest of my life, and this grief -- this crus.h.i.+ng, breath-sucking grief. It's too much.

”I need to have some fun,” I tell Helena as we stroll past the fluorescent-lit shops that look like candy-colored daisies lined up in a plastic garden. ”I'm so sick of being morose, of everyone treating me like I'm going to break down all the time. Over it. Done.”

Secretly, I'm reveling in breaking Rule #5, although I've been breaking Rules #3 and #4 for the past five months. Guilt and elation make a funny c.o.c.ktail.

189.

”Okay, fun ...” Helena says thoughtfully, tapping her finger to her lips. ”I've got it!” she exclaims, her eyes s.h.i.+ny in the glow of the extra-bright mall lighting. ”Come on!”

She takes my hand and pulls me down the polished beige stone tile path, weaving between shoppers and bulky bags and kiosks and baby strollers.

”Where are we going?” I ask, trying to catch my breath and keep up. Helena sprints and darts like an elf.

”You'll see,” she says, a wicked grin spreading over her face.

An instant later, Helena comes to an abrupt halt in front of Tricia's Trinkets, a tiny boutique that sells cheap earrings, necklaces, bracelets, and so on. She stops so quickly that I walk right into her with a gasp.

”Sorry,” I mutter, catching her arm before she falls over.

”Cora, I have the antidote to your gloominess. We're making jewelry,” Helena announces.

”You mean buying it,” I correct her.

”No, making it. You know, taking everything apart and redesigning it?”

”Oh,” I say to Helena. ”That sounds cool.”

”Good enough,” she says. ”Come on, let's buy some stuff. Then we'll take it apart and put it back together even better.” She looks so excited, I feel something lift inside of me.

Yeah, fun. Remember how this used to feel? I ask myself.

”Let's go,” I say and put my hand through her arm. We step inside, grab a basket, and begin filling it with beaded necklaces 190.

and bracelets, modeling feathered earrings for each other, and giggling. Suddenly, I hear a familiar voice and some of the weight bears back down on me.

”These look just like the ones Macie was wearing the other day. They're cute, don't you think?” Rachel's voice resonates through the shop, echoing off mirrors and glittering headbands. My stomach clenches. We still haven't spoken since Homecoming, and that was more than a month ago.

”Totally,” Elizabeth Tillson's unmistakable, shrill voice replies. Another Nasties Hanger on.

How can I avoid them? There is nowhere to hide in this stuff-filled, idiotic place. As I'm wheeling around the rack I'm hiding behind, hoping to take cover behind another, I spin right into Rachel's path.

”Oh,” she says, a note of surprise catching in her throat. ”Urn, hi.” She clearly has no idea how she's supposed to act.

”Hi,” I say back, offering a smile but not much more. I don't know how I'm supposed to act, either.

”What are you doing here?” she asks. ”You hate this place.” A hood has come down over her eyes. I can't see my old friend. Elizabeth comes to stand just behind her, as though she were coming to be Rachel's second in a duel.

”I'm just, um, picking up some stuff.” It's very strange to be speaking in such a strained, awful way like this with Rachel, who's been my best friend for as long as I can remember. Then, Helena comes up beside me. Rachel's eyes switch 191.

over to Helena's face and give her a long once-over. It is not friendly.

”Oh. Well, see you around,” Rachel says stiffly, then gives me a searching look, the hood rising a millimeter, and I could swear I see the same hint of regret behind her eyes that chisels at my chest. Then she turns and marches away, Elizabeth hovering at her side.

”What a freak.” Elizabeth's voice wafts over to us. ”I can't believe you were friends with her.”

”Ugh, I can't believe you were ever friends with her,” Helena whispers to me.

”It wasn't always this way. She wasn't always this way,” I tell her. It's so strange how so much has changed, how Rachel and I seem to have grown out of each other, grown out of our friends.h.i.+p. Does that always happen? Does it have to happen? Does it mean that all ten years of our history are meaningless? Blown away, like dust?

”Hey, come on.” Helena breaks into my thoughts. ”Let's pay and go back to my house.” She looks at me with big, earnest eyes.

The truth hits me: Helena is my friend. I am not alone, and whatever happens between Rachel and me, Helena is my friend. Maybe I know how to be a friend because of Rachel. I don't know.... Now I'm getting corny in a way I don't think I want to carry on pursuing.

192.

Helena lives on Elm Street, on the other side of the county road, a quick walk from the mall. As she strides down the sidewalk, she bounces on the b.a.l.l.s of her feet, a funny, rolling, cheerful gait, and when we arrive, her mother, who also has a mane of blond curls, welcomes us warmly. She is wearing an ap.r.o.n tied around her waist, and the whole house smells deliciously sweet, of cookies or m.u.f.fins. I'm struck by how normal everything here seems. Like one of those old sitcoms -- but not in a bad way.

”Hey, Mom, this is my friend Cora from school,” Helena trills as we walk into the kitchen, heading for Helena's father's bas.e.m.e.nt workshop.

”Oh, Cora, it's so nice to meet you!” Her mother plants herself right in Helenas path and beams at us so widely, she looks a bit like a satellite dish. ”I'll call you girls when the cookies are ready,” she says, still smiling as we duck around her and head for the stairs.

Helena looks at me and rolls her eyes. ”Sorry about that,” she whispers.

”What do you mean? Your mom seems really nice,” I reply.

”Well, she is nice. That's the problem. She's too nice, and she just takes the c.r.a.p my dad dishes out to her. It's pathetic,” Helena sneers, but her voice is soft and sad.

”I guess even when things seem perfect, they never are,” I murmur.

”I guess so,” Helena responds, shaking her head.

193.

As I'm mulling this over, a flash of inspiration strikes, and I look up as though a bolt of lightning has touched my head. That's it.., the last piece of the map. I know what it should be.

My home.

We get to the bottom of the stairs where a long workbench of two plywood planks resting across three sawhorses stretches along the far wall. All kinds of tools are hung up on display, and shelves with little containers of nails and screws and bolts and washers fill the back side of the workbench.

”Here we are!” Helena announces. ”The shop. Come on, let's empty out all our loot and see what we've got.”

We dump the contents of our shopping bags out onto the rough surface and spread all the pieces around.

My eyes catch a fake amethyst pendant. ”Ooh, I love this color,” I say, and hold up the stone against the leather cord from another necklace.

”Let's get to work,” Helena says.

We begin cutting and pulling apart all of the jewelry we bought, separating beads and chains and stones and sh.e.l.ls and cords into piles, then rearranging and putting them back together again.

”Who says making your own stuff isn't better than buying designer stuff?” Helena asks out loud, waving a pair of pliers as if punctuating her point. She cuts some lengths of thread and fis.h.i.+ng line and hands me a needle and scissors.