My insides freeze up, and I can hardly breathe. I can hardly see. I hate him, hate him, hate him. I hate them all. I want to curl up and hide so no one ever sees me again. I want to make him hurt the way I hurt. I want to die.
I must have made some sound, because he looks up and sees me standing there. His mouth hangs open, but no words come out. We stare at each other, and it’s like the whole gym has gone silent and there’s nobody there but us. Just me and Mark. Except, there isn’t a me and Mark anymore.
I open my mouth to speak, but somehow, I can’t think of a single thing to say.
He says pleadingly, “Annemarie.” That’s all, just my name.
I shake my head. Then tears blur my vision, and I walk away before he can see me cry. Slowly, until I am out of the gym and out of sight, and then I pick up speed. I run like Satan is hot on my heels.
I run all the way to the parking lot, where Mama is waiting. The car is parked in the front row, and I climb into the passenger side without a word.
I forgot my coat, too.
Mama doesn’t seem to notice my hunched shoulders, how small I am. How small I feel. Shivering, I keep turned away from her and cry the whole way home. I pray please don’t see me, please just don’t. Please oh please. I concentrate on those words and will myself to forget everything else. This is the worst night of my life.
He doesn’t like me. He never liked me. He never will.
Worst of all, he is ashamed of me.
As soon as our car pulls into the driveway, I run out and into the house. I run all the way to my room and, kicking my shoes off, I fall onto my bed. Under my quilt I curl up like a sick kitten, and I cry. I cry and cry and cry. It’s the kind of crying where you can’t breathe it hurts so bad—your chest heaves and your eyes swell, and you can’t stop for all the trying in the world.
It hurts bad. I keep hearing the words—“barely even a girl,” “felt sorry for her,” “barely even a girl.” Over and over they dance around my head like a merry-go-round. I keep seeing them on the dance floor, kissing like they really know each other. And Jack standing there, not sayin’ a word, and here I was thinking we were almost friends. He’s not my friend, not even a little bit. He’s not my friend, and Mark’s not my friend, and Elaine’s barely my friend. I’ve never felt so alone in my whole life.
Later I hear my bedroom door open, and Mama comes in. She sits on the edge of my bed. “Annemarie, what’s the matter?”
Right now I don’t trust my voice to speak. I just shake my head. She doesn’t move, so finally I say, “Nothing. It’s nothing. Just leave me alone.” Tears drip down my cheeks, and I wipe them away with the back of my hand.
Mama smoothes the hair away from my forehead. “Shug, tell me what’s wrong.” Her breath is warm and sweet, and I start to relax against her fingertips.
She keeps smoothing my hair, and finally I feel brave enough to whisper, “Mama, he doesn’t want me. Mark doesn’t want me.”
Her hand stops moving. “Then he’s a fool. You are really somethin’, Annemarie. You are extraordinary, and if Mark Findley can’t see that, well, then he’s a young fool.”
I roll away from her and stare at the crack in my wall. “I hate it when you say that.”
“When I say what?”
“When you say that I’m extraordinary.”
“Why? It’s God’s honest truth.”
For a moment I don’t say anything. Then I finally say, “You just think I’m special because I’m your daughter. It’s because you think you’re special. You don’t see me. You just see yourself.”
She says nothing for a moment, and then, sharply, “Look at me.”
I don’t move.
“Annemarie, I said look at me.” Her tone doesn’t leave room for argument.
Heaving a great sigh, I turn and look at her. My mother’s face is grave, and I see that I’ve hurt her. For once I’m the one doing the hurting, and I’d thought that was Daddy’s job.
“Is that what you think?”
I shrug.
“You have been special your entire life. You were born that way. They put you in my arms, and you were already your own person, and I knew it. I knew you were somethin’ special.” Her gaze is soft on me for a moment, then it turns back to hard emerald, and I wonder if I imagined it. “Shug, if you can’t see your own worth, you sure as hell can’t expect someone else to.”
“I know what I’m worth.”
“No, I’m not sure you do.” She pauses. “People are gonna disappoint you sometimes. We’re flawed creatures. Not one of us is perfect, not even you, and you’ve gotta let people mess up and then you’ve gotta forgive them. That’s just life.”
“I know all about people disappointing me. You do it all the time.”
Mama flinches, and part of me is sorry, but the other part is glad. Glad that I’ve hurt her. “How do I disappoint you?” she asks. Mama looks so small, and for the first time, I feel powerful. I feel like I could hurt her some more.
“You disappoint me when you drink. You disappoint me when you drink so much you forget about Celia and me. You disappoint me when you drink so much you embarrass me in front of my friends or when you forget to pick me up places because you’re too drunk or too hungover.” Every word feels like a dart in my hand, and I hit the bull’s-eye each time.
She closes her eyes briefly, and I know her pain is real. It’s one of the realest things about her. “I’m the only mother you’ve got, so I guess we’re just gonna have to make the best of it.”
I know that this is the closest she will ever come to saying sorry, and I know that things aren’t going to change. That’s just life. My life, anyway.
“I’m sorry.” And I am. Not sorry for what I said, but sorry for why. Having my feelings hurt by Mark Findley isn’t a good enough reason for being mean on purpose.
“Hush.” Mama leans close and kisses my wet cheeks. “You were lovely tonight. There just aren’t enough words, Shug.”
Then she says what she’s said to me ever since I was a baby. “You’re my sweet Shug, my little bowl of sugar.”
Tears spring to my eyes again. I haven’t heard Mama say that in a very long time. Maybe because I haven’t been her little bowl of sugar lately. I haven’t been very sweet at all. I’d forgotten how special it made me feel whenever she said it.