Fireworks

“Sara!” squeals Rachel and attacks me in a hug.

I actually chuckle, the sound jagged and dry from lack of use. Rachel’s baby blue Stella McCartney empire dress is silky against my arms and her mauve Fendi hobo bag bangs against my side.

“Nice to see you, too,” I remark, tugging down the hem of my fitted green-and-grey striped Theory sweater. “How’s it been here without me for the past few days?”

“Boring,” supplies Rachel, like she’s supposed to. “But really, everyone’s just so hyped up about homecoming.”

“You’re going with me, right?” I confirm, still not sure where I stand with Robin. Ever since watching and re-watching the video message until I can string together the chords of “Go,” I’ve been anxious to see Robin. At the same time I don’t want to, I don’t want to know how he’s going to see me.

“Well….” Rachel says. I widen my eyes at her accusingly and she grins. “Kidding. Yes, I am. I was asked by at least five guys but I gave them all up for you.”

“You gave them up because you didn’t like any of them.”

“Also true.”

It feels great to be walking and moving again. I stretch my arms, reaching for the wispy white clouds.

“Did you even get your dress for homecoming yet? It’s tomorrow night….”

“Oh. Not yet.” I exhale in a burst. “Uh…want to come shopping with me after school today?”

“You know I do!” Rachel sings. She skips the width of the quad and returns, looking me up and down. “I think blue is your color.”

“Perfect,” I respond sarcastically. “I’m going to get to class, I don’t think my history teacher would like it if I were late on the first day back.”

“Whatever you’d like.” Rachel must have scratched a line in this morning because she’s flying as high as a red balloon let go by the little child, crying down the street in front of the dollar store.

The thing about Rachel is I never can tell when she’s dwelling in the photo album of the play-by-play of her sister’s death.

As I’m milling around outside my history classroom, the French girl from PE bounds up to me, a perky beret on her sandy brown hair. I never noticed she was in my class.

“Welcome back!” Wow, is she ever upbeat.

“Thanks,” I reply. “I love your beret.” It has the look of well-worn homemade yarn, summer-ripe plum purple.

Her permanent smile is momentarily tainted with wistfulness. “My grand-mère made it for me. We were really close when I was back in Lyon. She died a few months ago.”

“I understand.” And I do. More than anyone.

“Et toi?” she asks, twirling on the spot so her pleated red micro-mini fans out around her. “Comment ça va?”

“Ça va bien,” I say, suddenly feeling as if my emotions have been suspended by angels dressed in white and golden halos. “Merci.”

She curtsies for me to grin and as we file into the classroom, it dawns on me that I don’t even know her name.

During my teacher’s presentation on world geography and mapmaking, I chomp down on two sticks of Trident.

During third period’s lesson on three-by-three systems of equations, I sneak crumbs of a bag of Snyder’s pretzels.

Lunch arrives and I am filled with a solid 245. I seek out Rachel, who’s contemplating her options at the vending machine.

“Sour gummy worms or Corn Nuts?” she muses. The people waiting call out suggestions instead of insults and hurry ups.

“Gummies,” I advise.

The machine slurps up the dollar twenty-five and spits out the compacted bag of sour gummy worms. My stomach loses a few pegs as I remember Robin bought gummies the day we’d acknowledged each other’s existence again.

Rachel pinches out a blue-and-pink sugar-coated worm and munches on it happily. “Want one?”

In a second’s hesitation I stare at the green-and-orange worm she’s balancing on her index finger, my brain second-guessing the numbers and tough texture.

“Sure,” I manage, and set it carefully on my tongue. It’s an explosion of sensuality, the sourness wracking my taste buds brutally. It’s like soda after a year-long caffeine fast.

It tastes amazing.

I chew and swallow, savoring the flavor, and deny myself any treats for the rest of the day. Despite everything Robin said, everything I want to listen to, I’m compelled to stay strong to myself.

I catch a ride with Rachel after school to her house, and we settle down in the sitting room, our textbooks hogging up space at the coffee table. Our plans were to hit the mall at night, when less people are swarming the halls. I’m poring over my math homework, rereading the chart on quadratics, when Rachel abruptly stands.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, the words tripping over themselves on their haste to be heard. I nod and she half-sprints to the bathroom.

Of course I already know what she’s doing.

I sigh and glance at my soundless phone I’d placed right next to the edge of my textbook. For some reason I’ve taken to waiting for it to vibrate, waiting to check the screen and having it read 1 New Message or Robin with the little phone symbol next to his name. I tear my eyes away and scribble lines in the empty margin of my blank paper.

Rachel returns from the bathroom, her features tight. I instantly know something’s wrong. Usually she’s blissful after a cut.

“What’s up?” I ask, leaning forward. She folds herself cross-legged transversely from me, bare forearms resting on the tabletop. I remember her laughing to me about who would be stupid enough to slice themselves open where everyone can see? Poseurs, desperate attention-grabbers, that’s who. It’s so messed up in the most unbelieving way, the people who cut themselves so they can show it off to everyone for sympathy. Even I am disgusted at that.

At first she doesn’t acknowledge my presence, but then she lifts the bottom of her shirt. Between where her two lower ribs invisibly are, there’s a stretching four-inch red line, bloody as the Hawaiian sunset but not spilling red rain. It’s wider than she’s ever gone and doesn’t look like it was made with a thumbtack.

“Rachel?” My voice comes out a whisper. For once I’m glad her mother keeps to herself.

“I found a razor,” Rachel says, her voice monotonous, “and I…it’s fairly shallow. I didn’t go deep.”

“Does it hurt?” The childish question falls out before I can stop myself.

I seem to be having a lot of slips of the tongue lately.

“Not at all,” she replies, and I believe her because her glass-sharp hazel eyes go foggy. “It feels like God just wrapped you up in his softest blanket and sent you on your way.”

I wish God would take that much time and think about me once in a while. I get cold, too, more often than not now.

235 + 7 + 100 = 342.