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A girl struggles with death and divorce. |
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CHAPTER 1 Why do I read? I was having a very bad day. My grandma had just died two weeks ago from breast cancer, my parents broke it to me last week that they're getting a divosrce, I was having a totally bad hair day, and I made a 54 on my math test. "I really shouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning," I muttered to myself as I trudged down the hall to reading. I used to be one of the best students in that class. It was my favorite subject. Then Mom and Daddy started fighting. Over me. It all started with a book I read. Mom, being her protective self, thought it was witchcraft and full of the devil. Daddy, on the other hand, thought it was fine. That's what started it all. What I read, how I dressed, who I went out with. You name it, they fought over it. As if that wasn't enough, at Gram's funeral, they fought over whether or not Daddy really cared. That was the last time they fought. The next day, Daddy left. The very next thing I heard from him was a phone call. "Honey, your mom and I are getting a divorce." As if I haven't figured that out, Dad. Then came the we-still-love-each-other-and-you-it-just-didn't-work-out speech I hear people at school talking about. Then he said it: "Part of this is you'll be living with one of us and visiting the other. Who would you like to live with? The judge says it's up to you at first but if you can't decide, we'll have to take it to court. Honey? Are you still there?" At that point i had dropped teh phone. This wasn't supposed to happen to me. It happened to other people. People who later ended up smoking pot and getting high. I wasn't one of those people. The divorce itself, combined with Gram's death, was enough. Why did they have to make me choose between them? Gram's death. I forced myself to hold back the traitorous tears that began to form at the mention of it. I had watched as she slowly began to feel worse and worse, the visit to the doctor's office, the diagnosis, the chemotherapy, and finally, the conclusion that there was no hope. No hope. I couldn't - I wouldn't believe it. There was always hope, Gram said it herself. I wanted to punch the doctor when his mouth formed that meaningless lie. I refused to believe it. I wanted to hit him, beat my fists against him and make him understand how much pain that lie caused me. But then it turned out to be true. Gram got worse and worse. Finally, one day, she called me and told me to come quickly. I made it there in five minutes, a drive taht normally took 15. I ran to her bedside to see why she needed me. "Natalie, I'm dying." Her raspy voice was weak. I began to sob. "No you're not. You're going to be fine. You're going to live to be 98 years old and have 25 great grandchildren. You'll be fine!" I was hysterical now. She just chuckled. "No, honey, I'm not. I'm dying. I have been for a long time. I just wanted you to be the one to see me off to my eternal home." "But I need you! If you die, I won't know what to do. You're my anchor. With you gone my life wil fall apart! Gram, what wil I do without you?" "You'll survive." Her voice was gentle. "Some instinct buried deep inside you will rise up and even though your mind is telling you not to get out of bed or to just end it while you can, you'll get up every morning and go on with life. You won't know why and you'l feel like you wil fall apart every time you fake a smile, but you wil lsurvive. I promise. Adn I won't leave you. I will watch over you. I will never leave you. I promise. I promise." With that, she closed her eyes. Her chest became still, her face as peaceful as the dawn. She was gone. A hole ripped in my chest as I began to sob. I folded over, unable to fight this monster ripping my heart out. I don't know how long I stayed there. Finally, numb, I got up, questioning why the whole time, just as Gram had promised, and went home. I was yanked out of my trance as the bell blared through the halls. Crap. I was late. Again. I dashed down the hall as my teacher, Mrs. Sanhedrim was closing the door. She smiled at me. "You know, I always used to be late for class. My homeroom teacher would rap her ruler on the desk and glare at me. I hated it and vowed to never do it to a student." Whatever, Mrs. S. Like I care about your childhood escapades. Mrs. S. is really young, and she's a really cool teacher, I guess. When you compare her to the other drones who call themselves teachers, she seems downright amazing. She just tries to read too much into everything. Today, we were studying current novels. The class was reading from "Harry Potter". Great. Just to top of my horrific day, why don't we read from the book taht caused my parents' divorce. Let's just say taht the day I brought it home from the library, they started figthting. Now I can't stand reading of any sort. It just remends me that it's my fault they're splitting up. "Natalie, please see me after class," Mrs. S. said, interrupting my reverie once more. Lovely. I hadn't even done anything yet. "Alright," I mumbled. |
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