creaky pews, the out-of-tune piano, the lack of air-conditioning, anything.
I can’t cut out all my lies—they’re the only thing keeping me sane and safe. But I can’t do this either.
“I didn’t go to church,” I say. “And I’m sorry, but I haven’t been wearing the cross either.”
There’s a silence on her end.
“I’m not sure what god’s will says about this, but I’m not going to look for a church here. I am just starting to feel comfortable in this brand-new city—which you haven’t even asked me about, by the way—and I’m not going to throw some biblical trauma into the mix.”
“Well,” Mom says. “I don’t even know how to respond to this. I just wanted to have a nice catch-up, but I don’t know what else I expected. One week with her and you’re already like this, I swear.”
Aunt Leah isn’t even here! I scream in my mind. But I don’t let it slip, because that would not work out well for me. I still don’t know if they could make me come back—I guess legally they could—but as long as they think I’m technically safe here and that I’m busy with school (and that I only have eleven more weeks left here), they won’t do anything.
At least, I hope they won’t.
“Don’t do that, Mom.” It’s not a demand, but I’m not pleading either. “Aunt Leah’s letting me stay here for free, she stocked the pantry with American snacks for me, Shane’s going out of his way to make sure I’m happy and making friends. They’re good.”
She sighs. “Be careful, Marty. I can’t watch over you from here.”
I don’t say it, but I think it: That’s kind of the point.
12 MONTHS AGO
DIARY ENTRY 7
If I had to give a few adjectives that describe my cousin Shane, I’d probably pick words like “chill” or “sweet” or maybe “easily distracted.” But the Shane sitting on the floor next to me is none of those things. He’s pissed. Angry, explosive, likely to spontaneously combust if someone doesn’t throw some cold water on him.
Everything feels a little hopeless right now—okay, a lot hopeless.
I can’t pull Shane into this. I can’t pull Aunt Leah into this. These are my parents and this is my mess. At least, that’s what I tried to tell him, but he’s not having it.
“They’re wrong, Marty.” He’s said this like eight times. “With so many things in this world, there’s this gray area. I try to take other people’s perspectives, I try to understand all sides of the story, but this is so obviously wrong.”
He said something like that, at least. To be fair, he talked really fast and I’m so busy trying to forget everything that happened that even my memory from the last few minutes is getting fuzzy.
That might be one downside to this project. To the entire concept of journaling. I can read this diary months from now, and I will know what happened, how it all fell apart, and remember exactly how I felt. How do I feel? Awful.
My parents are making me feel awful for existing. My church tells me my very existence is wrong.
When will this pain stop? When can I stop pretending and just … be the person I want to be?
There’s a rage building inside me too, and I don’t think it’s going away this time.
TWENTY
“No.” No. “Absolutely not.”
There are a million people here. And they’re all annoying. We’re at King’s Cross Station, which is about a tenth as fancy as it sounds, and eight times more stressful than any station I’ve seen so far. I’m dodging people who dart left and right. It’s like everyone’s missed their train. It’s like no one knows where their fucking rolling suitcase is supposed to go. It’s been two weeks since I moved to London, and I still can’t deal with crowds. I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever get used to this.
The station’s clean. At least I can focus on that happy fact. Stark white everything, clean floors, walls. When I look to the roof, I see crisscrossing white beams line the vaulted ceiling, letting soft light through their cracks. It’s open and bright here. These are positives.
But then there’s the chest pain. We’re here to film one of Sophie’s sessions for a class, but she’s somehow convinced me to add another video to my collection and to film it. But at least mine is being filmed at Marble Arch, as that was the only reserved Knightsbridge spot Sophie could sneak me on at