Things We Didn't Say - By Kristina Riggle Page 0,49

runs downstairs at this, leaving Mallory and me alone in her room.

“Thanks,” I say.

She’s rubbing her own hands, threading the fingers through each other, twisting her turquoise silver rings. She stops suddenly, shaking her hands out.

“For what?” Now she starts playing with her hair. I’ve seen this before. It’s restless Mallory, usually followed by Mallory filling up a plastic cup with boxed wine.

“For . . .”

She smirks. “For not being crazy. Yeah. You bet. At your service.” She gives me a mocking bow, tipping an invisible hat.

“You’re not the only one upset.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Would throwing things make you feel better?”

“A little emotion never killed anybody.”

We slip right into the worn grooves on the record of our marriage. She’s too unstable, I’m cold.

I turn away from her and stomp back down the stairs, once again hearing a ringing phone, the sound sparking a mosaic of frightening and ecstatic possibilities.

Chapter 19

Casey

Angel taps her fingers on her coffee mug, her eyes unfocused on the center of the table. Every time she sips, she grimaces. I’d offer her more cream and sugar, but I don’t want to draw attention to my presence.

Lately it’s like she’s sunburned. I can’t so much as brush up against her. And that was before she read my journal.

It was a year ago in May that I first met them. Angel turned fifteen that summer, and I took her and some girlfriends to the mall one summer Saturday. I lagged behind them most of the time, enjoying their chirpy laughter and their habit of bursting into song, heedless of—or maybe because of—the stares. They were sharing earbuds from their mp3 players, and I tried not to make faces thinking about the ear germs.

We sat at the food court eating greasy egg rolls and I was still mostly ignored, but then Angel said, “Oh, Casey! Listen to this!” and she launched into an incomprehensible story about some romantic triangle involving a girl named Tessa. I didn’t know any of the kids involved and could barely follow her disjointed tale, especially when the other girls kept throwing in more details about other people I didn’t know.

But I leaned in anyway, my elbows on the table, making faces and gasps of shock to match theirs, glowing with pleasure at my inclusion into the circle.

After I moved in, Angel had the same girls over for a study date, which was really a pretense for gossip. I popped them some popcorn, and as I brought it in, I heard one of them mention Tessa.

I said, “Oh, the one who was dating a football player and a marching band guy at the same time?”

In the cold silence that followed, one of them stage-whispered, “Awkward . . . ,” drawing the word out, marking the moment. The girls then all looked at Angel, who stared at me with an unguarded fury.

“Do you mind?” she hissed. “This is supposed to be a private conversation.”

I backpedaled. I’d only made it to the first step down from the landing when I felt the door slam reverberate through the floor.

At the table now, hunched over her coffee, Angel sighs and kneads her temples. Jewel comes down the stairs, her face wet, but composed, and doesn’t look at us as she heads for the living room to flip on the television.

“I should have gone to school. Now they’ll have to rehearse without me. That’s irresponsible of me, to affect everyone else because Dylan decided to be a jerk.”

I say nothing, listening for Michael to come down.

She continues, “I need the practice, too. I’m supposed to be off-book by Monday.”

I venture, not looking directly at her, “I could run lines with you.”

“Shut up and go call your boyfriend.” She stands up and adds, “Then go write about what a bitch I am.”

We hear Michael’s heavy step on the stairs at the same time the sound of the ringing phone jerks us to attention. Angel gets there first, seizing the phone hard, then immediately relaxing. “Oh, hi, Grandpa. No, nothing. Here, I’ll let you talk to Dad.”

She hands the phone to her father, saying she’s going to take a shower.

“Hi, Dad,” says Michael, closing his eyes and kneading the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I figured as much . . . Well, we shouldn’t get special treatment and I wouldn’t want it . . . We did hear that he really is meeting a girl . . . No, I don’t . . .”

Michael’s shoulders sag as he talks more to Dr. Turner,