The Tear Collector Read online

  “I don’t.” She’s looking at him with a pierced and arched eyebrow.

  “But isn’t God supernatural as well?” Scott says. “So you can accept God. Anyone who accepts Christ, Mohammad, or Buddha accepts there are things beyond science. It’s logical.”

  Samantha stares at Scott; it looks like she’s not angry but appreciative. She mouths the word “thanks,” and he smiles back in her direction. A normal person might be jealous. I’m not.

  “So what about AIDS?” Michael asks. “I don’t understand why science or God would create such a disease.”

  A few people in the room start to talk. Mr. Abraham guides the discussion, but doesn’t offer fact or opinion. There are plenty of questions, but no answer. It’s my turn.

  “AIDS, like any disease, is probably a necessary mutation,” I say with confidence.

  “What?” Michael looks at me as if my name wasn’t Cassandra but Judas.

  “Wait, let me explain,” I say softly. “Whether by grand design of God or by the process of evolution, everything in the world serves some sort of purpose, or it wouldn’t survive.”

  “Please continue, Cassandra,” Mr. Abraham prompts me.

  I launch into a long and boring scholarly explanation of the interconnectedness and importance of everything, ending with, “It’s simple.”

  “Actually, it’s not simple, it is symbiotic,” Mr. Abraham says. “You’re talking about ‘symbiotic’ relationships. The term means the living together of unlike organisms.”

  “Even faggots—I mean, maggots,” Clark Rogers says from the back of the room. Clark’s living proof of what I’m saying. Our student body needs an asshole, and Clark fulfills that role. I turn to see that Michael looks hurt by Clark’s no doubt very deliberate slip of the tongue.

  “Yes, even maggots,” I say. “Maggots eat away dead tissue. They become flies. Flies are an important part of the food chain.”

  “To get back on point, and not to spoil your lunches, let me continue,” Mr. Abraham says. “There is also the concept of coevolution. Many plants pollinated by birds or bees have very specialized flowers adapted to promote pollination by a specific pollinator that is also likewise modified. Adaptation is perhaps one of the important concepts in evolution.”

  “Finally, we’re talking about the birds and the bees in school!” somebody cracks.

  I think Scott blushes, since he’s learning more about that after school than in any class. The conversation continues, but once again, I drop out. I made my point, defended my friends, and got more brownie points from Mr. Abraham. A successful, if energy draining, first hour.

  As the bell rings, Mr. A reminds everyone there’ll be a substitute tomorrow, and we’ll be watching a DVD. What he’s really saying, of course, is he’s not going to be here tomorrow, and he’ll be fine with it if nobody else shows. No wonder Mr. Abraham is such a popular teacher.

  “Can I see you tonight?” Scott asks as he comes over to my desk. Scott’s seeing more of me than he’s ever seen of a girl before. He’s got a serious kid-in-the-candy-store situation.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sitting for Becca tonight, and I need to get ready for the reunion.”

  “I understand,” he says, but his tone is off. Maybe he has enough thoughts of death in his head without another image. There’s something so inhumane about a child with cancer.

  “When can I see you?” His bright green eyes almost sparkle with anxious anticipation.

  “As soon as I can, Scott,” I say, then kiss him on the cheek. We get a disapproving throat clearing from Mr. A, so Scott and I make our way, hand in hand, down the hallway. Every guy is so different; yet every guy—even special ones like Scott—is so exactly alike.

  “Could you come over for dinner on Easter?” he asks, almost pleading.

  “I want to, but I can’t. The reunion,” I remind him.

  “That’s a lot of days for a reunion,” he cracks, then smiles.

  “Well, I’ve got a lot of family,” I say, faking a smile and hoping he won’t ask for any details. My family used to be larger, but a long time ago, the elders decided to limit the number of children. Now each line of the family produces one child per generation. Maybe it’s like how some animals eat their young if there’re too many mouths to feed; it’s unnatural selection.

  “Just as well,” he says, sounding disappointed but not angry or upset at me. “This might be my grandmother’s last Easter. I’ll want to be with her, even if she doesn’t know I’m there.”

  “She’s in good hands with my grandmother at Avalon,” I remind him. After much debate and another fit about how I make all the sacrifices in the family, Maggie agreed to move Scott’s grandmother into her nursing home. But I know Maggie; she’s not doing it out of the kindness of her heart—because there is none—but because she wants something from me.

  “Thanks again,” he says. We’re by my locker; people pass by like background noise.

  “You should see her tomorrow; everybody’s skipping,” I remind him. He nods.

  Ever since Scott’s grandmother moved into Avalon, there’s been no change; she’s in suspended animation. Looking at her is like watching a DVD on pause, except there’s no way to hit Play, Skip, Rewind, or Fast-forward. The laws of the state, and the belief of Scott’s faith, won’t allow for the Eject button to be pushed and the cord pulled. She won’t die, yet she can’t live.

  The rest of the day passes, sadly, without any drama. I’ve switched my lunch table to Scott and his friends’, mainly other new kids, so I can avoid Cody and Bethany. I changed shifts at the hospital so I don’t overlap with Kelsey. Brittney leaves me alone, probably because she’s embarrassed that she never followed through with a ceremony for Robyn. Craig’s mostly MIA.

  After school, Scott and I make out in his car for a while. Before I leave, I use the rearview mirror to put on lipstick. Samantha would be amazed at this; she really thinks I’m a vampire. I’m thinking about her, and the idea of God’s gifts. Many girls—but not Samantha—have the gift for getting guys. They know how to dress, flirt, and flaunt it. It’s easy to make guys want to hook up with you, but that’s not my gift. My gift is getting guys to fall in love with me. What’s not supposed to happen is for me to fall in love with them, if this is what love feels like.

  I give Scott a good-bye kiss as he lets me out a block from my house.

  When I come inside, Mom and Maggie are sitting at the table. A traditional Middle Eastern meal lies before them.

  “You’re late, again,” Mom says before I can even sit down. “Were you with that boy?”

  “He just drove me home.” I don’t mention Scott’s name or our in-car tongue twisting.

  “What are you going to do about him?” Mom asks.

  I sit down at the table and put a tiny bit of food on a plate. “It is so unfair,” I say, sounding like every high school student. But I’m not whining about not getting the car or being allowed to stay out late; instead, I’m raging against my fate.

  “Cassandra, this is how we live,” Maggie says.

  “If so, then we should really do good in the world,” I say.

  “What do you mean?” Mom asks.

  “Both Becca and Scott’s grandmother are near death. It’s not fair that both have to die, when one could live,” I say, expressing the thought that’s haunted me the past few weeks.

  The table grows very silent. All talking and chewing cease.

  “Don’t talk about such things,” Mom says, her eyes shouting louder than her words.

  “Scott’s grandmother is never going to get better, but Becca could,” I continue through Mom’s razor-blade glare. “Scott wants his grandmother to die; Becca’s parents need her to live.”

  “I don’t want to discuss this,” Mom says.

  “You just don’t understand,” I counter. “My friends are—”

  Mom cuts me off: “We have a lot to do before tomorrow, and this is family time.”

  “My friends are my fami
ly,” I say, then swallow some food. From Mom’s reaction, it is obvious I should’ve swallowed that last statement.

  “How dare you say that!” Maggie jumps in, which doesn’t surprise me. If I defy my mom, then my mom might defy hers. It could create a game of disobedience dominoes.

  Before I speak, I look at Mom’s and Maggie’s faces, then swallow my useless words. They look tired and like they’ve taken one too many whips from the lash of Veronica’s tongue. I sip from my water bottle, then say, “I’m sorry. There’s a lot going on with me right now.”

  “That’s better,” Maggie says, acknowledging the apology. Neither she nor Mom asks about the second part of my statement. Maybe I tried deliberately to exhaust myself today, so I’d have an excuse to avoid the reunion. But I can’t tell them anything: I can’t talk to them about Scott; I dare not mention Siobhan. Nor can I tell Scott, Becca, or any of my friends what happens at home. For someone expert in spreading rumors, I’m drowning in secrets.

  “You need to see Veronica,” Mom says, almost a whisper.

  “What about?” I ask aloud, but silent questions scream louder. Did they find out about my call to Siobhan? Is it something with Scott? Or something worse?

  “She’s waiting for you,” is Mom’s icy response.

  “I don’t have time now,” I counter. “Becca’s father is picking me up. I’m babysitting tonight, remember?”

  Mom sighs. This is her one-millionth sigh. She should win some award.

  “You should be with your family tonight,” she says sharply.

  “I’ll be with you all weekend,” I remind her, and add a sigh in return. We sound like people gasping for breath after a near drowning.

  “Veronica will be very disappointed in you,” Mom says. I mutter “She always is” under my breath, and then head toward my room.

  I pack a few things, then wait for Mr. Berry by the curb. He’s late, which is unusual, but then again, everything in his life is unusual. We small-talk on the way over, but it’s hard for him to talk to me without mentioning Robyn; harder for him to talk without crying.

  I knock at the door, and Mrs. Berry opens it. She’s dressed up like an actress; her daily life’s an act. The smile on her face looks as painted on as her lipstick. Her grief floats just below the surface, and I need energy so badly with the reunion coming up. I fight myself, but my nature still prevails, so I ask, “Mrs. Berry, at the hospital, did you get to say good-bye to Robyn?”

  She grabs hold of the door and sucks in so much air I wonder how I manage to breathe.

  “Not that she heard,” she says, then her eyes go toward the ceiling, or maybe above.

  “Were you there when...?” I say, and stop, letting her fill in the words.

  “She died.” Her head’s shaking like the memory’s a fly buzzing around her head.

  “I’m sorry, if you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Why shouldn’t I talk about it?” she says, then frowns. “It’s all I ever think about.”

  I sit in silence so still I can hear Becca tapping on the keyboard upstairs in her fantasy game while her mom retells the reality of losing one daughter, knowing she’ll relive it very soon.

  “They say a parent shouldn’t outlive their child,” Mrs. Berry says. She is licking her lips like she’s thirsty for a drink. Her hands are shaking. I still them by putting my hands on top.

  “But watching one of them die right before your eyes …,” she continues. “It’s a horror you cannot imagine. I got to say good-bye, and I hoped she heard me, like she hears me now.”

  “I’m sure she does.”

  “Cassandra, you were such a good friend to Robyn,” she says, a smile almost returning to her face. “She talked about how kind, thoughtful, and caring you were. All you hear are bad things about people your age. You’d think from TV that every teen is a soulless predator.”

  I don’t respond; instead, I say, “We all miss Robyn.” Her slight smile vanishes. I readjust my position, tempting her teary eyes with my shoulder when Becca yells for me.

  “Hey Short Stuff!” I shout to her. She’s at the top of the stairs waiting with open arms.

  “She misses you,” Mrs. Berry says, pulling herself together. “Thanks for doing this. We shouldn’t be late.” I hug her again, then run upstairs to greet Becca.

  Becca and I play video games for an hour or so. She sits in front of the computer, while I lie on the floor next to her bed. In between levels on our quest, we take a moment to talk.

  “Easter is Sunday. Do you want to come over?” she asks.

  “I’d love to Becca, but I have a family thing to go to,” I say, acting all cheerful.

  “Our family is smaller this year,” Becca says, then stares at the screen.

  “I’m sorry, Becca,” I tell her, then move closer to her. “It’s okay to cry.”

  She looks at me, then says, “You always say that, Cass.”

  “And you always listen,” I remind her, then she lets out a short burst of sorrow.

  The tears don’t last long, but they benefit us both greatly. She finds her smile, then we return to playing the game. After a while, I drop out and sneak into Robyn’s room. Her clothes still hang in the closet; her pictures decorate the room. Nothing’s been changed, like they’re expecting her to walk in the door at any moment. I turn on the computer and I resist the urge to sneak around in Robyn’s life; I’ve been too deceitful for too long to too many people. Sitting with Robyn’s memories around me, I feel like I’m drowning. Not from feeling almost high from the sadness I’ve sucked in, but something new: I’m feeling sad myself.

  In the other room, I hear Becca laughing, having fun. And envy overwhelms me; even in the face of death, she finds happiness, she has fun. In this life, it seems I’ll never have either.

  The weather this weekend is supposed to be nice, but no matter what the weatherman says, the only forecast in my future is dark skies. As I walk back to Becca’s room I think how she lives under the dark cloud of cancer, while Scott suffers under the dark cloud of his grandmother’s impending death. Even Samantha walks under some mysterious dark cloud of pain that I’ve yet to discover. My dark cloud, however, is no mystery; it even has a name. His name is Alexei.

  CHAPTER 15

  FRIDAY, APRIL 10

  Have you seen him?”

  My cousin Mara smirks, then answers, “You’re safe. Nobody’s seen Alexei.”

  “Good,” I reply, and then sip from my water bottle. I’m sitting with Mara and Lillith, two of my favorite cousins, at a picnic table at the Holly Recreation Area. It’s the morning of Good Friday. Most of the extended family arrived around sunrise.

  “So, how are things at your new school?” I ask Lillith. Like me, like Mara, she’s moved around a great deal. When we left New York, her family took over our house. They’re living in Chicago now. Mara’s family left New Orleans with us, but they’re close, just down in Detroit. We talk more about being each other’s favorites than talking with each other. We’re all busy, but I suspect it’s more than that. Because I’m of Veronica’s line, they think I’m spoiled. They’re so wrong.

  “I’m meeting lots of emo boys,” Lillith confesses. That’s easy, as she’s swallowed the Goth pill whole. Mara, with her lithe body, cute short hair, and dark, round, brown eyes, is a boy magnet. She’s broken more hearts than even I have.

  “There are always opportunities,” Mara adds. “In every school, in every city.”

  “I’ll tell you the best people to know,” Lillith says. “It is people that dream they’re going to become famous singers, actors, or writers. When they realize it won’t happen, it’s pretty sad.”

  Mara laughs, but my mind races to Samantha. What I’ve learned about her—some from asking, some from her MySpace page, but mostly via the rumor river—is how badly she wants to be a published writer. I even heard a rumor that a wall in Samantha’s bedroom is covered with rejection letters. You’d think Samantha, with her odd appearance and obvious anguish, w
ould gather enough rejection in high school, but some people can’t get enough hurt. Lucky for me.

  I’m still thinking about Samantha when Mara asks, “How’s Lapeer?”

  “I don’t think it’s like Veronica expected,” I say. “I don’t get why we left New Orleans.”

  “Because the elders know all,” Mara spits out like there’s a bad taste in her mouth.

  “I don’t think Alexei believes that,” Lillith says. Alexei is the great-grandson of Simon. Simon, like Veronica, is considered the core of the family, which is why I am promised to Alexei. He’s always challenged the family, but because he comes from Simon’s line, it seems like Alexei can do no wrong. Like a star quarterback at high school, he is untouchable.

  “I don’t care what he does or doesn’t do,” I snap. “As long as he leaves me alone.” But Mara and Lillith know that while I can usually say whatever I want, I’ll do whatever my family needs. You can’t deny duty. Maggie, more than Mom or Veronica, wants Alexei and me together. This type of relationship isn’t looked down upon in the family, like it is by human society. Maggie says we’re too far removed through the generations to be a problem. She reminds me that even the entire human race is a product of evolution and inbreeding.

  “This isn’t because of that boy toy Cody?” Lillith asks.

  Before I can correct her, Mara adds, “Careful, Alexei might kill him.”

  “Not to worry. I left poor sweet Cody mostly dead,” I say, then laugh.

  “You heartbreaker,” Lillith says, then applies some lip balm just like I applied shine to my story. This cousinly competition between the three of us regarding boys goes on forever.

  “You’re one to talk,” I add. Like Mara and me, Lillith has no trouble capturing, keeping, and then cutting off a boy’s attention. Like me, they’re both swimmers and seducers.

  “So if not Cody, then...?” Lillith asks.

  “His name is Scott,” I mumble. If either of them would actually visit my MySpace or Facebook, they’d know this. All the Cody photos are gone and have been replaced by Scott pix.