Preface of a Great Adventure

        You’re become something very real, very tangible to me. I can’t seem to boil down my words into something concentrated enough to explain it, I just know that you’re not simply a dream floating around in my head anymore. 

You are real. I have felt your arms around me and been encompassed in the warmth of your affection. Your fingers have been entwined in mine as truly as I feel my heart becoming lost in the tumult of this thing called love. 

It’s strange. The best word I can find to describe my feelings about our togetherness is comfortable. Perhaps I’m wrong not to speak to you in terms of passion, longing, and desire. I think those things are true as well, but I have found that the more I spend time with you, the more I realize how right we feel. When we are together, it feels right. It feels comfortable. It’s as if I finally found the thing that I’ve been looking for; I’ve found the glove with the perfect fit and I don’t ever want to let go.

I picture myself in the future and you’re there, standing right beside me. My darling, let’s be adventurers together. Let’s travel the world and let’s worship our God. Let’s share the gospel and let’s love each other. Let’s never be apart. 

I imagine living a simple life with you and I don’t think I could picture anything happier. I don’t ask for much. Just you and me and lasting love. And maybe a baby and a dog sometime down the road... 

I imagine wild adventures and quiet nights. I picture us climbing mountains together and growing old together. It’s a vast collage that I don’t even know if I understand; but it is there, swirling around in the back of my mind like a beautiful silent movie, waiting to be narrated. 

My pen is here, between my fingers, waiting to write our story as it unfolds. And yet, even as I write these words, I feel as if I’ve read them before. I feel as if I the worn pages of my favorite childhood story are coming alive and the sweet aroma of a well-loved book is calling me to jump inside. 

Maybe that’s why you feel so wonderful to me me. Maybe that’s why it’s as if I’ve always know you. Because all along I’ve been reading the story, thinking it was only a fairytale, and here you are. You’re real. I’m real. And this isn’t just a dream.

I think we’ve found the preface of something special. 

Little Silver Cup

Page by page the letters fall,

Are crumpled, smashed, and thrown,

Unto this silver cup I call, 

Tonight I am alone.

Smoking musky words abroad,

Into the evening air,

These embers flay the fuming fraud

Burned up in my despair. 

Consumed by fire, words ignite

The sacrifice is justly made

As tear stained pages fill the night,

Rending hearts, our price is paid.

Within this little cup I pour

Your promises and paper lies,

Purging evil, I’ll ignore

The ashes as they rise.

Page by page, my tribute’s cast

Every letter sets me free.

Look no more on what is past,

But what I intend to be.

Sights and Sounds

There was a siren in the night.

Blood stained asphalt.

 My mother screaming 

“Oh my God.”

While Irene and I 

 Huddled near the shoulder.

“We shouldn’t have run;

I thought we could make it.”

Merry Christmas, everybody.

Hospital lights blinked,

Machines yawned.

I was tired too, but more angry

Than anything else.

I didn’t want to be there.

Not with all the patronizing

Church ladies,

Swarming in with their 

Condolences and flowers.

 
I often wished it had been me,

Me that had been hit,

Me that had almost died.

I wonder if Irene ever felt the same?

I wonder what it was like to watch 

Her mom struggle for two years in recovery?

Irene always said life was hell growing up.

Her mom never really loved her.

I wonder if the accident changed that?

When Irene’s mom got hit, 

My brain told me it was my fault.

That I shouldn’t have yelled “Go!”.

Years later, Irene’s brain told her 

That she likes girls.

And I have always wondered

What those two things have in common.

What if I am the reason Irene

Decided to cross the road?

Just Friends

I didn’t know what to think the first time he asked me. Standing there, trembling in the night’s cold air, I nodded hesitantly. What did I have to lose? It’s not like I’d signed a marriage contract or anything. It was just a date. One night, two friends, and endless possibilities. We’d been close for over a year now; no harm in giving “us” a try. He smiled. 

A week later, curled up on the grass, twigs biting my bare toes, I poured my story out to him. I hugged my knees and let the words rush out. I figured he should know. The safety pins in my pockets, Courtney’s fingers in mine. My head pressed against the cold toilet seat every night after dinner. My naked words just wanted someone to accept them. But he was ashamed. 

Just friends, he said, as if that’s what we weren’t already. Just friends and nothing else. But he meant something more like, your story scares me. Because really “just friends” aren’t friends at all. “Just friends” means, you screwed up and I don’t know how to say it nicely. “Just friends” means I thought you were better. “Just friends” means goodbye.

Pain Letting

As little red rubies sprout from her skin, 

Popping up like weeds from soft, pale, blue veins,

She wishes she could see his face again

And trade each loss for ruby-studded pain.

Her face, stone cold, as she watches her blood;

Daddy would never want Callie to cry

And so she plugs the constant raging flood

With pins and needles, lie upon lie.

The blood, they say, is where all life is found;

She carved a spring of youth upon her wrist.

But in the letting, lost a dearer sound.

Her heart grew quiet, slipped into the mist. 

I promised him I’d live out all his dreams,

But life, I’ve learned, is harder than it seems.

Mattel Model

Darkened hallway, dimly lit

Creaking door, silence split.

Muffled cries, childish pleas

Tear-stained hands, blackened knees.

This was home, now it’s not.

Where I broke, I forgot.

Like my naked dolls I lay;

Here becomes my soul’s display.

Daddy mock me,

Mommy frock me,

Parents play me well.

Those who dress me,

Those who bless me,

Break my naive spell.

My Barbie sits with hollow eyes

With empty chest and matted hair

She beg forgiveness from her lies

And wonders if I care.

The game abandoned long ago

I leave her on the floor,

I’ve learned the secrets big girls know

And I don’t care no more.

Pages from a Memoir

Memories, I imagine, are 

Like musty pages mottled 

By erosion, creeping far

Into the bottled

Recesses of my brain.

The yellowed pages are worn

Thin by joy and pain.

And numbers 28, I’ve sworn

I will never forget. Though,

I’ve found that letters blur.

Memories come and go-

I remember how her

Hand traced my arching spine,

But forget about her smile

And the love I thought was mine.

Each kiss I put on file,

Each hug and promise too,

But returned with empty fingers

My library fee is overdue.

She is a book that lingers,

Leaving little to the mind

Except for the smell of old

Binding. And yet, I find

As each new story does unfold 

A sort of joy in looking back. 

Each dog-eared page, beckoning,

Promises colors painted black

As letters mark my reckoning.

I breath this paradox, paradise,

This worm within a history. 

And find I’m bound by every vice,

By stories who’ve forgotten me.

Am I a book too brown, too marred

Or yet a classic still? 

What price we pay for stories scarred

Without an ending, lifted quill.

Too deep a question; soon forget

The musings of our creed.

Think instead on of how we met: 

A book I’d like to read. 

Not That Easy

The sound of nervous chatter

Corrupts the silent dawn

As a thousand restless bodies,

Suited in black, lithe and limber,

Swarm near the shore.

The gravel stings

Like bees beneath my feet.

I hear the gun and a frenzy begins.

Slicing through the water,

I become little more 

Than an arm here and a leg there. 

Clambering up the bank,

Wet, tired, chilled to the bone,

I claw at my shell, 

Ripping and running, slipping,

As I flee to the next stage. 

Gears whizzing, I fly

Down my first hill, wet hair trailing.

Sweaty palms stuck to the handlebars,

The air seems laced with poison;

Here the battle begins

And time becomes my biggest contender.

Skidding to a stop, my white knuckles

Grip the brakes and my knees tremble.

I find my footing, vision hazy,

And begin running.

Barely breathing, I cough hard,

Wiping mucous from my mouth,

Sweat pouring into my eyes.

I know this is the last lap.

I push my body harder

And fall across the finish line. 

Life is not like a triathlon.

Ebb Tide

The moonlight on your skin

Pollutes my purposed mind,

Distracts me once again

From the words I try to find.  

We’re perched upon the stand

Above the lurching tide;

My sandy, empty hand,

Curled, hopeful, at my side.

The rushing of the sea

Mocks my roaring heart;

The stars spin above me:

Our sand castles fall apart.

As time slips though my fingers,

You start to pull away.

The lifeguard in me lingers

Knowing we can’t stay. 

Down the shore an echo,

Whispers faintly through the night,

It’s time to go, time to go...

It’s time to say goodnight.

Silver Lining

As summer rain does whisper on the sand,

Hot kisses of an August sun turn grey.

Wet bodies scurry, sandy to dry land,

And lazy towels sprawl empty where they lay.

The yawning chairs, and dripping parasols

Gawk, shivering in silence at the scene.

A long way off, a saddened seagull calls;

His solitary voice sounds harsh and mean.

Lighting flashes above the crashing seas,

As thunder rumbles, rolling to the shore.

In wake, a chill and eerie sort of peace

Falls tremulous, where terror shook before.

Laughter lights the sunset of this terrain:

Two love-soaked dreamers, running the rain. 

Little Frank

I was the last one off the bus,

Stumbling over my long skirt,

Bogged down by bags and backpacks,

Gracelessly dropped onto African dirt.

Twenty-three hours, too little sleep,

With greasy hair and heavy eyes,

He was the only one left waiting,

For the last muzungu surprise.

He flashed a smile, white as the sun,

And grabbed me by the hand.

He dragged me weary, bags and all,

Across the red Ugandan sand. 

He walked me through the orphanage,

His little bare feet doubled my stride.

Pointing and smiling, he welcomed me home,

He never left my side.

Acacia tress and crimson sunsets,

The dirt and sun and sweat,

Beating drums, lugandan hymns,

These things I won’t forget.

The goal they told us: Go be love.

Such love I’d never known.

Hugging strangers, sharing rice-

These can’t be taught, but shown.

In one short week my world was changed,

But not because of me- 

Because a little orphan boy 

Showed me how to see.

The church calls me a missionary

Who brings lost souls to light;

He called me mukwano, friend,

The difference, black and white.

Puzzle

Days pass by in measured silence;

Anchor down my beating heart-

Tethered by inconstancy

That tears my world apart.

Breathing deep the winter’s cold

Sunsets fade within my mind

Brighter days leave longer shadows

As I leave the coast behind.

The eastern sun is dying dimly.

Tides of August ebb away

So concerned with future heartache,

We forgot about today.

Our puzzle didn’t seem to fit,

Though fingers locked more tight,

We tossed the dream, forgot the box

And sealed our hearts too tight.

So what if we were wrong, my dear?

I can’t live without your smile

What if watching summer wane,

Is killing me the while?

I said I couldn’t share the key

Wouldn’t open up the cage

And let the lark within me fly

My heart upon this page.

But somewhere in the memories

My little guard let go

And somewhere tangled deep within,

There’s something you should know.

The golden moon we shared that night,

The crashing silver shore,

Left my heart bewildered

Knocking at your door.

In summer’s grace you caught me,

In autumn’s grace I fell,

I know that may seem backwards

But the truth is hard to tell.

Time, it passes slowly,

Each day without you here

Makes memories more vivd

And future dreams more clear.

What if under eastern stars

That shell became my heart?

And, broken, now I try to live

With only just a part?

Would you return the favor, dear?

The puzzle that you stole-

See, you’re the piece that fits, I think

And together we’d be whole.

Assateague

I close my eyes and breathe deep, wishing to smell the thick, salty air of Assateague once again. The air here in Texas is thin, dry, and hot, not at all like east coast air. All I smell is dust and dirt, but I keep my eyes closed and try to remember anyway. 

It’s nearing midnight and we are sitting in a lifeguard stand a couple hundred yards down the beach from everyone else. We’ve ended up there after walking along the shore as we attempt some semblance of a conversation- we’re supposed to be defining how the two of us fit together in life. At that point, I don’t think we even knew the answer. 

Walking down the beach we talked about our lives- where we’d been and where we hoped to be going. I think if I hadn’t been talking to him, I might have cried telling my sad story, but somehow with him, the sadness couldn’t take control. There was another emotion in his presence taking a deeper root.

Even now as I daydream, I am overwhelmed by the memories- visiting him at work on the boardwalk, running down the beach barefoot, playing in thunderstorms, reading poetry together well into the morning, driving to church with the stereo blaring. So many simple things that seemed like nothing at the time- so many things I took for granted. 

Not now. A thousand miles away, I miss doing laundry together on Sundays. I miss talking out at the picnic tables late at night. I miss watching him praise Jesus as he leads worship on the drums. I miss the way he gets excited about the smallest things, and then suddenly they aren’t small things to me anymore. I miss grocery shopping together. I miss cooking Sunday lunch together. I miss everything- as long as it is together. 

Together at Assateague is my favorite memory, though. It’s filed in my brain between running in the rain together and the night we both accidentally fell asleep in the girls apartment living room. Not that anything happened- it’s just funny to remember waking up and wondering why no one else found it necessary to wake us up and tell us the night before. We were on separate couches, completely oblivious to each other’s existence. And, in my defense, it was my living room, not his, and I fell asleep first. 

Assateague. 

Even the name sounds special. Like some kind of fairytale. An enchanted island of ponies where  white beaches crash with crystal waves and the sound of praise and worship drifts on the breeze. Bonfires flicker in the distance and the dark sky above us is brilliantly illuminated by a million gleaming stars, untarnished by the bright city lights of Ocean City. 

We’re sitting on the lifeguard stand together. We climbed up to talk as we watched the moon rise on the cloudy eastern horizon. At all the right moments, the moon breaks through the clouds and paints a masterpiece on the seascape, broken only by the thundering waves, an ample soundtrack for our surreal moment. I don’t remember piece by piece the words that were being exchanged.

I remember I’m fiddling with a piece of shell that I’d found earlier. I’m nervous as I rub it back and forth between my fingers, keeping my hands busy. I’m trying to keep my mind off of the one place I really wished my hands could be- in his. Just in case, though, I decide to fidget with only one hand and leave my right one conveniently sitting on the seat next to me, so that it won’t be awkward if he happens to be thinking the same thing. Elementary, I know.

This is the point in which the memories get blurry. I stop remembering details and start remembering emotions. The way my stomach did summersaults every time he said something that made me smile. The way I couldn’t stop blushing after he grabbed me around the waist and plopped me back down next to him after I mockingly threatened to leave. The way the sticky air made his skin glisten in the moonlight and his eyes twinkled like the stars at everything I said. The way, slowly, after awhile, we weren’t so very far apart after all. Six inches turned into nothing rather quickly. 

There were not-so-wonderful moments too. The tone in his voice after I told him I had cut myself before. The sadness he seemed to feel for me as I poured out my life story, the good, the bad and the terrible. But, he understood. He asked questions that most people are scared to ask, hard questions. How long has it been since you last cut yourself? Why did you do it? Do you think you and Courtney will ever be friends again? He asked the questions I wished I could answer, and listened to me stumble through my thoughts, even when I didn’t know what to say. He offered advice, but most importantly he listened. He listened with his whole heart. And he ended up stealing part of mine.

He drove me to the airport on the last day. By then we had convinced ourselves that it was nothing more than a bad case of summer love. We were just friends. Friends with special memories and bright, happy futures in Texas and Pennsylvania. We were happy for each other, sad to leave, but nothing more. Before getting on the plane and waving goodbye, I told him I needed him to hold onto something for me. I held out the piece of shell from the night at Assateague. I figured it was a suitable gift to remember me by- a piece of my story to fit into his.

His face lit up and he laughed the little boy kind of laugh that I had grown so much to love. His face lit up and I could tell that something about “us” wasn’t over. But I was getting on a plane, and he was getting in a car and two very far away schools were waiting for us to bring our summer knowledge back to them. 

And that’s where the story ends. Except that I don’t think it does. I think that day at the airport was somehow connected to the day at Assateague, and I think somehow I accidentally put more than just a little shell piece of me into his hands that day. I think I accidentally gave him a whole lot more.

Close Your Eyes

Inspired by the palpitations, 

Echoes of my soul,

Reverberating verbiage,

This vertex makes me whole. 

Palpable, this sweet collision,

Tangible, it’s flame;

My heart becomes the chorus 

As it beckons you, the same.

Ardently, too ardently, 

Entranced, entwined, entangled-

Break my baneful bonds before, 

Before our song is strangled.

This wistful, mystic symphony

Euphonic in its call

Creates a passion purer bred

Than any, all in all.

With systematic susurrations,

It governs body’s beat

Succinctly synchronized,

Compartmentalize, repeat. 

Imagine yet, the freedom,

Euphoria of mind,

Gasping, grasping, atmosphere

Leaving world behind.

Take my hand, hold fast, my love,

We’ll escape this escapade-

And excavate the earth in motion,

Digging spade by spade.

Delve deep desire’s destiny,

And listen to the sound,

Circumvent the circular,

Let’s dance the globe around.

Two by two, proverbial,

We’ll heed the creed of constancy,

So close your eyes, with open heart,

Take my hands and dance with me. 

Fireflies

I like to think

That fairies 

And cheetahs

Frolic together

In some green paradise

Where kisses lay

Like whispers 

On the dew

And love isn’t

A barbed-wire,

Chain-linked fence,

Or a brick wall-

Quarried from the rocky mountains

Of wrong desires. 

No,

In my paradise,

Love is an open gate

Without a lock

And a meadow 

Of memories 

Where candied children 

Drink vanilla sunsets

And walk 

Always to remember. 

In my dreams

Almond joy

Fills our tummies 
With butterflies.

And our eyes beam 
With love.

Yes, 

That’s what it’s called.

In our paradise.

It's a kind of magic that,

In our dream, 

Can make a wilted flower 

Bloom again-

A rose is a rose

And by any other name

You still smell...

Too sweet.

Too dear.

Too real.

Stop!

This is the part 

When my mind remembers

The nightmare;

The nightmare that tore
My fantasy to pieces.

So, wake up:
In my world

Fairies don’t exist- 

And if they did, 

They sure wouldn’t dance

With cheetahs.

That is-

If cheetah’s could fly. 

Swimming, Biking, and Running for President

This is my appeal:

A simple structure of ideas

Centered on a line

Of thought, that seems

Too simple

And yet quizzically complex.

Vote for me.

Three words, one goal-

An all too simple concept.

But somehow

When you break it down-

I still lose. 

Somehow, three

Does not equal three.

It equals one.

And I am less

Than the sum of my whole. 

And each part, 

Is worse than the one before.

Why?

Vote for me?

Good question.

I have no simple answer.

Except that numbers

Are just numbers. 

But for us, numbers are 

Everything.

So give me mine

In permanent marker

On the back of my leg.

And each arm.

And I’ll show you

What digits can do.

At least-

I’ll tri.

Coping (Scene)

ALYSSA: Hey, can I come in? (long pause) 

(cheerily) So I talked to John this morning. 

PAUL: Why are you here?

ALYSSA: (ignoring him) He said he and Mel were going to the movies tonight...

PAUL: I don’t want to go.

ALYSSA: Paul...

PAUL: (sarcastically) Alyssa...

ALYSSA: You can’t stay holed up in here forever. I think going out tonight would be good for you. 

PAUL: I don’t want to go. 

ALYSSA: You haven’t left your room in the past two weeks.

PAUL: No.

(long pause)

ALYSSA: Paul, you need to hear this. I know you won’t like it, but I’m going to say it anyway. Will you just listen to me for 2 minutes? (no response) Fine. Paul, you’re being pathetic. I mean, this is ridiculous. I know Claire was your fiancee and everything, but she’s gone now. And sitting here wasting away in your misery isn’t going to bring her back. You have a family. And friends... And we care about you. And this isn’t healthy. 

PAUL: Shut up!

ALYSSA: No. I won’t shut up because you’re being a... You’re being...

PAUL: What?

ALYSSA: Selfish, irrational, and a jerk! There were other people who cared about Claire too. I probably loved her just as much as you did. She’s been my best friend since middle school. Did you think of that? And what about Mr. and Mrs. Thompson? Her parents? Have you talked to them about how they’re doing? It was their daughter that died! Don’t you think it hurt them too? Did you ever stop to think that more people were crushed than just you?

PAUL: Yeah, I get it okay? I know they’re upset. That part I understand. It’s the fact that they forgot so quickly. I mean, how could they? Why would they even want to? I... don’t... want... to... forget. 

ALYSSA: They haven’t forgotten. They’re coping, they’re moving on, they’re honoring Claire by living their lives. Don’t you think that’s what she’d want... instead of this?

PAUL: Leave me alone. You don’t understand. My entire future just died, and you’re asking me to act like nothing’s wrong? You want me to pretend Claire is replaceable? That I can just “move on”? You don’t get it. Nobody does.

ALYSSA: I’m not asking you not to grieve. I know it will take a long time to build your life back, but you can’t let go. You can’t give your life up because of Claire. She wouldn’t want it to be like that. 

PAUL: But she’s gone. She isn’t coming back. She was my life. My heart was buried with her! I don’t have a future anymore. 

ALYSSA: You’re not listening to me.

PAUL: Well, you’re not listening to me!

(long pause) 

ALYSSA: I need you, Paul. (hesitantly) I’m your sister and I’m alive. I need you because you are my brother and my friend. Mom and Dad need you. They raised you to be a great man, and they need you to be that for them. Your friends need you too. We all need you, Paul. That’s what you don’t see. This Paul that sits in here day and night fading away, this isn’t the Paul we all know, the Paul we all love. I want the real Paul back. I’m willing to wait for him, as long as he needs, but I don’t want to lose him, and I’m afraid that... I don’t want him to... Paul... (starts to cry)

PAUL: Alyssa, I’m sorry. I just don’t know how...

ALYSSA: I’m afraid for you, Paul. I don’t want to lose you too. I can’t...

PAUL: Alyssa, I’m not... That’s not... I’m not going to die!

ALYSSA: The way you talk sometimes now, sometimes it seems...

PAUL: I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to... I didn’t know...

ALYSSA: (taking a deep breath) I miss Claire so much. I know it’s hard. I’ve cried myself to sleep every night since she died. But, I’m learning to move on. Slowly. I’m not saying it’s easy, but I don’t want you to give up. Please, just try, Paul. 

(long pause) 

PAUL: (sighing) Okay.

(Alyssa hugs him, relieved)

PAUL: So, what is the name of this movie we’re going to see?

i.e. Soul Friends (Scene)

(ANNE, a high school senior, is sitting in her car in the parking lot, waiting for her brother after school. Her face is red and she has obviously been crying. CARA, also a senior, is sitting in the passenger seat, where she obviously is not welcome. The conversation seems to be a continuation of a previous string of events and we find out that this tension is due in part to a letter CARA gave ANNE earlier in the day.)

CARA: Anne, Anne, listen to me. Look, I know this looks like... (sighs)... It looks like a lot of things. But I think...

ANNE: Shut up. Just leave me alone.

CARA: But you’re mad at me. At least let me try to explain why I did it. (ANNE glares pointedly at CARA) Alright, so I talked to my mom last night, and like I said in the letter, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life. I told her, well, not everything, but I told her... a lot... and she had a lot of good advice for us. She doesn’t think we have to stop being friends. I told her that was impossible. But she did bring up the verse about if your hand causes you to stumble...

ANNE: Yeah, I get it. You want to cut me off. You want me out of your life. You hate me. Well, guess what? I don’t hate you and I’m not leaving. Unlike some people, I don’t give up on friendships, even when they’re hard. Can we talk about this later?

CARA: No, we always talk about stuff “later”. That’s why this happened. 

ANNE: Oh! So now this is all my fault? I think we can both agree this is a mutual misdemeanor. 

CARA: No, no, no... I’m not blaming you. If anything, this is all my fault. Look, Anne, I love you, and I’m sorry I hurt you this much. (starting to cry) I know right now that more words are only going to make this worse. But I can’t change the facts, I can’t take back the pain, but I would if I could. If I could take it all away so you didn’t have to hurt, I would. But that’s not gonna happen. So, I did the only thing I could think of: I tried to get us help. Please, please try understand. I’m not trying to hurt you.

ANNE: Well, you did. 

(Silence. Anne reaches up to wipe Cara’s tears. Cara turns away.)

CARA: (whispers) I know. 

ANNE: So what am I supposed to say? I love you more than anyone in the world and you’re telling me you don’t want to be my friend anymore? You told your mom, Cara. You’re mom. That’s like, I don’t know... No more sleepovers for the rest of our lives. No more nothing. She’ll never let you hang out with me again. And what now? You tell me how we’re supposed to be “just friends”? What does that even mean? Cara, you promised---

CARA: I know, but I was wrong. We both were.

ANNE: Wait, are you saying the promise is off? Like, forever? Cara, this isn’t a joke, you swore that you would always be my blood sis---

CARA: No. We can’t be like that. 

ANNE: But David and Jonathan! Cara, it’s from the Bible! It’s a covenant, so that when things like this happen, we’ll still know that it will all work out. Please, don’t do this to me. Promise me that when this is over, you’ll still be here. Please...

CARA: But we were wrong.

ANNE: Is that all you can say? “No, we were wrong?”

CARA: Well, I have a lot more to say if you’d let me. 

ANNE: I’m done. Get out of the car, I’m going home. Actually, I’m not going home. I’m running away, but it’s not like it matters to you where I go. 

CARA: Anne, calm down. I’ll leave, but promise me you wont do anything rash tonight. Anne? Anne, look at me. Promise?

ANNE: (deliberately not looking) I take no responsibility at this point.

CARA: (starting to cry again) Oh my gosh, Anne. No. Please. I’m sorry. Please, please just promise you wont... hurt yourself. 

(ANNE simply watches as CARA cries, waiting for her to leave.)

CARA: I’m not getting out of this car until you swear that nothing is going to happen to you tonight. I’ll blame myself if you... if it happens again. 

ANNE: (Exhasperated.) Ugh! Why would you care? You don’t. If you did, then you wouldn’t have talked to your mom. You would have waited for us to talk about this civilly. We could have figured it out. 

CARA: For the past five months we’ve been trying to “figure it out,” Anne! And look at us now! We can’t even have a normal conversation with each other! And you’re back to cutting and me, I’m... I’m...

ANNE: Don’t say it. 

CARA: We’re not okay! (Takes a deep breath and exhales slowly to stop her hiccuping sobs.) I want it to be okay. And I don’t know what we did to make it go wrong, but it is messed up now, Anne. My mom... my mom didn’t even want me to tell her everything.

ANNE: (Deliberately changing subjects.) I talked to Ms. Elliot today.

CARA: What?

ANNE: I told her about the letter. 

CARA: What did you say? Oh my gosh, she probably thinks I’m---

ANNE: She’s not judging either one of us. That’s why I went to her. I thought it would be better to cry in her classroom than in the bathroom and risk the counselor finding me.

CARA: Oh... Well? 

ANNE: She just hugged me and tried to get me to stop crying. I think I scared her pretty bad. 

CARA: Was this during 8th period? 

ANNE: Yeah, you were in athletics. I told Mrs. Carlson I needed to go to the library to take a test. I tried to hold it together after I read the letter... but I couldn’t. And I didn’t want to cry in the middle of study hall. 

CARA: I’m sorry.

ANNE: Stop saying that. 

CARA: Well, I am. 

ANNE: “Sorry” doesn’t fix anything.