AllFreeNovel
Share Us
That was what Marah loved about her godmother. Tully was the only one who never lied and told her it would get better.
* * *
The first few months at Beverly Hills High were a nightmare. Marah stumbled in all of her classes; her grades dropped. The curriculum was difficult and competitive, but that wasn’t the problem. She couldn’t concentrate in class and didn’t care. In early 2007, she and her dad had a meeting with the principal and a counselor. There were sad looks all around, and an excess of clucking noises, and the words grief and therapy were offered repeatedly. By the close of the meeting, Marah understood what was expected of her in this new, motherless, irrigated world of hers. She almost said she didn’t care.
Until she looked in her father’s eyes and saw how deeply she’d disappointed him. How can I help you? he’d asked quietly. Before, she’d thought that was what she was waiting for—that offer—but when he said it, she felt even worse. She’d known then what she hadn’t known before: She didn’t want help. She wanted to disappear. And she knew how to do it now.
Make no waves.
After that, Marah pretended to be fine. At least fine enough to pass muster for her dad, which was depressingly easy to do. As long as she brought her grades up and smiled at dinner, he looked right through her. He was too busy working. She had learned her lesson: she needed to act normal. The boys’ nanny, Irena (a sad-eyed woman who never missed an opportunity to say that her own kids had grown up and moved away, leaving her with too many empty hours on her hands), barely spent any time with Marah, either. All she had to do was pretend she was on some sports team, and she could be gone as much as she wanted, and no one ever asked to come to one of her games or asked her if she was okay.
By senior year, she had it down to a science: She woke on time every morning, bleary-eyed from bad dreams, and stumbled into her bathroom. Rarely did she bother showering or washing her hair, even on school days. It was too exhausting. And it wasn’t like it mattered if she was clean or dirty.
/> She’d given up all hope of making friends at BHHS—and good riddance to the shallow, hair-tossing set who thought the right car proved your worth.
Finally, it was June of 2008. Her graduation from Beverly Hills High. Everyone was downstairs, waiting for her. Grandma and Grandpa and Tully had flown in for the Big Event. They were buzzing with enthusiasm, playing Ping-Pong with words like exciting and accomplishment and pride.
Marah didn’t feel any of it. As she reached for her graduation robe, she felt a cold dread descend. The cheap polyester fabric rustled in her grasp. She put on the robe and zipped it up and then went to the mirror.
She was pale and thin and had puffy lavender-colored shadows beneath her eyes. How was it that none of the people who supposedly loved her had noticed how bad she looked?
As long as she did what was expected of her—did her homework, applied to colleges, and pretended to have friends—no one really looked at her. That was what she’d wanted, what she’d chosen, and yet it hurt. Mom would have seen how unhappy she was. That was one of the truths Marah had learned: no one knew you as well as your mom. She would give anything for one of the oh-no-you-don’t-young-lady looks she used to hate.
Her dad yelled up from downstairs, “Time to go, Marah. ”
She walked to her dresser and stared longingly at the Shrek music box. Anticipation quickened her heartbeat.
She opened the lid. Inside, she found the knife and dozens of tiny pieces of gauze, stained brown with old blood; relics she couldn’t release. Slowly, she opened the knife and pulled up her sleeve and made a quick, pretty slice on the inside of her forearm, where it wouldn’t be seen.
She cut too deep. She knew it instantly.
Blood rushed down her arm, splatted on the floor. She needed help. And not just to stop the bleeding. She was out of control somehow.
She went downstairs. In the living room, blood splattered the stone floor at her feet.
“I need help,” Marah said quietly.
Tully was the first to respond.
“Jesus, Marah,” her godmother said, tossing her camera onto the sofa. She swooped forward and grabbed Marah’s other wrist and dragged her into the nearest bathroom, forcing her to sit on the closed toilet.
Dad rushed into the bathroom behind them as Tully burrowed through drawers, throwing out bars of hand soap and hairbrushes and tubes of hand cream.
“What the hell happened?” her dad yelled.
“Bandages,” Tully snapped, kneeling beside Marah. “Now!”
Dad left them. He was back in no time with gauze and adhesive tape. He stood back, looking confused and angry, while Tully applied pressure to stop the bleeding and then bandaged the wound. “There,” Tully said. “But I think she’ll need stitches. ” Tully stepped back, allowed Dad to move in. “Jesus…” he said, shaking his head. He bent down to be eye level with Marah.
He tried to smile, and she thought: This isn’t my dad, not this man who can’t straighten his shoulders and rarely laughs anymore. He wasn’t himself any more than she was the daughter he remembered. He was even going gray—when had that started?
“Marah?” he said. “What happened?”
She was too ashamed to answer. She’d already disappointed him so much.
“Don’t be afraid,” Tully said. “You asked for help. You mean therapy, don’t you?”
Marah stared up into her godmother’s warm brown gaze. “Yes,” she said softly.
