Reasons to Be Happy Part 4

He even included that mark on my knuckles.

I volunteered to help the art teacher hang the portraits because I wanted to be sure to hide the portraits of me. Mr. G. and I lined the front entry hall and the two side halls with them. They looked like real people at first glance. I hung up Kevin's portrait of me on a patch of wall behind the counselor's room; during the day, when her door was open, no one would see the portrait.

As Mr. G. and I worked our way into the front hall, I heard Kevin's voice around the corner back by the counselor's office. He was talking to Brooke and Bebe and Max. I heard Brooke say my name.

"That's pretty d.a.m.n good, Kevin," Max said.

"Too good, if you know what I mean," Brooke said.

"Yeah, you did cheat a little!" Bebe's laugh echoed down the hall. Panic built inside me, making it hard to breathe.

Kevin laughed and said, "Well, I couldn't exactly put her fat b.u.t.t on my final project."

They all laughed. I heard Brooke's distinctive laugh; she sounded like a hyena.

"I thought you liked her b.u.t.t," Brooke jeered.

"Please," Kevin said, "what was I supposed to do? She threw that b.u.t.t at me."

I dropped my hammer and fled. I couldn't let them know I'd heard them.

Those first two Bad Things kind of seem like nothing compared to the third.

The third Bad Thing was my mom died.

There's like a whole month of my life I don't remember.

We knew it was coming. We knew she was going to die...but there's no way, no matter how much warning you get, to be ready. There's no way to avoid being ripped open, crushed until there is nothing left of you.

My dad and I pretty much fell apart.

Everyone says that, fell apart, but it's what it truly felt like-like actual pieces of us fell away, scattering around, until there were too many fragments to possibly repair. How could you even begin to fix us? The idea was too overwhelming-easier to ignore the shards, to just get used to being broken.

I miss her. It seems so stupid to even say that. It's such an understatement. I miss her. I look for her and she's not there.

After she died, Dad started drinking. Too much. I pretended not to notice.

After she died, I wrote a whole section of "Mom things" on my list: 102. The way Mom gave me b.u.t.terfly kisses with her eyelashes when I was little 103. That lemon meringue lotion she used, so she always smelled like dessert 104. The way she called me beautiful "Hey, beautiful, what are you thinking?" she'd ask, coming out to the backyard where I crouched working on my cities 105. The way she'd actually listen 106. Mom's smile when I walked into the room 107. The way she called me Hannah Banana 108. The look on her face the times I watched her studying my cities when she didn't know I was looking 109. Our beach gla.s.s door frame in moonlight 110. Mom's dorky birthday poems 111. The way Mom sang off-key to the car radio If she were still here, I wouldn't be such a disaster.

Sometimes I sit and picture her, the way she'd hardly ever wear makeup when she wasn't on a set, and she looked so clean. Or I remember being in the ocean, seeing how long I could hold my breath and float underwater-the way she yanked me up by the hair, her face panicked, thinking I'd drowned. Her fear-which showed she loved me-felt like a solid thing in the air around us. Then she laughed, choked, and said, "Hannah! You always take things too far."

She was right.

She was so, so right. I'd taken my SR too far. No longer my friend, but a creepy stalker I couldn't get rid of. It scared me and I wanted to stop it more than anything in the world.

No, that's not true.

More than anything in the world, I wanted my mom back.

But stopping the SR? That was second.

My newest reason to be happy should've been to have a reason to be happy again! I hadn't been able to up come with anything except stuff that had to do with my mother since she died, but now I had a new one: blue icing. I could finally add a #114 to my list: 112. The way Mom always smiled and never rushed her fans when they approached her 113. Dreams where my mom is still alive and healthy 114. BLUE ICING!.

This blue icing was the best thing to happen to me all that day. No, all that week. Maybe the entire two weeks I'd missed school after Mom died. That's all I could think about when I got back in the car with my p.i.s.sed-off dad: that bright blue icing on the cupcakes would be perfect.

My brain stuck on that blue icing even though my dad had just caught me shoplifting. I didn't steal the cupcakes. Please. Where was I supposed to hide a plastic container of four cupcakes? I'm not that fat. Dad caught me slipping a Three Musketeers bar into the pocket of my cargo pants.

This floating feeling washed over me: Maybe this is it. I'm busted. It's over. I don't want to be this person. I know stealing is wrong. The floating kind of felt like relief. But mostly it felt like a freak-out. I really needed it that night.

He caught me. I still couldn't believe it. Most of the time he was so clueless. Mom had been too. Maybe she never noticed me stealing because she usually felt so awful it took all her energy just to stay upright and walk through the grocery store. But Dad didn't have that excuse. (At least when he was sober, which he seemed to be right now. Who knew anymore?) Didn't he ever wonder why I always waited in the car when he went in that one market in Malibu? One of the cas.h.i.+ers there had caught me stealing a loaf of bread.

I had to give up a lot of the food I'd swiped when Dad caught me...but not all of it. I still had the most important stuff. I just hoped Dad couldn't hear the crinkling noise of the plastic baloney wrapper I'd shoved down the front of my pants. The baloney was so cold it almost burned. I'd lifted it from the fridge near the deli counter.

Little bulges poked out of Dad's tight jaw, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. I wished I could tell him I was sorry. I wished I could do better. I wished I could just tell him the truth, so he would save the day and make everything okay like he did in his movies.

I wondered if he hated me. For being alive. When Mom is dead.

I wished he would talk or say something, even if he yelled at me.

Somewhere down beneath the lunch meat in my pants, the candy bar started to melt. Another Three Musketeers, soft and mushy. I hated how the candy bar felt, pressing against me, like gross Kevin's hands in the pool. Just thinking of him brought back that p.r.i.c.kling, frozen shock. Gross stupid moron. Now they all acted like idiots around me, snickering and stuff. I hated them. I hated that whole school. My cla.s.ses, the teachers, everyone.

That's not true. I didn't hate DeTello. I think she suspected something. I didn't think she suspected the SR, but she kept writing these notes on my a.s.signments and keeping me after cla.s.s to tell me I have power and potential and I can do anything.

I don't think she meant to lie, but I didn't feel it. I looked inside and I didn't see it. I remembered that I used to see it. I didn't know what happened. I couldn't remember when I started impersonating Hannah Carlisle instead of actually being her.

In the car, my dad still didn't talk.

Why couldn't everything be the way it used to be, before I started this disgusting habit, with my mom alive and my dad not hiding bottles of Scotch all over the house? I clutched the cupcakes. Thank G.o.d for the blue icing.

We took the groceries into the house in silence. Maybe Dad wouldn't talk to me ever again. Mom and Dad's best friends, Sean and Laila-both actors too-were coming over for dinner. That could work in my favor. Maybe that will keep Dad too occupied to deal with me.

I reached into a bag, pulled out the tabloid I'd bought, and used it to mask the bag of Ho Hos. Maybe if I was just really casual...

"Hannah," Dad said, "we need to talk about what happened."

I let the Ho Hos drop back into the bag, but kept the magazine.

"Why did you shoplift?" he asked.

"I didn't shoplift."

"You were going to shoplift. You just got caught."

"I was going to put them back."

I wished Dad could see himself, his eyes popping out of his head. He opened his mouth and held out his hands like he was totally ready to freak. Looking at him right then, it was hard to believe he was actually a pretty good actor. But I felt bad for him. You'd think if your wife just died, you'd be too distracted to flip about something like this.

All I wanted was to get rid of the candy bar and baloney. I had to get to my room.

"I'm sorry, but I don't believe that," Dad said. "You're lucky I caught you. If someone else had seen you, they would've pressed charges. It would've been all over the tabloids. And I'm standing here thinking that maybe I should've gotten the manager."

Sweat trickled between my belly and the lunch meat. I knew he meant it. I knew it in the store; that's why I gave up the candy bar, the Peppermint Patty, and the two Oatmeal Cream Pies. When my dad was mad, he didn't say stuff he didn't mean, like some people. When Dad was mad, he only told the truth (well, except about his own secret remedy, that is).

"You want to get arrested?" he asked. "You want to have a criminal record?"

Like you? I wanted to snap, but didn't. The vein in his forehead turned purple.

"You stole from school, and I caught you today. Are there more times we don't know about?"

You have no idea. My hot skin itched. I wished I could unzip it and peel it off.

He yelled and made me jump. "d.a.m.n it, Hannah! I don't need this c.r.a.p right now!"

I'd never seen him look like that before-a hot red spot shone from both cheeks. His eyes glittered like those crazy street people who act like they want to fight you.

Was he calling me c.r.a.p? He didn't need c.r.a.ppy old me anymore?

I surprised myself by screaming back, "Well, I don't need you anymore either!" Screaming felt really good, even though my throat was raw.

His face s.h.i.+fted again and I felt like I was watching him on film. His eyes welled up with tears and everything about him softened.

"No, no, no, Hannah, that's not what I meant." He reached for me, to hug me, but I backed away. "Don't ever think that. I do need you. I didn't mean I don't need you, I just...I don't understand this. Why are you doing this?"

I was glad he said he needed me, but I had everything ready upstairs in my room. I needed to get the candy bar out of my crotch. I needed to start or I would go crazy.

Dad whispered, "I'm sorry."

I nodded. "It's okay." Perfect exit line. I picked up the magazine and cupcakes again. Forget the Ho Hos. I'd get them later. I started to leave the room.

"Whoa. Excuse me. Where do you think you're going? We have groceries to unload and dinner to make." He paused, all dramatic. "And I want you to talk to me about the shoplifting."

Oh my G.o.d! I slammed the magazine down and longed to smash my fist into the cupcake container lid. I yanked one of the reusable cloth bags toward me. I shoved stuff into a pantry cupboard. I slammed cans and each bang fueled me more. I couldn't help myself. The SR was taking over. It was beginning and I wanted to go give in to it. Dad was ruining everything. I flung the cupboard shut so hard it bounced back open.

Dad started unloading groceries too, and that meant he wasn't watching my every move. Maybe I could snag the bag with the Ho Hos.

"You want candy bars?" he said. "You can buy candy bars. I'll buy you candy bars."

He stopped unloading groceries and touched my shoulder. I jerked away. I didn't even mean to, but I couldn't stand to be touched, not when it was beginning. This was turning into an emergency.

"What is this really about?" he asked.

How could he be so stupid? Did he really not get it? Dad turned to reach into the bag I'd left unguarded. I wanted to tackle him when he pulled out the bag of Ho Hos.

"Hannah! Did you put this in the cart?" He shook his head and said, "A dozen Ho Hos?" like it was a bag of human hands or something. He dropped the bag and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the receipt. "These better be paid for, or I swear to G.o.d, we're getting back in the car this second."

Where did he think I could hide a bag of twelve Ho Hos? Was he insane?

"You're in luck," he said, sticking the receipt in his pocket. "But you'll be paying me back for these."

"Why? I can't have a snack because you're spending too much money on booze?" Saying that felt as good as slamming a door.

Dad's hand twitched and I thought he might slap me. I sort of wished he would.

He tossed the bag to me, but I didn't catch it. It hit me in the chest and fell to the floor. When I bent to get it, the baloney packet dug into my gut. Something hot and burning rolled up my throat. I swallowed hard. I stood up with the bag, dizzy.

Suddenly I didn't want to leave the room. If I left, I knew what I'd do. Maybe Dad would make me help with dinner or something. This dinner was kind of a big deal, after all-our first guests since Mom died...even though Sean and Laila hardly counted as guests. Maybe if I stayed here in the kitchen, the feeling would go away.

"The money is hardly the point," Dad said. But he didn't tell me what the point was. Why couldn't he see what was happening to me? Why couldn't Izzy have told him instead of Mom?

I stood there in our kitchen, holding the bag of Ho Hos against my chest like a pillow while Dad started fixing dinner. I wanted him to talk about it. I wanted to stop it, I really did.

I sat down at the kitchen island and tore open the bag. Inside were six packages of two Ho Hos each. I took one out. Dad was doing something at the stove, but he glanced at me over his shoulder. I could tell he was disgusted, but he tried to hide it. I shoved in a big mouthful, eating half the Ho Ho in one bite. Dad's lips curled down. I ate the other half. When I licked the cream off my fingers, he turned away. Without looking at me, he laid four chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s on the grill, and said, "If you're going to eat high fat, you might as well eat better tasting fat. I mean, that cream filling tastes like Styrofoam and the icing has no flavor."

Icing! I remembered the cupcakes. I needed to eat that blue icing. I'd already had one Ho Ho, so I'd be sure to go way past the blue icing when it reappeared. Just to make sure.

I picked up a cupcake and licked the icing off the top. Dad pinched up his face and turned away. I got every bit of icing I could, then I ate the cupcake. If I wasn't safe from the SR sitting in the same room with him, then I knew it was up to me to protect myself. The blue icing was all I had.

I could tell from the ingredients that Dad was making Thai salad with grilled chicken, my very favorite. He cut a lime in half. When I opened a second pack of Ho Hos, he glanced at me, his face and neck all red. He ground the lime against the juicer.

I pulled the magazine back out of the grocery bag with chocolatey fingers. I'd put it in the cart along with the Ho Hos because Dad's picture was on the cover-not the feature, not this time (Sean and Laila were, though), but one of the smaller boxes. Mom never wanted me to read stuff about Dad or our family before she read it first, but she wasn't here anymore to stop me.

Dad chopped vegetables, whacking that knife around, making more noise than he needed to. He'd probably cut off a finger and blame it on me. I flipped through the magazine.

I found the article. The first picture was a full page of Dad on the set of Blood Roses. Production had been halted for nearly a month because of...because of Mom. He'd just gone back to it two days ago. The photo was good, except that Kevin was in the background.

I ate another Ho Ho.

"Hannah," Dad said, his voice all shocked like I'd picked my nose in public or something.

I ignored him.

He reached out and moved the bag of Ho Hos away from me. We glared at each other.

I kept reading the article. Blood Roses was about vampires. My dad was playing a vampire. He had to ride a horse English style and wear period costumes. It was set in the 1890s.

"I thought this was a serious film," Aunt Izzy had said when she heard it was about vampires.

"It is," Mom said, sounding like she was defending Dad.

Mom had been lying in bed, and Aunt Izzy was painting Mom's toenails bright scarlet. Izzy started telling stories from when she and Mom were kids. My grandparents had pa.s.sed away when I was really little, so I loved those stories about Mom's childhood, because there weren't many sources for me to get them from, and I was hungry for every single detail about my mother I could get. I think that's the day it finally hit me that I was going to lose her, that she really, truly was going to die and I wouldn't have her anymore. As Aunt Izzy and Mom told stories, I sat cross-legged on the floor in the bedroom, trying to soak up every word.

"I've always loved vampires," Mom said. I'd never known that. I loved vampires too. "When I was young," she said, "I wanted to be a vampire." She turned her bald head to me and smiled. "I read Dracula and Salem's Lot. I read every book and story I could find with vampires in it. I used to leave my window open at night, and I'd take out the screen, hoping a vampire would come in my window and make me a vampire too."

"No vampires ever came," Aunt Izzy said, her nose close to Mom's toes. "But one night a possum came in through that window and your grandma was pretty darn mad at your mom."

I giggled. "What happened?"