P.S. I Miss You Read online

  Dad had a cold and was sneezing every two minutes, so I told them they should stand in the back, that Dad was a health risk to the entire town. I said it in a super-dramatic voice: “TO THE ENTIRE TOWN!” (Picture me with my mouth and eyes wide open.)

  It didn’t change their minds even the teensiest bit, though. Dad blew his nose, and then they waltzed down the aisle to our usual seats. Second row, right side of the church, halfway down the pew, between Mr. and Mrs. Mara and the triplets of doom and Mr. MacKinnon’s wheezy laugh. The spot might as well have our names written on the wood in permanent marker.

  I’m glad it doesn’t, though. Because then I’d have a big empty “Cilla” spot next to me, a reminder that you’re not here because you don’t belong here anymore.

  Or at least that’s what Mom and Dad think. I still don’t think God would kick you out of church for having a baby. And if He wouldn’t, then why should Mom and Dad? When I asked them that, they said that they didn’t kick you out, you’d just decided to “relocate” until the baby was born and you weren’t so “conspicuous.”

  Which basically means that they’re embarrassed by you.

  Which is gross.

  I’m really disappointed in them. Which is weird. It makes me feel all grown-up, like I should send them to their room.

  You know what else was disappointing? The girl wasn’t in church. I looked back so many times that Mom yelled at me (well, she whisper-yelled) to stop. But then when it was Communion time, I watched everyone go down the aisle. I guess that’s one good thing about sitting in the front.

  I still didn’t see her. Maybe she’s not new. Maybe she was visiting for the summer. Or she’s Baptist or Jewish.

  Not that that’s a bad thing. It’d just be cooler if she belonged to our church.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  TUESDAY, JULY 31ST

  Dear Cilla,

  Why did you have to get pregnant? Didn’t you get the same lecture I did? Mom sat me down last year to talk about my “holy body” and how sex was a gift I should only give to my husband. She told me about Hell and sinning and how we go to church to learn how to live in God’s image. Didn’t she tell you that? Why didn’t you listen?

  If you had listened, things would be normal now. We’d be watching Pixar movies on the couch until Mom shouted at us that we were “wasting the day!” We’d be at the pool and I’d be avoiding looking at you and Alex kissing. We’d be eating way too many of Mom’s famous peanut butter cookies.

  Instead, you’re doing whatever chores you do at a fake farm. And I’m looking for ghost girls at church while my hand falls off from writing so many letters.

  Your sister,

  Evie

  P.S. I’m so mad at you today.

  MONDAY, AUGUST 13TH

  Dear Cilla,

  It’s Vacation Bible School week! Woo-hoo!

  Can you tell I’m being sarcastic? Or did you really picture me jumping up and down on my bed and throwing confetti and glitter into the air?

  Okay, maybe I might have done that when I was little. But that’s because Vacation Bible School was cool when we were little. When we got to sit in a circle and sing church songs at the top of our lungs. When we got to make lists of why Jesus loves us and got a Skittle for every reason. When we had water balloon fights in the church parking lot and waited in line for the ice cream truck.

  That was fun. I was a kid then, though. All my friends were there, too. Now I’m the only one left. I’m not even a camper anymore, either. I’ve aged out, but Mom and Dad are still making me help out as a counselor.

  An “assistant” counselor. Which I’m not sure is an actual thing, since I’m going to be the only assistant there. I think it’s just a way for Mom and Dad to make sure I’m being supervised. Because they’ve been extra clingy lately. Mom follows me around the house and Dad keeps asking me who I’m hanging out with.

  Like just because you got pregnant I’m going to join a gang and start swearing.

  I told Mom and Dad that I didn’t need camp, that there was a middle ground between a week of extra church and becoming a Satan-worshipper. Something like, oh, hanging out with my friends? Being a normal kid?

  Do you know what Dad said then? He said that I’m at a vulnerable age and it’s a good idea to spend as much time with church people as possible. (And by “church people” he means other grown-ups and sticky six-year-olds.)

  Like their prayers are going to stop me from turning into you.

  I like you, though. I love you. I wouldn’t mind being you at all.

  (I almost crossed that out because it’s super embarrassing, but I decided to leave it in. Just don’t mention it when—yes, when—you come home in a few weeks. I’ll turn so red it’ll look like I got a sunburn.)

  Okay, so maybe that will be the good part about Vacation Bible School. The sun. I’ll get to spend time outside.

  I’m really reaching here.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. Vacation Bible School would be way better if you were there with me.

  P.P.S. Because I miss you!

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 18TH

  Dear Cilla,

  It rained all week.

  I didn’t see the sun once.

  We didn’t even get to do water balloons.

  I made about five thousand peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

  I left church every day smelling like the popcorn machine.

  A little boy spilled green paint all over my favorite pink shorts and when I yelled at him, Father O’Malley told me I wasn’t setting a good Catholic example.

  Mom and Dad told me I couldn’t be an assistant again next year.

  Darn.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 21ST

  Dear Cilla,

  I saw your friend Emma this morning. I was riding my bike and she was walking Bruno. I hate Bruno. Every time he sees me he barks like crazy and bares his teeth. His sharp teeth. Emma always says that’s how he expresses affection, but I don’t buy it. I don’t bite people to show my love. Neither should dogs.

  Emma asked about you. She said she misses you. She asked when you were coming home. She asked about the baby.

  Which made me gasp. Literally gasp, like I was on one of those cheesy shows you used to watch, where there was always a BIG REVEAL! I couldn’t help it, though. I didn’t know you had told any of your friends about the baby.

  But it’s not like Mom and Dad muzzled you. Or caged you up before you started to show. You still went to school. You still hung out with your friends. Of course you told some of them. Emma assured me she’d kept your secret, though, so I guess you must not have told too many people. Then she asked me when you were coming home.

  She didn’t know about Catholic school! (Maybe I should use its fancy-pants name: Saint Augustine’s School for Girls. Oooh la la!) She said you hadn’t told her anything about staying away, only about leaving to have the baby. She looked really upset.

  That made me feel a little bit better and a little bit worse. Because at least I’m not the only one you’re abandoning.

  But that still doesn’t mean anything is going to change.

  You’re still not here.

  And I am.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 29TH

  Dear Cilla,

  School starts next week. I have Mr. Barrett for homeroom. Mom said you had the other teacher, Mrs. Hazel, when you were in seventh grade. I’m glad I don’t have her. Once Mom reminded me, I remembered how you’d complain all the time about how mean she was. Mr. Barrett is supposed to be the “nice” teacher. I hope that’s true.

  You haven’t written back still. I’ve been writing to you for more than two months now. This is why e-mail is way easier. Or the phone (even though I know you don’t like to talk on the phone). I could call you, you could pick up,
and I’d tell you that you don’t have to be ashamed anymore.

  That even if Mom and Dad convinced you that you’re a bad person, you’re really not. That your future isn’t ruined because you got pregnant.

  I’ll help you make it good. Or I’ll try.

  Your due date is really soon—we don’t have much time left. I’m sure there will be paperwork to do and refunds to get from Saint Augustine’s.

  Ugh. Saint Augustine’s. It sounds so proper. When I went on the website, everyone was wearing uniforms. The girls had on these heavy blue-and-gold plaid skirts. They wore collared white shirts, too, the kind Grandma calls “blouses.” The teachers all wore those pants Grandpa calls “slacks.”

  Adults are weird.

  We need to save you from the Land of Blouses and Slacks! We need to return you to the Kingdom of Jeans and T-shirts! (Or whatever they wear in high school.) Write back so we can figure something out. Because if seventh grade is going to be hard, I need my big sister around.

  (Okay, I’m blushing again after writing that. This is getting super sappy.)

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I do miss you.

  P.P.S. How are you feeling? I looked online yesterday and it says that your baby is the size of a watermelon now. Ouch!

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 4TH

  Dear Cilla,

  Today was the first day of school! I was super nervous about what to wear, but Katie and Maggie agreed with my final choice—my favorite pair of jeans with this cool polka-dot shirt I convinced Mom to buy when we went to the mall last week. I wore a new pair of bright red sneakers, too. I love them.

  Everyone else was wearing new clothes, too. Katie and Maggie wore matching skirts—Katie’s was purple with white flowers and Maggie’s was blue with white flowers. They wanted me to buy the orange one, but it wouldn’t have matched my shirt. And I really wanted to wear my new shirt.

  Miri had on new shoes that looked like they cost a bazillion dollars. She kept showing everyone the label on the soles. (Like she wasn’t going to scuff up that label by the end of the day.) Miri had gone to Jamaica with her family at the end of the summer and came back really tan. Not just Cape Cod tan, but tropical island tan. Her hair is super blond now. She said it was from all the sun, but it changed like five shades, so I think she got it highlighted. Anyway, it looks silly. Miri said she got her hair braided in Jamaica, too, that she got those bright plastic beads put in, the ones that clink clink clink when you move your head. When I asked her where they were now, she said her mom had made her take them out before school started.

  I bet she didn’t even get beads. Miri lies about stuff like that all the time. They’d be against the dress code anyway. It had been a big enough deal when you wore those black spike-heeled boots to school when you were in eighth grade. You got detention and Mom and Dad grounded you for two whole weeks. It seemed like you were stuck in your room for a million years.

  Now I know that two weeks is nothing. At least then I saw you at meals. I could see you smile when I gave you my crescent roll at dinner, since I knew they were your favorite. I could hear you moving around in your room, too. If I put a glass up against the wall, I could hear you flipping through magazines. At night, I could hear you snoring. LOUDLY. (Yes, I even miss that.)

  I missed you the most this morning, when Mom cooked the special blueberry pancakes she makes at the beginning of every school year. She made mine in the shape of a 7 for seventh grade. (Okay, she made two 7s, since I was hungry.) She should have made an 11 for you. I think she realized it, too, because after she was done cooking mine, she stared at the empty pan for a minute. Then she got herself a bowl of cereal.

  I poured tons of syrup on mine, just like you always did. So it was kind of like you were there with me.

  Kind of.

  Miri wasn’t the most interesting thing about school, though. The girl from this summer was there! She’s a new kid, after all! Her name’s June and she’s so nice. Until today, I hated the month of June. June was when you left. June was when our house got so quiet I could sometimes hear Dad clipping his fingernails a room away. Total grossness.

  Now June’s not so bad. Because she (the person, not the month!) might be my new friend. I wasn’t sure if she’d remember me, but I said hi and told her my name is Evie. (I never introduce myself as Evelyn. It’s way too old-fashioned. Will you introduce yourself as Priscilla at your new school?)

  She did remember me, though! She told me her name and even said she saw me at the playground that day, when I was all the way on the other side of the park. Then we laughed about almost falling down at the carnival. When Mr. Barrett said we could choose our own seats, I asked her to sit next to me. I asked her to sit with me, Katie, and Maggie at lunch, too, but she didn’t say much then. She might be shy. Or overwhelmed.

  Or she doesn’t like me! That could be it, because I’m not sure if you like me that much anymore, either. Is that why you haven’t written back? Do you think I hate you, too?

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I really do miss you.

  P.P.S. June’s hair is poufy around her head like a cloud. I bet if I reached out, it’d be as soft as a cloud, too. (I obviously didn’t do that, though. That would be the most embarrassing thing ever. Way worse than tripping into someone.)

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 6TH

  Dear Cilla,

  Okay, she definitely does like me. When we had to pick partners today in art class, June chose me! It might have been because she doesn’t really know anyone else yet, but I’m choosing to think it’s because she thinks I’m totally cool.

  The coolest girl in school. Riiiiiiiight.

  Anyway, our art teacher is Mr. Carlon, and even though he’s as old as Dad, he’s really cool. He has red hair and always wears a Red Sox hat, even though there’s a rule that you can’t wear hats during the school day. Maybe that rule doesn’t apply to teachers? Or maybe he doesn’t care. Because yesterday, the Red Sox were playing during class and he had the radio on. I kept being afraid that the principal was going to come in and yell at all of us. She didn’t, though. And the Red Sox won! I bet Alex would have been excited. He was always wearing a wrinkled Sox T-shirt.

  Mr. Carlon told us to work on a collage today. He said it was so we could “get to know one another while I’m also getting to know all of you.” He brought in a ton of old magazines: Time, Sports Illustrated, People, Good Housekeeping … the ones I always see in the doctor’s office waiting room, the kind grown-ups look at with very serious expressions. I bet you saw a ton of those during all your appointments.

  He piled them on a table in the middle of the room and told us to take a few magazines, some scissors, and some glue. We had huge sheets of poster board, too. Then he told us to “cut out pictures that represent you and what your goals are for this school year.” Each partner was supposed to use half of the poster board and then we’d see what we had in common.

  I didn’t think there’d be anything good in those boring magazines, but I found tons of cool photos: a picture of the sky filled with firecrackers (like the ones we watch on the Fourth of July). An old barn (which didn’t look exactly like Aunt Maureen’s, but was close). A bag of Skittles (yum!). A cross. Even a picture of a bookshelf that looked just like mine at home.

  I kept peeking at June’s pictures at first, to make sure I was doing it right, but then I got really into the whole thing. It was like a treasure hunt, where instead of gold doubloons I was searching for myself. Or what I thought could be me.

  When Mr. Carlon finally told us to wrap up, I looked at June’s pictures again. She had more than me, and had arranged them in a super-cool way, so they overlapped one another. For some of the pictures, you could only see the edges, a splash of bright orange or something that might have been the top of a palm tree.

  But she had a bag of Skittles, too. And a picture of a unicorn (which I hadn’t found, but duh! Who doesn’t love unicorns?). We started talking about our favorite Skittles
color (her: red. Me: purple. But only now that green is that weird sour-apple flavor. Lime was so much better. I will be sad forever that it is gone.).

  June told me that her mom’s friend in California (which is where she moved from) made something called a Skittles pie. It’s a key lime pie with Skittles sprinkled all over the top. Which makes sense. If you can put rainbow sprinkles on ice cream, why not Skittles on pie? Or on anything!

  That’s when we started talking about the different things we could put Skittles on. Like pudding. Or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Or bacon! June suggested pasta, which made me make a face. Then I suggested meat loaf, which made June gag. We spent the rest of class trying to think of the worst possible combinations.

  I’m glad we ran out of time, because there’s no way we would have been able to present our collage to the class without bursting out laughing all over again.

  It’s cool to have a new friend.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  P.P.S. The winner was Skittles and liver. Because, seriously, liver would make anything taste gross.

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 8TH

  Dear Cilla,

  Today’s your due date. I marked it on my calendar when you left. Not with a big red circle or anything. Not even with a sparkly sticker. Just with a small black dot in the bottom right corner of the box, so small that Mom and Dad wouldn’t notice it. And if they did, then they’d think I made the mark by mistake.

  You left three months ago, but it feels like longer. When you left, your stomach was a little round bump peeking over the edge of your sweatpants. You complained that your feet were huge and your fingers were swollen and you threw up a lot. You still looked like Cilla, though. You could hide your bump with a baggy T-shirt and gym shorts. I could make believe you were barfing because you ate bad sushi. (Or whatever people eat when they get food poisoning. On TV it’s usually sushi.)

  I wonder if you look different now. If your belly has grown three sizes, like the Grinch’s heart does in the movie. If that’s all people can see when they look at you. It was all Mom and Dad could see before, but I could still see the real you. I saw the smile that always curves up a bit more on the right side, like you’re holding in a laugh. I saw the bitten-down fingernails that you always swear you’re going to grow out. I saw the annoying way you always crack your gum.