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It’s the suddenness of life changing in an instant that makes me anxious when I sleep and makes me tell myself to breathe when I’m awake.
I stare at the subject line, at her name, at my dad’s name, at my name. If I open it, here’s what will happen: I’ll know more than I already do, which means I’ll only be adding to the secrets I’m already carrying around. And then I open it. And wish I hadn’t.
I look down and my hands are shaking. I wait to spontaneously combust, like Knight Polonus Vorstius of Italy, who burst into flame after drinking too much wine. When I don’t, I write: Dear M. If Jack is angry, it’s because of you and us. The only thing that’s going to help him is removing us completely. Maybe I should stop being so selfish. If I really loved you, I would end my marriage or at least come clean to my wife. I owe her that. Maybe I owe you that too. Maybe our love is the biggest love there’s ever been, although I doubt it. But whatever, I just need to stop being such a pussy. No
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My name is Jack. I’m a high school senior and I’m almost positive I’m face-blind. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up. Everyone in my life is a stranger, and that includes me. Please help.
I want you to know I’m rooting for you. Sometimes we need to hear that, even from a stranger. I think of all the people I’m rooting for—my dad, Rachel, Bailey, Iris, Jayvee, Mr. Levine, Principal Wasserman, Mr. Dominguez, my classmates in the Conversation Circle, maybe even Jack.
During dinner, no one really talks except Dusty, who wants to audition for his school’s production of Peter Pan. Marcus is screwing around with his phone under the table, and Mom’s not even yelling at him. I’m too busy pretending we’re all friends here and I don’t want to knuckle-punch my own father, and he’s too busy pretending Mistress? What mistress?
“You can’t use cancer as an excuse for shittiness anymore.” And of course I’m talking to me too, although he doesn’t know that.
Suddenly, I’m seeing myself like everyone else does—I’m one of those heckling, yelling hyena kids, throwing things at people who don’t deserve it.
“I went to bed that night thinking, Last night she was here. This morning she was here. Now she’s gone, and not for a few days, but forever. How can something so final happen in an instant? No preparation. No warning. No chance to do all the things you planned to do. No chance to say goodbye.”
Too much of my life feels like this already—trying to recycle something old into something new and better, disguising someone else’s trash as some fresh, shiny thing.
For as long as people have been around, we’ve relied on facial recognition for survival. Back in caveman times, whether a person lived or died could come down to being able to read a face. You had to know your enemy. And here I am, barely able to make it out alive from a high school bathroom.
Two hours later, when I get back in the Land Rover, it still smells like her. Sunshine.
Libby is solid. She is real. As long as I hold her hand, she won’t vanish before my eyes.
And I get it. He wants to stay in this moment. The bad moments always have a way of coming around again, way too soon.
He says to Jack, “So where are you planning on taking my daughter this evening?” He keeps saying my daughter like he’s trying to drive the point home. THIS IS MY CHILD, MY FLESH AND BLOOD. DO YOU KNOW HOW DEAD YOU WILL BE IF YOU DO ANYTHING TO MESS WITH MY ONLY KID?!
I’m taking you to the moon and back, and while we’re up there, I’m going to collect the stars for you so that you can keep them.
“Libby Strout, you deserve to be seen.”
If ever a song was written for Libby and me, it’s this one. Two broken, lonely people who maybe aren’t so broken or lonely anymore.
I think what an amazing world this would be if we all danced everywhere we went.
She stands there, perfectly composed, perfectly Caroline, and says, “You know, you think you’re all that, you pretend to be all that, but you’re not.” “I know I’m not. Which is all the more reason I’m grateful she likes me anyway.”
I’m not an assface, not in this way at least. I have a condition called prosopagnosia. It means I can’t recognize faces, not even the faces of the people I love.
My hands are shaking, but I don’t want him to see, so I grip the wheel till my knuckles turn white, and then ask him to tell me about the party. I can barely hear him over the sound of my heart as it goes BAM BAM BAM against the walls of my chest.
I remember being so full of pain and anger that I wished nothing but tongue-burning on everyone who hurt me, especially Moses Hunt. But here’s the thing—Merricat poisoned her entire family. The only crime I committed was being fat.
My hands are still shaking. My heart is still pounding. Today was really, really bad. Your brain is broken. It will never get better.
I don’t believe in God anymore, if I ever did, but out loud I say a kind of prayer. Just keep him safe. Don’t let anyone hurt him. And while you’re at it, look after Libby and old Jonny Rumsford too. And my mom. And Marcus. And even Dad. I don’t add myself to the list because that feels selfish. But maybe I think it, just for a minute. And me, I guess, even if I don’t deserve it. Maybe look out for me too.
I’m Libby Strout, America’s Fattest Teen, maybe the World’s Saddest Teen, alone in her room with her cat while outside that room, the rest of the world goes on.
I tell myself, Libby is one of those stars. I choose one and name it after her and keep my eyes on it as long as I can. And then I blink. Stay. Stay. Stay. Don’t go away. But she’s gone.
I see Jack in the main hallway of school. He’s flanked by Seth Powell and Dave Kaminski, who looks right at me, almost through me, while Jack saunters past like I’m invisible. And maybe I am. Like everyone else in his life. Just one more person he can’t see.
