If Only

  If Only

  CAROLE GEITHNER

  CORINNA PRESS

  Copyright © 2012, 2020 by Carole Geithner

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover Art © 2012 by Sara Wood.

  Reprinted by permission of Scholastic Inc.

  Published by Corinna Press

  Print ISBN:978-1-7350379-0-5

  Ebook ISBN:978-1-7350379-1-2

  Permission has been obtained for use of “Transformation” by Molly Fumia in IF ONLY by Carole Geithner.

  Credit line: Excerpted from the book SAFE PASSAGES by Molly Fumia. Copyright © 1992, 2003 by Molly Fumia, with permission from Mango Media, Inc.

  For Tim, love of my life,

  Elise and Ben, my joys,

  and in memory of Portia

  Contents

  Colors of Me

  A Gift

  Fall

  Frozen

  Pep Talks

  Mothers

  Maki and Dad

  The Box

  Kanser

  Clare

  Twists and Turns

  Starbursts and Ziti

  Ashes

  Seeing Orange

  Space

  Panic

  Jewels

  Thanksgiving

  Winter

  Wishful Thinking

  If Only

  Trapped

  Vacation

  Holiday Blues

  New Year

  Group

  Stories

  Rags

  Missing

  Old Spice

  I Am

  Happy Birthday

  The Chair

  Questions

  Spring

  Back to School

  Another Ending

  Smells

  Bad News

  Aloha

  The Trail

  Anniversaries

  Invisible

  Dance

  The Lunch

  Secrets

  Speaking Up

  Hidden

  Clothes

  Ghosts

  Words and Letters

  Summer

  Dates

  Dreamer

  Graduation

  Preparations

  The Ishibashis

  Aiko

  Home

  Colors of Me

  If seasons were tubes of paint, last fall would have been deep, dark black. Winter was also dark, but more like a foggy gray with lots of huge black blobs mixed in. Spring had some blue, but blue comes in lots of shades, from almost blackish blue to bright sky blue. And then there was summer. Summer had more colors than the other seasons, with hints of purples, but like one of my many soccer bruises, it could look pretty hideous with its swirling blend of black, blues, and tinges of sickly yellow. Grief is hard. Really hard. And you can’t put the cap back on when you want to, like you can with a tube of paint.

  A Gift

  “I brought you something you can use when you’re feeling like you . . . might . . . explode.”

  My mom’s best friend, Deborah Rollins, passes me a rectangular package wrapped in bug paper. It’s covered with crawling ants. What a weird way to express support. “Here, have some bugs. I hope they make your skin crawl.”

  “Oh . . . thanks,” I stammer, as we stand at the front door of my house on what has to be the hottest day in August.

  “Go ahead. Open it,” Deborah says a little too cheerfully. Her eyes and mouth are smiling, but her body is stiff, like she really doesn’t want to be here. My body is stiff, too, like one of those cardboard dolls little girls dress in paper clothes. I wasn’t expecting her visit, and I don’t know if I am supposed to invite her in. I don’t really want to.

  I slowly open the paper, feeling a bit like I need to protect the delicate paper ants.

  “It’s . . . cute,” I force myself to say.

  Deborah’s gift is a pink furry book. I flip it open and see white. Blank white pages.

  “It’s for writing. Writing your feelings and, well, you know, things like that,” Deborah explains.

  “You mean like a journal?”

  “Exactly. I think journals and diaries are great, don’t you? Remember how Anne Frank wrote in a diary during the Holocaust?”

  “Yeah. We read that in seventh grade.”

  “She was about your age,” Deborah points out.

  “I know.”

  Deborah wipes the sweat on her forehead, then asks me, “Well, don’t you think it helped her deal with a bad situation?”

  “Anne Frank didn’t survive.”

  “Yes, but . . . but your situation’s different, Corinna. You’re going to survive.”

  My throat gets really tight after she says this, and my brain tells me: Get out of here right now.

  “Thanks,” I manage to squeeze through the narrow opening in my airway. I don’t even bother to say good-bye. I turn away from the front door, walk up the stairs, and escape into the safety of my room, leaving Deborah standing there. Maki, my dog, follows me. I slam my bedroom door shut before tossing the journal on the floor and throwing myself down on my bed. What was Deborah thinking, giving me a totally tacky fake-fur journal? She must not know anything about what teenagers like. I seriously hope she doesn’t follow me up here.

  School is starting in two days. How am I going to make it through a whole day of school, much less a week or a year?

  I wait until I hear the front door click shut and then decide to go for a bike ride on the Crescent Trail. It’s so hot that Maki is panting even in the air-conditioning, so I let him stay home. The boiling August heat isn’t going to stop me, though.

  The wind blowing on my sweaty face feels good as I pedal hard and fast on my blue mountain bike, the one I got for my last birthday. I practically wipe out on the speed bumps just before the bike path, that’s how much of a hurry I’m in. I want to be a normal biker going to downtown Bethesda. A normal girl.

  “Watch out!” a lady yells. She’s pushing a baby stroller.

  Then I almost hit a Rollerblader.

  My legs are exhausted and my entire body is dripping with sweat as I enter the refrigerator-cold of the gigantic bookstore on Bethesda Avenue. At first, I just catch my breath and enjoy the air-conditioning. Then I make my way to the back of the store, where they keep the racks of books and journals. I take my time as I look, but I always return to a brown suede one on the top shelf. When I hold it in my hands, it feels soft, almost like skin. Well, I guess it is skin, from a cow. Brown suede is much better for a teenager. Does Deborah really think of me as a little girl who loves pink fur just because I’m not exactly big on top?

  On my hot and sweaty ride home, I decide to name my new suede journal, like Anne Frank did. Anne called hers Kitty. I choose Suki for mine because it sounds Japanese and kind of sophisticated. I want to tell someone about Suki, someone other than Deborah. I wouldn’t want her to know her stupid gift has given me the idea to keep a journal. Before I go inside the house, I flip open my phone, press Contacts, Mom, and then Send.

  “Hello, this is Sophie Burdette, musician and teacher. Please leave me a message, including your phone number, even if you think I already have it. I’ll return your call as soon as my hands are free.”

  All I can say is, “Mom . . .” I close the phone and close my eyes.

  Fall

/>   Frozen

  “Bye, honey. Have a great day,” a mom says, hugging her daughter in the Westhaven Middle School parking lot. POW. It’s the first morning of eighth grade, and I feel like someone just socked me in the stomach. Maybe it’s more of a stab. Whatever it is, it hurts.

  Then the woman gets back in her car, and the girl turns and walks into school with a nervous sixth-grader smile and an armful of colorful binders.

  That’s when I freeze. How can I continue to put one foot in front of the other when I can barely breathe? How can I smile and talk to everyone like I’m the old me, like nothing has changed?

  My dread about meeting my teachers definitely doesn’t help. I have a feeling at least one of them will say something annoying or do something that will catch me off guard and make me burst into tears in front of everyone. They might even try the old “complimenting my outfit to try to cheer me up” technique that my nursery school teacher used when I didn’t want to let go of my mom’s hand on the first day of school. I look at what I threw on this morning: a plain old white T-shirt and jean skirt. We always used to buy a few outfits before school started, but not this year.

  The teachers are really the least of my worries. Everyone — worst of all, my friends — has pretty much avoided me all summer. But now they won’t be able to. And everyone else . . . Well, I figure if they don’t already know my “news,” as soon as they find out, I’m going to be the class freak. Or the class pity project.

  One girl I know from band walks by, chomping on a big wad of gum. She pushes her gum to the side long enough to say, “Hey, Corinna! Long time no see! How was your summer?”

  “Um . . .”

  “Not so great, huh? That stinks. Well, see ya.”

  BAM.

  The first day of school used to be filled with the fun of seeing all of my friends after summer vacation, the thrill of carrying fresh school supplies neatly labeled with Dad’s Xpress Pro label maker, and the nervous excitement about having new teachers (and hoping they would be good and not boring). But today is totally different. My head and body feel like they are moving through thick cement. I don’t really want to talk to my friends or listen to new teachers. I couldn’t care less about the color of my notebooks (which are not labeled this year).

  I find my new locker in the yellow hallway. It’s a miracle that I remembered to bring the piece of paper with my combination. I twirl the dial clockwise a few times, the way you’re supposed to, and then start in on the numbers. I think I’m being careful, but it isn’t working. No clicks, no release.

  “Hey, Corinna. Forget how to open a locker over the summer? Maybe you should go back to seventh grade.”

  A bunch of boys next to me burst into laughter. My neck and face start to sweat. When I look up, I see it’s stuck-up Dylan and his immature friends, just what I need when I’m already feeling plenty pathetic.

  I fumble with the locker, hoping they will get bored and leave. More kids start filling the hall. Everyone else’s lockers seem to be opening just fine. Maybe I should ask for a different locker . . . in Siberia.

  “Hey, Corinna,” someone says a few lockers down on my left.

  I pretend I haven’t heard. I hope that whoever it is goes away soon.

  Just when I think I’m in the clear, I see Olivia rounding the corner. I dodge around a bunch of sixth graders, but Olivia’s big head comes at me anyway.

  “Corinna! Love that jean skirt, girlie!”

  I stare at her, probably looking like a zombie.

  “So, Corinna, are you still playing on the rec soccer team or did you switch to travel?”

  I can see in her face that she has a lot of questions she’s getting ready to ask, and there are too many people around us.

  “Uh, yeah. Rec,” I manage to squeak. I want to escape Olivia before she can ask me anything else, so I say, “Ciao,” like we’ve been doing for years, only it doesn’t sound right this time.

  Walking down the familiar hallways, I feel strangely alone. Alone even though there are tons of kids everywhere. Alone even though some of them are my friends. There’s not enough air, and my stomach really hurts, especially on the left side right below my belly button.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder, and when I turn around, it’s our class “Queen Bee,” Beth, wearing her perfectly matching purse, clothes, and shoes. The whole outfit. Matching. As always.

  “I know we haven’t talked in a long time, but I wonder if maybe you’d like to have lunch together at my family’s club.”

  “Umm, uh. Maybe.”

  “They have the best Caesar salads. The dressing is delish and they never force you to eat anchovies. Aren’t anchovies the grossest? Gag me. Anyway, I just know you’ll love it.”

  I didn’t think Beth even knew I existed, so her lovely invitation to her lovely club is a bit confusing. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe her invitation is proof that I’m a charity case. Her mother probably told her to invite me.

  I can feel everyone’s eyes on us.

  “Okay, well . . . see ya,” I say, wishing I could call my dad and tell him to come get me. My stomach gives another tug, and I realize what I’m most dreading today. Jocelyn.

  Joci is supposed to be my best friend, but we haven’t actually talked in what feels like forever. It doesn’t seem possible that just six months ago we could almost read each other’s minds, whether it was about boys, friends, teachers, boob development (my lack of), our favorite bubble bath, whatever. We used to text each other a gazillion times a day about everything. We practically lived at each other’s houses. She sent me a card a few weeks ago but, basically, she’s been MIA for months.

  It’s fourth period, and so far, Joci hasn’t been in any of my classes. My English teacher, Miss B. B. Beatty (everyone calls her Miss Boppity Bop), comes up to me as soon as I sit at a desk in the back, next to the window.

  “Corinna, I’m so sorry to hear about your mom,” she whispers.

  I don’t hear anything she says after that. I have to block my ears and brain or I might lose it right here in front of everyone. I tell myself, “I must not cry at school or I might not be able to stop. I must not cry at school.” I wonder if all my teachers know, and if they do, why Miss Boppity Bop is the first to say anything to me.

  The one good thing about this class so far is that Miss Boppity Bop doesn’t make us stand up in front and talk about what we did over summer vacation. I’ve had to do that practically every year since kindergarten. What would I say? “My vacation sucked. My mom died. The end.”

  “Class, I’d like you to write five paragraphs about the highlight of your summer. It’s due on Thursday. Make it interesting, and show me your best writing, so I know what writing skills we need to focus on this year.”

  The highlight of my summer? Is she kidding? At least we don’t have to write it in class. Miss Boppity Bop casually says that she’ll be looking for volunteers to share their highlights with the class. I don’t want to turn mine in, much less read it out loud.

  I rush out of English as soon as the bell rings and stop at my locker to get my lunch. Not that I’m hungry. I still haven’t seen Joci, and I begin to wonder if she’s absent, and if she isn’t, why she hasn’t bothered to find me yet.

  When I walk into the noisy cafeteria, I look over at our usual spot and see Joci sitting with Olivia, Juliette, and Eliana. She sees me and waves me over. I don’t know if Joci is going to talk to me about anything that’s happened recently or just pretend like everything is the same as always. I have no idea what am I going to say to her, either.

  “Hey, Corinna,” Joci says cheerfully. “How ya doin’?”

  “Hi, Joss. Hi guys.”

  “Hey, Corinna,” Eliana chimes in. “So . . . what’d you bring for lunch?” Eliana asks with a big smile.

  “Nothing much,” I say, sounding pathetic.

  “Did you make your own lunch today?” Eliana is still smiling as she asks this, as if she is my personal cheerleader or nursery school teacher.


  How do I answer that? I look over at Joci to see if she gets how awkward this is. I’m not sure, but she looks like she’s as scared as I am about how this is going to go.

  Joci turns to me and says, “I can’t believe we haven’t had any classes together yet.”

  “Yeah.” I nod in agreement. “Who do you have for math and social studies?”

  “Mr. Spinolli and Mrs. Giamatti; what about you?”

  “Me, too,” I say flatly.

  “Have you heard anything about them?” She’s leaning in, like she wants to hear some good gossip.

  “No, have you?” I sound bored.

  “I heard they’re the two hardest teachers in the entire school.”

  “Great, that’s just what I need,” I reply, pulling apart my sandwich as I slump even more.

  “You’ll be okay, Corinna. I’m sure you’ll be okay,” Joci says to reassure me.

  “Well, I’m not so sure.” I finally take a bite of my sandwich and can barely swallow it.

  Out on the blacktop after lunch, there are more traps waiting. I can hear kids whispering about me.

  “Can you believe it?”

  “I would die if that happened to me.”

  As I walk by a group of girls, they go all silent. Talk about obvious. I am tempted to go to the nurse’s office and ask her about my stomachaches. Maybe I could go home sick. Who would pick me up, though? Dad’s at the high school, teaching.

  It feels like I’m on a separate planet from everyone else. The kids at school are on Planet Normal, the planet I used to belong to. Their lives are going on as if nothing had happened. And then there’s me. I’m on Planet Doom and Gloom. I don’t know if I’ll ever get back to Planet Normal. I was right to have been worried about school. I am obviously the unofficial and unmistakable class freakazoid. You’d think no one had ever encountered death in all of history.

  Somehow, I make it through the day. Dad and I are both exhausted and eat canned chili for dinner in silence. While I’m cutting up an apple and an orange for us to share, I try to think of something to say to Dad.