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Zusatztext "Gut-wrenching." Informationen zum Autor Carol Lynch Williams Klappentext As the tragic death of her older brother devastates the family! teenaged London struggles to find redemption and finds herself torn between her brother's best friend and a handsome new boy in town. Waiting After it happened, no one in school would talk to me. No one. Not even my best friend, Lauren Hopkins, who has hair to her waist, and who let me dress like her until I figured out how to dress for myself. She had said, “You know what, London? You homeschool types never look like the rest of the world. Even when you wear the right clothes.” (I had on blue jeans and a Billy Talent T-shirt and Vans, too. It must have been my face. It must have. A look. I’ve seen it myself in pictures. Wide-eyed, surprised. Happy. But that’s gone. That look is long gone.) “So teach me what to wear,” I had said, shrugging. Like I didn’t care, you know? But I did. I cared a lot. And while I didn’t buy anything different from normal, she did show me how to use kohl eyeliner. And that should be enough to keep you tight, right? Clichéd. So clichéd. The whole thing. Me sitting there, like I’m minding my own business. Eating a cheese sandwich from home. Just the right amount of mayonnaise. Swallowing, yes. But having a hard time with it. Like there’s a fist blocking my throat. The five chairs around me are empty because no one sits with me now. (Including Lauren Hopkins.) Maybe they’re used to me being alone? Maybe they’re afraid my tragedy will rub off on them? Maybe it’s because I can’t quite talk still? Whatever, they leave me on my own. Lunchroom noises . . . Popping sounds of sodas being opened. Trays dropped on the table. Forks scraping on plates. Lunch bags being smushed closed. The clichéd part is me on the inside. I am ready to bust wide open. I feel it. I feel it coming up from the pit of my stomach, like a fast-growing foam. Like vinegar added to baking soda (and there’s Zach pouring the liquid and saying, “People of Vesuvius, run for your lives.” And I’m laughing hard and so is Mom.). Like the feeling wants to burst out of me. I’m the volcano. For a moment I think, Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t. Do. It. That’s how strong the urge to scream is. The words I didn’t KNOW! echoing in my head, the o sound going on, screeching toward the ceiling. Higher higher. Will they look then? Will they even hear me? Talk to me? Sit next to me again? Leave me alone? I hold it in, hold the scream back with both hands on my throat, tight, tighter, and it hurts. It all hurts. From the inside out. Tighter and tightest. Black in front of my eyes, no breathing for me. The next clichéd part? This new guy walks into the lunchroom and I gasp in air. So I don’t see him. I don’t see him. I don’t see him. Second half of the day just about over. I walk the halls alone. Check out the bathroom, make sure no one’s there. Lock myself in a stall. Take off my shirt, bundle it in a ball, and scream right into an armpit. Then when I come into English class late (even this is clichéd—I used to read. I know.), I see him, right there, sitting in the row closest to the windows. His long legs spread out in the aisle. He’s grinning at what? Me? Can’t be. I’m just here. Late and all, with a wrinkled shirt now that’s wet from my scream and tears. If my face would move, I’d smile. I’d laugh! Like before. I would throw back my head and let the laughter burst from me. But...
