Circle the Soul Softly Read online

  For Margie

  Thank You

  Kaitlyn, Amanda, and Andrew

  Ms. Virginia Russell and Ms. Colleen Bright Ross

  Maria Modugno and HarperCollins

  Bonnie Nadell

  Gene Marc and Frazier Malone Hurwin

  CONTENTS

  COVER IMAGE

  PART ONE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  PART TWO

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  AND NOW

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CREDIT PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  PART ONE

  ONE

  Michael takes the U-turn after the light clicks to red, screeching the tires and almost hitting some old woman in a jeep. He flips her off, leans over, and shows me his Dumb Jock face. We screech again as we almost miss the second turn. Every single person in every single car in the carpool line glares. I scrunch down in the seat and remember why I hate my brother.

  “This is it?”

  Michael has stopped in the middle of the street. Now everyone on the sidewalk is staring too.

  “Move the car, butthead.”

  “Do you know how much this place costs?”

  “What do you care—you’re not paying.” Just breathe, Katie, breathe. Finally he moves, drives, parks. This is definitely not how I visualized my first day at a new school.

  “Skates, are you sure you want to go here?”

  “Do not call me ‘Skates.’” I grab my schedule and get out. If it wouldn’t get more stares, I’d slam the door.

  “Let me walk you. I want to see the rich kids.”

  “Hey—better idea—go die somewhere, okay?”

  First I run into a bench. No big deal, no one’s watching. Then I go into the wrong room, with the twelfth-grade students instead of tenth. I get stuck between an Eminem look-alike and a troupe of blank-faced, black-haired maybe-females with extreme makeup. From the other side of the room, two anorexic Vogue model types check me out. The redhead whispers something and the blonde starts laughing, quietly, behind her hand. Eminem sneers down at me and nods once, like I care. I put them all on my list of those needing paper cuts. Then the blonde rolls her eyes and I smile.

  I smile!

  I miss the tenth-grade orientation talk completely, so I follow the crowd. I stand in line, get my picture taken, and follow another crowd down the alley to stand in line again. I’m paired with a fairly normal-looking girl who immediately assures me she thinks I’m just fine but practically every other girl in our grade is a bitch. We get our books and stand in still another line to pay for them.

  I fumble for my mom’s credit card and bang into the edge of a table. My plastic bags split at the seams and three million books clatter to the floor. In the nanosecond of silence that follows, someone says: “Omigod, I will never get out of here.” The whole room laughs; I am publicly revealed: Attention everyone! Stupid Kate is here—can’t you see her smiling?

  How I get from the book-buying place to Michael’s car is not entirely clear. Of course, he’s standing outside it, tall, lanky, serene, fitting right in. I hate him. The blonde and the redhead from twelfth grade drive by us in a little black BMW. They glance over and the redhead winks. He tips his head in their direction and the blonde almost smiles. I do not even exist. I hate him even more.

  Here’s the list:

  I run into benches and walls and other random objects, I don’t understand the social thing, I always think people are dissing me, and the only person I’m able to get pissed at is my brother—but only if no one’s looking.

  And—my personal favorite— I smile. Constantly. It doesn’t matter how stupid, angry, depressed, or embarrassed I am—I still smile. The only time I actually don’t smile is when I’m doing a part in a play. Oh, but wait—that isn’t real life, is it?

  This morning was supposed to mark the official birth of my new identity—the person who can cope with anything. New house, new father—well, sort of—new school, new girl.This one is funny and knows what to say. She has a best friend and they make plans every weekend. She gets IMed the second she goes online. She doesn’t space out during daylight and has regular dreams, not scary nightmares. She never bumps into stuff and she has an extremely cool, extremely individual way of dressing. Her boyfriend? One of the cutest guys at school.

  I swear she’s in here.

  I just don’t know how to get her out.

  So—I walk. It helps me think. Or not, depending on the day. It moves me forward, anyway, especially when Stupid Kate has appeared. I don’t have to talk to people, not even my mom. I just say I’m exploring my new neighborhood.

  It’s weird. Brentwood is one of the most expensive places in California, and it reminds me of Santa Rosa, which definitely is not. Willow trees along the streets, their branches arching almost to the center. Sunlight peeking through. Breezes painting shadow dancers on the sidewalk. I like being here. Of course, in Santa Rosa, there’d be leaves rustling now, crunching under my feet. I miss that. But in Santa Rosa, I’d also have that eerie feeling that someone was following me, and I’d stop every so often to see if I could catch the sound of them in the leaves.

  Here, in my new Normal and Connected Life, the leaves have been sent who knows where by loud little cleaning machines. And even with no one around—no gardeners, pets, children, not even cars going by—I will not have that feeling because I will not allow it.

  TWO

  “Goddammit!” a girl shouts. I look up to see her jump out of the way of the black BMW from yesterday. It’s the first full-length day of school, and I’m sitting on the benches in the alley in front of the little black-box theater,waiting for first period to start, feeling conspicuous and invisible at the same time.

  A dark, smiling boy sticks his head out the passenger side of the car. “It’s a car, Heather . . . car? Maybe you could move out of the way?”

  “Maybe Stacey could learn to drive?” Heather’s jeans are very low and way too tight and quite a significant roll of pink flesh bulges out between them and her tank top. It’s twelve degrees and she has no jacket, but neither do most of the other kids. Maybe the rich are immune to the morning cold?

  Stacey smiles a deadly smile and holds up her middle finger. Heather holds up her finger as Stacey parks directly in front of where I’m sitting. I recognize Stacey as the redhead Vogue model who liked me so much at orientation. I negotiate with the Universe to allow me to melt into the ground, but as usual, it’s not listening. Stacey, Dark Smiling Boy, and Movie Star Blonde emerge like royalty from their car and I drop my head, pretending to read.

  I need not have worried. Unworthy of their attention, I blend with my surroundings and they slide right by. The firs
t bell rings. Hunched over and praying for continued invisibility, I skulk without incident past the library. Alas, I relax my guard to check my schedule and map and don’t realize Stacey and Movie Star Blonde have stopped a few steps in front of me. Of course, I bump into them. I step on the Blonde’s foot, knock her backward, send her books flying and basically drop her into a planter. A pause in the morning ripples out from where I’m standing.

  “Shit!” says the Blonde.

  “Layla?” Stacey asks, extending her hand. “Omigod, are you okay?”

  I am now a large, wordless lump. In some still-functioning part of my brain, I wonder who would name their child “Layla.”

  “You oughta watch where you’re going,” Stacey hisses, checking me out and finding me even uglier than I feel.

  “Why did she hit me?” Layla whines. “Why can’t anybody ever hit you? Why does it always have to be me?” This makes Stacey giggle.

  By the time I manage to whisper,“I am so sorry,” the Movie Stars have left the building. Dark Smiling Boy has turned into Laughing Butthead Boy. I blink a couple times and my legs finally work, but I can feel the edges of my vision filling in. I duck around a corner into a hallway. It’s ninth grade all over again. How did this happen so soon?

  It’s always the same. I’m in the hallway and the Monster appears. I start to run, knowing if I can reach the door, I’ll be safe, but the walls close in and the hallway stretches, like in a cartoon, and the more I run, the bigger the Monster gets. I can’t see its face but I hear it breathing, sucking up the air, and I want to scream but I can’t catch my breath and now the hallway’s forever and the door has disappeared and I feel claws picking me up and I know the minute I see the Monster’s face I’ll die—and then there’s a flash, like sunlight, and it’s Minnie Mouse in her yellow polka dot dress, and . . .

  I wake up.

  THREE

  “Acting is something you do for an audience,” Tess explains, “which is why my auditions are never private.”

  Tess is the incredibly awesome drama teacher who’s way older than my mom, dresses like one of the kids, and gets absolute respect from everybody. She has long, dark hair with gray strands throughout and today is wearing tight black jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. She looks pointedly at Laughing Butthead Boy, who immediately bows his head, no doubt to hide a grin. Layla pokes him and Stacey shows us the other side of her perfect face. In Santa Rosa, theater kids are the ones who don’t fit anyplace else. Here in LA, everyone’s an actor, unless they’re a director. And everyone is beautiful. For my third strike, I expect I’ll find out they’re also talented.

  Tess is collecting audition cards; she smiles and holds out her hand for mine.“How am I going to know how you carry yourself in front of people if you audition just for me?” she asks, and even though I know she’s not really talking to me, I nod.

  Butthead Boy is staring. We’ve been in the room twenty minutes and he is just now noticing me.“Who’s that?” he whispers, and the Vogue Twins peek over. If my heart pounds any harder, the girl sitting next to me will hear it.

  “Who cares?” Stacey answers, dismissing me with a shrug. I can’t remember one line of my audition monologue.

  “I think she’s hot,” he says. Sweat is flowing down the insides of my arms.

  Layla pokes his shoulder.“She’s twelve, you moron. Leave her alone.” I don’t know if she meant me to hear that, but it’s obvious I did from the color flushing into my cheeks. Not one of them recognizes me from yesterday.

  “Okay, babies, here we go.” Tess looks down at our index cards. “The order’s by chance—I shuffled everybody, and there you are.” She reads the first one.“Kaitlyn O’Connor.”

  My hands start to shake.

  “You want someone to work with?” Tess asks, smiling, but all business now. I stare a second, process what she’s asked me, then nod.“Boy or girl?”

  “Boy, please.”

  “Jake, onstage.” Butthead Boy stands up.

  This is a bad movie and cannot be happening in real life. There are at least a dozen other boys in the room and none of them have the VogueTwins attached. I can see Jake trying to pretend he wants to do this. I pray for an earthquake.

  “Name of the play?”Tess asks.

  I make myself speak. “Echoes. By Richard Nash. Where Tilda tells Sam about The Person.”

  I start to prepare. Jake rolls his eyes. He tries to hide it, but I always see what I’m not supposed to—like Stacey-Layla studiously not reacting. And the girl who was sitting next to me, giving them a dirty look, confirming their importance. Stupid Kate appears, but I have no time for her.

  “Now listen to me, Sammy. Don’t you see what the technique is?”

  Jake blinks twice, fast. Everyone else slips out of my head. There’s only Tilda now, and she has something to tell Sam. He doesn’t want to hear it; I have to find a way to make him listen. Jake’s face changes as I pull him in. But I don’t care anymore what “Jake” thinks—he’s merely Sam, reacting to my words. The monologue zooms by.

  “ …and don’t you tell me how Goddamn beautiful life is until you tell me why we die! And if you say everything has a purpose in the world—what is the use of pain?!”

  Jake morphs back to Butthead Boy. I blink and slip back to Katie. Tess is smiling. The other kids are looking and for the first time it feels like they’re actually seeing me. They clap their hands. All of them, even Jake. Only Stacey ignores me. She’s busy in her backpack.

  “Well,”Tess says, “that worked. Let me see your hair pulled back. Okay, good, that makes you look much older. I want you to read for Maggie and Agnes. Sides are on the table in the greenroom. Callbacks are next week.” She winks at me then looks back down at her cards. “All right. Next victim . . .”

  FOUR

  I couldn’t have been much more than two. I don’t know where exactly we were, how we got there, or who else was with us. I do remember the sand. I’d never seen so much of it, and I loved how my bare feet slapped down as we walked toward the water. I turned my head from side to side to catch the icy drops of fog in the air.

  I remember holding his hand—reaching straight up to grab it. The low roar of the waves and the salty spray on my face were simply glorious; I delighted in the way my laughter disappeared into the sky without even being heard. The gray of the sky melted into the horizon and the fog closed off the land behind us, so the whole world was only me and my daddy and the ocean crashing toward us. The pit of my stomach churned and my skin tingled with anticipation. He had to yell to be heard over the water. “Hold on, Kates, here it comes!”

  The wave must have broken yards in front of us because the water barely covered my ankles. I gasped at the cold then laughed out loud again, clinging even tighter to my daddy’s hand. He was laughing too, I remember the tone of it—low and full and mine.

  But as the ocean retreated and stole the sand from under my feet, it grabbed me, too—dragging me out to sea! Total terror—I screamed. Strong arms snatched me back, hauled me up into a warm broad chest, and held me close until I stopped whimpering and could relax. That’s what daddies do.

  I sigh as I walk, wanting more. I have only these snapshots: the beach, going fishing once when I was five and crying when I realized “the fishies” died, and the times he came home from work with little packages of gummy worms for me and my friends. Nothing else is clear. I wish I could remember him in everyday memories, like Michael does.

  I know he worked for Hewlett-Packard and didn’t much like his job, because that’s what my mom has told me. I vaguely remember when he got laid off and how weird it was having him home. I know sometimes he drank, and I remember how my brother got up and walked out of the room when Mom told us he was sick. I was thirteen, and it was summer. She said, “Cancer,” her face broke into pieces, and my brain swirled out of control—I couldn’t slow it down enough to catch details.

  We changed the living room into his bedroom because it was bigger and the hospital bed would
fit. Hospice nurses came and went. Michael spent lots of time with his best friend, Steve. My eighth-grade year started. I got my very first-ever period and told my best friend, Ginny. I remember not telling my mom because it didn’t seem very important.

  He died a few weeks later, at night. I was sleeping. Michael was at Steve’s.

  Mom called the funeral home and waited by herself until they came, then took one of his sleeping pills and crawled into bed in their old room. When I got up for school and tiptoed down the hall like I always did, her door was shut and the air was perfectly still. Before I realized the living room was empty, before I even turned on the light to see for sure, I knew.

  The bed had been stripped and pushed to the side. His robe was folded on top. The table where his meds had sat was empty—the prescription bottles and other paraphernalia swept off into a plastic bag tied with a knot and dropped on the floor. I felt like something had sucked my insides out; I remember wondering how I could be so completely empty and still able to stand up. I stood paralyzed—my brain registering details as my thoughts rolled themselves out in slow motion:

  My father is dead.

  I will never see my father again.

  This couldn’t have happened.

  It’s happened.

  I won’t ever hear his voice.

  I’ll never touch him.

  My father is dead….

  I will never see my father….

  …and endlessly on.

  I knew right then there was no way in the entire world I could live through this. No way at all.

  Except, I did.

  One hour after the next, and then a day and a week, a month, a year, and now—just about exactly two.

  FIVE

  I’m cast.

  I’m Maggie.