Amy Chelsea Stacie Dee by Mary G. Thompson Page B

going to happen someday, but I still don’t like it. I don’t like to hear my dad yell.
    The door slams. My dad is still yelling, but now he’s yelling at my mom. I can’t understand the words, though. I can’t stand this. I have to make him stop.
    â€œDad,” I say, coming out of my room.
    â€œ. . . as if she’s not a person, as if she’s something to gawk at,” he rants. It’s not just my mom in the living room. Jay is there, too. He’s sitting in his usual spot on the couch with his arms crossed, as if the whole speech is directed at him.
    My mom sighs as I come in. “We’re sorry we woke you,” she says.
    Jay rolls his eyes.
    â€œI’m sorry about the reporters,” I say to him.
    My dad shakes his head and turns away.
    â€œThey’ll forget about me pretty soon.”
    â€œNot until they find Dee,” Jay says.
    â€œJay!” My mom’s face goes crimson.
    I don’t think he’s right. I think that they ended up forgetting about both of us after a while. My parents may not have forgotten, but the reporters did. Once some time goes by, they’ll stop wondering what happened to Dee. I just have to let time go by.
    â€œYou could stop all of this,” Jay says. “If you just tell them.”
    â€œJay, that is
enough
,” Mom says.
    Jay looks down.
    Dad turns back around to face me. I can see in his eyes that he agrees with Jay. If I would just tell them, things would be better. He thinks that Dee is dead, and if I tell him, then he’ll be able to go back to Colorado. But that’s not fair. Maybe he thinks that if I’m alive, so is Dee, and he really wants to save her. Maybe he wants to stay here with us, but he also wants to go home. I know how that feels because I feel exactly the same way.
    I know Jay wants him to stay and never go back to Colorado. He still won’t say much to Dad, but that’s because he’s hurting. If he didn’t want Dad to stay, then none of this wouldhurt so much. But me telling the truth won’t make Dad stay, and even if it could, I wouldn’t. Because nobody matters as much as Barbie and Lola.
    I go back to my room, and I stay there until Monday, when it’s time for Dr. Kayla.
    She asks me about my childhood, about how Amy became best friends with Dee. I tell her that Dee acted young for her age, and I acted old. I tell her about how we used to go to the river, and how we used to have slumber parties, and how we used to sneak candy into my room at night.
    â€œCandy was the best thing,” I say. “Because our moms hardly ever let us have it. And it was our secret.”
    â€œWhat kind of candy did you like?” Dr. Kayla asks.
    â€œWell, it’s very bad for you,” I say. “We shouldn’t have eaten it.”
    â€œBut it was something fun you did together,” she says.
    We couldn’t do it anymore, after. I shake my head.
    Dr. Kayla pulls out a package of Red Vines from a drawer in her desk and holds it out. “Would you like some?” she asks.
    My mom must have told her I like Red Vines. I know I didn’t tell her.
    â€œNo, it’s bad for me,” I say. I put my hand over my face.
    Dr. Kayla doesn’t seem to notice when I do this. “Why do you say that?” she asks.
    â€œIt’s bad,” I whisper.
    â€œIs that something this man told you?”
    If I keep my hand over my face, maybe she will stop askingme questions. And now I’m thinking about ice cream. Chocolate ice cream and gummy bears and pretzels and muffins and Froot Loops. It’s bad of me to think about these things. Bad people eat like this. They poison themselves.
    â€œIt’s all right to have a treat once in a while,” Dr. Kayla says.
    â€œI know that,” I say. “I ate some ice cream. At the mall.”
    â€œHow did that make you feel?” she asks.
    I take my hand away from my face, but I keep