on the coffee table.
102
F A R F R O M Y O U
“Mostly it’s yoga and herbs. Cortisone shots in my back.
Non-opiate pain pills.”
We sit down on the stuck-in-the-seventies couch, a care-
ful amount of space between us. Other than us, the only
thing that’s changed in the room is the mantelpiece. All
through our childhood, candles and crucifi xes had sur-
rounded a large black-and-white picture of Mina’s dad,
beaming down at the room. When I was little, spending the
night, sometimes I’d watch Mrs. Bishop light the candles.
Once I’d seen her kiss her fi ngers and press them to the cor-
ner of his picture, and something sick churned inside my
stomach, realizing that we all go away in the end.
Mina’s picture is next to her father’s now. She stares back
at me from her mass of dark curls, that sly, secretive smile
fl irting at the corners of her mouth, her explosive energy
just an echo in her eyes.
Some things can’t be contained or captured.
I look away.
“Your mom—” I start.
“She’s in Santa Barbara staying with my aunt,” Trev
says. “She needed . . . Well, it’s better for her. For right now.”
“Of course. Are you going back to Chico State in the
fall?”
He nods. “I have to repeat last semester. And I’m gonna
commute. When Mom comes back . . . I need to stay close.”
I nod.
More excruciating silence. “I should go,” I say. “I just
wanted to give you the box.”
“Sophie,” he says.
T E S S S H A R P E
103
He says it so much like she used to. I know him. Every
part of him, probably even more than I ever knew Mina,
because Trev’s never bothered to hide from me. He’s never
thought he had to. I know what he’s going to ask. What he
wants me to do.
“Don’t,” I say.
But he’s determined. “I have to know,” he says, and it
comes out so fi erce. He looks at me like I’m denying him
something necessary. Oxygen. Food. Love. “I’ve spent
months with police reports and newspaper articles and
rumors. I can’t stand it. I need to know. You’re the only per-
son who can tell me.”
“Trev—”
“You owe me this.”
There is no way I’m getting out of here without answer-
ing his questions. Not without running.
Running from Trev used to be easy. Now it’s impossible.
He’s all I have left of her.
I rub at my knee, digging my fi ngers in the sore muscle
between my kneecap and bone. I can feel the bumps of the
screws if I press down deep enough. It hurts, doing this, but
it’s the good kind of hurt, like a healing bruise. “Go ahead
and ask.”
“The doctor who examined her . . . he said it happened
fast. That she probably didn’t hurt at all. But I think he was
lying to make me feel better.”
I don’t want to be near him while he does this to me—to
both of us. I move to the end of the couch, tilting my body
away from him, protecting myself from the onslaught.
104
F A R F R O M Y O U
“It wasn’t like that, was it?” Trev asks.
I shake my head. It had been the opposite, and he’s
known that all along, but when I confi rm it, I can see how
it breaks him.
“Did she say anything?”
I wish I could lie to him. Wish I could say that she gave
a proper good-bye, that she made me promise to watch out
for him, that she said she loved him and her mom, that she
saw her dad waiting for her on the other side with open
arms and a welcoming smile.
I wish it had been like that. Almost as much as I wish
it had been over instantly, so she wouldn’t have been so
scared. I wish that any part of it could have been peaceful
or quiet or brave. Anything but the painful, frantic mess we
became in the dirt, all breath and blood and fear.
“She kept saying she was sorry. She . . . she said it hurt.”
My voice breaks. I can’t continue.
Trev covers his mouth with his hands. He’s shaking, and
I hate that I agreed to this. He can’t handle it. He shouldn’t
have to.
This is mine to bear.
It would be so
102
F A R F R O M Y O U
“Mostly it’s yoga and herbs. Cortisone shots in my back.
Non-opiate pain pills.”
We sit down on the stuck-in-the-seventies couch, a care-
ful amount of space between us. Other than us, the only
thing that’s changed in the room is the mantelpiece. All
through our childhood, candles and crucifi xes had sur-
rounded a large black-and-white picture of Mina’s dad,
beaming down at the room. When I was little, spending the
night, sometimes I’d watch Mrs. Bishop light the candles.
Once I’d seen her kiss her fi ngers and press them to the cor-
ner of his picture, and something sick churned inside my
stomach, realizing that we all go away in the end.
Mina’s picture is next to her father’s now. She stares back
at me from her mass of dark curls, that sly, secretive smile
fl irting at the corners of her mouth, her explosive energy
just an echo in her eyes.
Some things can’t be contained or captured.
I look away.
“Your mom—” I start.
“She’s in Santa Barbara staying with my aunt,” Trev
says. “She needed . . . Well, it’s better for her. For right now.”
“Of course. Are you going back to Chico State in the
fall?”
He nods. “I have to repeat last semester. And I’m gonna
commute. When Mom comes back . . . I need to stay close.”
I nod.
More excruciating silence. “I should go,” I say. “I just
wanted to give you the box.”
“Sophie,” he says.
T E S S S H A R P E
103
He says it so much like she used to. I know him. Every
part of him, probably even more than I ever knew Mina,
because Trev’s never bothered to hide from me. He’s never
thought he had to. I know what he’s going to ask. What he
wants me to do.
“Don’t,” I say.
But he’s determined. “I have to know,” he says, and it
comes out so fi erce. He looks at me like I’m denying him
something necessary. Oxygen. Food. Love. “I’ve spent
months with police reports and newspaper articles and
rumors. I can’t stand it. I need to know. You’re the only per-
son who can tell me.”
“Trev—”
“You owe me this.”
There is no way I’m getting out of here without answer-
ing his questions. Not without running.
Running from Trev used to be easy. Now it’s impossible.
He’s all I have left of her.
I rub at my knee, digging my fi ngers in the sore muscle
between my kneecap and bone. I can feel the bumps of the
screws if I press down deep enough. It hurts, doing this, but
it’s the good kind of hurt, like a healing bruise. “Go ahead
and ask.”
“The doctor who examined her . . . he said it happened
fast. That she probably didn’t hurt at all. But I think he was
lying to make me feel better.”
I don’t want to be near him while he does this to me—to
both of us. I move to the end of the couch, tilting my body
away from him, protecting myself from the onslaught.
104
F A R F R O M Y O U
“It wasn’t like that, was it?” Trev asks.
I shake my head. It had been the opposite, and he’s
known that all along, but when I confi rm it, I can see how
it breaks him.
“Did she say anything?”
I wish I could lie to him. Wish I could say that she gave
a proper good-bye, that she made me promise to watch out
for him, that she said she loved him and her mom, that she
saw her dad waiting for her on the other side with open
arms and a welcoming smile.
I wish it had been like that. Almost as much as I wish
it had been over instantly, so she wouldn’t have been so
scared. I wish that any part of it could have been peaceful
or quiet or brave. Anything but the painful, frantic mess we
became in the dirt, all breath and blood and fear.
“She kept saying she was sorry. She . . . she said it hurt.”
My voice breaks. I can’t continue.
Trev covers his mouth with his hands. He’s shaking, and
I hate that I agreed to this. He can’t handle it. He shouldn’t
have to.
This is mine to bear.
It would be so
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