Twelve

Sam and Maddie were playing tennis.

That was the only time, really, when their paths crossed. And Sam was starting to hate tennis. Because every time she did, she saw Madelyn, and every time she saw Madelyn, she thought about that stupid, stupid email.

She hadn't deleted it.

But she wasn't checking her email anymore, either.

Because what if Elena wrote again? What if she'd said something else? What if she wanted Sam to definitely relay a message? What if she definitely didn't want her to say anything to her family? What if she said where she was? What if she said she was going to kill herself? What if she had been kidnapped? What if she wasn't okay?



All the reasons Sam used for not checking her email were equally valid in favor of checking. But, to be perfectly honest, she didn't want to know. She did not want to hear from Elena. Because that stupid, selfish girl was sucking all the love of tennis out of Sam.

"So," she said conversationally when they were done with their match, "how've you been, Mad?" Maddie looked a little bit like she was about to die. It had been a ridiculous match. And she had lost.

The question had been a mistake--when Maddie looked at her, Sam could have sworn that Maddie knew that she knew something. But the girl, just a tiny freshman, really, only said, "Okay, I guess." There was nothing in her tone that said her sister was missing.

But then again, from what Sam knew of her, you never could see any emotion in Elena, either--unless Elena wanted you to see it. She had always seemed to be perfect: she had the perfect life; she was perfectly happy.

Apparently she wasn't.

Being the well-mannered little thing that she was, Madelyn asked back, "How've you been?" She looked genuinely interested, genuinely concerned. Maybe she really did want to know. Maybe she was just that nice.

But then again, Elena had always seemed to be just that nice, too.

Sam used to be nice. She used to assume the best of everyone--or at least she tried to. Now she felt the cynicism draped over her like a blanket far too warm. It was disgusting. She was always covered with it. She barely stopped short of taking actual showers to get it off.

Elena was ruining everything.

Sam shrugged. "Yeah, I guess I'm okay, too." She took a deep drink of her water to hide her lie.

Maddie smiled an angelic smile. (Was it possible, Sam wondered, if she wasn't that good of an actress, and that it really didn't bother her? Was it possible that Maddie, too, knew that Elena was okay? Or was it possible that she just had such absolute faith in her sister's ability to survive? She couldn't just ask her.) "I'm glad," she said, with such honesty that Sam had to believe--her newfound cynic rebelled against the belief, but believe she nevertheless did.

It had been a long week. "Me too," she told Madelyn. They shared a fleeting smile.

Sam looked at the tennis courts, watched her teammates play with uninterested abandon. If only, she imagined, I could run out there and scream and cry and yell that Elena had emailed me. If only. If only Sam knew how to scream at all.

She wanted to try it. Just once. But she was too afraid that she would hate her own voice.