Sorry I'm Not Sorry by Nancy N. Rue

Author:Nancy N. Rue
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 2015-02-01T00:00:00+00:00

I was at the front door waiting for Lydia when she got there, and I barely let her get into her seat and pull out the tea thermos and the gnome mugs before I started talking. I told her about what happened at the movies and about the Instagram campaign and how I shredded my rules for the friends I no longer had and how I told Dad I wasn’t a princess anymore.

It was all coming out mangled and confused, but Lydia took it in so calmly, just like she always did. But when I got to the part about the production meeting and how I felt like an alien sitting there with all those people who didn’t just like one another—they loved one another—it was like something sprang up in her. She leaned so far out from her seat I thought she’d fall out and her eyes grabbed mine and held on.

“I want you to stop right there,” she said, “and I want you to just be with that feeling for a minute.”

No. It hurts.

“Stay with it, and tell me exactly what’s going on.”

It hurts!

“Try to tell me,” Lydia said.

I had to swallow twice before I could say, “I don’t belong. With the little girls I do, but I don’t belong with anybody else.”

“Name that feeling.”

It hurts!

“It’s bad. It’s like being alone, only there are all these people around.”

“It’s lonely. What else?”

“That’s all.”

Lydia waited.

It hurts!

“Okay, and it’s sad. I used to have friends like that, kind of, only not like they do.”

“Why didn’t you have it?”

“Because we weren’t that kind of friends, I guess.”

“Sounds disappointing.”

It hurts!

“Okay, it hurts, all right? It hurts and I can hardly stand it. It hurts!”

I let my hands swallow up my face. But after only a second or two, Lydia pulled them away. Her tiny fingers were warm but soft and dry.

“I know it hurts, and I’m sorry,” she said. “But you know what?”

“No.”

“I think you can make yourself a new card.”

A card? Now? Really?

Lydia nodded. I wasn’t surprised anymore when she knew what I was thinking. I might as well just say it.

“Will a card make me stop feeling like my life is sliced up?”

“Not at first. Did you ever have your tonsils out or anything?”

“When I was seven.” I fought off another wave of Missing Margaret. She was with me every minute of that whole tonsils thing, making me the best tea in the world and reading the entire Ramona Quimby series out loud at least three times and singing me to sleep with “White Coral Bells,” a song nobody else I knew had ever heard of. It wouldn’t have mattered. I wouldn’t let them sing it to me if they did. Only Margaret. She left just a few months after that.

“Did we strike a nerve?” Lydia said.

“Kind of.”

“After they cut out your tonsils—”

“Eww! Did you have to say it that way?”

“Actually I did, and here’s why. They had to take out that part of you because it was constantly getting infected and making you sick.

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