Free Our Song by Jordanna Fraiberg Page B

sweatshirt over baggy faded jeans. As I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror on the back of the door, I realized we looked almost identical. It wasn’t just our clothes or the style of our hair. It was the slump of our shoulders, the low hang of our heads, the blank expressions on our faces.
    “There are some very good options in here,” she said, reviewing the resource list on the back page.
    “Can you let me be the one to pick?” If there were no choice about getting “help,” getting to choose would at least make the whole thing a slightly easier pill to swallow.
    The kitchen timer went off. The sweet smell of warm chocolate wafted into the room, announcing that her cake was done. My mom was normally so precise about these things, but she didn’t budge as the buzzer continued to fill the silence.
    “Fine,” my mother finally relented, handing me the brochure.“But if I don’t see any improvement, I’m getting involved, no questions asked.” She lifted a piece of the torn canopy with her free hand and turned to face me. “You loved this bed.”
    • • •
    A few nights later, Annie drove me to my first meeting.
    “Are you sure this is it?” she asked, pulling up to an old, dilapidated building on Hollywood Boulevard.
    “Yup.” It matched the address I had written out on a yellow Post-it, which was now stuck to the dashboard.
    “I can’t believe your mom went for this,” she said, putting the Beetle into park. “What did you tell her?”
    “The truth: that it’s a support group.” After reviewing the orange brochure, there wasn’t anything I would willingly subject myself to. Every option was geared toward suicidal teens. Knowing my mom wasn’t going to back off until I went
somewhere
, I scoured the Internet until I landed upon a group for people who’d had near-death experiences. From what I could tell, it had two things going for it. First, it was in Los Angeles, miles away from anyone I knew. And second, even though it was for people who had died, it had nothing to do with suicide.
    Annie gave me her raised eyebrow look.
    “Well it
is
,” I insisted, even though I wasn’t sure what kind of support the group actually provided. And now, taking in the seedy neighborhood, with motels offering rooms by the hour and liquor stores on every corner, I was beginning to regret my choice. “I thought Hollywood was supposed to be glamorous, with movie stars and stuff.”
    Even though L.A. was only thirty miles away, it may as wellhave been three hundred. I hadn’t been into the city since I was little, when we used to come see shows like
The Lion King
. But I never saw much more than the inside of a theater. Vista Valley was my whole world, and I didn’t have any reason to leave. Until now.
    “You’re such a tourist,” Annie said, rolling her eyes. “You’re thinking of the fake Hollywood, fabricated on studio lots in the valley, on the other side of those hills.” She gestured toward the hilltop beyond the community center.
    “So, you’re saying this is the
real
Hollywood?”
    “Yup, where dreams are shattered.”
    “How uplifting. Well then, I guess it’s a fitting location for a group of people who’ve risen from the dead.” The fake Hollywood that came nicely packaged through my television was suddenly sounding very good to me. “How about we say I went and go get something to eat instead? You can give me a tour of your old haunts. My mom’ll never know the difference.”
    “But you’ll know the difference,” she said. “I’ll admit, it’s a bit odd, but who knows? This group might just be the perfect thing for you. I mean it’s not everyone you meet who’s died and lived to tell the tale.”
    “Well then maybe you should go, so you can hear all their exciting stories,” I said, fiddling with the gold heart around my neck. It had been such a part of who I was for so long, of who I wanted to be, that I forgot I was still wearing it.
    “Come on, Ol,” Annie