Free The Way Back to Happiness by Elizabeth Bass Page B

delivered and change into their pajamas, and half the time Alabama would be stuffed and asleep on the couch by the end. She’d been eleven before she’d seen for herself that the von Trapps made it to Switzerland.
    But Gladdie didn’t know what was in the Walkman, and her gaze darted suspiciously at the device, even as Alabama explained, “I’m leaving you my antisocial doodah,” which was what Gladdie had dubbed it. She placed the metal headband over Gladdie’s permanent wave, attached the orange foam headphones to her ears, and turned it on.
    In a few seconds, Gladdie’s eyes widened and she said too loudly, “Now I see what these contraptions are good for!”
    Alabama smiled. Then she put the rest of her cassettes and a bag of orange slices on Gladdie’s side table, bent down, and kissed her good-bye.
     
    For weeks Alabama had been numb, but during that first drive from Dallas to New Sparta, she was practically having an out-of-body experience. Her head kept going all Shirley MacLaine-y, imagining she was floating outside the car, watching herself slumped in the shotgun seat, wishing herself anywhere else.
    All that time at Gladdie’s, a part of her had felt as if what was happening was a bad dream. That at any moment her mom would waltz through the door. Okay, she knew that wouldn’t actually happen. She’d seen her mother in the funeral home, endured the funeral, and had been at the graveside. But the true finality of it hadn’t really sunk in until now, when she was yet another step removed from her mom. She’d never see her again. Never meant forever.
    Aunt Bev didn’t seem to notice that her passenger was astral projecting. She was all positive thoughts and big plans—voiced in that grating first-day-of-kindergarten tone she had.
    “You’ll have plenty of time to get settled and registered for school before it starts.” Alabama’s lack of enthusiasm didn’t have any visible effect on her aunt’s sidewise smile. “What are your favorite subjects?”
    Alabama shrugged.
    “Come on now, everybody has a favorite subject. I bet you’re smart enough to make honor roll.” She cast a few expectant glances her way, but Alabama didn’t give her any satisfaction. “Or are you the athletic type?”
    Alabama was the opposite of athletic—she was a PE hypochondriac. Any ploy to get her to the bleachers would do. When the cramps excuse had worn thin, she’d moved on to headaches, stomachaches, back spasms, and shooting pains in her legs. She’d perfected a wincing limp that had fooled more than one gym teacher.
    “Don’t like sports, either?” Poor Aunt Bev. She was performing a monologue. “Do you sing? I direct the school choir.”
    Alabama’s mouth twitched into a smirk.
    But then she remembered her mom, who said she’d always wanted to be a dancer. Diana had taken classes in school, and she’d taught Alabama a few steps. She’d even sent Alabama to a tap class one summer—a big splurge. Her mom always said Alabama was more graceful than she looked. At the time, the comment had bumped Alabama’s bs meter off the charts, since looking graceful seemed sort of the whole point of being graceful. Now she embraced the possibility that she was more than she seemed. More like her mom . . . or at least what her mom dreamed of being.
    “I want to be a dancer,” she announced, trying out the sound of it.
    Bev did a double take, doubt all over her face. “Really.”
    Alabama eyed her steadily, daring her to voice her skepticism.
    “I mean . . . that’s fine, of course. So healthy! But it reminds me of . . .”
    Alabama narrowed her eyes.
    Bev swallowed. “That’s terrific.”
    Mom still makes her uncomfortable. From guilt, obviously. Whatever Bev did that had caused Diana to flee her home was still eating at her conscience.
    It was a good thing New Sparta was only an hour’s drive from Dallas, because it looked like the kind of place you’d want a quick escape route from. Bev pointed