The Girl in the Translucent Dress

By Annie Callahan and Bebe Butler

Thirteen of us, BFFs, hanging out at the mall on Saturdays, having sleepovers on

weekends, sharing histories, working through our diversities, our problems with

our moms, boys, zits and being fat, we think we have it all together. Until our

losses begin to stack up in the form of our close friends death, problems with our

diversities that threaten to split us up, parents losing their jobs in the deepening

recession, some of us losing our homes, some of us losing our way; and on top of

that, the mall, our favorite hangout on the planet closing its doors... not until then

do we almost lose ourselves.

Then suddenly, out of nowhere, our lives begin to change. Mostly because of the

mysterious woman who shows up toward the end of our eighth grade year, and the

way she completely shakes up our lives, transforming us forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477217085

Annie Callahan

Annie Callahan has been a middle and high school teacher of English/Drama and Music for twenty-five years, and is a winner of Walt Disney’s Teacherrific Award for exemplary teaching. She is a film/stage actor, writer, musician, but her greatest passion is being the mother of five and Nana of nine. Having traveled a spiritual path for many years, she now facilitates journaling workshops for ‘tween and teen girls and is a Certified Trainer of Mike Dooley’s Infinite Possibilities. She, her husband and their adorable Sophie-Dog divide their time between Orlando, FL and the Western North Carolina mountains.

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© 2012 Annie Callahan. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/18/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-1708-5 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-1710-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-1709-2 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012910317

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

WITH GRATITUDE

PROLOGUE

KERI

SOPHIE, LIS AND AMALIE

MAGGIE

ASHA AND EINAV

MAGGIE AND PARIK

SOPHIE

SOPHIE’S SECRET

MEI-LI

CAROLINE AND NIKA

IZZY AND MAGGIE

EINAV AND ASHA

IZZY

SPRING BREAK

NIKA AND CAROLINE

THE MOMS

NIKA

MOURNING NIKA

DR. WHY

DR. WHY’S WAY

THE MELTDOWN

NOW WHAT?

TURNING POINT

THE POSTERS

OH, CAROLINE!

NOT THE MALL!

THE VISIT

THE SUBSTITUTE

WEIRDNESS

EXAM DAY

HARD TIMES

THE ACCUSATIONS

THE HEARING

SUMMER

THE MIRACLE

GREAT-GRANDMA O’NEIL’S GLORY HOUR

THE ALLEGATIONS

HARDER TIMES

THE NEW PURPLE SPIRAL

THE NIGHT VISITOR

THE STRANGER

GOING INSIDE

SAYING GOODBYE

THE SURPRISE

THE ROAD TRIP

MORNING AT BABA’S

RELEASING

ENYA

LIKE A DREAM

The thing always happens that you really believe in; and the belief in a thing makes it happen.

Frank Lloyd Wright, Architect

The characters

in this book are

fictional, as are

events and

circumstances.

Any similarities are

coincidental.

The Author

DEDICATED TO

MIDDLE-SCHOOL GIRLS EVERYWHERE

(especially the lunch bunch who inspired it)

With Gratitude

To Stephen, for being my loyal Peaceful Warrior, and by doing so, keeping Gee-Pop ever-present,

To Gray, for being my mirror and greatest teacher on this journey,

To Allen, for the inspiration of his profound faith in God and his unconditional love,

To Bebe, for finding the courage to choose her path toward spiritual perfection along the road less traveled,

To Blake, who has saved me from myself with her old soul wisdom and wit, and for her presence throughout my life,

To Madeline, Alex, Stephen, Reed, Greenleigh, Natalie, Jackson, Bryce and Emma, who, as the miracles they are, fill me with more joy and wonder than rich chocolate and indigo birthdays!

And last, but certainly not least…

To Rod, who proved to me that fairytale endings do exist, and without whom this book would still be scribbled on napkins and small pieces of paper throughout the house.

Prologue

We’ve all changed a lot in the past three years. We’re sophomores now. Some of us are driving, some of us are still waiting for our birthdays to roll around so we can, and a few of us even have our own cars. The best news of all, I guess, is that after fighting one riptide after another for the last three years, the water’s finally calm, we’ve washed back up on the shore, sand scrapes and all, and we’re much stronger than we ever thought we could be. Mostly because of the mysterious woman who showed up toward the end of our eighth grade year and the way she changed things up… but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Big rewind…

1

KERI

In the beginning, we all enrolled in the brand-new pre-IB magnet school for the arts and communication near where we lived in Central Florida. We met the summer before it opened at a four-week orientation that felt more like summer camp than school, and that’s where our friendships began. It was a huge complex adjacent to the high school where we go now, and that we ever found each other in the first place is the second biggest miracle in the history of us.

The first biggest comes much later.

When we started middle school, we were scattered from one end of the county to the other and bused in from Orlando and Winter Park and towns north of Lake De Leon. Because we were spread so everywhere, we’d get together for sleepovers practically every other weekend, and we’d always meet at the local mall on Saturdays and shop or go to a movie at Cinema 21.

The automatic doors at the mall entrance must have triggered an alarm in Mall Security at precisely one o’clock each Saturday; because as soon as we’d pile through the doors, uniformed officers were on us like Ketchup on fries. You couldn’t blame them, I suppose. Thirteen giggling girls making more noise than cheerleaders at a pep rally, and bouncing from store to store like ions in a storm would trigger a surge of adrenaline in any normal adult. Put simply, we made our entrances.

As I told you before, we’ve known each other for what seems like forever. Though we’re as different as sugar and pickles, we’ve managed to stick together through it all. We’ve had enough mall adventures and sleepovers to share our complete and combined histories. We’ve worked through some really serious stuff: like our diversities, our losses, and our issues with our parents, our problems with boys, and our problems with zits and being fat. And let’s not forget all the tears over who gossiped about whom, who made the cheerleading squad, or who got the lead in the school play and made the rest of us jealous.

I don’t think we could ever be called a clique, because don’t cliques have to be a whole lot smaller? Besides, it’s hard to be a clique when administration keeps splitting you up and putting you on different teams at school each year. You don’t have the same teachers or lunch schedules, and sometimes you’re not even on the same hall. It’s all about the dreaded alphabetical list and how many of you land where on it. That’s another reason we always met at the mall on Saturdays.

Anyway, we pretty much spent our first year at Charles A. Lansing Middle School in the eighth grade restroom with our friend, Keri, whose life was always in a state of high drama. At first, she’d tried going to the school counselors with her problems, but I think she lost patience with their got lemons, make lemonade routine and the dreaded bloom where you’re planted advice. She wasn’t exactly feeling like blossoming, though she was, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it but wear big shirts or walk down the halls with her shoulders slumped to hide the things.

Keri had grown up in a small town in the mountains of Western North Carolina, where everyone she was related to in any way lived within ten miles of her doorstep, especially her cousins, who’d been her best friends since birth and practically lived at her grandmother’s house. Her great-grandfather was still hauling stuff around his farm in a horse-drawn wagon, so it was like living in two different centuries at the same time.

Keri had stories of the big house that could fill a ca-zillion journals and a Twilight Zone episode or two. It was a two-story turn-of-the-century (not this one, the last one) wood frame house with twelve rooms and a sleeping porch, each room with its own haunting tale for sharing and scaring at sleepovers. Of course, it was hard to take her scary stuff seriously when she’d tell it in her Southern mountain voice, where everything with an igh in it (like night and light) rhymed with pie with a t at the end and no ah ee in the middle.

Once she told us a story her grandmother, Baba, had told her about her great-great-grandmother, Mama Ruth, who’d died years earlier. Baba was a little girl when it happened. She’d known her grandmother, Mama Ruth, was sick, but she wasn’t expecting her to die. And when she did die, Baba didn’t know what to do. Only the grown-ups got to watch the big black hearse pull up to the big house and then leave with her grandma in it.

The next day, they’d brought her back in a casket all dressed up, and they’d put the casket in the front living room with sprays of flowers all around it and placed chairs in the adjacent living room for the people who’d come to comfort the family.

That night, Baba was lying in her bedroom upstairs when she suddenly realized her room was exactly above the living room where her grandmother lay. Dead… and all dressed up. So there was really no reason for her not to get right out of that casket and steal upstairs to kiss Baba good night like she always had. As if the thought of it wasn’t bad enough, Baba dreamed that her grandmother had done exactly that. She’d actually slipped silently up the long stairs, into her bedroom, over to her bed and smoothed Baba’s hair before bending down to kiss her softly and tell her good-bye.

The following morning, when the family had gathered for breakfast, everyone had eaten in silence. Baba had finally mustered the courage to tell the others about her dream. It must not have been a dream, though, because when she had finished telling her story, she’d noticed every face at the table had blanched. Every pair of eyes was starring at Baba in disbelief. Everyone seemed stunned. As if a miracle had just happened, every family member at that table confessed he’d had his own visit, confessed she’d had her own good-bye kiss from Mama Ruth.

But again, I’ve gotten ahead of myself. Back to Keri.

Twelve rooms, two aunts, one parent, two grand and great-grand parents, a dog, and herself later, Keri could still find places to get away from it all when she needed to. Those places were Baba’s favorite places, too; places where she did most of her writing. The big wrap-around porch had all kinds of corners to hide in, all kinds of chairs for snuggling up. Even though the big house was filled to the brim with people she loved, it was never crowded. And she was happy. Keri was always happy.

Until… one very early mid-summer morning, Keri’s mother had tiptoed into her room while the house was dead quiet and the rest were still sleeping, and awakened her.

Come with me, sweetheart, her mother had whispered. I have a little surprise for you.

Keri had struggled to open her eyes and then somehow managed to grab her toothbrush and throw on a T-shirt and shorts before following her mother through the side door and down the front sidewalk to where the car was parked. Mindlessly, she had gotten in, popped the seat back as far as it would go against the floor and scrunched herself into a ball to