I never want to remember that day. May first, two thousand ten. I can still picture Haley, pretty as a picture, screaming so loudly my family could hear her in the kitchen as we pulled out of their driveway. I remember it so clearly. The tears spilling down her cheeks, tinted peach from the foundation we had worked so hard to apply, so it would hide the hollowness of her cheeks, still recovering from anorexia.


It was just a pair of shoes. They were gorgeous gold metallic ballet flats, to match the gold sequined bat mitzvah dress that had hung in Haley's closet for months, waiting to be worn. Those shoes were supposed to complete the outfit Haley was supposed to wear for her Cinderella moment. And they were missing. Upsetting, sure, but not worthy of a tantrum. Not unless you were going through anorexia and the depression that comes with it.

Nobody knew what to do. Not Haley, nor her mother, my family, and especially not my friend Dan or his dad, who both knew my cousins and had been invited to the event. He hadn't even known that Haley was sick until the day before. Everyone just stood there as Haley screamed profanities and her mother tried to calm her. I reached for Dan's hand, and he squeezed it comfortingly. My mother looked at my father, who shrugged. My sister just looked terrified.

I never want to remember that day. I don't want to hear the screams as we all left the house hoping for the best. I don't want to remember how as we turned onto the street, I looked back at the house and had to bury my head in Dan's shoulder so I wouldn't cry. I never want to remember that day. But I guess I don't have a choice, do I?