Magnolia (6 page)

“Yes,” I say, nodding furiously. “That's
exactly
what I'm going to do. How clever of you to figure it out.”

I can feel Ryder's eyes boring a hole in my back as I flounce down the stairs and hurry down the drive with as much dignity as I can muster.

I
close my locker and lean against it, waiting for Lucy and Morgan to catch up. Seventh period just ended—a class I share with Ryder, unfortunately—and I've got cheerleading practice in fifteen minutes. I don't know why, but I'm not in the mood. The gym is hot. Loud. I'm fighting a headache, probably because I didn't get much sleep last night.

“Hey, Jem.”

I look up to see Patrick headed my way, a lopsided grin on his face. Great. Just what I need right now. My mind flashes back to Saturday night, to Patrick pressing me up against a tree, kissing me softly.

“What's up?” I ask him.

“Same old.” He leans against the locker beside mine. “Hey, I was wondering if you want to go out Friday night after the
game. Maybe get a pizza or something.”

“You mean . . . just the two of us?” I ask dumbly.

“Yeah. I mean, I was thinking . . . Saturday was nice. You know?”

My mind is racing, casting about for an excuse. But then I see Ryder out of the corner of my eye, at his own locker. I remember the way he chided me about blowing off Patrick, as if I'm some kind of tease—which I'm not. Besides, Patrick's right—kissing him
was
unexpectedly nice.

“Sure,” I say. “Why not?”

“Cool,” he says, affecting total nonchalance. “Well, I've got to get to practice. Later, okay?”

I just nod, shocked to realize that I've just agreed to go on a date with Patrick. What am I going to tell my parents? With his driving record, there's no way in hell they'll let me go anywhere with him behind the wheel. I guess I'll just have to meet him wherever we decide to go. Actually, that's not such a bad idea. It'll somehow make it seem less like an official date and more like two friends hanging out.

I watch him walk off, a swagger in his step now. Or maybe it was always there. Who knows? Either way, I'm about to be late to practice. Luckily, Lucy and Morgan finally show, passing Patrick as he rounds the corner.

“Hey, you ready to head over to the gym?” Morgan asks.

“Ready as ever,” I say glumly, leaning against my locker.

“Uh-oh. Why that face?” Lucy glances back over her shoulder. “Did Patrick say something to you?”

I take a deep breath before answering. “He asked me out. I said yes.”

“You
what
?” Morgan shrieks.

“I know, right?” I push off the locker. “I don't know. I just figure . . . after Saturday night, I kind of owe it to him.”

Lucy shakes her head. “You don't owe that boy anything.”

Morgan nods. “Besides, your mama will have a hissy fit. I mean, two DUIs? If it weren't for his daddy—”

“I know. But still . . .”

“But still what?” Lucy asks. “Okay, so you kissed him. No big deal—we all make mistakes. But you can't actually go out with him.”

“Why not?” I shoot back. “He's not that bad, once you get him alone.”

“You hear yourself? Not that bad?” Morgan shakes her head. “You've got to set your standards higher than that.”

“Yeah, just wait till next year. College boys!” Lucy waggles her brows. “Why bother with the slim pickings we've got here? Not worth the trouble, if you ask me.”

Morgan shrugs. “Well, what about prom?”

Lucy is undeterred. “Prom is eight months away! Anyway—”

“Yo, Morgan!”

All three of us turn toward her brother, Mason, who stands half a hall length away.

“I'm cutting out of practice early and taking the car,” he calls out. “Can you get a ride home?”

She waves one hand in his direction. “Sure. Whatever.”

“Thanks. Hey, good work, Jemma! I heard you and Patrick are going out on Friday.”

What the heck? I'd said yes only about three minutes ago. Talk about news traveling fast.

“Let's see . . . Patrick tells Mason. Mason tells Ryder. Ryder tells Ben.” Lucy ticks it off on her fingers. “Before you know it—”

“Yeah, thanks, Luce. I get it. The whole world knows by sunset. Great.”

“Hey, you're the one who agreed to go out with him,” Lucy answers with a shrug. “You know how it is—small town, small school. When Jemma Cafferty goes on a date, it's going to be news. Seriously, when's the last time you actually went out with someone—when it wasn't a group thing, I mean? Tenth grade?”

I just shrug. She's right, of course. Drew Thompson, sophomore year. It lasted all of two months before kind of fizzling out. Since then, it's just been me and my friends hanging out with the usual guys, without any hint of pairing up.

Lucy reaches for my hand. “Anyway, we really
are
going to be late. C'mon, let's go.”

*  *  *

Practice is exhausting, just as I imagined it would be. Somehow, I manage to slip during a stunt and whack the side of my head on the mat, which doesn't help any. When I finally make it home, my head is aching and I'm feeling a little queasy. Lucy tried to get me to stop at her mom's office on the way home so she could check me for a concussion, but I'd been in such a rush that I'd refused. Now I'm wondering if maybe I should have listened to her.

When I pull up and park my little Fiat at a quarter to five, I'm surprised to see my mom's car in the driveway. The library doesn't close for fifteen more minutes, and Mama's like clockwork, always arriving home at 5:25 on the dot. I mean, it's not like we've got traffic in Magnolia Branch. So yeah, the sight of her car makes me slightly uneasy. Something's up.

As soon as I step inside the house, I hear voices coming from the kitchen. I drop my bag and hurry down the hall, pausing in the kitchen doorway. Mama's on the phone, leaning against the counter, her eyes red and swollen. Daddy sits at the table across from her, raking a hand through his hair.

“What's going on?” I whisper to him.

“Shh,” he says, waving me off.

“A cholesterol granuloma,” Mama tells Daddy, enunciating carefully. “Write that down, Brad. Wait. What did you say, Nan? The petrous apex.” She motions toward my dad again. “Write that down too.”

“Can you spell it?” he asks her.

She does. And then, “Honey, I want you home. I don't care, this is way more important than school right now. We need to get a second opinion, do some research. And you . . . you need to take it easy. Get some rest.”

“Let me talk to her,” Daddy says, reaching for the phone. Mama hands it to him. “Nan, honey, we'd all feel better right now if you were here, not four hours away. I can get someone to cover my classes this week and—yes, I know. Are you sure? Wait. What, honey? Slow down.”

Even across the room, I can hear Nan's raised voice coming through the phone as Daddy listens, his brow furrowed.

“Fine,” he says with a sigh. “What time's your game? Okay, then we'll expect you by dinner on Saturday. Here. Mama wants to say good-bye.”

He returns the phone to my mom.

“What's going on?” I repeat, my heart thumping noisily against my ribs. “Daddy?”

He swallows hard. “Just give me a minute, okay, half-pint?” His voice is thick, and I swear I see tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “Why don't you go on upstairs and wash up? Let me talk to your mom, and then I'll be right up.”

My pulse skyrocketing, I do as he asks. My head is still pounding and my mouth is dry—too dry—as I make my way upstairs to my room. I head straight to the bathroom I share
with Nan and fill a paper cup with water from the tap, gulping it down noisily. The face staring back at me in the mirror is pale, pinched with worry.

I don't understand what they were saying—a cholesterol something and other equally unfamiliar words. They mean nothing to me. A cold knot of fear lodges in the pit of my stomach. It's obvious that something is wrong with Nan—something bad, judging by the looks on their faces. How long are they going to leave me up here alone, wondering? Worrying?

I shuffle back to my room, not quite sure what to do with myself. There's no point in starting my homework—I'm way too distracted. But I've got to do something while I wait for Daddy, or I'll go crazy. I grab my laptop and settle myself on my bed, opening up my editing software. I have to force myself to focus—to think about my film school application instead of my sister. It's the only way to stay sane right now.

I need to take a look at the footage I filmed over the summer—a mishmash of vacation, cheerleading camp, and random stuff—and see if there's anything I can use for my application project. Some sort of connecting theme, a narrative thread. Anything.

Originally, I'd thought about doing something on local history—kind of a Faulkneresque, “this is the real Yoknapatawpha County” kind of thing. But then I'd decided that that
seemed a little stuffy and academic, too documentary style and not artistic enough.

On the other hand, it might make me more memorable and identifiable to the admissions committee—as in, “that girl from north Mississippi.” Maybe it's not such a bad idea, after all.

But a quick glance through my video library reveals that I don't have enough relevant footage. I'll need to shoot more, several hours' worth, at different locations and times of day. I let out a sigh of frustration, realizing with a start that I'm chewing on a fingernail, a habit I kicked several years ago—or so I'd thought.

Distracted now, I cock my head and listen intently. I can just make out what sounds like muffled crying coming from downstairs. It's my mom, I realize, sobbing her heart out. My stomach lurches, and for a moment I think I'm going to be sick.

I reach a hand to my temple, trying unsuccessfully to massage away the throbbing pain. What's taking Daddy so long? And then I hear his footsteps, heavy and plodding on the stairs. I close my laptop and push it aside, making room for him beside me.

As soon as he steps into my room, I know that, whatever it is, it's bad. I can see it in the set of his jaw. He produces a Peach Nehi and holds it toward me. “Here. You look thirsty.”

“Just tell me,” I blurt out, taking the bottle and setting it on my nightstand. “Don't beat around the bush, okay?”

He nods. “Your sister has a benign brain tumor—a cholesterol granuloma, it's called. It's probably going to require surgery, because it's pressing on her carotid artery and on her auditory nerves. Apparently, it's already caused some hearing loss in her left ear.”

“Oh my God,” I say, my heart beating wildly in my chest. “Wait . . . When you say surgery, do you mean
brain
surgery?”

Daddy nods. “Cranial base surgery. The doctors there in Hattiesburg recommended a specialist in Houston.”

“But I don't understand. I mean, how? How did something like this happen?”

He shrugs. “That's all I know right now, Jemma. She's been having really bad migraines, remember? She went to see a neurologist, who sent her for a routine MRI last week. She just got the results today.” He takes a deep, rattling breath, his shoulders seeming to sag. “I'm going to call the neurosurgeon in Houston tomorrow and see what I can find out, maybe talk to a few doctors in Jackson, too. Nan's coming home on Saturday, and we'll go from there.”

My mouth is suddenly dry again—so dry I can barely swallow. Blindly, I reach for the Nehi and take a long draft. My hands are shaking so badly when I set it down that I almost knock it over. My dad reaches for the wobbly bottle just in time, steadying it.

“Is she going to be okay?” I ask him.

He puts an arm around me, drawing me closer. “Like I said, the tumor is benign. At least, they're pretty sure it is. Your sister is strong—she'll get through this. She'll be fine.”

I just nod, laying my head on his shoulder as I fight back the tears that have gathered in my eyes.

Why didn't she call me? Or text me? We've always been so close—or I thought we were. Why hadn't
I
called
her
? She's been back at school for more than a month now, and I haven't spoken to her once. Instead, I've been caught up in my own stupid problems—what song to set our pom-pom routine to, what to wear to the gala, should I or shouldn't I go out with Patrick now that I've kissed him. All meaningless things in the face of what Nan's been going through.

“It's going to be okay,” Daddy says comfortingly, giving my shoulder a squeeze.

But what if it's not?

Nan's the athlete in our family, the star soccer player. The sole tofu-eating vegetarian in our family of carnivores. She all but radiates good health and vigor, and it's pretty much impossible to imagine her sick enough to require surgery.