Nocturnal (17 page)

I think about what she's asking. It's not just if I want to spend time with her. It's if I'm willing to spend all my time with her. If I want to give up what little normalcy I have left. Which is really the opposite of what we've been talking about all along. Dad's ahead of us and I can feel his disapproval. That's all it takes for me to say, “I'd love to.”

“I knew you'd say that. We'll talk about it when we get back,” she says, glancing ahead at Dad. She speeds up to walk with him, doing that thing parents do when they have a silent fight so the kids don't see. It's clear who the winner is when she kisses him on the cheek and he turns to smile at her. I speed up and go around them. I can't stand looking at him.

But I look back at her, almost stumbling. Dad helps her over a root, making sure she doesn't trip. The image hits me, making me almost fall over. They look so happy. So free. It's a Kodak moment of the purest kind. I wish I could be like that. The closer I get to losing her, the less free I become. Her laughter calls to me. I turn instead and try to swallow the tears that climb up in my throat. 

We stop at noon, a little ways from the top of the mountain. My legs are already tired, and I'm sporting quite a few bug bites, despite the spray I used. 

“You've got sweet blood,” my mother says, handing me the spray again. I want to laugh, but it makes me think of Peter. Yuck. I scratch at one of the bites and try not to look at the red that smears on my skin. I plug my earbuds back in, cranking up the Linkin' Park. 

Somehow we make it to the top. Mom scrambles up the last bit as graceful as a mountain goat. Dad's right behind her, hands held out toward her in case she slips. I stumble along, bringing up the rear. 

We're alone at the top. It's strange with just the three of us. The trees grow scraggly needles on only one side, owing to the wind that constantly blows. They look like half-trees. There is almost nothing else up here, save a few blueberry bushes and some hardy grass. And lots of rocks. It's still beautiful. It almost takes my breath away. The air is thin, and I have to work harder to get my breath back after the final climb.

“We made it,” she says, still panting from the last push to get to the top. The word top is confusing when applied to mountains, because they aren't flat. When I was younger, I used to climb to the highest point I could find. That was the top, I thought. I look around and find a boulder, about the size of a couple of cars stacked up. It's the highest place I can see, so I pull myself to the top, adding more scratches, and banging my knee. It's totally worth it, though.  I shut my eyes and pretend I'm flying, the wind streaming through my hair.

I think of Peter.

Dad gets obsessed with watching a hawk, hogging the binoculars while we eat lunch. I still want to hit him, but it's hard to hate him when he hands Mom his Cracker Jack prize.

It's too chilly to stay on the top long in the open air. With protesting legs, we tromp our way back down just as it gets dark.

Dinner is hot dogs again, and I fall asleep in my chair before s'mores. No further messages from Peter. Twenty texts from Tex.

It rains the next day while we pack up, so everything's wet and I'm miserable. Mom flutters around, making sure everything that we took out of the car fits back into it. She keeps shoving Dad and me out of the way, saying we're packing wrong. There's a little kerfuffle when Dad puts the tent in the wrong way, apparently, and she orders us to stand in the rain while she repacks everything.

At this point, I'm ready to go. 

The trunk of the car barely closes, but after Dad jumps up and down on it, success! I'm grubby and tired and I missed my nights win the cemetery. Also Peter. I'll be happy to get home, selfish as it is. Mom is the last one in the car when we leave. She sighs as we pull out, smiling at me in the mirror. I slump over in my seat and fall asleep. 

The car windows fog up from all the moisture and all I want is to take a shower and go to bed. Mom keeps meeting my eyes in the mirror, and I have to keep looking away.

I don't want to go see Peter that night, but I've got to stop lying to myself.

Walk Softly and Carry a Big Stick

“You survived!” Tex throws herself at me, as if I'd just barely made it back alive from the big bad woods. I wished I'd been allowed to skip, seeing as how I hadn't done any of my homework, including studying for the geometry pop quiz, which means another bad grade I don't really need.

“Yeah. Imagine that,” I say against her shoulder.

“God, did you take a shower? You smell all...” She waves her hands in the air, groping for a word.

“Woodsy?” I say, with more than a pinch of sarcasm. “It's this new perfume I'm working on. The bottle is shaped like an axe. I'm thinking of calling it 'Lumberlust.' What do you think?”

She sniffs me again and pulls back.

“I think I'll stick with the Clinique.” I stick my tongue out at her and she honks my nose. 

“I thought I was going to get a phone call to come get you. I can't believe they forced you into that.” She leans against my locker as I slowly pack my bag for the day, trying to forget about the reading and assignments I also didn't do.

“They didn't force me. It was nice.” And back to the lies. I change the subject. “Did you go to the O'Hurley party?”

“Nah, it wouldn't have been the same without you. It got busted anyway. Four arrests.” She wiggles four fingers.

“Surprise, surprise.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Anyway, there's a Grayson party this weekend,” she says in a singsong voice, eyes gleaming. Chuck Grayson is a bit like the Ferris Beuler of Maine. Only less cute, and wearing Carharts and holding a beer. His parties were pretty legendary, which wasn't saying much. Still, everyone wanted to go to them. Or so I'd heard. 

“Sooo?” I draw out the word.

“And we have to go. It's going to be awesome. The theme is White Trash.” Chuck's also big on themes. He planned them out months in advance, keeping up with the current trends. It was a wonder he wasn't gay, with all the party planning he did. 

“Classy.”

“Oh come on, it's going to be fun. I have the best outfit.”

“A white t-shirt with a red bra and ripped Daisy Dukes?”

“How did you... You're totally missing the point.” She's frustrated with my lack of enthusiasm. “You have to come. Jamie's going.” Only because he was driving the drunk van.

“I don't know.” I reeealllllyyy don't want to go.

“Come on, you have to come.” The whine seeps into her voice, making my ears burn. She's worse than a two-year-old. 

“I'll think about it.” Of course she knows I'm going to cave. I should tattoo doormat on my forehead in swirly lettering. With a butterfly perched on the d.

“Then I have a whole week to convince you how awesome it's going to be.” She isn't deterred. Tex never said die when it came to a party.

“I'll think about it,” I say again. Maybe a drunken party would be a nice change from all the other crap I've been dealing with. Or it could be a huge mistake. It can really only go one of two ways. 

“Hey, are you okay?” I drop my Ava's-fine face just for a second when I think she's not looking. Long enough for her to notice. Damn.

“What?” She's looking at me like I've just told her my grandmother died. All concerned-like. It immediately rings my alarm bells. Here we go.

“Are you okay?” She says it slow, like I'm hard of hearing.

“Yeah, fine.” Even to me my voice sounds flat and fake. She breathes out her nose and puts on her serious face.

“So here's how this is going to go. I'm going to suggest things and you can say yes or no? Okie dokie? Does this have to do with school?” She's pissed now, and I risk poking the dragon in the eye if I don't answer. She's never going to guess, that I'm hanging out with a noctalis in a cemetery and my mother is dying of cancer. There's just no way.

“No.”

“You haven't realized you're into girls?”

“Uh, no. I think you'd know,” I snap. She holds up her hands in a peacemaking gesture.

“Hey, I'm just covering my bases. Is it a guy?” Crap. Part of it is.

“Um...” I don't know what to say. Tex leaps out of her chair, pointing her finger in my face as if I've admitted to committing a crime.

“Aha! You hesitated. That's all I need to know. Now we're getting somewhere.”

“Tex, it isn't–” She jams her hand over my mouth. I nip her palm.

“Ow! I just want some details.” I sigh. As much as I don't want to tell her, for a lot of reasons, I need to talk to someone. A best-friend type someone.

“His name's Peter and he's...” What is he? “He's different.”

“And? That's it? Age, sex, location?”

“He's like 18, I think. He's a guy, obviously, and he's from New York.” All mostly true.

“How's the bod?” Including the wings?

“Good.” My face goes all shades of red thinking about something like that. Like I was objectifying him. Which is ridiculous.

“How good?” The bell drills, making everyone else in the room get to their feet and shuffle back for their afternoon classes. 

“I don't know. Can you just lay off?” For a second, I think she's going to protest, but then she caves.

“Okay, fine. Keep your boy-toy a secret. I'll find out.” Nothing daunts her. 

I don't end up failing the math quiz, but pass with a 69. Wahoo. I'm reprimanded for my missing homework until the words are going in one ear and flowing out the other. I nod and promise to do better. I don't bother to make excuses. They're useless anyway.

Jamie's absent, which isn't like him. I text him, asking where he is, but don't get anything back. I have a feeling it has to do with Cassie. I really need to have a chat with him about that, but I've been so busy with my own stuff. It's horribly selfish, and I feel more horrible about it as the day goes on so I call him after school, but he doesn't pick up. I leave a message, telling him I missed him today and want to know if he needs anything. That's the best I can do.

***

My mother is folding laundry when I get home. She must have bribed Dad to let her do it, because neither of us has been letting her lift a finger. Other than packing the car after the camping trip.

“Ava-Claire, time to learn how to fold a fitted sheet!” she calls from the laundry room. I roll my eyes to no one in particular and go on back. This is one of those things that seems easy when someone else does it. I have to compose myself for a second, or else I'll say things I don't mean. Like that folding a fitted sheet is stupid, and I don't want to learn how to do it, because I always want her to be there to do it for me. I bite back the ugly feelings that tug at my mind and paste on my winning smile.

She's got her wig on again, the one that reminds me of Marilyn Monroe. It doesn't really work with her coloring and eyes, but I'd never tell her that. 

“Okay, so first you want to find your corners,” she says, holding the sheet up so I can watch. They're still warm from the dryer and smell like fabric softener. I can't help but laugh as I get my arms all twisted up. Somehow, being with her and the warm sheets loosens a little bit of the knot inside me. 

“So,” she says as I help her fold the rest of the laundry, “what's new with you?” We both know who him is.

“Nothing.” I roll my eyes.

“Come on, I need some gossip. How are Tex and Jamie?”

“Complicated.” I toss a pair of socks into the basket. 

“All relationships are complicated.” 

“They're just... I don't know. I want to talk to them... but I'm scared.”

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”

“Roosevelt? Really?” She leans against a pile of towels. “I really don't think that's relevant in this situation.”

“Roosevelt is always relevant.” Her wig slides to the side, making her look lopsided. 

“Walk softly and carry a big stick,” I say. 

“Don't alienate your friends, baby. You're going to be glad you have them.” As always, she leaves the rest off. The part about how I'm going to need friends to put me back together after I break.

Unlike Dad, she accepts that grief will consume us. I picture it like a fire, spreading through me. I'm so afraid it's going to destroy me. That there will be nothing left to salvage. I don't know if Tex or Jamie are going to be able to get me back together after that. Could anyone?

Dad helps me make lasagna for dinner while my mother makes a salad. The camping trip didn't thaw our relationship much, so we're still tiptoeing around one another. Sooner or later, one of us is going to talk to the other, but I'm not going to be the first one.

“How was school?” It's like he doesn't know how to start, so he goes with something lame. Like Mom wrote him a list and he's reading from it. For all I know, she did.

“Fine,” I lie. I'm getting real good at it.

“Learn anything interesting?” 

“The one millionth digit of pi is one.” I bump into him as I reach for a spoon to stir the ricotta cheese, egg and spinach mixture.

“Really?” He looks up at me, surprised. 

“Yeah.”

“How's it coming?” My mother leans around the doorway. As always, she's not talking about the lasagna. 

“We're almost ready to assemble,” Dad says, brandishing the sauce spoon.

“Need any help?” She grabs him around the middle. 

“No, I think we're good,” I say. The laundry was enough for one day.

“I've got a really bad ice cream craving. I'm going to run down to the store and grab some neopolitan. Do you need anything else?”

“Are you sure?” Dad and I say at the same time. She laughs at us.

“Yeah, I'll be right back.”

The door shuts behind her and it's the first time I've been alone with Dad since our little altercation.

“Ava, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. For what I said and the way I said it.”

“It's okay.” Of course it isn't, but these are the things I have to say to keep peace in the house. 

“Good.” And that's it. That makes it all better, as far as he's concerned. We have a little more conversation before she gets back. We're even laughing, thinking about an old Seinfeld episode, but I haven't forgotten that moment when he wouldn't let me see her. And the look on his face. Something tells me I'm going to see it again.