Perfect Glass (A Young Adult Novel (sequel to Glass Girl)) (2 page)

She closed her eyes. “I couldn’t stand him.”

She started toward a shed behind her house. I followed her, not sure if I’d been dismissed.

“You’re Whitmire’s girl, aren’t you?”

I trotted along at her heels like an eager dog. “Yes. Henry’s my…we’re dating.”

She entered the shed and rummaged through a stack of tools, finally picking an old broom to hold out to me. I took it and waited for instructions.

“Where is he? In college?”

I cleared my throat. “No, ma’am. He’s living in Nicaragua, helping with the orphanage that his sister and her husband run. He’ll be there for a year.”

“A year?” she scoffed. “Being a humanitarian? What kind of teenage boy does that? He oughta be tomcatting around on some college campus.”

I felt my spine stiffen, ready to defend Henry’s choices. “He graduated last May and he wanted to do something important before he went to college.”

“Important.” She rolled that word around in her mouth, testing it.

“Yes. Important.”

She shrugged. “Well, I guess an orphanage in a dirt-poor country fits that bill.”

I nodded. “After that, he’ll be going to the University of Wyoming. With me, hopefully.”

“He’s got a nice family,” she said, like it answered any lingering questions in her mind. “Known them a long time.” She turned back to a shelf along the wall and started stacking rusted coffee cans full of nails and screws. “If the Whitmires think you’re good enough, I suppose you can tidy up my work shed. My tools are scattered everywhere and half the yard blew in here last week during the storm.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I assume you’ll want me to sign something for your school.”

“I don’t think so. I’ll just write an essay later about my experiences with you. You know, what I’ve learned from our time together.”

She snorted at that. “It’ll be a short essay.”

Jo walked through the yard to her back porch and disappeared, a purple door banging closed behind her. She stared at me through a window for a minute before she closed the curtains.

I glanced at the sky. Rain was moving in so I might have an hour before I’d be sweeping mud out instead of dirt. When I was sure Jo wasn’t sneaking glances out the window, I eased into a perfect warrior pose, because, according to my old yoga teacher in Pittsburgh, it promoted patience and strong thighs.

Holding it, holding it, holding it, I whispered my mantra, “Ohm…Henry Porter Whitmire.”

The purple door creaked open and Jo poked her head out.

“Do that on your own time!”

meg

“W
hat’s with the red today?” Thanet said, tugging at my jacket with fingers stiffened by his cerebral palsy and the ever-present chill in the hallway. “It’s brighter than your normal palette of grays. You’re not blending.”

“Hands off. It was Wyatt’s.” I’d found the jacket last night when I snooped through boxes of Wyatt’s things Mom and Dad had brought to Wyoming for sentimental reasons. It hadn’t occurred to me before to wear his clothes.

“Ah…sorry. I don’t know how to respond to that.” He swallowed and looked sincerely apologetic.

“Then don’t respond. You know that’s okay.”

We try to spare each other the statements of pitiful. When Thanet was twelve, his dad died of cancer. He told me it had exhausted him to watch people struggle to Say the Right Thing.

Lately, he and I been eating lunch in the hallway connecting the cafeteria to the gym. Our lunch group had been decimated by schedule conflicts so Thanet and I were usually alone. We sat on the floor and had the hallway to ourselves. It was just us…and Abby O’Neill, the girl of Thanet’s dreams.

She was a new junior and quiet, and she preferred reading in the chairs scattered around in the hallway to pretending to be sociable in the cafeteria. Her brother, Quinn, a senior, usually brooded near her on the floor or in a nearby chair. He looked like he’d walked off the set of an indie music video—tall and lanky, short black boots with dark skinny jeans, a ratty dark wool coat, and a black cap pulled low. He was in my English class so I’d seen him without the cap—his hair was glossy black and his eyes were bright blue. He couldn’t possibly look more Irish.

“Go, Thanet. Talk to her.” I’d whispered this every day since I’d caught him staring at Abby. I was getting tired of hearing myself say it, actually. “You’re so in
like
with her.”

“I don’t want to embarrass her.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” I said, keeping my voice quiet. “What’s she reading today?”

“Murakami. Making her, in fact, perfect. Mura-flippin’-ka-a-a-a-mi, Meg….”

When he started moaning, I knew this was a serious crush. Thanet chewed on his pinkie fingernail when he felt nervous. I reached up and slid it from his mouth. “See? You know her language. You could talk to her about underground worlds and implantable flippin’ electrodes.”

“Har, har. She’s half a mile down the hallway. I’d fall trying to get to her and she’d be traumatized forever by the creepy leg-dragger.”

I glared at him for using the nickname he’d been given when he moved to Chapin. “I could go with you. We could walk by, turn around, and talk to her like ‘Oh, wow, didn’t know you were there.’ She needs a friend, Thanet.”

“Are you sure you’re not looking for an excuse to talk to Quinnly O’Ballivan O’Neill?” he said.

“What?”

“Stop it. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed him. You love Irish music.” He leaned back so he could see my face. He was only smiling a little.

“He’s not Irish music. He’s made of cheese and I’m not trying to talk to him.” I discovered it’s hard to whisper when you’re defensive.

Thanet studied my face for a minute so I stuck my tongue out. I didn’t watch Quinn O’Neill. It wasn’t why we sat here. We sat in this hall before Quinn ventured out here with his paperback of the day. He’d perfected the benched, loner vibe we were trying for, which meant he was better at rejecting stale high school society than we were. He was reading
Look Homeward, Angel
, and that was…just…loaded with meaning.

“Okay, Than, spill it. What’s whirling around in that brain of yours?”

“Nothing.” He rolled his shoulders and jammed his other pinkie nail into his mouth.

“What’s Henry up to?”

I sighed. “See, that line of thought is wrong. Don’t try to connect dots from Quinn to me to Henry. He’s worried about a kid he’s working with, so that’s got him down. He wants to come home, I think.”

Quinn folded back the cover on his book, leaned against the wall behind him, and looked around from under his cap. I happened to be staring just as he glanced at me. He lifted his chin in my direction, a gesture I’m not immune to, apparently, judging by the heat rushing to my face. How do guys do that? They don’t even have to try. I pretended not to notice him, rested my cheek on my palms and stared at Thanet, whose eyes moved from me to Quinn and back.

“I’m worried about my UW application,” I said, steering the conversation back toward the actual world. “I signed on to volunteer with an artist in town and she hates me.”

“No one hates you. You’re impossible to hate.”

“No, really. I’m not even allowed in her house. She thinks I carry diseases.”

“This isn’t Jo Russell, is it?”

“What if it is?”

Thanet snorted in the way only Thanet could. “She’s beyond whacked. She hangs out at the bookstore sometimes and drives my mom crazy. Why her?”

“She’s…addled. She doesn’t have any family and her faculties are failing.”

“And you have experience with this?”

Obviously, Thanet hadn’t been around for the grittier moments when I’d taken care of my mom last year. I didn’t plan to tell him about that part of my life, either. “I have some experience with that, yes. I know it’s hard for her to be alone. It’s about my application, weirdo. I need nothing less than perfection. What if Henry….” I trailed off when I noticed Thanet had focused on something over my left shoulder.

Quinn eased down to sit on the floor next to me.

“Hey, man,” Thanet said. Even if he were suspicious of Quinn, he would be nice to the new kid, the brother of his crush.

“Hey.” Quinn looked like he was struggling to find something to say next. His mouth opened slightly and his eyes narrowed in thought. This was the same quiet, earnest way Wyatt had approached conversation. No rush. No worries. Up close, Quinn seemed less sure of himself and more like a little boy. And the ends of his dark hair curled up over his cap. Okay. That was pretty adorable.

He stuck his hand out to me.

“I’m Quinn. You’re in my English class, right?”

We shook hands like our parents would. He also shook Thanet’s hand, a gesture I respected, because Thanet’s hands are gnarled and sometimes people avoided touching him. Which killed me. Because, come on, grow up.

“Yeah, we have English together. I’m Meg and this is Thanet.”

“How come you two sit out here every day?”

“We were banished from our peer group,” Thanet said.

“That’s cool.” Quinn sat up, interested. “What’d you do?”

“Meg doesn’t play well with others.”

I glared at Thanet.

“Ah, me neither,” Quinn said. Every time he shifted the soft smell of clean laundry and shampoo swirled around me.

I needed to break the awkward silence. “Where’d you move from?”

“Charlestown, Rhode Island. You’ll probably want me to tell you about Joseph Stanton when you get to know me better.”

“Who?” Thanet said.

“Exactly,” Quinn said. “How about you?” He met my eyes making sure I knew he meant me.

“How do you know I moved here?”

“The jeans. First, they’re skinny. Second, they’re not blue.” He tilted his head down toward my legs and smiled a little. “No Future Farmers of America jacket.”

My face flamed again; he’d noticed what I wore.

“I’m from outside of Pittsburgh and Thanet’s from Chicago.”

“Your parents were drawn by the promised utopia of Wyoming, too?” Quinn said.

“Something like that.” I stretched my legs out and leaned against the wall.

“My mom actually used the term Brook Farm when she picked Chapin out on a map,” Thanet said. “I kept telling her Brook Farm and all the other transcendentalist communities were in Massachusetts, but she cared not.”

Quinn laughed and raised one eyebrow. “That’s even sweeter. What’s there to do here at Brook Farm? Besides shared labor. And egalitarian idea-swapping.” His eyes were on me and I fought hard for an answer but got nothing.

“We also have ‘waiting for Yellowstone to erupt,’” Thanet said. “And Meg works at my mom’s bookstore. And spends the rest of her time on Skype with her boyfriend.”

I elbowed Thanet and Quinn chuckled.

“Long-distance love, huh?” he said. “‘True love travels on a gravel road.’”

“Who said that? Did you write it?” I searched my mental poetry database for the source of those words.

“Me? No. Percy Sledge did. It’s a good song. Where’s this bookstore? I’ll bring my sister in to restock her supply. She likes cheap paperbacks.”

“It’s Wind River Books on—”

Thanet interrupted me before I could finish. “You should bring her in. Today. Definitely. We’ll be there.”

I turned and widened my eyes at him, trying to send him a mental message to slo-o-o-w down and be cool.
You’re trying to meet Abby, not freak out her older brother
. “I’m not scheduled to work today,” I said. “I’ll be at Jo’s house attempting to volunteer.”

“Oh, yeah,” Thanet said. “Meg will be failing at a volunteer job.”

“Maybe we’ll stop by anyway,” Quinn said, untangling his legs and standing up. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at us for a minute. I wasn’t sure what he expected.

“Okay, bye,” I said.

He laughed, the sound causing the few people walking down the hall to stare. They didn’t expect that warm and happy laugh on account of his dark and moody look.

“Kavanagh,” he said. “That’s your last name, right? It’s Irish. Means follower of Kevin.”

“Okay?” I said.

He laughed again and shook his head. “I was hoping to impress you with my knowledge of the old country.” He shrugged. “Guess I’ll see you in English.”

He nodded his head once at Thanet, then walked over to Abby who waited for him at the door to the cafeteria. He said something to her; she glanced at us over her shoulder and smiled. I think I heard Thanet choke on his tongue.

***

On my way to Jo Russell’s house, I passed by the bookstore and saw Quinn holding the door open for Abby. Hopefully, Thanet was downstairs when they got there because the spiral staircase in the store caused him a lot of grief. I’ve dealt with his physical injuries in the past, but I’d never seen him goofy over a girl before. A shot to Thanet’s heart would be too much for me.

I loved the long afternoon shadows leading up to sunset—half past six this time of year in Wyoming—but by four-thirty, when I parked in Jo’s driveway, the day already felt spent.

Most people hate the shorter days, but something about them gets to me: the way the lack of light makes people wrap up their work, turn inward, go home, and hug their kids. Wyatt was always in the mood for deep conversation on late afternoons like these.

Jo’s house stood dark and hooded. Her shades were drawn. The only light came from a small studio behind the house. She dipped past the glass, pausing to glance out.

“There you are,” I whispered. She didn’t look this way.

I stepped out of the Jeep and pushed the door closed with my hip. I had to walk through her yard to reach her, and I crunched through all the leaves. Somehow she still hadn’t heard me.

She was talking, so I ducked behind a tree. Her voice was low, but sure and steady. Not full of vinegar like it had been when I first met her. In fact, her tone rose and fell, almost lyrically. It would become a whisper and then grow again. I inched closer and peeked through the window.

She was talking to a young boy. Not a real one…a painting of one. He wasn’t posed formally. He’d been painted in a rush, the artist following his movement through a room, blurred except for his little face, which was in sharp focus. My mom would call it brilliant, that slice of time. His crooked grin was all boy, but his eyes showed an old soul. He’d glanced up, right at the artist, with a look that said, “I’m happy.”