The Leaving Season (12 page)

When my sister Allison was thirteen, she had a brief infatuation with boho-chic: gypsy blouses and long floral skirts, scuffed cowboy boots over leggings, huge sunglasses and layers of hair. But her interest waned when her friends teased her about looking like a homeless Mary-Kate Olsen. Soon all of her embroidered blouses and handkerchief skirts were relegated to the back of her closet.

I was reminded of this phase of my sister's life when I was searching for an outfit the week after Halloween. It had been fun dressing up, stepping out of my fashion comfort zone, and frankly, nothing inspired me in my half of the closet. My usual jeans-shirt-sneakers attire, although
comfortable and reliable, felt dull. Each time my hands reached for a top, my brain rejected it:
boring, predictable, safe
.

My eyes were drawn to Allison's cream-colored top with three-quarter sleeves that flared just below the elbows. The heart-shaped neckline was embroidered in peach and jade green, and it plunged much deeper than my usual T-shirts did. I twirled in front of the vanity mirror, admiring how the loose sleeves fluttered in the breeze. The embroidered edging drew the eye in and down while the neckline hinted at cleavage that, well, wasn't there.

I like this.
I liked the way the crinkly cotton felt on my shoulders, how the bottom hem fell just at my hips. I reached farther into the closet and found a skirt with layers of filmy crepe and chiffon. Was it too pretty for me? Too ornate? I rolled the waistband over twice to make the skirt a little shorter. It paired perfectly with the blouse. I added short leather boots and stepped back in front of the mirror.

Still good, but there was one thing out of place. I reached back and pulled the elastic out of my hair, letting it fall over my shoulders and down my back. It had been so long since I'd worn it down, without even a barrette to hold any of it away from my face. But a severe ponytail was not what this outfit called for.

With a new-to-me outfit and the loan of my mother's car, the day ahead held such promise—until I hit school. Moments after the second bell rang, one of the secretaries from the principal's office interrupted the roll call, handing
Ms. Delaney a green piece of paper. Green meant it was official, something that needed attention right away. Ms. Delaney read the note and then her eyes glanced up, finding me. She crooked her finger and I rose automatically.

Under her breath, she said, “Mr. Z needs to see you in his office now.” She showed me the paper.
ASAP
was written in black ink. “Take this in case anyone stops you for being out of class.”

I took the paper uncertainly. I'd never been called to admin for anything in my entire life.

Mr. Z welcomed me warmly, his tone a major contrast to the official order in my hand. “Come in, Middie. I'm glad you could make it,” he called.

There was a choice?

The last time I'd been in his office had been the day we all heard about Nate. My gaze found the couch I'd sat on then, the corner of the desk I'd wept over. I felt a shudder roll through my spine—
Why am I here? Did something else happen?

“Please sit down, Middie. I just want to take a few minutes to catch up.”

I lowered myself into the only empty chair in the office and perched on its edge.

Mr. Z clasped his hands together on top of a pile of papers and books on his desk and his chin grazed the tops of his fingers. “Has everything been . . . okay? Have things been . . . getting better?” His eyebrows lifted hopefully.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Middie, you haven't been in class regularly.”

He sounded just like Haley. “Sure I have.”

“Actually, you haven't. And it seems you haven't turned in some assignments as well.”

That can't be.
I was going to classes, doing my homework. Wasn't I? I tried to think back to the last time I was in front of my computer. A day? Two?

“Your SAT prep coach said you've missed some after-school sessions too,” he went on. “And your college applications? Are they getting done?”

Getting done.
As if little writing gnomes were sneaking in at night to take care of everything for me. I frowned, irritated by the question.

No, not the question, I realized, but the way it was being asked. “Mr. Z, can I go back to class now?” I rose from the chair. I was done.

“In a minute, Middie, in a minute.”

I sighed very loudly, but he paid no mind.

“You didn't attend the grief counseling sessions we offered after Nate's death, did you?” he asked.

I shook my head no.

He chose his words carefully. “Are you receiving counseling . . . elsewhere?”

“No,” I replied in a flat voice. “I'm not.”

“I see . . . Do you not believe it could be . . . of benefit to you?” He pushed his glasses up higher on his nose, magnifying his eyes and lashes and a few old-person skin tags.

“I don't think I need it.”

“That's exactly when it's most helpful.”

I edged away from the desk. I was not interested in seeing a counselor, in being “therapized,” in hearing someone say all the stupid trite things that people in mourning were told. The things people said to me every day.

How I needed time to heal. How I needed to accept the death of my loved one and learn how to go on living. How, in time—

“Everything will be fine,” Mr. Z said in a tone he probably thought was soothing. “You just need some time. . . .”

Whatever he said after that was drowned out by the pulse pounding at my temples. I was tired of being placated by my family and teachers. I was tired of hearing them speaking in saccharine tones.

“Everything will
not
be fine!” I said more loudly than I'd intended. “Nate is dead and nothing is going to bring him back.”

“Middie—”

“Mr. Z, you just don't understand. No one does. I . . . I . . .” My stomach felt queasy and my head spun. I didn't want to be here, having this conversation. I rushed out of his office, out of the high school, and headed straight for my mother's car in the parking lot. Hot tears stung my eyes, and it was hard to see as I drove. I wiped my sister's pretty blouse across my eyes, smearing mascara all over the fluttery sleeves.

I found Lee at his house, at the garage in back, head buried in the engine of the Mustang.
Nate's Mustang.
I thought about composing myself before I caught his attention but changed my mind. He'd seen me—all of me, warts and all; raccoon eyes were barely a blip on the radar. “Hey.”

He glanced up from under the hood and his eyes narrowed. “You're crying?”

“Yeah.”

“All right.”

I liked that he left it at that. He didn't pry. Didn't try to soothe me.

He gestured to the toolbox sitting on the concrete step next to the door where I was standing. “Grab me a crescent wrench, would you?”

I stared down into the toolbox, at the collection of metal and rubber and had no idea what I was looking for, but at least I had a task. I hitched up my skirt and bent down. “What's a crescent wrench?”

“It looks kind of like . . . Pac-Man on a stick.”

I tried to picture the little yellow moon-shaped character that scarfed up all the dots while evading multicolored ghosties. I searched the toolbox for anything resembling Pac-Man.

“Ms. Pac-Man was better.” Lee's voice echoed under the hood. “She had a bow in her hair.”

“Got it!” The wrench was round on the outside, flat inside the “mouth.” I handed it to Lee, who used it on . . . the
carburetor? The radiator? I knew nothing about cars.

He wiped his fingers on the front of a T-shirt that was streaked with oil and grease and hung loosely outside his pants, emphasizing his lean frame.
I know what he looks like under that shirt,
I thought. I felt my face flush immediately and I looked away, staring instead at the cluttered walls behind me. The work space was disorganized and dirty, a far cry from all of Nate's meticulously kept boxes at his home; he'd obviously not had much of an influence on his best friend.

A calendar from 1987 hung beside a rack of rusty gardening tools, which reminded me, guiltily, that I hadn't been to Roseburg Farms in a while. The brightest spot among all the dusty knickknacks and baby food jars filled with nuts and bolts was a sheet of lined notebook paper with a simple outline drawing of a horse in midcanter, back hooves flying, tail and mane up, tacked to the wall with a strip of clear tape.

“Hey, can you get me that Red Bull?” Lee asked me.

Four slim red, silver, and blue cans sat on a wooden stool as if they were on an altar. I picked one up—empty, as were the second and third. The fourth was half-filled. I handed it to Lee and he tossed it back in one long swallow.

“You drank
all
of those?” I asked incredulously. “It's not even ten.”

He thumped his chest with a fist and let out a burp. “That's late.”

“How early were you up?”

He lazily leaned his butt on the Mustang's chrome
bumper. “‘Up' implies . . .” He belched again. “That there was a down. And there was no down.” He aimed a pointed gaze at the cans. “Those tinny skinny friends of mine made sure there was no down.”

My eyes searched his face. “You've been awake all night?” He had the beginnings of bags under his eyes and his cheekbones looked sharper and more pronounced than usual—but there was an odd twitch in the corners of his eyes and a jerky quality to his gestures that made him look like a living scarecrow.

He tossed the empty can overhand like a basketball, and it landed in a wire wastebasket with an aluminum
plink
. “I want to finish this. You gonna help me or not?”

“Help?” I hesitated. “I don't know—”

“That
is
why you came here, right? To help me with the car?” He leaned closer, bathing me in thick caffeinated breath and holding my gaze so long as if to dare me to contradict him.

I couldn't find any words. I wasn't sure why I'd come over, why I'd left school, why I'd suddenly needed the space and time to breathe . . . and why I'd known I'd find that here with Lee. “The car, yeah.”

“Then get over here and help me with this alternator belt,” he said.

“The what?”

“There's a long belt, called a serpentine, and it fits around here.” He thrust a hand deep into the back of the engine.
“And here. And here. It connects everything. Water pump, air pump, power steering, and the alternator, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Didn't used to be this way,” he said, his voice picking up speed as he explained everything to me. “This car used to have five belts, each one handling a separate thing. But that was a pain in the ass and those belts were hard to replace, so Nate and I upgraded it to a single belt.” Lee held up a forefinger. “You look nice, by the way.”

Startled, I glanced down at my boots. “I do?”

“Yeah, the dress and the hair . . .” He waved a grease-stained hand at my outfit.

“It's a skirt and top, not a dress.”

“Whatever. It's nice, that's all.”

“Well, thank y—”

“Bring me the manual, huh? It's in the glove compartment.”

As I slid into the passenger seat, I flipped down the visor and checked my reflection in the small rectangular mirror. I wet my finger and wiped off the raccoon eyes, noticing,
huh
, my hair did look nice for a change. I turned the visor back up quickly and caught Lee staring at me in the crack of space between the hood and windshield. When our eyes met, he stood abruptly and went back to work. “The manual, Meredith. Come on.”

I felt a smile tickle my lips.

We worked for the rest of the day, breaking only for a fast
sandwich and soda. I managed to keep the grease and grime from Allison's clothes, but regular soap and water would not wash off the oily residue on my hands. They needed to be scrubbed.

Finally, at around five in the afternoon, Lee pronounced the work done. We'd not only replaced the alternator belt, but we'd also flushed the coolant lines and radiator and retrofitted the air filters. “If it doesn't work now, well . . .”

“It never will?”

Lee scoffed at me. “You're such a pessimist! If it doesn't work now, I'll have to try something else.” He walked over to the passenger-side door and held it open for me. “Go on, get in.”

“We're going for a ride now?” I felt oddly nervous. I so badly wanted the car to work. For Lee . . . for Nate . . .

“In,” he repeated. And I obliged.

I heard the garage door rise with a clatter and as I waited for Lee to return, my gaze again fell on the drawing of the horse on the wall. It was so simply rendered, just a bold black outline of a horse, yet it felt vivid and alive. As soon as Lee got into the car, I pointed to it. “What is that?”

“That's a horse.”

“Well, duh. You like horses, I take it.”

“Yeah.” He held up the key chain with the Ford logo on one side and the Mustang logo on the other. “Nate and me . . . We were gonna get tattoos.” He said this in an almost whisper, as if speaking it aloud would make it untrue.

“Seriously?” Nate had
never
said anything to me about wanting a tattoo. Then again, he'd never said anything about this car either.

Lee pulled up the sleeve of his left arm and rubbed his right hand against the bare skin. “Right here.”

“Tattoos?” I still couldn't wrap my mind around that. I felt laughter bubble up in me. “Nate?” I shook my head. “No way. Just . . . no.”

Lee was insistent. “You didn't know him like I did. He
wanted
ink.”

I lifted one eyebrow. “Ink?”

“Yes, Miss Meredith Daniels. That is what it's called. Getting inked.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Well, I in no way believe that Nate wanted to get
inked
. You? Sure, but him?”