Where It All Lands

by Jennie Wexler

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  FOR J

  AND FOR ANYONE WHO HAS EVER WISHED FOR A DO-OVER

  PART ONE

  HEADS

  CHAPTER 1

  Stevie

  DECEMBER

  The entire high school fills the church, but he’s not here. He’s not anywhere. The football team shuffles in late and leans against the back wall. A low murmur hangs in the air, the sound of sadness. His family walks in and their faces are vacant, eyes hollow. The coffin is closed. I heard it was too gruesome for an open casket and I don’t want to think about what that really means. Whispers from the row behind me are like hissing snakes, relentless and fraying my nerves. I try to tune it out, but bits and pieces worm through my ears.

  The accident … So young … So unfair …

  I close my eyes, squeezing the lids together to stop tears. When I open them, the church is blurry, like a dream, like maybe this isn’t happening. If only it wasn’t.

  “Stevie,” he says, his voice brittle. I grab hold of his hand, afraid if I let go, I won’t be able to stay here. I need his hand, like an anchor to my seat. “Just breathe.”

  I inhale deeply, but my throat catches, and my vision blurs again. One tear slides to my cheek, like a single raindrop before a storm, and then all at once it spills out of me. My chest heaves, the sobs escaping faster than I can catch them. My entire body screams, like I’m in a free fall, with no ground below.

  I heard … A parent’s worst nightmare … Pray for them …

  God, make them stop.

  His hand squeezes mine as the priest walks in, and the room falls silent except for the crying, so much crying. I can’t catch my breath. The stained-glass windows bend and distort as my mind struggles to make sense of this, my very first funeral. All the moments that led to this one flash before me as beads of sweat break out along my hairline. I squeeze his hand, holding on so I don’t faint, wishing I could go back to the beginning.

  CHAPTER 2

  Drew

  4 MONTHS EARLIER: AUGUST

  I delete the voice mail without listening. Five total. One by one I delete the text messages, my fingers tapping furiously at the screen. An overwhelming urge to smash my phone on the kitchen tile crashes through me, but before I get the chance, Mom puts her hand on my shoulder. I shove my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and flip up my hood, hunching over the white marble countertop. She tugs the strings of my sweatshirt but won’t look me in the eye.

  “Your dad called for you.”

  “Tell him to go fuck himself,” I say calmly. No reaction from Mom. It’s like she doesn’t have the energy.

  “Said he couldn’t reach you on your phone.”

  I don’t respond. Mom opens the Sub-Zero and sighs, pulling a half-filled pitcher of orange juice off the barren shelf. The liquid splashes on the marble as she pours a glass. She rips a paper towel from the roll and wipes it up, a message flashing across the Apple Watch on her wrist.

  “I’m going to be late,” she says, pushing an oversize pair of sunglasses up her fake nose. She bends to kiss me on the cheek, but I turn away. I down the juice, grab my keys, and stand, a good head taller than Mom.

  “Have a good day,” she says as I head for the door, which makes me laugh because it’s been exactly one hundred and eighty-three days since I’ve had a good day. If Mom ever asked, she’d know. But Mom never talks about the day Dad left. Since then, she hasn’t talked much at all.

  I back the Jeep down my driveway as Ed Sheeran croons on the radio about wanting to go home. It’s all pointless, this longing for a place you once knew. You can’t get it back. No matter how hard you try.

  I turn down Sheeran and swerve into the driveway next door. Some guy walking a golden retriever shoots me a dirty look as I honk twice. Yeah, I know it’s early. The huge iron gates swing open, revealing Shane jogging down the driveway, a green backpack swinging from his shoulder. He turns, two drumsticks sticking out of his back pocket, and waves at Kathy. She stands in the bay window holding a cup of coffee. Our morning ritual started in elementary school, and it stuck. Except back then we boarded a big yellow bus, sporting matching light-up sneakers.

  “You do realize it’s August,” Shane says, eyeing my sweatshirt as he settles into the passenger seat. He wedges his backpack and drumsticks between his feet.

  “Didn’t want my mom to see.” Not that she would have noticed. She hasn’t noticed anything in months.

  “You actually did it?”

  Shane grabs my arm and pushes up my sleeve, taking in the Roman numerals tattooed in black ink on the inside of my wrist—the number that represents a date. His eyes shift to the side, lost in our shared memory.

  “That was a good day,” he says, gazing out the window.

  “A great fucking day.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. You almost…”

  “But I didn’t.” I didn’t. That’s why it was a great day.

  Shane unzips his backpack and pulls out a water bottle, taking a long sip. A blue stuffed animal peeks out from behind the zipper, a tuft of fuzzy hair at the top. He shoves it back in.

  “What the hell is that?” I ask, gesturing at his bag.

  “Nothing.” Shane pulls down the brim of his blue EMT cap, almost covering his eyes. Ever since he started volunteering with the squad last year, that hat has become a permanent fixture on his head.

  “Yeah, right.” I elbow Shane and grab his bag, pulling out the stuffed toy, a powder blue Aladdin genie with a Cheshire cat grin. “Are you kidding me with this?”

  “What? It’s this season’s theme,” Shane says like it’s normal to be carrying around a stuffed genie.

  “I’m aware it’s this season’s theme. But c’mon. Might as well beg Brent Miller to kick your ass.”

  “I don’t care about Brent Miller,” Shane says, snatching the genie from me and shoving it in his bag, “I thought it would be cool if I attached him to my quads.”

  “Do not attach that thing to your quads.” I cringe at the thought of Brent grabbing the genie and ripping into Shane. Brent’s called Shane every name in the book, none of which I care to repeat.

  Shane sighs, glancing at me. He smirks and grabs a penny from the middle console, flipping the coin over in his palm.

  “Heads, the genie stays. Tails, the genie goes,” Shane says. A familiar spark settles in his hazel eyes, reminding me of the day that started our heads or tails routine. We were little, probably six and seven, our skinny bodies squeezed together and balanced at the end of a high diving board. Blue pool water lapped below as we fought over who would get to jump first. I don’t remember who initiated it, but we were both pushing, clawing at each other like rabid squirrels until we fell headfirst into the water, narrowly missing the cement edge of the pool. Freaked us out. From then on, whenever we disagreed, we flipped a coin.

  “Leave it up to the universe,” Shane says, tossing the coin, catching it, and flipping it on
the back of his hand.

  Fuck the universe. If Shane attaches a stuffed animal to his drum set it’s an open invitation, the punch line to a joke Brent Miller is just gunning to tell.

  “Heads,” Shane says, a silly grin stretching to his ears as he reveals the penny. “Genie stays.”

  I shake my head as I turn up Sheeran who still can’t wait to go home. Shane groans because he hates everything on the radio—but my car, my tunes. I back out of the driveway, and head down our street lined with oak trees, morning light slicing through the leaves.

  As I drive through town, Shane’s quiet, his fingers tapping a beat on the window. I know he’s still thinking about the stuffed genie and wondering if I’m right, which I am. Deep down he knows I am. And he knows I’m still thinking about it too, even though we haven’t said a word since Shane’s driveway. That’s one of the cool things about our friendship, the way we can read each other’s minds. The way I don’t have to talk if I don’t want to. Except now I can’t stay quiet, not with the beginning of school looming over us, stealing away our Brent-free summer.

  “You know I got your back, no matter what,” I say, my eyes fixed on the road. Shane doesn’t say anything at first, but he stops drumming his fingers on the window.

  “I can take care of myself.” His voice is soft, like he doubts his words.

  “I know,” I say. “But I’m also here, okay?”

  Shane’s quiet as he stares out the window. Without turning to me he holds out his fist and I tap his knuckles with mine.

  “You talk to your dad yet?” Shane asks, and my empty stomach turns at his deliberate change of topic.

  “Not talking about it,” I say. “Stellar deflection, by the way.”

  “Fair enough. And thank you.” Shane’s fingers tap dance on the window again as I will myself to think of anything besides Brent and Dad, but I’m coming up short. I’m so caught up in this relentless mind loop that I almost miss the stop sign at the corner. My heart seizes in my chest as I slam on the brakes, nearly blowing through the intersection. Shane grabs the door handle, bracing himself as I skid to a stop. He turns to me with concern, but I rub my eyes, playing it off as a rough night of sleep.

  “Sorry,” I mutter as I continue through the intersection, wishing more than anything that I could quiet all the noise in my head.

  * * *

  When we get to school, I pull into my usual spot and throw the Jeep in park. Shane grabs his backpack and drumsticks, opening the door before I cut the engine.

  “We’re late,” he says, hopping down from the Jeep. A mess of notes and chords floats through the air from the back field. I can’t see them, but I can sure as hell hear them. I shrug my sweatshirt off and chuck it in the trunk.

  “I’ll meet you out there,” Shane yells, booking it to practice. He can be such a kiss-ass sometimes but at least he’s sincere about it. It’s not like he’s trying to get ahead—he genuinely likes being early, doing the right thing. I wish I had that kind of drive. Instead I reluctantly trail after him.

  My pace slows as I spot an unfamiliar girl sitting on the curb, right in my path. A brown sax case rests next to her, like a piece of luggage. It’s obvious she’s new, her unsure eyes darting around the parking lot. Her eyes are dark, kind of like mine, but framed in long lashes. No doubt about it, she’s pretty. So pretty, I wonder how Shane was able to jog right past her, oblivious. Rays of light weave through her long brown hair as she pushes it off her shoulders. My body relaxes for the first time all morning, thoughts of Dad and Brent Miller mercifully falling to the back of my mind. When she notices me, she straightens up, like she’s been waiting for me. She reminds me of a mysterious character in a Bradbury novel. Her deep eyes grab hold of mine, a silent introduction instantly jolting me wide awake.

  “Stevie,” she says when I ask for her name, tucking a strand of thick hair behind her ear.

  Like Stevie Nicks, I think, but don’t say. I bet she gets that all the time. I bet it’s really annoying.

  A white BMW honks at me, followed by a random hand waving out the window. Football players and cheerleaders make their way to practice, everyone amped up for the new school year, even though we don’t officially start until next week. They’re all yelling my name and waving. I nod but they don’t care about me. I used to think they did when we were little, but unless I’m talking about Dad, they stop paying attention. So now I don’t pay much attention either.

  “You here for band practice?” I ask, tapping Stevie’s sax case with my foot.

  “I went inside but no one was there.” Her eyes shift from the school to the field to the parking lot. Everywhere but me.

  “Just follow the painful music.” I gesture at the back field and she laughs, the kind of airy laugh that makes me smile. Everyone in Millbrook knows marching band isn’t the coolest gig going, but I couldn’t care less. “C’mon. I’ll show you where to go.”

  “You’re in the band too?” she asks, finally making eye contact. Thank God she doesn’t look at me like everyone else at this school, like I can hook her up with concert tickets or introduce her to some vapid celebrity. She has no idea who my father is. For once, someone doesn’t know.

  “Trumpet,” I say with pride even though I suck. Being proud has nothing to do with ability, rather the experience, being part of something. “Left it here over the summer. You coming or what?”

  “What’s your name?” She squints as the sun catches her eyes.

  “Drew Mason.” I extend my hand and she places her palm in mine, small and smooth. As I pull her to her feet a thankful smile erupts from her mouth, hitting me in the pit of my stomach. Nerves flutter in my gut and I’m momentarily stunned by the unfamiliar sensation. Sure, I’ve felt uneasy before a class presentation or as I walk on stage to play a gig, but never like this, never in relation to a person. I take a deep breath and smile, silently telling my stomach to quit it as I lead Stevie to practice.

  * * *

  Mr. Abella shoves two fingers in his mouth and whistles, his too-big glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. He clears his throat and steps on one of those green milk crates you would see at a 7-Eleven. He’s stationed right at the edge of our practice field, but the band barely pays attention. A couple of guys from the horn section chuck a Frisbee over Mr. Abella’s head.

  “For the freshmen who don’t know me, I’m Mr. Abella, the instructor for this band. Today we’ll be learning ‘Arabian Nights,’ the crown jewel of Aladdin, this season’s theme.”

  Not one member of the band glances up in acknowledgment. He tugs at the bottom of his sweater vest and drops his conducting sticks in the grass.

  “We start in five.”

  Stevie’s sax hangs from a red strap that hugs the back of her neck. Her fingers tap the keys, but she doesn’t play a note. It’s useless to compete with the chords, warm-up scales, and drumbeats—none of which make sense together, a sound assault. She scans the chaos and winces at a flutist’s high-pitched, chalk-board-screeching, my-ears-may-actually-be-bleeding note.

  “That’s you.” I point to the sax crew lazing in the field, all guys.

  “Oh,” she says, biting at her nail, her eyes hesitant. A Band-Aid covers her right thumb. “I guess I should head over there.”

  Stevie doesn’t budge. The sun bounces off her flushed cheeks, and for a split second the noise goes quiet. The instruments, sheet music, and the dew-covered field disappear.

  But then Shane steps between us.

  “Are you new?” Shane asks Stevie, taking off his blue baseball hat, his hair a mess as usual. Stevie nods and introduces herself. The strap of her tank top falls down her tanned shoulder and she pulls it back in place with her thumb.

  My eyes are fixed on her shoulder when Shane asks, “As in Nicks?”

  I hold my breath, praying Stevie doesn’t roll her eyes or react in a way that makes Shane feel small. I exhale when a laugh tumbles from Stevie’s mouth instead.

  “Yep,” she says. “My parents ju
st had to be creative when I was born. Now I’m destined to have this conversation on repeat.”

  Annoying. I knew it.

  “Sorry. That must bother you,” Shane says, kicking at the grass and voicing my thoughts. “Feeling like your name isn’t your own.”

  “Only when people sing Fleetwood Mac to me.” Stevie smirks and my eyes bounce between the two of them. Shane smirks too, then clears his throat dramatically.

  “Don’t you dare,” Stevie says playfully, crossing her arms over her chest and stuffing down a smile.

  “For you, the sun will be shining,” Shane sings in a cracked falsetto, his arms outstretched to the blazing sun above. Stevie laughs into her hands, her obvious delight reaching all the way to her eyes. I want to jump in on whatever is going on here, to be the one making her smile, but I’m clueless when it comes to Fleetwood Mac.

  “I’m surprised you know that one,” Stevie says. “No one’s ever sang it to me before. It’s my favorite.”

  “Great tune,” Shane says, tugging at the bottom of his blue polo, his eyes shifting back to the grass. “I’m going to grab a cup of water before we start practice. Want one?”

  “Sure,” she says, following him. I search my mind for something clever to say so she hangs back with me, but my mouth clamps shut. I’ve never had problems talking to girls but being around Stevie is tripping me up big time. I shake my head and tell myself to get it together, to jog over to them and try again. But Shane stops short, Stevie almost stumbling over his Adidas. Brent Miller stands right in front of the orange water jug, filling a cup, his football helmet suspended between his knees.

  “That’s for the band,” Shane says, his voice strained. Brent grabs the helmet in one hand and the cup of water in the other, slowly swiveling his neck until his eyes are on Shane. I inch my way closer, close enough to hear, but not too close. Shane’s words echo in my ear. I can take care of myself.