by Casey Winter
Like me.
“Is she?” I say now, calmly, masking my feelings from Coach. “Good for her. Is she in town?”
I hope not.
“Not as far as I know,” Coach says. “She’s touring. Slalom, that’s it. Teresa told me the type of skating she does is called slalom. Real impressive stuff, too. Teresa showed me a video. Balancing on one wheel as she darts in and out of these cones, all kinds of tricks.”
“Mom was a good teacher,” I allow, glad that Hannah isn’t here. That would only complicate things. She spent so much time at Family Roller, it’s unlikely she wouldn’t visit when I reopen it. And then I’d have to see her, the woman who broke my brother’s heart into a million sniveling pieces. “One of the best.”
“The best,” Coach says seriously. “We used to go down to Family Roller, you know, and sometimes me and Evelyn would talk for an hour or more about the best way to get a technique into a kid’s head. It’s not as easy as it looks, you’re all so damn stubborn. I’m sorry, Luke, for her passing. I haven’t had the chance to tell you that yet.”
“Thank you,” I say. “That means a lot, really. Such a mindless and cruel way to go, skidding on that road.” I sigh, pushing down my rage. “But like you said, the world works in mysterious ways.”
Coach’s radio buzzes and a crackly female voice says, “Sheriff, we’ve got some ass-hat trying to climb Jackson’s statue in Memorial Park. He’s saying he won’t get down until the sheriff himself comes and tells him to.”
Coach rolls his eyes at me, but he’s grinning as he says, “You see what I have to put up with, Luke? Run, run as fast as you can and never come back.” Laughing at his own joke, he picks up the radio. “Alright, Janine, tell our hero to stay put.”
I stand up when he does, and we walk out to the parking lot together. He puts on his hat and we shake hands. “Whatever the reason, I’m glad you’re back, Luke. Don’t be a stranger.”
“See you around … and Coach.”
He turns. “Yeah?”
I crouch low, like he taught us, and then wink. “If that man climbing the statue puts up a fight, make sure to drive with the legs, eh?”
He chuckles, since it’s the same thing he drilled into us time and time again in the wrestling room.
—
Everybody in Little Fall calls this area of town the Mini ’Burbs on account of how the town is too small to have a real suburb and, in any case, this loose collection of fifteen or so old Colonial houses is almost difficult to call a street, let alone suburbs. I walk down the wide road, glancing at our old house, looking spick and span as usual. Dad owns a hardware store in town—Nelson’s Nails, at least that’s what it used to be called—so he always takes good care of the house. The deep brown paint is fresh and makes it look new.
This is in stark contrast to the house opposite: the one that belongs to Teresa Ortiz, Hannah Coleman-Ortiz’s mother. As I study the short length of concrete between the two homes, memories come to me: Noah and Hannah as little kids, learning to skate with Mom fanning her sweaty, happy face, maybe sipping a lemonade as she casually balanced on her rollerskates, Noah and Hannah laughing like little fools. Or, later, Hannah and Noah walking down the street, hand in hand.
I think about going over and saying hello to Miss Ortiz, but, really, I never knew the family that well. I was the older brother, doing my own thing. They were always Noah’s people.
Anyway, when I turn back to the house, Dad is standing there. It strikes me now that I haven’t seen him since Mom’s funeral, almost five years ago now, and that he’s aged a lot since then. He’s always been a sinewy man, maybe on account of how he was raised on a ranch, and his scarred face—shrapnel from the Gulf War—has always made folk nervous. But it’s his eyes, more than anything. They look haunted.
“Luke,” he says simply.
“Dad,” I mutter, nodding. “The house looks good.”
“So you’re in town.”
I nod again. “You won’t believe the reason when I tell you.”
“Hmm.” He shrugs, his face impassive. Then, after a pause, he steps aside. “I suppose you better come in and tell me about it. Where are your things? You can sleep in the spare room Well, your old room.”
“No, Dad, I can get a room in town—”
“It’s what your mother would’ve wanted,” he grumbles. “Now come on in. I’ll make us some coffee and you can ride out with me to the store. I’ve got a delivery and I could do with the help. Well, what’re you waiting for?”
“Okay, Dad. Alright. Just let me get my bag.”
I turn around and head for the car.
I didn’t expect fireworks when I came home, but I don’t know … Maybe for my old man to smile, or something? But that’s just a childish instinct, I realize, something I should’ve left behind a long time ago, back with my innocence and my naivety. Both of us have been to war. Both of us know better than that.
When I return, Dad’s leaning against the doorjamb, whistling softly as he studies my Chevy. “When did you get her?” he asks.
“A couple of years back. It was a bonus for a job with Sun-Disk Security. We took out these scumbag drug dealers, and this client, he was a wealthy real estate mogul, and he was pretty damn grateful to us for cleaning up his neighborhood.”
“Well,” Dad mutters. “Think I could take her for a spin sometime?”
I think about giving him a shove on the shoulder, but I know that’d be going too far. So instead I just say, “Sure, Dad. Of course.”
Then we go inside.
Chapter Two
Hannah
One Month Later
As I drive through the blazing July sun toward Little Fall, I think about turning back. Not, like, this violent reaction: Run as fast as your legs will carry you. I mean, I’d be skating anyway, but yeah. No, it’s more like this subtle creeping terror in my belly, not to be OTT about it. Because I associate this town with the worst time in my life, the worst event of my life. Maybe some people would say I’ve had a pretty blessed life if what happened with Noah was the worst of it, but there it is.
Since Mom’s an artist, she always wanted me to pursue my sketching over my skating. I’ve let it lapse recently, but as I wind down the country road, bordered on all sides by evergreens—I think I see some red spruces and white pines, but I’m not exactly a tree genie—I imagine sketching it. The way the shadows fall across the road, the downward slant as the forest recedes to make way for the town proper, a giant shadow of a cloud covering half of Main Street.
It’s far too beautiful for the way it makes me feel.
But Mom needs me. When her lung cancer was in its early stages, that was one thing. But now that it’s gotten serious, heck, I’d be up for the Worst Daughter in the Universe award if I didn’t come back.
Not that I’ve never returned. Maybe five or six times a year, I visit, but always briefly: a day or two at most. And it’s always private, hanging out mostly at the house. I have no interest in being a Little Faller, in having people remember me as the girl who broke Noah Nelson’s heart.
I keep to myself. I stay out of town business. I pretend I’m a stranger.
Instead, I often fly Mom out to see me. At least I did, before the cancer.
I instinctively look past Main Street, past the Mini ’Burbs, to where Family Roller used to be. Little Fall is indelibly linked in my mind with Evelyn Nelson, and Noah Nelson. Evelyn who taught me so much about skating … and Noah who taught me so much about devastating, crippling heartache.
But I promised myself I wouldn’t dwell on that. The past’s the past. I’m twenty six years old, for Pete’s sake—who the hell is Pete, anyway?—and I last saw Noah when we were sixteen. Plus, he’s passed now. Despite everything, I was sad when I heard about that. He might’ve broken my heart, but he wasn’t evil. At least, I don’t think he was.
Surely, a decade is long enough to forget. So why, then, do I feel like I’m driving directly into the past?
; —
I smile when I see her, my heart lifting like a hot air balloon. My childhood friend, Penny Snow, is standing right where she said she’d be: next to the Welcome to Little Fall sign. Really, she’s like my surrogate sister, since she lived with us for half my childhood. This is a big deal for her, standing out on this lonely road all alone, considering all her PTSD issues and stuff. I’m proud of her.
She’s holding a sign of her own, too, that I can tell she had her students make. She teaches High School English and the sign is covered in literary quotes I can’t read from here. But I can read the big pink letters: Welcome Home, Hannah.
I pull up by the side of the road, winding down the window. “I’m ever so sorry, miss,” I tease. “But I haven’t got any spare change. Do you need a ride into town?”
She rolls her eyes, barely suppressing a giggle. Penny is tallish at six one (“it’s a curse, I’m telling you.”), with deep red hair she usually has tied up in a bun with a pen or pencil slotted through the middle. Her fair, freckly skin is already starting to redden.
“Oh, I do,” she says. “I need a ride—badly. But you see, kind stranger, I have a serious axe-murdering addiction. I’ve tried to kick it, really, I have. But I just can’t. I get into a car with a nice stranger, and, hell, it’s basically a matter of minutes before I start swinging.”
We both break out in giggles, and I throw the car door open and leap at her. We hug and jump around like we’re little kids. And then we stop, both of us panting, talking a million miles a minute. Finally, once we’ve calmed down, Penny takes me by the hand and leads me over to the Welcome Sign. She nods at the ground and I spot the picnic hamper overflowing with treats.
“You didn’t carry that thing all the way out here?” I mutter, knowing that Penny never learned to drive. It’s one hell of an Achilles Heel to have out here, especially considering the school where she works is at least five miles from her apartment, but she manages. “I don’t see a ride.”
“Barry gave me a ride, but he had to get back to work.”
“Who’s Barry?” I tease. “A new flame?”
“Ha-ha-ha, so funny,” she mutters sarcastically as we head back toward my car, me carrying the hamper and Penny carrying the sign. “No, Barry runs Barry’s Park-N-Shop in town …” She pauses, looking at me. “I’m assuming, since you’re back here for the long haul, that we’re allowed to talk about Little Fall stuff now?”
I smile. In the years since I’ve been away—because of something bad that happened to me here, involving Noah Nelson—I’ve always asked Mom and Penny and Alejandra to keep the Little Fall talk to a minimum. So, even if I’ve been back here, it’s almost like I’m returning for the first time in a decade.
“I guess it’s going to be hard to avoid, right?” I say. “So, gossip away.”
“Okay, phew. So, Barry … He’s a nice enough guy, a big broad-chested Texan man. But he has this annoying habit of playing country music really, really, really loud in his store.”
“I look forward to meeting him,” I smile, thinking how strange it is that Penny’s explaining the goings-on in my own town to me. But then, she stayed. I ran. As I pull away from the sign, I mutter, “You know, waiting out here like that was pretty silly. What if I got delayed? What if I decided to stop off somewhere? You could’ve been out here for hours.”
She shrugs, fiddling with the pen in her hair-bun. “Mmm, maybe, but Doc Giger said I need to start pushing myself more, so … Anyway, I had my Kindle with me, so worst case scenario, I spend a nice sunny July morning reading in the shade.”
“How’s it going?” I ask. “Therapy?”
She giggles. “You’re acting like we don’t talk on the phone like every other day.”
I nod, realizing she’s right. “Yeah, I know, but this is different, isn’t it?”
She gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I know, Banana, I feel it, too.”
Banana: the sort of childhood nickname that sticks, because it’s so simple. There’s nothing clever behind it. Literally just Hannah-Banana.
“I know, right, Lennie.”
Penny digs me playfully in the ribs, but it’s all in good fun. When we were kids, Penny’s growth spurt came early, right around the time we started studying Of Mice and Men in English class. Since kids are pretty fricking mean, a lot of them started calling her Lennie after the super-tall, super-big character in the novel. But one day I stood up and snapped at this douchebag kid, “Yeah, she is like Lennie. She’s kind-hearted and funny and way sweeter than you’ll ever be, dickhead.” From that day on, calling her Lennie became a way of reminding us that we’ve always got each other’s backs.
“Don’t you ever say that in front of my students,” she snaps, smiling. “They’d have an effing field day. But you wanted to know how the therapy’s going, right? Well, I only get night sweats half the time now, and, believe it or not, I actually invited a man back to my apartment a few months ago.”
“I know,” I say, smiling too. “But I’m pretty sure he turned out to have nuclear-level BO.”
“That’s not the point,” she pouts. “I mean, sure, I had to have the place pretty much remodeled after, and we didn’t even get close to first base, but it’s the thought that counts, right?”
I feel guilty when I think about what Penny has been through, the terrible trauma in her childhood. It should make my problems with Noah and my own past seem petty. But somehow it doesn’t, because it’s all relative, I guess. Emotional pain is like that, a big steaming pile of personalized torment made to order. Yummy.
“There’s a full-on war going on between Hanlon Hardware and Nelson’s Nails,” Penny says as we pass the Fork-N-Spoon. I study Main Street with something like wonder. So little changes here. It’s like my pink Beetle is a time machine. “We call it the Hardware Wars. You know what the Hanlon clan is like: total jerks. But they’re smart jerks, too. Jock … you remember Jock, right, he was wrestling buddies with Noah’s older brother, Luke? Well, Jock’s taken their business online, and Russel Nelson just can’t keep up.”
I nod, hmming, but an image of Luke flares in my mind.
The older brother, standing at the upstairs window, looking down on us for a fraction of a second before he turned away to other, more important things.
“He’s in town, you know,” Penny says.
“Who?” I ask. “Russel?”
She shoots me a look. “Russel Nelson never left Little Fall. No, Luke … he’s been here for, I dunno, maybe a month now. It’s really weird. You remember the roller rink? I mean, of course you do. You wouldn’t be ranked number three in the world at freestyle slalom if you didn’t. Have I mentioned how positively, excruciatingly proud of you I am, by the way? Sometimes, I just watch your videos, over and over. I can’t believe it’s you. I mean, I can. You’re talented as hell. You get what I’m saying. Sorry, babe, I’m ranting. I’m just so happy to see you.”
She throws her arms around me. I give her a half-hug, focusing on the road.
“Well?” I prompt, when, typical Penny, her thoughts stray from the conversation. Since she teaches high school, writes novels, and also runs a couple of adult creative writing courses, her mind often wanders. I tug it back. “Luke Nelson? The roller rink?”
“Oh, yeah,” she beams. “Get this. He’s reopening Family Roller.”
“What?” I gasp.
This is like a punch straight in the chest.
It just doesn’t make any sense.
Distant, douchebag Luke Nelson, who never showed a single moment of interest in Family Roller … is reopening it?
“Why?”
“I don’t know why,” she says, shrugging as I pass Main Street, Memorial Park, and head toward the Mini ’Burbs. “But all month, he’s been over there, taking deliveries, builders going pretty much twenty four hours a day. He’s like a man possessed. The Grand Opening is tomorrow evening, not that he’s handed out flyers or anything. He’s done a terrible job at marketing, really. But I want to go. A
nd I’m sure you do, right? Considering how much you loved the place.”
I think about seeing a Nelson. Luke’s not Noah, of course, and I hardly even knew him growing up. A few words exchanged here and there. But he’s still a Nelson.
Mostly I just remember a taut-muscled teenage boy jogging down the Mini ’Burbs, more often than not with dumbbells in his hands and a backpack full of weight plates biting into the stony surface of his rock-hard shoulders. Sometimes, he’d drop onto the front lawn, lying on his back as his chest heaved, sweat moving all over him.
But I was five years younger, just a kid when he was training for the SEALs. If he ever aimed his emerald-green eyes at me, they moved over just as quickly. Not only was I too dorky, too invisible, and too young, I also belonged to his little brother.
Oh, yeah, we were the sweetest hearts in the whole wide world, according to Little Fall.
Not that anybody ever asked for my opinion.
I have no desire to see Luke Nelson, but Penny is looking at me hopefully. I can tell she wants to go. “Of course,” I mutter, hiding my discomfort. “I’ll drive us, hon.”
“Awesome,” she grins.
I pull up outside my childhood home, literally a stone’s throw from the Nelson house, which looks far more well-cared-for than ours.
Penny drums her fingers on the dash absentmindedly, gazing over at the Nelson place. “Isn’t it horrible how Evelyn went?” she whispers, shivering. “Crashing on an icy road like that. Dumb luck. Sometimes, Hannah, I really effing hate the world.”
—
If I expected the cancer to steal any of Mom’s feistiness—not that I did, of course—I was wrong. If anything, she’s upped it by a few hundred degrees. She wears her jet-black bandana like it’s a conscious choice, not something that’s been forced on her, and she swaggers over to me with all the sass I remember from childhood.