by Cat Patrick
Always.
Luke
* * *
After school, a floral hatbox sits before me with its innards exposed. Luke’s apology letter in one hand and a photo of a happy couple in the other, I feel like my innards are exposed, too.
My mom didn’t seem surprised when I asked her about him. She led me right to the hatbox, with a look that bordered on patronizing.
“Well, that didn’t take long,” she said.
“It’s not over yet,” I replied, grabbing the hatbox and taking refuge in my room.
Now, in a word, I’m thrown.
I started at the beginning, and after reading about the first few times Luke and I spoke, I was ready to dial his number and accept his apology right then and there.
But then I read on, with his betrayal in mind. Every seemingly pleasant moment filtered through this new lens of lies became darker—dirtier. He was keeping a secret from me the whole time, never letting me know the real Luke.
Then again, I was keeping a secret from him, too.
In a way, we were both at fault.
Still, his lie was worse.
Wasn’t it?
My cell phone rings beside me and I know that it’s him, even though the number isn’t stored in my phone. I consider ignoring the call, but can’t help but answer.
“Hello?” I say quietly.
“Hi.” A smooth voice breathes into the phone, sending chills down my spine. Why did he lie? If I wasn’t mad at him, I could be staring into his blue eyes right now.
“Hi,” I say back.
“I know you said that you needed time, but I had to call,” Luke begins.
“You’re not exactly giving me space,” I say, determined not to be charmed so easily. Gorgeous or not, he hurt me.
“I know,” he says softly, sounding helpless. “What can I do?”
“You can’t do anything,” I say firmly. “I said I needed space to figure this out, and if you really care about me, you’ll respect that.”
I wince and think he might have, too, although I can’t be sure. He’s silent for a few seconds.
“Okay, London,” he says finally, with a sadness that breaks my heart a little. “I’ll leave you alone.”
Instead of telling him “never mind,” like I desperately want to, I simply say, “Thank you, Luke,” and disconnect before I make any promises I might not be able to keep.
Leaning against my bed with the gutted hatbox before me and chronicles of our relationship littering the floor, I can’t help but cry. I don’t want to be sensible. I don’t want to think about things. I don’t want to have to forgive him.
I don’t want him to have lied in the first place.
I shove the debris off my legs and climb up onto my bed, lying facedown in my pillow and sobbing for who knows how long. I don’t hear her come in but my mom appears, smoothing my hair and patting my back and telling me it’ll all be okay.
No, it won’t, I think to myself.
It won’t be okay at all.
29
Life blindsided me this morning.
It’s barely past seven o’clock on a Wednesday, and already I’m tired. It seems everything is wrong, so I focus on something small.
Page Thomas.
Yesterday’s note says that she served as a captain in gym class. When I was the last person on the bench, Page told Ms. Martinez and the class that she’d rather play one person short than have me on her team.
Nice.
I moved on to reading about Luke, but then something in a note from four months ago caught my attention. It was around the time Luke moved to town:
Bring yoga pants, T-shirt for gym (had to borrow clothes from Page Fri.)
Yesterday, Page wouldn’t have lent me a square of toilet paper, let alone a shirt. I remember her tomorrow and there’s no way she’d lend me anything then, either. Curious, I spend the next hour searching through notes for entries about her. And what I realize is this:
I saved Page Thomas.
Okay, sure, it wasn’t from a forty-story building sent up in flames or anything. But, looking back now, I see clearly there was a time when I remembered Brad breaking Page’s heart. Demolishing it, actually.
But this morning, when I think of Page and Brad, I remember them together until I can’t remember them at all. I’ll hear at the senior party that they’re going to college together; that’s the last they’ll be in my life.
As far as I can tell from notes, things changed when I lied about Brad not liking girls. Page was forced to find another way into Brad’s arms, and it seems to have made all the difference.
So, yes, I am friendless. And, yes, I’ve been wronged by an apparently gorgeous and wonderful guy. I’m living with a mom I can’t trust and dreading the worst kind of heartbreak imaginable in the form of a dead child.
My life is screwed up, to say the least.
But the tiny smidgen of a tidbit of a crumb of a shaving of sunshine on this bleak Wednesday morning is that I saved Page Thomas from heartbreak. With one simple decision months ago, I changed something for the better.
And if I can help her, surely I can help myself.
I have the metal door positioned in a way that allows me to keep watch on Jamie Connor’s locker across the hall without being obvious about it. I’m staring into the magnetic vanity mirror, waiting. Of course, I look like I’m in love with myself, but no one is paying attention to me anyway.
Because I can see what’s behind me, I know that the boy I’m assuming is Luke, thanks to photos in my bedroom this morning, walked by earlier, slowly, hesitantly, like he wanted to stop.
But he didn’t.
He’s waiting; that’s good.
Finally, a familiar blunt blonde haircut catches my eye, and I turn to confirm that Jamie has arrived. She’s in too-tight faded jeans and a hot-pink top that seems innocent enough from the back but which I know, without having to look, is low-cut in the front.
I slam the metal door so that the lock catches securely and ease my way across two lanes of students, eyes on Jamie’s back the whole time. Once I reach her, I have to clear my throat before she notices me standing at her side.
“Hi, J,” I say brightly.
“Hi,” she mutters, turning back to her locker.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Do you care?” she says, not turning around.
“Of course I care, Jamie, you’re my best friend!” She glances at me, then back to the locker.
“Am I?” she says. “Or am I too much of a slut to be your friend anymore?”
“Jamie, that’s not fair!” I say. Jamie slams her locker door and turns to face me. Her eyes are cold, vacant.
“No, London. No, it isn’t,” she says bitterly, before walking off toward her first class.
My face flushes, and I’m so mad that I want to chase after her and shake her and tell her everything I know that she doesn’t. But just then, the bell signaling the start of the period rings, and chasing down Jamie might mean detention with her boyfriend, I mean Mr. Rice. So instead, I rush to the library.
Ms. Mason glares at me for being late, and Luke sits up expectantly when I fall into the chair opposite him, but something about my body language tells them both to back off. I work on Spanish homework the whole period and leave quickly when the bell sounds. I can feel Luke’s disappointment, and guilt creeps through me until I remember this morning’s notes. This is the guy who lied to me for four months. Four months. He deserves a little indecision. He deserves to sweat it out a bit.
Skipping the trip to my locker, I settle into my seat in Spanish and watch the door. I’m ready to confront Jamie before class, but the seconds tick by and her desk remains empty. The bell rings, and there’s no Jamie.
Ten minutes later, she’s still not here.
When I’ve decided that she’s ditched class, gone home sick, or left for a doctor’s appointment, I face the fact that there will be no confrontation today. Jamie had the last word, and it was a
nasty one. My anger subsides because it has to, and it’s replaced by sadness. I can’t help but feel that my best friend has abandoned me.
And I get it, at least a little. I know she’s upset. I know she’s jealous of Luke. I know she wishes I didn’t disapprove of her boyfriend, if you want to call Mr. Rice that.
But getting it doesn’t make it stop hurting.
Forever, I will share my thoughts and feelings with Jamie. Forever, except for right now. And right now, I really need her.
She should be here to exchange notes about whether or not to forgive Luke. She should be here to whisper with me about my dad. She should calm me—just by being nearby—about things too awful to know. She should willingly partner with me for stupid pronunciation drills.
But I’m alone, not just for pronunciation drills. For everything. Every morning when I wake up and learn this anew, a fresh wound will open—until the day Jamie decides to forgive me.
And then we’ll be fine again.
Because that’s how I remember it.
30
The house line rings twice before my mom answers it. I can hear her muffled voice from the kitchen below my bedroom. A minute later, there’s a quick knock on the door.
“London, are you up?” she whispers through the door.
“Yeah, Mom, I’m awake. Come on in,” I say from my seat at the desk. I’m surprised she didn’t hear me moving around earlier. I’ve been up for hours.
“There’s a woman on the phone for you,” she says.
“Weird,” I say before pushing back in my desk chair and walking to the telephone table in the hallway. I pick up the receiver and wait until my mom makes her way down to the kitchen and hangs up the other extension.
“Hello?”
“London?”
“Yes, this is London. Who’s this?” I say, twirling the phone cord around my index finger.
“This is Abby Brennan. We met a few months ago?”
My mind is blank. I’m silent.
“You came to my house? You were looking for your grandmother, Jo Lane?”
“Oh, yes,” I lie into the phone. I have no clue. This was not in my notes. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” the woman says kindly. I can hear a child’s voice in the background, singing a song about snakes on parade. “Chelsea, Mommy’s on the phone, honey. Sorry about that, London.”
I can’t hear the little girl’s response, but I don’t hear the snake song anymore, either.
“No problem.”
“Anyway, I’m calling because I remembered the name of your grandmother’s retirement home in the city. It’s been driving me crazy for months, and finally this week it came to me.”
My stomach tightens into knots. I’ve been reading notes all morning; how did I miss this?
“Oh, really?” I say to the woman, hoping to sound casual.
“Yes, it’s called Lingering Pines.”
“That’s great,” I say robotically, even as my mind spins out of control.
“Yes, well, I just wanted to let you know. When you speak to her, please tell Jo that the house is being well taken care of. Give her our best.”
“I will,” I say mindlessly before telling the woman good-bye and hanging up the phone.
In the remaining forty-five minutes before school, I carefully dress, apply makeup, and flat-iron my hair, all the while pondering what just happened.
Somehow, I clearly managed to figure out that my grandmother’s name is Jo Lane. Then, apparently I went to Abby Brennan’s house looking for said grandmother. And now, I guess that my grandmother, Jo Lane, is in a nursing home.
Called Lingering Pines.
In the city.
What I don’t get is, why? Why wouldn’t I chronicle all of this for myself?
All I can fathom as I apply a top layer of lip gloss is that when I researched my grandmother, I felt that I’d come up empty. All I can rationalize is that I didn’t want to torture myself with knowing that I failed. All I can figure is that I gave up.
But now I have the name of my grandmother’s nursing home. I can contact her, if I want to. And she might lead me to my father.
Looking in the mirror, I smile at my reflection. I feel powerful with this new information, with my stick-straight hair; long, dark lashes; and fitted black button-down.
And feeling powerful is a good thing, because apparently there’s a boy in my life who needs to be reminded to never, ever wrong me again.
“What are your plans for tonight?” my mom asks hours later at dinner.
“I don’t know,” I say, avoiding direct eye contact. “Maybe I’ll watch a movie.”
Really, I can’t wait to Google Lingering Pines and call to confirm that my grandmother is a resident. After that, who knows?
“I shouldn’t be too late,” Mom says. “It’s only two houses.”
I shrug; she can stay out all night for all I care.
“I bought some popcorn,” Mom offers, trying a little too hard.
“Okay, thanks,” I say, scooping up the last of my peas and wishing she’d leave already, or at least stop watching me eat. I give her a broad, cheesy (fake) smile that, thankfully, she buys. Mom walks across the room, kisses the top of my head, and grabs her keys.
“I guess I’d better get going, then. Have a good night, sweetie. Let’s do something fun tomorrow, just us girls, okay?” She pauses by the door to the garage, waiting.
“Okay, Mom,” I say reassuringly so she’ll leave. Seconds later, it works.
Hastily, I rinse my plate and put it in the dishwasher before skipping up the stairs and waking up my computer from sleep mode. In less than a minute, not only do I have the number for Lingering Pines, but I’m halfway through the photo gallery of images of its sweeping grounds, happy residents, and well-maintained facilities. Though I assume that the people in the pictures are models, I carefully inspect each photo just in case, then print the main page and some of the photos for reminders.
I have the jitters as I ponder what I’m about to do. Step one: find Grandma. Step two: find Dad.
Before I have the chance to talk myself out of it, I open my cell phone and dial the main number for Lingering Pines. The tone sounds long and lonely. I picture a dated phone waiting unattended, its shrill call going unnoticed over too-loud TVs shouting from the patients’ rooms.
I wish for a receptionist to pick up the second before she does. Except that it’s a recording telling me that Lingering Pines is closed, and to please call again tomorrow or dial one for the nurse’s station.
Apparently the elderly residents of Lingering Pines Retirement Community are only open for business between the hours of 8:00 AM and 5:00 PM daily.
Feeling that this isn’t earth-shattering enough to disturb a nurse, I hang up. I store the number in my contacts, allowing myself to imagine for a moment what it would be like to have a grandmother to call and visit sometimes.
Later, long after I’ve left high school behind, I will envy my friend Margaret’s relationship with her grandmother. I will cry when she dies of cancer, not because I’ll know her that well but because I’ll see Margaret lose a little piece of herself when the sweet old woman goes.
Nothing left to do on my grandmother search this evening, I turn off the computer, wash the day from my face, and head downstairs to make popcorn and watch a movie, just like I told my mom I would.
In the kitchen, I get out the kernels and the mini-kettle. I scan the directions on the popcorn container, then add the oil and kernels to the pan, turn on the stove, and start slowly turning the crank. The first kernel explodes, then the second, then twelve or twenty or fifty more. Concentrating on nothing but the span of time between the tiny explosions so as not to burn my precious popcorn, I barely notice the sound from the front entryway. In fact, by the time I pause to listen, I wonder whether I heard anything at all.
Then it’s there again: a timid knock at the front door.
Not the doorbell.
; A knock.
Still holding the handle of the popcorn pan, I glance at the clock. It only feels like midnight. Really, it’s 6:58, a perfectly appropriate time for accepting visitors on a Friday night. If only I were expecting visitors.
Immediately, I wonder if today’s outfit worked; I wonder if it’s Luke. I find myself hoping that it is, even though I’m still hurt by his actions.
I set the popcorn aside and hurry from the kitchen. I switch on the porch light and wish our door had a peephole.
“Who is it?” I call.
There is a pause, and I consider backing away from the door and calling my mom to come home. Maybe it’s not him. Finally:
“It’s Luke.”
I suck in my breath. Then I wait a beat and open the door.
The waves of Luke’s hair are rustling in the winter wind and his cheeks are flushed from the cold. He briefly removes one hand from his jeans pocket to wave hello without speaking the word itself, and then replaces his hand. He looks boyish and a touch embarrassed to be here, shuffling his feet as I open the door wider.
I wrap my arms around my torso to shield myself from the frigid outdoors, but it doesn’t really help. I’m freezing, but I don’t mind.
Luke is here.
He looks around, and then suddenly his blue eyes are on mine, invading my space and my soul. I feel self-conscious from his piercing stare, but no part of me wants to break free from it, either.
“Is your mom here?” Luke asks, in a tone both soft and strong. Feeling weak, I tighten the grip on my torso for support.
“No, she went…”
Before I can finish my sentence, Luke is up the entryway step, kissing me.
Hard.
His palms are on either side of my face, and the few feet that were between us have shrunk to inches. One inch, maybe.
I drop my arms in surrender, then slowly wind them around this boy before me, tight and then tighter still. Luke kicks shut the front door behind him, lips still locked on mine, and we kiss each other like one of us is dying.