After knocking a geometry proof out, he scrawls, Chocolate or Vanilla? on the scratch paper.
I circle Vanilla and write the words of course underneath.
He puts a question mark after my words.
I scribble back, Everyone loves chocolate. Vanilla seems lonely. I prefer to represent the underdog. I shrug to let him know it might not make sense, but it makes sense to me. He changes my period to an explanation point. He either approves or he’s excited. Doesn’t take much, apparently.
After the second question, Comedy or Suspense? appears from beneath his writing hand, I have to think back to the last time I saw a movie. It was with Mom. The Fisher King. A nineties flick starring a comedian Mom used to love.
I cross out suspense and write romantic in front of comedy.
He smirks and writes, CIA Suspense like the Bourne Trilogy, but I like those too. Shhh. don’t tell anyone. Have a rep to uphold. Don’t want the guys to know I’m into chick flicks, and then proceeds to black out the words chick flicks as he surveys the room suspiciously.
By the time I answer ten questions, all the teams have handed in their contest sheets. We’re last, but I don’t care. We have a few fun facts to walk away with.
I prefer spring. He likes autumn.
He plays basketball. I can run. Pretty fast if I need to.
He plays the guitar. Writes his own music, apparently. I play a mean vacuum.
I can bake from scratch. He has mastered mac and cheese from the box.
He chooses bacon over sausage any day. I prefer bacon, too. But turkey. He’s all for the pig’s contribution to the best scents to radiate from a kitchen.
He loves music: to sing it, dance to it, or just listen to it all day long. So would I if I had time. Not sure about the dancing thing, though.
He owns an iPod. I listen to the radio of my alarm clock.
I read fiction. He doesn’t like to read. Well, there’s one book he reads every day. A little weird, but okay.
I investigate further that day during lunch. “What’s it called?”
“What’s what called?” Lagan needs to work on his short-term memory is what I’m thinking.
“The one book you read?” Duh!
“Oh that. It’s nothing. Just a little book on life and war. You probably wouldn’t get into it.”
“Try me. I don’t mind a story on war. Who’s the hero?” Heck, any war story that isn’t my own would be a nice diversion.
“Heroes. Plural. That would be you. And me. And the gardener.”
Speak for yourself. I’m nobody’s hero. I roll my eyes and say, “Whatever. So what’s the gardener’s name? Does he fight with a spade or a rake? Do you even know the difference between a weed and a flower?”
Lagan holds his hand over his heart and throws his head back before saying with theatrical gusto, “Ouch! Feeling my heartbeat slowing to..a...”—he falls off his stool— “stop.”
“Now if I ROFLOL, the school newspaper will report a cafeteria poisoning. That might get us a better menu. Hmm? Now there’s food for...What were we talking about?”
Back upright with his lower lip slightly jutting, I wonder if he’ll ever get used to a girl who is not easily impressed.
He answers my question. The next day at lunch, he hands me a book.
“The Beautiful Fight by Blank,” I read aloud. “Sounds violent.” Besides, how can there be anything beautiful about fighting? “Who’s Blank? Is he a one-name wonder like Madonna or Sting?”
“Haha. Blank is where you fill in your name. Because you’re part of the story. Wanna borrow it? I put Sticky Notes to mark my favorite parts.” He slides it over to my side of the cafeteria table.
“With all my free time...” I’m pretty certain that between Dad’s lists and homework, I’ll never get to it. I pick up the book and check the Post-it notes. They’re blank, like the author name. “Okay, on one condition.”
“Oh, I forgot to mention,” Lagan says, “I don’t need it back anytime soon. I have a second copy. Keep it. Or not.”
“Yeah. That’s what I was gonna ask.” How did you know? I don’t do well with deadlines. And sounds like that’s the case, so... “Thanks. I think.”
I turn over the average-sized book that has a plant budding from the earth with a brilliant red sunrise in the backdrop. Pretty. On closer examination, that’s no plant. It’s a sword, the sun’s rays creating a brilliant metallic luster when they hit the emerging weapon.
When I get home, I carefully move Mom’s precious strand to Lagan’s book. Now I have two people to think about each time I open this book. Whether I read it or not is TBD.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The date is February 7. We’ve been playing these games for five months, and Lagan still has no clue regarding the hell I return to each day after school. I shake my head, Etch –A Sketch-style, and soak in Lagan’s latest innovation to enter my head and heart. He names our conversation over lunch today, “Face-to-Face,” giving me two Sticky Notes during math class—one with a happy face and one with a sad face—with instructions to bring them to lunch with me.
Basically, I put one face on each side of my tray: on the left sits the happy face, and on the right, the sad one.
“If the word I say makes you happy, put your hand on the happy face. If it makes me sad, cover the sad face.” Lagan smiles, and I nod. Simple enough.
I pick up a spoon heaping with applesauce. My lips are well scabbed over for a change, so they don’t sting as I eat today. I swallow a second spoonful and wait for the first word.
Lagan clears his throat and looks up at the ceiling. “Blueberries.”
I move my left hand over the happy face. I prefer raspberries, but blueberries are a close second.
After looking side to side, Lagan says his second word: “Swimming.”
I put my hand back on the smiley face. Swimming reminds me of Mom. Plus I love that the world becomes silent underwater. I think of the beach near our Benton Harbor home. The last time I swam was over five years ago, when Jess wasn’t bedbound. I have no idea when I’ll swim again, but if given a choice, I’d choose the life of a fish any day.
“Reading.” Lagan’s next word pulls me to the surface of my shallow dive into the past.
Another easy one—happy face covered again. Although I do hate reading one thing: the lists with Dad’s perfectly legible cursive letters. Curse those lists. Curse Dad.
“Homework,” Lagan says, reining me back.
I think I surprise him when I cover the smiley face again. For me, homework means that many fewer minutes I spend doing housework.
Lagan raises an eyebrow and then shrugs his shoulders.
“Home.” Like a log falling on the tracks, Lagan derails my train of thought.
I expect a curveball at some point, but I don’t expect to hallucinate. I see the etch of the sad face on the Sticky Note turn into Dad’s head with a finger raised to his lips, warning me to give nothing away. Instinctively, I flip the Post-it note over and put my hand over it. I hide Dad’s face when I come out of hiding. I’m not exactly sure why I choose to cover the sad face, knowing that Lagan might suspect something. The fact that he never pushes me for details helps. He just allows me to peel back my heart, one thin layer at a time.
I keep the frowning, face covered, when I hear Lagan’s next word: “Jesse.” I look at my hand on top of the sad face as I realize that I feel both when it comes to Jess. I flip the sad face upright again, cover it, and move my other hand. Now both the faces are covered. Lagan knows I have a brother at home named Jesse. But he has no idea why he isn’t attending school. Or the fact that Jess is the sole reason that I can’t run away.
Wanting to run away now, I decide that detective Lagan had collected enough clues for today. I look at the clock on the wall. I pull my hands into my lap, then start organizing the garbage on my tray. The lunch bell won’t ring for another ten minutes. I stare at the simple round faces. One happy. One sad. Life in 2-D appeals to me. I woul
d trade my reality for this alternative any day.
“No more words,” I say. I’m done. I have no more to give.
We eat in silence as the minutes pass.
Bell about to ring now, I rise from the table.
Lagan rises too. “Last two, I promise.”
“No.”
“Lagan,” he says the first. His name.
I look up and scan the room. Deep breath. I look back at Lagan, into those dark brown, almond-shaped eyes, perhaps for the first time, and smile. My hand slips over the happy face and the bell sounds.
He smiles back and reaches over, placing his hand on top of mine. “Say your name.”
It’s time to go. My heart pounds a mile a minute. I can feel heat seeping into my hand, and I am melting. Escape or chance passing out.
“Please.” Lagan’s hand wraps a little tighter around mine. “Say your name.”
“Umm. Uh. Okay.” I stutter, trying to find my voice. “Talia.”
Lagan slides my hand off the happy face with his hand. And moves his hand to cover it. Smile stretched wide, he picks up the yellow Post-it, holds it to his chest, and taps a playful heartbeat over the note. Over his heart.
I shake my head, look up to the ceiling, and half expect a ton of confetti to rain down. Warmth spreads over my face. As usual, Lagan takes my tray for me in exchange for a Sticky Note before we head out of the cafeteria. This one has just one word on it: Like.
I am still blushing when I look up to see Lagan’s back walking away. Luckily, blushing isn’t too dangerous for this bronze-toned teen girl. A blush feels like a spreading heat wave without the rosy cheeks. If this is what it feels like to be struck by lightning, I’ve been struck twice in less than a minute. First his hand on mine, then his animated exit. I rub the back of my hand where his hand rested and raise it to my healing lips. Yes. I draw an imaginary check mark in the air. Definite like.
I fingertip tap into my palm, my imaginary iPhone, to update my status: “Met a boy that makes me smile. Sure do hope he stays a while.” Not wanting to get ahead of myself, I alter the word Single to It’s complicated.
CHAPTER NINE
Walking home, my mind hurdles back and forth between two bridges, the gap between them so wide, each leap reminds me that failure to return to the correct side in time will cost me. Yet, for the first time ever, risk appeals to me. Perhaps this little taste of happiness is worth the fall from Dad’s grace that threatens my every breath. I inhale deeply and jump.
Lagan’s smile.
Jump back.
Boiling water on my arm.
Vault forward.
Lagan’s hand on mine.
Return.
Broken glass cuts.
Bound forward again.
Lagan’s eyes looking right into mine.
Retreat.
Mom’s empty eyes staring at the ceiling.
Lagan’s Romeo exit.
Jesse’s legs that never move.
Lagan holding the smiley face to his heart.
My heart breaking.
No version of reality allows me to have this—him, Lagan. For more than a moment. Graduation lies only four months away. I turned in all the college applications that Dad allowed. All to schools that I can commute to. Out of state is out of the question. Dad’s goal for me for college seems to be for me to take over his business some day. He has no clue that I love to write. That I want to be a writer. Write stories where I can hide my past in between the lines of worlds my imagination paints, most often in my dreams. The last thing I want is to have anything to do with Dad or his practice, but that’s not something I need to worry about now. I’m just relieved that he’s letting me apply.
I know Lagan applied to schools in the city and in California. If he decides to stay local, we could find a way to secretly meet, and then he’ll propose, and we’ll elope, and then, and then... Who am I kidding, anyway? This thing, this, this—what is this anyway? Like dreaming while I roam about wide-awake, except that waking up will be painfully real when June comes around.
My mind seesaws with every step closer to the house, wondering if it’s worth it. At the same time, I am in so deep, I don’t know how to rewind. Even if I reason to myself that Lagan is too huge a risk and I need to stop, retract, and forget about him, my heart begs for more like a newborn searches for her mother’s breast. I long for time with Lagan like I used to pine for my mom to stroke my head as I fell asleep. I don’t know how I’ll keep my joy a secret from Dad. I do know one thing. It’s time to tell Jesse.
I enter the house and find Jess asleep with the TV running. I continue to complete the remainder of my circuit, mentally editing the words before I tell my brother. I have my eureka moment while unloading the dishwasher, as I see my reflection in a Corning Ware platter. I finish organizing the last of the silverware and race to Jesse’s room to take care of his needs. He’s awake now.
“Jess, I have a new story for you.” I hear my voice chirping the words.
Jesse turns off the TV with the remote and lifts his face toward me.
I begin my tale. “It’s about this girl at school that I’ve been watching. She’s really interesting to watch, so I’ve been sort of spying on her, eavesdropping, and just living vicariously while following her around from a distance. I actually think she’s a little nutty. Maybe that’s what draws me to her. Maybe someday we’ll be friends. I think we’d get along. For now, she’s fun to watch, and she gives me fresh material. Helps me stay distracted.”
Jess’s eyes light up with anticipation. It has been awhile since I made time to talk to him. We both need this. I sweep up the incense ashes, move Jess to his wheelchair, and change his sheets. All the while, I tell him about a girl named “Katrina.” A girl who finds Post-it notes everywhere. A girl who eats lunch with a guy named Logan every day, but never sits close enough to make anyone think she joined this guy for lunch. A girl who smiles and giggles to herself, tucking the reasons for her joy into her books. A girl who seems to be falling in love with this boy whom she eats with day after day.
Jess holds onto each and every word, telling me with his eyes that at times he is confused. Other times, he is happy for this girl. Still other times, he looks down, sorrowful over the girl’s self-imposed limitations—to love and be loved. When I am about to tell him not to feel sad—it’s just the story of a stranger after all—Jess lifts his hand ever so slightly and points in my direction. Then his lips form the word You? just as the front door slams shut.
Dad is home. The list is done. The air is full of new information, and Jess looks at me, not needing an answer. He already knows. And I know that he knows. As Dad makes his rounds up and around the house, I make a two second motion of secrecy to Jess by putting my forefinger to my lips. Jess nods, and we lock the story into our imaginary vault.
Shutting my mind off from my world of fresh possibility and reentering my hazardous home life, I wonder if this is what jet lag feels like. While I’m awake, I want to sleep. While I sleep, I want to be awake. I sleepwalk through my evening chores, and I spend all night replaying every interaction ever shared with Lagan, from the very first Post-it note, to all his creative games and witty conversations. To today. And his hand. Resting on mine. When my alarm buzzes, I awake more tired than ever. I have no choice. I cannot be found out. I have to maintain my facade—at least until Dad leaves for work.
He must have had an early meeting, because I smell coffee that I haven’t made. I look at the clock terrified that I overslept. It reads 6:30 a.m. Whew.
As I clean up, dress for school, and head down to Jess’s room to help him with his morning routine, I find Dad is gone, but he left a note by Jess’s bed:
Early start today. Make sure you get to school on time. I’ll be home late tonight. Last second business trip to Vegas. Big case I have to attend to. Taking the red eye back. Don’t wait up. Don’t forget, I’ll be double-checking EVERYTHING.
Dad
Wow. A chance to breathe, for once. I deb
ate skipping around the house and throwing the sheets up in the air. But my instinct keeps my excitement at bay. I have no reason to trust Dad. What does “late” mean? He could be trying to trap me since a little over a month has passed since my last punishment. The memories of Mom remind me to never let my guard down.
Doesn’t mean I can’t imagine breaking the rules. Even if I don’t follow through. Invite Lagan over for milk and cookies. Introduce him to Jesse. Slow dance with him around the kitchen. I’m bound to miss the bus if I keep daydreaming. Hello? Shaking off my digressions, I race through my remaining tasks.
Each time I do anything for Jess or pass his room, he smiles at me. He has smiled more today than I’ve seen him smile since when Mom was alive. He is happy for this girl—for me—and it feels nice. I wonder if he’s ever been in love? Never thought to ask my baby brother. We both know how critical it is to keep everything confidential. Even a hint of unusual behavior will arouse suspicion. And suspicion in our house translates to guilty as charged. No trial. No jury. Straight to life in prison. Makes the electric chair sound appealing.
Instead, Warden Dad despises my middle name, Grace. I’ll never know how Mom pulled that one off. I never asked her. In Dad’s world, no probation or early release for good behavior in sight, leaving me no choice but to press on.
I grab my bag and head for the front door, almost forgetting one last thing. Dropping my pack to return to Jesse’s room to hug him goodbye, I see he isn’t watching TV. Instead, he managed to pull his sheets off himself and is trying to lift his legs. A little above the bed. One at a time. My bottom lip quivers as it hits me. He’s rehabbing himself. A tear escapes. He’s trying. Really trying to live again.
I ease away so he won’t register my sight of him. As I race out the door, I yell, “Bye Jess,” and resolve to help him regain his strength. And maybe someday, even walk again.
CHAPTER TEN
When I finish my Chem quiz quickly and pull out a blank sheet of paper to doodle on while the minutes pass, I steal glances at Lagan as I draw a sketch of the ocean. Waves I can relate to. I often dream of swimming across the Pacific to Japan. Or the Atlantic to England. Starting over as a refugee.
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