“Cord Cofax, real estate mogul. Has a nice ring to it.”
The only answer I get is a snore. But the image of Cord in a suit, like a real-life adult, is all the distraction I need.
I don’t know when I finally fall asleep. But I do know that when I wake up, it’s past noon, Cord is making pancakes in the kitchen, and I have a pounding headache. And when I check my phone, I have an email. From Canyonlands National Park.
And it’s a yes.
I actually have two emails from Canyonlands, but that’s beside the point. The point is: I officially know where I’m going to be this summer. And it’s officially far away from here.
I need to tell Josie. I need to talk to her and see where we stand. So I spend the entire afternoon looking for her—knocking on her cabin door, searching around the grounds, even asking about her. But she’s impossible to find. When Libby opens the cabin door, she just glares at me—her black eye making her look even scarier than usual—and tells me Josie’s “out.” When I find Maddie Macpherson reading underneath a tree, she tells me Josie was out gardening this morning but hasn’t seen her since. When I ask Ned if he’s seen Josie, he raises an eyebrow and asks me why it’s any of my business. Basically, no one even pretends to be helpful.
After four hours of searching, I end up wandering into the Sanctuary. Myra’s in here, sitting cross-legged on the floor. She is surrounded by scraps of paper and ribbons and glue and scissors and glitter and stickers. It looks like a craft bomb went off.
She looks up when I enter and screeches. “Stop!”
I freeze. “What?”
She picks up a nearby newspaper and throws it over whatever it is she’s doing. She carefully spreads the pages out so that her craft project is completely covered.
“Do you need me to leave?” I’m half-hoping the answer is yes. I’m not in the mood to get roped into a crazy Myra plan.
“No, no, no. Just a graduation surprise.” She motions for me to come in. “Have a seat.”
I walk into the center of the room. “I didn’t really come in to sit, actually. I was just wondering if you’ve seen Josie around?”
“I saw her this morning, but not since.” She peers at me, studying my face, and then stands up. Actually, it’s more like she jumps up. For a seventy-year-old lady, she sure moves fast.
“Sit.” She points to the couch, and her voice tells me she’s not messing around. “I’ll be right back.”
When she emerges from the kitchen a minute later, she’s carrying two steaming mugs. She places one in front of me and settles back down on the floor.
I sniff my mug suspiciously. “What is this?”
“Tea. Drink it.”
“What kind of tea?” Myra’s always trying to feed me weird shit from the forest, so I’ve become very suspicious of anything she tries to serve me.
“The good kind,” she says impatiently. “Just try it.”
I take a sip, and it actually tastes good. Like lemons and mint and also maybe lavender. The warm liquid heats up my chest, seeping into my bones. Sighing, I sink into the couch. “Thanks, Myra.”
She watches my face as I drink, her eyebrows knit together. She’s wearing a huge knit blanket-scarf type thing, even though it’s actually pretty warm out. Myra’s always cold.
“How are you doing, Mitchell?” she asks.
“I’m okay.”
She narrows her eyes. “How are you really doing, Mitchell?”
She’s known me since I was five. Which means she can see right through my fake smile. I close my eyes. “I don’t know.”
“You’re still angry with your mom.” She says it like a statement, not a question.
“Yeah.”
“Me too.”
My eyes fly open. “What?”
“I’m mad at Carrie, too.” Her voice is matter-of-fact. “We all love your dad. He’s great. Watching her hurt him like that? It upset me, too.”
I try to absorb this. “I don’t understand. This is your place, Myra. You started Paintbrush. You could kick her right out in a heartbeat. Joe, too.”
“First of all, Paintbrush is not just my place. It’s our place. We all have equal ownership in this community.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say.
She glares at me.
“Second of all.” She pauses to take a sip of her tea. Myra’s always good for some dramatic effect. “Do you know why this is called the Indian Paintbrush Community Village?”
“After the wildflower. Indian Paintbrush.”
“Well, yes. But why did I name it after that particular wildflower?”
“Because it’s pretty?” I have no idea what she’s getting at.
“It is pretty,” she agrees. “I love when the red blooms cover the mountains in the spring. They’re not just pretty, though. The Native Americans used to eat the flowers. They helped to strengthen the immune system and make their hair shiny.” She shrugs. “Plus, I’m pretty sure it just tasted good.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. Sometimes, Myra’s tangents don’t make any sense. Actually, most of the time.
“So I decided to eat it.” She smiles. “Turns out it was poison.”
“Poison?”
“Yep.” She beams at me. “I was vomiting for days.”
“But you just said the Native Americans ate it.”
“Apparently they only ate the flower. The roots, as it turns out, are very toxic.”
“Jesus, Myra.” I think for a second. “So why would you name your community after something that poisoned you? That’s like naming your first-born child after some guy that bullied you in high school.”
“Just because the roots poisoned me doesn’t mean the flower isn’t beautiful. And delicious. It may have bad parts—”
“Uh, yeah. Like the poison.”
She nods. “Like the poison. But that doesn’t mean it’s all bad. It’s still a good flower and a good plant, important to its native environment and ecology. It’s just not perfect.”
“Oh god. I feel an analogy coming on.”
She grins. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She stands back up, stretching her legs. “But that’s why I chose the name. People aren’t perfect. Places aren’t perfect. Everyone has flaws. But one flaw—or one mistake—doesn’t mean you should write off that person forever.”
“Or that plant,” I say.
“Exactly.” She pats me on the shoulder. “Just think about it, Mitchell.”
“I’ll try.”
She grabs my empty mug and heads back toward the kitchen. I slump over sideways until my face is squished into the couch cushions. In my pocket is my phone, the email from Canyonlands pulled up, burning a hole in my pocket. Two days until graduation, and I have a lot of decisions to make.
Oh, and a speech to write.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Josie
I’m exhausted. I want to crawl into my bed and sleep for an entire year, or maybe even two. I’m exhausted from avoiding Mitchell, from ducking around corners and hiding behind people and sneaking around Paintbrush, like I’m a ridiculous bumbling spy from an old timey movie.
I’m exhausted from helping Libby, who is in a lot of pain from her collarbone and arm. Helping is a pretty loose term; it’s more doing whatever stupid task Libby orders me to do because I feel bad about fighting with her after she got in a car accident. Yesterday, I made her homemade vegetable soup because she insisted she was getting a cold and just needed homemade soup to “strengthen her immune system.” And then she insisted I paint her toenails pink because she can’t do it herself. I have no idea why her toenails need to be strawberry sugar considering she’s basically confined to the house for the next month or two. But I feel guilty, so I did it. I even did a topcoat.
I’m exhausted from weeding because I’ve been working like crazy on the tomato beds to keep my mind off things. I pulled weeds for four entire hours yesterday, and now my arms and shoulders feel like they’re on fire.
We broke up—or ended it, or whatever it was—on Thursday. Now it’s Saturday, and graduation is tomorrow. Leah and I are supposed to sit together—the whole Sedgwick/Seely thing—but I’m not going. I texted her that I’m not going. Mitchell will be giving his speech, and my whole family will be there in a big happy celebratory mood, and I won’t be able to handle all the pretend-happy. So instead I’m going to be pretend-sick.
However, Leah’s response to my text was an immediate I’m coming over. So now I’m forced to sit out on my porch in the cheerful sunshine and await her arrival instead of lying on my bed in the dark and feeling sorry for myself, like I want to.
It takes her exactly twenty minutes to show up, which means she probably broke every speed limit on the way over. She marches her way across the lawn, her wedge sandals and edgy black dress looking super out of place against the worn rustic cabins. I prepare myself for the inevitable verbal attack.
“Hi, Leah,” I say.
She reaches out and punches me in the arm, hard, and I yelp.
“Jesus Christ, are you kidding me?” I grab my throbbing arm. This girl is way stronger than she looks.
“No.” She glares at me. “I’m not.” She lowers her fist and crosses her arms. “Josephine Sedgwick. What is the matter with you?”
I sigh. “I’m not going, Leah, and you can’t convince me.”
“Maybe I can’t convince you, but I can drag you. Kicking and screaming, if I have to. This is your high school graduation. You only get one of these.”
“Graduations are overrated. And besides, you’re not strong enough to drag me.”
“Oh, really?” She raises her fist for another blow, and I hold my arms above my head.
“No! Stop!” I plead.
She lowers her fist with a sigh and sits beside me on the porch, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. “What’s going on?”
My lip starts to tremble, so I bite it. And I squeeze my eyes shut. I will not cry over this anymore. I will not cry over a boy.
“Mitchell and I are over.”
“Oh, Josie.” She wraps her other arm around me and squeezes me into a hug. “What happened?”
“I don’t really know.” I lay my head on her shoulder. “He said he gets mad at me sometimes. But I’m pretty sure I broke up with him.”
Tears well in my eyes. One spills out and snakes its way down my cheek. I cover my face with my hands and groan. “Crying over a boy. It’s so embarrassing.”
Leah frowns. “Why is it embarrassing?”
“Just . . .” I shake my head. “Letting myself get all worked up over a guy. It’s dumb.”
“It is so not dumb.” She grabs my hand. “It’s love. Love is the most important thing in the world. It would be stupid to not get worked up over it.”
“I don’t think we were in love.”
“Maybe you weren’t in love. Not yet, anyway. But you love Mitchell. And he loves you. You guys have loved each other your whole lives practically.”
She’s right. You can’t grow up with someone the way we did and not love them.
“Crying over a boy is nothing to be embarrassed of. God, Josie. You need to cut yourself some slack once in a while.”
I nod against her shoulder, but I don’t trust myself to speak, so we sit in silence for a few minutes.
“Thanks, Leah,” I finally say.
“Don’t thank me,” she says. “Just come to graduation tomorrow. It won’t feel right graduating high school without you there.” She squeezes my shoulders. “Besides, it’s our chance to celebrate leaving the nightmare that is North Mountain High.”
“I wouldn’t call it a nightmare so much as a hellhole.”
“A torture chamber.”
“A snake pit.”
“So you’re coming?”
I reach down and grab her hand. “I’ll be there.”
Dinner is quiet. It’s been quiet the past few days. Despite Libby’s initial snappy attitude, she seems to have sunk into a sadness. Maybe it’s being kept home from school or being in constant pain, but she clearly feels bad.
It’s not until we’re all almost finished with our vegetable soup that Libby speaks.
“Brad broke up with me.” She doesn’t look up as she says this. She just spears a piece of chicken and takes a bite.
“Brad?” asks Mae.
“You have a boyfriend?” asks my mom. “I would have hoped you’d tell me if you had a boyfriend.”
I think of Mitchell, and a pang of guilt hits me.
“He was the one driving the car,” Libby says quietly.
My mom freezes, fork in midair. “Oh.”
“Well, I’m not sorry about it,” Mae says around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.
“Mae.” My mom flashes her a warning look.
“What? He almost killed her!”
“You could try to have a little sensitivity.”
“He texted me and told me it was over.” Libby’s voice is a shaky whisper. She still won’t look up.
“He texted you?” Mae snorts. “What an asshole.”
“Mae,” my mom warns again, but Libby shakes her head.
“It’s okay. She’s right. He is an asshole.”
Mae leans forward, arms resting on the table. “If I were you, I’d never forgive him.”
My mom sighs. “That’s not a very productive way of thinking.”
“Really?” I put my fork down. “You think she should forgive him?”
“Well, I certainly don’t think she should get back together with him.” My mom dabs her mouth with her napkin. “But you have to forgive at some point.”
Mae points at my mom. “I disagree.”
I nod. “Me too.”
But Libby’s gaze is on my mom. “Did you ever forgive Dad? For what he did to you?”
I glance at Mae; she widens her eyes back. We almost never talk about Dad and what happened when we were little.
“Yes.” My mom pushes her plate away and folds her hands in front of her. “I did.”
“How can you, though?” The words come spilling from my mouth. “He hit you. He tried to destroy you. How can you forgive him? That’s like letting him win.”
She speaks slowly, like every word is a careful choice. “I would never return to your father. What he did was wrong; there’s no doubt about it. But forgiving doesn’t mean I’m weak.” She focuses on me. “It means I didn’t let him destroy me. It means I did win.” Her voice is earnest and clear. “Keeping all that anger bottled up inside me? Holding a grudge for the rest of my life? Now that would have destroyed me.”
We all stare at her. No one is eating. Mae and Libby just blink, processing all this. Me, I’m reconsidering everything. I never thought of my mom as strong before, especially not these last few years. Now I’m ashamed I ever thought she was weak.
“Besides. I could never fully regret my relationship with your father.” My mom studies each of our faces, her lips tugged up at the corners. “Now I have all of you.”
At this, Libby bursts into tears.
I’m not kidding. Loud, messy, heaving sobs. Mae and I stare, open-mouthed, as our sister gets up and throws her arms—well, her one good arm—around my mom’s neck. I haven’t seen Libby display this much emotion in years. I wasn’t even sure if she was capable of tears anymore.
“I’m so sorry, Mom.” Her voice cracks. “I’m so, so sorry.”
My mom wraps her arms around Libby, rubbing her back in circles. “It’s okay, sweetie. Mistakes are a part of life. We just have to learn from them.”
Libby nods, sniffling. Mae and I exchange glances.
Libby pulls back when her crying subsides. “Even though I missed the last few days of school, am I allowed to go to Josie’s graduation tomorrow?”
Now I’m really surprised. I would have thought Libby would jump at the chance to get out of going to my graduation ceremony. It’s out in the hot sun, on the football field, and everyone is forced to sit for hours while they call every single name. All six hundred of them.
“It’s okay, Libby,” I say quickly. “You don’t have to go.”
She blinks at me. “But I want to go.”
My heart melts a little at this.
Mae chimes in. “You’re our big sister. Of course we’re gonna be there.”
I don’t know what to say to this, so I just smile. I smile, so I won’t tear up instead.
My mom disentangles herself from Libby and stands, picking up dirty dishes. “And Libby, honey, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about seeing Brad there. I don’t think many juniors attend the ceremony.”
“Are you kidding me?” Libby wipes her eyes with her free hand, her voice filled with venom. “I hope he’s there. I hope he sees me and my beat-up face and broken arm, and I hope it makes him feel like shit.”
Mae cracks up at this, and my mom shakes her head. And for once, I really admire Libby. Because while she’s parading her injuries around hoping to see a certain boy, I’ll be slinking around avoiding another boy entirely.
Graduation day is hot. It’s not even eighty degrees out, but the harsh sun shining on the football field makes it feel like one hundred. We’re all drenched with sweat in our black vinyl robes, practically melting in the heat.
Tiny beads of sweat drip down my neck. I’m glad I didn’t wear much makeup. I’m wearing a red-and-white checked sundress with a scoop neck and a twirly skirt. It’s nicer than I ever dress, and it’s the type of dress that calls for makeup, but it would have melted right off. Of course, Leah is sitting next to me, wearing pounds of perfectly applied makeup and a teeny-tiny white lacy dress with five-inch heels. She’s perched on the edge of her seat, and I don’t see a drop of sweat on her. Figures.
Principal Jeffers is droning on up on stage, about community and school spirit and who knows what else. I’m not really paying attention. I haven’t really been paying attention the whole ceremony. Because Mitchell is sitting up on stage in his cap and gown, his brown hair brushed to the side for once. He looks gorgeous. Can guys be gorgeous? Well, he is. Gorgeous and smiling and polished. And gorgeous.
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