by Laura Nowlin
“Are you crying?” Jamie says. I nod, even though it isn’t quite true. His fingers tighten in my hair and I press my face into his shoulder. We sit together like that for a long time. I think to myself, This is it, I really do love him. Tonight it’s easy to say, to feel.
“Why a turtle?” I say finally.
“They’re slow but steady,” he says. “And I like turtles.” He laughs when I laugh, and we lean our foreheads together. He reaches up and brushes his fingertips under my eyes; I squeeze them closed so that a few tears dampen my lower lashes for him to wipe away.
***
Mr. Laughegan suggests more books for me and loans me several others. I work hard on my first book report for him; I want to impress him.
At lunch, I show everyone his comments on my paper.
“Read this,” I say, shoving it in Brooke’s face. “‘I’ve never noticed that before, Good Job.’ I made a point that he had never thought of!”
“That’s neat,” she says.
“I like Mr. Laughegan too.” Noah says, “He’s cool.”
“Oh, I just adore him,” I say. Jamie rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, you’re in love with him,” he says.
“No, I just love him,” I say, and I realize it’s true. I do love Mr. Laughegan, not like a crush or like a father or a brother or anything that I can define, I just love him. I love him because he said I could stare out the window when it’s raining as long as I’m still listening, and because he said Macbeth was a jerk. I love Mr. Laughegan, and it is a simple and easy thought to have; it is nothing at all to say it.
Jamie rolls his eyes again.
“You’re in love with a teacher,” he says under his breath. I ignore him and read through Mr. Laughegan’s comments again.
***
“Hey, Autumn,” Finny says. I stop in my tracks. His voice is low. He doesn’t look directly at me when he speaks. We’re standing outside the closet-sized classroom. His book bag is slung over one shoulder, and he stands to one side of the door so that he cannot be seen from inside.
“Hey,” I say. I wonder if something is wrong.
“Happy birthday,” he says. He still is looking down at our feet.
“Thanks,” I say. I’m confused. He could have said this at the bus stop this morning. He could have waited until tonight, when we go out to dinner with The Mothers and my dad. Finny turns away and walks into the classroom. I follow him. To the others, it only appears that we arrived at the same time.
Since it’s my birthday, Mr. Laughegan says I can sit at his desk for the whole class if I promise to behave. I fold my hands and sit up straight, miming perfect attention, as if I would ever give Mr. Laughegan anything less.
And yet I am distracted. His desk is to the side of the room, perpendicular to the board. From this angle, I have an unobstructed view of Finny. By looking at the board, I see him too. I see him only.
And I love him. For all of my memory, I have loved him; I do not even notice it anymore. I feel what I have always felt when I look at him, and I have never before asked myself what it is exactly. I love him in a way I cannot define, as if my love were an organ within my body that I could not live without yet could not pick out of an anatomy book.
I do not love him the way I love Jamie. It’s not the way I love Sasha or my mother or Mr. Laughegan.
It’s the way I love Finny.
And it’s impossible to say and even harder to feel.
19
When the weather turns cold, The War breaks out.
On a Monday in mid-November, as I enter the cafeteria, Angie rushes up to me with her eyes narrowed. “They’re at our table,” she says. I know who she is talking about without having to ask.
“What?” I say. I follow her through the crowd to an unfamiliar table. Jamie, Alex, Brooke, Noah, and Sasha are all already crowded around the small square. “I cannot believe this,” I say as I sit down. I glance over to where Alexis, Jack, Josh, and Victoria are sitting, with ample room about them. Alexis waves to someone in the crowd. I follow her gaze to Sylvie and Finny, weaving their way toward them. Finny and Sylvie pull up chairs at the round table.
“This is not cool,” Noah says. Jamie shakes his head.
“No,” he says, “it is not.”
The table they took was inarguably ours; no one changes tables halfway through the school year. This is an act of hostility. But it must be ignored on the surface. To actually confront them or admit that we’re angry would give them the chance to roll their eyes and say, “What? You’re upset about a table?”
“Well, they’re not sitting there tomorrow,” Alex says.
“I will run from chemistry,” Noah says.
“I’ll beat you,” Jamie says. We are livid for the rest of lunch. I’m not the only one who glances over their shoulders to watch our table being defiled. They laugh and toss things at each other and act as if they have sat there every day. As if they will, every day.
The boys make good on their promise, and Tuesday the table is ours again. We foolishly think that this will be the end of it; we have staked our claim again. Surely they will back down now that they see we are not going to give in to them.
On Wednesday, we are back at the tiny square table, our knees knocking against each other.
I actually run on Thursday, but Alex is already there, his book bag on the center of the table, leaning against the side, his arms crossed over his chest as he stares out defiantly at the rest of the crowd.
“Go, Alex,” I say. We high five. I look across the room and see Alexis and Sylvie staring at us from what used to be their normal table. I smile and wave and sit down.
When we win the battle again on Friday, I think that it is over; we’ve surely won The War now. They cannot possibly have the gall to keep this up on Monday.
***
They do. They do have the gall.
We reacquire the table on Tuesday and there is celebration all through lunch. Part of me says that it is just a table, but if I were certain that there was no hostility, then it would be nothing more than an annoyance to sit at one of the square tables.
But it is hostility; we are halfway through the semester, every other group has claimed their table and stuck to it, just like last year. Sasha and I left them and we’ve carved a niche for ourselves with a new group. We are tight-knit. We get good grades. Our boys are handsome and our girls are pretty.
For a year now we have been their foil and they have been are ours.
This is about more than a table.
On Wednesday people stare as I run through the halls to get to the cafeteria. My green bag bounces against my leg; I ignore it and the people around me. I am visualizing the empty table in my mind.
My vision is nearly true. The table is empty for a moment. Then Finny steps out of the crowd and lays his bag on the table. My feet come to a stop as I watch him standing there. Across the room I see Jamie and Noah slow to a walk. Sylvie and Alexis are crossing the room too. They have also slowed to a walk, their smiles triumphant as they look at Finny. Jamie’s gaze meets mine. He rolls his eyes and scowls.
For the past week I had not included Finny in my anger. I had somehow thought of him as blindly following his friends without realizing the implications of their actions, the meaning of securing the table. But there he is, claiming the table as if it has always belonged to him. Suddenly it feels as if someone has placed their hands flat on my back and pushed me forward.
I walk in a straight, steady line up to Finny, to our table. I toss my bag on the table next to his and tilt my head up to look at him.
“Are you sitting with us today?” I say. He does not answer me immediately, and for a moment I have lost my words as well. It’s been a long time since I have looked directly into his face.
His blue eyes have flecks of gold in them; it’s hard not to stare at
the strange combination. I want to reach up and brush his blond hair away from his forehead so that I can see his eyes better. His face flushes pink, and—before I can remember that I shouldn’t feel this—I am thinking he is beautiful. I know it embarrasses him when he blushes, but I can’t help but think it is nice. It makes him look so innocent, as if he has never done anything wrong in his whole life.
“I—um-” Finny says. He stares back at me. I wonder what he is thinking. It feels like we have been staring at each other for a full minute, but surely it has only been a moment. I take my first breath since speaking and I am filled with his familiar smell. Part of me wants to close my eyes and focus on the scent; another part just wants to keep looking at him.
“Sylvie asked me to save us a table,” he says. Her name breaks my trance. I pull out a chair and sit down.
“Oh. Well,” I say, “this is where we usually sit.”
Jamie comes up behind me and pulls up a chair. “Hey, pretty girl,” he says. “How’s your day going?”
“Okay,” I say. Noah sits down on the other side of Jamie. They both ignore Finny. Finny picks up his bag and turns away. Sylvie is only a few feet behind him, but she does not look at him as he approaches her; she looks at me. Her eyes narrow. I only hold her gaze for a moment before turning back to Jamie.
This is just about a table, I tell myself. It isn’t anything personal. It’s just a table.
20
The day after Thanksgiving, my parents fight. I stay in my room through the day, listening, trying not to listen. Sometimes my mother screams and he shouts in return. Sometimes they whisper to each other angrily. Sometimes there are silences. Doors slam again and again.
At noon I go downstairs and steal some cheese from the refrigerator. The voices falter and fall quiet until I am safely upstairs again.
I lay on my bed in late afternoon, watching a patch of light move across the floor, my throat tight, my body still. This is the saddest part of any day, when too much time has passed to create happiness while it is still light out. It’s too late. The daylight has been squandered on my immobility. The patch of light falls still; it begins to fade. It will be better when it is gone. This is only one day, I remind myself, and it is very nearly over.
The voices quiet. The border between day and evening fades. No one calls me to dinner. The sun is gone and my room is dark but I do not move to turn on a light. I let the darkness move over me and I am still.
A crash downstairs jolts me. I spring up into a sitting position. The voices begin again downstairs. They grow. They shout. A door slams. The voices are outside now.
I move to the window. I cannot see them, only the side yard and Finny’s dark window. In the weeks since The War, the line drawn between my friends and Finny’s has become a wall of ice. No longer are there civil exchanges between them and us in class or when our paths cross in the halls or restrooms. We all do our best to pretend the others do not exist. Finny and I have not spoken since the day I stole the table back from him.
I lean my forehead against the cool glass and close my eyes. My parents’ voices are clearer now, even though they speak more quietly.
I listen to the purr of my father’s car driving away. My mother begins to cry. The gravel crunches under her feet as she walks inside. I flick the light switch on. My body reacts to the light; I am suddenly alert. I pick up my book and lie down on my bed. The house is quiet again.
It isn’t long before the knock I am expecting comes. The door creaks open and my mother’s head peeks in. She smiles at me as if her eyes aren’t puffy.
“I’m going over to Angelina’s, sweetie,” she says. I want to throw my book at her. I want to ask her what’s the point of pretending everything is fine, which would hurt her far worse than the book.
“Okay,” I say. She disappears.
***
I wake up hungry. It is still dark, still quiet. I shuffle barefoot downstairs. Everything in the old house creaks under my touch. I heat up the leftover mashed potatoes and watch them spin in the microwave. I’ll enjoy the meal more this time. It was an awkward Thanksgiving.
Every Thanksgiving and Christmas for as long as I can remember, my father has sat at the head of the table, The Mothers on either side of him, and Finny and I next to them, across from each other. Yesterday Finny sat in his mother’s spot instead of across from me. The Mothers glanced at each other but didn’t say anything in front of us. They’ve accepted that we aren’t best friends anymore, but I could see they won’t accept us not being friendly. All day, we never crossed the line between us. We only spoke when one of the parents spoke to us first, and there was nothing they could say that would make us speak to each other.
The Mothers probably would have said something eventually, but whatever had erupted between my parents today had been brewing yesterday, and it was probably all too much for them too. I felt bad for Aunt Angelina and Finny; I wondered if they would have been happier in their own home, where there are no divisions, no unspoken contention.
I take the plate out of the microwave and reach into the fridge. I take chunks of the cold white meat into my hands and drop them onto my plate. As I stand upright again, I look out the window. The kitchen light is on in the house next door. I imagine Aunt Angelina and my mother sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, mugs of tea between them.
The wind shakes the leaves and I have a sudden urge to go outside. The gray world out there looks inviting, velvety and cool. I glance at the clock. It’s just after one.
There is no one at home to care what I do tonight.
I take my plate in hand and head out to the front porch. On the other side of the threshold, the air is cold and damp on my skin; the floorboards chill the soles of my feet as I sit down on the steps. I realize that I have forgotten a fork, and then decide not to care. I grab hot chunks of the potatoes and lick my fingers.
It’s a silly rebellion, eating mashed potatoes with my bare hands on the front porch after midnight, but it’s what I have at the moment.
I eat the cool turkey more slowly, picking through the pieces carefully, taking small bites from my fingers.
When I am finished, I lay the plate to the side and lean against the porch railing on the right. The wind is blowing through the trees again. I shiver but I do not move. I want to see how long I can stand it out here. Perhaps I’ll stay all night. I shiver again and close my eyes. It is cold. I hear the sound of a car and right away my eyes are open again.
A blue car has pulled up in the street. The door opens and the dome light comes on. I recognize the male shapes inside the car, one in particular. Finny stumbles out of the car. He laughs and says something to his friends. They shout something back and he puts his fingers to his lips. He waves and they drive away too quickly.
I watch him walk up the lawn. I cannot see his face, only the shape of him against the night. There is something odd about his gait tonight; his steps are too small, and he leans too far forward. He’s feeling his jeans pockets as he walks. The light from the kitchen window makes him clearer as he comes closer. He stops a few feet from his porch and frowns. I lean forward to try to see him better, to see what is making him frown, and the steps creak beneath me. Finny looks up and our eyes lock. My breath catches in my throat.
“Hey,” he says after a moment.
“Hey,” I say. He stares at me, still frowning.
“No tiara,” he says.
“What?”
“You’re not wearing a tiara,” he says. He sounds odd, his words slurred together as if he were very tired.
“I’m in my pajamas,” I say.
“Oh.” He sways slightly.
“Are you drunk?” I ask. I’ve never seen someone drunk before.
“Yeah, kinda,” he says.
“You probably shouldn’t go inside then,” I say. He still has not looked away from me. Sweet, shy
Finny: drunk. Even though I’d heard about it, even though I’m seeing it, it’s still hard for me to believe.
“Why?” he says.
“The Mothers are in your kitchen.”
“Oh.” He sways again. “Can I come sit for a while?” he says.
“Sure,” I say. He stumbles over to me and sits down heavily on the steps. He lets out a long breath and leans his head back against the railing. Mrs. Adams, our health teacher, made it sound like alcohol turned you into a different person. Finny is the same as always though, just a little unsteady, a little friendlier toward me than yesterday.
“I can’t find my keys,” he says.
“That’s not good,” I say. He nods in agreement, then looks at me again. I’m hunched forward, rubbing my bare arms.
“Are you cold?” he says. I nod. It’s bearable though; I may still make it to morning. “Here.” Finny starts to struggle with his letterman jacket.
“No, don’t,” I say. This must be what alcohol does to people; it makes them forget all the carefully drawn lines in the world.
“Come on, Sylvie, take the jacket,” he says, holding it out to me.
“Autumn,” I say.
“Huh?” He frowns.
“My name is Autumn. You just called me Sylvie,” I say. His frown deepens.
“Oh. I’m sorry, Autumn. Take the jacket, Autumn,” he says. He leans forward so that the jacket is practically in my lap. I sigh and take it from him. It is warm and smells of him. I slip it on and wrap it tightly around me. “There,” he says. He leans back, satisfied, and regards me. “It fits you,” he says.
“The jacket?” I say. I hold out my arms so he can see how the sleeves dangle far past my wrists.
“No,” Finny says, “your name. Autumn Rose Davis. Except there aren’t roses in Autumn.”
“Sure there are,” I say. “At least in St. Louis there are.” There isn’t a clear border between summer and fall here. It starts and stops and moves backward, luring the trees to turn red while tricking the roses to bloom for just a little longer as the season swings back and forth, hot and cold. The leaves are gold and red, and there are still a few pink roses in my mother’s garden, a bit wilted and a little brown on the edges, but still beautiful. I had admired them without making the connection to my name, but I have to admit now, it does fit me—pretty, but doesn’t belong.