Magnolia

by Kristi Cook

  “No, I . . . The distraction is good for me. Helps keep my mind off it.” I force myself to smile even though I’m not feeling it. I’m not feeling much of anything, really—it’s like I’m numb inside.

  Nan’s coming home tomorrow. Just a matter of hours . . .

  “It was a good game tonight,” I say. “You played really well.”

  “Yeah, good thing, too—there were scouts crawling all over the place. Mostly there to see Ryder, of course. Dude’s so got it made. I don’t think he has any idea how lucky he is. I mean, sure, he’s got talent. But mostly it’s just a size thing, you know?”

  I just shrug noncommittally and continue picking at my crust.

  “But you looked great tonight. I got to watch you some during the third quarter after I took that hard hit.”

  “Thanks. I was kind of off. I almost fell during a toss.”

  “You mean that thing where they throw you up in the air and catch you?” he asks, even though it seems pretty self-explanatory to me. Since it’s called, you know, a toss.

  “Yeah. Listen, Patrick—”

  “Uh-oh, here it comes. Look, let me lay it out on the line, Jemma. We’ve known each other a long time—”

  “Our whole lives.”

  “Right. And I know it might seem like what happened on Saturday came out the blue, but I wanted to do that for a long time. Kiss you, I mean.”

  My mouth goes dry, and I reach for my Coke and take a sip. All I can think about is Monday night—Ryder holding me in his arms, brushing away my tears. And then later, by his car, there’d been that moment when I’d thought he was going to kiss me. Which seems pretty stupid now, considering the text I’d gotten from him just minutes later.

  But what’s really crazy? The fact that I’d been kinda disappointed that he hadn’t. I’d lain awake half the night thinking about it, and the rest of the week hadn’t been much better. I was confused. Mad at myself, more than anything.

  I force my thoughts away from Ryder and back to the boy sitting across from me looking hopeful. I like him—I do. But I’m not sure I can give him what he wants from me. At least, not right now.

  “All I was going to say is that it’s kind of bad timing, that’s all. Nan’s coming home tomorrow, and I want to spend as much time with her as possible. Before her surgery,” I add.

  “I know.” He reaches across the table for my hand, and I let him take it. “But I really want to spend time with you too.”

  “Can’t we just . . . you know, keep it casual? Play it by ear? That’s all I can promise you right now.”

  He shrugs. “Hey, I’ll take whatever I can get.”

  I wince at his choice of words. Mostly because I know Patrick is an experienced guy—God knows I’ve listened to him talk. Ryder was right. Patrick has been known to kiss and tell on occasion, often in graphic detail. Maybe he thought it would impress me. Who knows? But I’m fairly certain I won’t be giving him anything, least of all my virginity.

  “You want some dessert?” he asks, releasing my hand to signal for the waiter. “They’ve got really good cheesecake here.”

  “No, but you go ahead.” My phone buzzes, and I glance down at the screen.

  Having fun?

  It’s Lucy. I quickly tap out a reply. I guess.

  Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, she answers, followed by a winking smiley.

  Patrick is still occupied with the waiter, so I continue the text convo. What r u doing? I type.

  Hanging out @ Ward’s. Ryder’s here.

  Why would I care if he’s there?

  Dunno. Just sayin’.

  Umm, okay.

  I shove my cell back into my pocket. “Sorry ’bout that. It was just Lucy.”

  “Ah, Luce the Deuce.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

  “Luce the what?”

  “The Deuce—that’s what some of the guys call her. You know, ’cause no one ever gets past second with her.”

  “Seriously?” I ask, cringing. “You guys are so gross.”

  “I ordered you a piece of cheesecake, by the way. Cherry topping.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” I’m pretty sure I’d said no to the offer. “So, have you decided where you want to go to school next year?”

  “Depends on whether or not I get any offers to play ball. I’m not counting on Ole Miss, but maybe Delta State. How ’bout you?”

  I briefly consider telling him about the NYU thing—since we’d taken that film class together and everything—but decide against it, since I don’t want the whole town to know by sunrise. “I’m not sure yet,” I say instead.

  Just then the waiter appears bearing two dessert plates. He sets them in front of us and then busies himself refilling our water glasses before disappearing again.

  “Any idea what you’re going to study?” I ask as soon as we’re alone again.

  “You mean I’m supposed to actually study something? Besides Beer Pong 101, I mean?” He shovels a bite of cheesecake into his mouth, and I’m left wondering if he’s kidding or not.

  He’s actually a pretty good student. Not AP track or anything like that, but he’s not stupid, either.

  He takes a sip of water, watching me over the rim of his cup. “Seriously, though, my dad thinks I should go prelaw. You know, follow in his footsteps and all that. Who decides this kind of thing now, anyway?”

  I want to say, “Oh, you know . . . people who care about their future,” but I somehow manage to bite my tongue.

  I pick at my dessert, watching quietly as Patrick devours his.

  “S’good, huh?” he says around a mouthful.

  I just nod and continue poking. Trying not to be too obvious, I sneak a peek at my cell to check the time. It’s getting late. I cross my legs. Uncross them. Fiddle with my napkin.

  “You about ready to head out?” Patrick asks after a few minutes of awkward silence. “It’s okay. I get it. It’s been a long day. Just let me pay the check.”

  He reaches for his wallet just as I go for my purse. “Hey, no way,” he says, shaking his head. “This is my treat. I asked you out, remember?”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.” He offers me a smile, his cheeks dimpling. “Sit tight; we’ll get you out of here soon enough.”

  He’s a nice guy, and I feel terrible for being so transparent. “I’m sorry I’m such a lousy date. It’s just . . . like I said, bad timing, is all.”

  “S’okay,” he says with a shrug. “You can make it up to me next time.” Grinning now, he reaches into his wallet and pulls out a couple of twenties.

  I stand and dig my keys out of my purse, ready to make my escape from the most awkward date ever.

  He signals for the waiter. “Wait a sec and I’ll walk you out.”

  I owe him that, at least.

  * * *

  “Where’s Nan?” I ask my mom, glancing around the kitchen.

  She opens the refrigerator and pulls out a pitcher of sweet tea. “Out on the porch. She didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, so she’s napping.”

  I know how she feels—I didn’t get a lot of sleep either. Nan hadn’t pulled up into the driveway until after eight, a good two hours after my parents expected her. Needless to say, dinner had been a strained meal. We’d all just picked at our food, barely saying anything to each other. You could tell that Mama and Daddy were mad, but they wouldn’t dare yell at her, not now.

  After dinner, they wanted to talk to her about the research they’d done—what the neurosurgeon in Houston had to say, what the doctors in Jackson recommended, what they’d read online. Different treatment options, surgical procedures, blah, blah, blah. I’d had to slip out of the room halfway through the discussion, because frankly, it was freaking me out. I could only imagine how Nan was feeling.

  “I won’t wake her up,” I say, and she nods, offering me a glass of tea. She looks strained. Older. These past few days have taken a toll on her, I realize—on all of us.

  I lay a gentle hand on her arm
. “Hey, why don’t you go take a nap too?”

  She sighs, her shoulders sagging. “Maybe I will.”

  I kiss her on the cheek and take the pitcher from her. “Go on,” I say, motioning toward the door. “I’ll put this away.”

  “Thanks, honey.”

  I watch her walk out, marveling at how much she looks like Nan from the back. They have the same coloring, the same long, straight, honey-blond hair, and the same athletic build.

  Whereas I got my dad’s coloring—reddish blond hair, pale skin—and slight build. Only somehow I got Mama’s blue eyes, whereas Nan got Daddy’s green ones. Genetics are funny that way.

  Carefully, I set the pitcher back inside the fridge. I know how much Mama loves it. It’s beautiful, round with a sort of ruffled rim—from Tiffany’s. She got it as a wedding present, and it still looks as good as new.

  I quickly wipe down the counter, then tiptoe out onto the sleeping porch on the west side of the house. The entire rectangular space is screened in, with two ceiling fans stirring the air from above. The wood paneling below the screens is painted white, just beginning to peel in some spots.

  In the corner closest to the door, a full-size wood-frame bed hangs from the ceiling—sort of like an enormous swing. There’s a white wicker bedside table against the wall and two matching wicker chairs on the far side of the porch. All the linens and cushions are white with blue ticking, and several hurricane lamps provide lighting along with white twinkle lights wrapped around the rafters.

  There’s a second sleeping porch on the opposite side of the house—my mom’s. It’s pretty much the same, except for the yellow-and-white color scheme. Still, I like this one much better. It’s ours, Nan’s and mine.

  I find Nan stretched out on the bed, lying on her back with her legs crossed at the ankles. “Jemma, Jemma, Bo-Bemma,” she calls out as I close the French doors behind me and set down my glass of tea.

  “Nan, Nan, Bo-Ban,” I answer, my voice breaking ever so slightly on the last syllable. I know it’s silly, but it’s something we’ve always done. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Fine. I’m not dying, you know. I woke up with a migraine, but my meds managed to knock it out.”

  “Probably the weather.” I tip my head toward the dark clouds in the distance. “Storm’s a’brewing.”

  She nods. “That always does it. My head, the barometer.”

  “Yeah, mine too. Sucks.” It’s one of those things we have in common—migraines. Which makes me wonder if a tumor is in my future too. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. I hope so.

  “C’mon, lie down,” she says, patting the space beside her.

  “Okay, but no more jokes about dying,” I say as I climb up onto the bed. “It’s not funny.”

  She ignores that. “Did you know that Great-Grandma Cafferty had the same thing in her head? At least, she probably did. It’s what killed her.”

  “I thought she died from an aneurysm or a hemorrhage or something like that.”

  “Yeah, as a result of brain surgery. It was a success, but then she bled to death,” she says matter-of-factly.

  My stomach lurches uncomfortably. “That was ages ago. I’m sure brain surgery’s come a long way since then. Don’t they use lasers or something now?”

  “Maybe. Guess I’ll find out soon enough,” she says with a shrug. “Anyway, what’s up with you? Mama says you’re going out with Patrick Hughes.”

  “I went out with him once,” I say, rolling my eyes. Still, I’m glad for the change of topic. “It’s no big deal. I can’t believe she told you.”

  “Well, you know how she is. You’re ruining her big plans for you and the boy next door. Speaking of, where’s he going to play ball next year? Ryder, I mean.”

  “How the heck would I know? He doesn’t discuss his plans with me. We don’t talk at all unless we have to.”

  “Well, maybe you should think about rectifying that,” she says with a grin. “You know what I mean?”

  I nudge her with my foot. “Hey, I thought you were on my side.”

  “I dunno. . . . After seeing him this summer at the beach, maybe Mama’s onto something. I mean, let’s face it—the boy’s hot. You could do worse. Much worse.”

  “Yeah, well . . . there’s more to it than looks,” I grumble.

  “Right. There’s also intelligence—check. Talent—check. Character—check.” She ticks each one off on her fingers. “As far as I can tell, he’s got it all—the total package. I mean, okay, so he’s the boy next door, and Mom and Laura Grace have been bugging you two about each other since forever. But seriously, what more do you want?”

  I sigh heavily. “You want to know what drives me nuts about Ryder? There are no shades of gray with him. Everything’s black or white, right or wrong. He’s just so . . . so . . . unyielding.”

  “Wow, is that one of your SAT words?”

  “Ha-ha, very funny. You know what I mean, though.”

  She shrugs. “Yeah, I know. He’s always been that way. I kind of figured he’d grow out of it.”

  “Well, don’t hold your breath. That boy’s got a stick up his ass, if you ask me.”

  “A very attractive one at that.”

  “What, the stick or his ass?”

  Nan laughs—a rich, booming laugh that makes me smile. I’m so glad to have her home. But then I remember why. . . .

  “So, when are you going to Houston?” I ask, sobering fast.

  “Probably next week. Maybe the week after. The doctor said we’ve got to move fast. I guess the tumor’s pressing on some important stuff.”

  I snuggle up closer, laying my head on her shoulder. “I’m sorry this happened to you, Nan.”

  “Yeah, me too,” she says, then falls silent. For a couple of minutes we just lie there quietly, staring at the ceiling.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call or text you,” she says at last. “I just . . . you know, kind of retreated into myself. I didn’t want to talk to anyone.”

  “It’s okay. I know how that goes.” Because I do the same thing when I’m stressed out. I retreat. Cut myself off from everyone. I’ve been doing it this week, letting texts and e-mails slide. Luckily, Morgan and Lucy know me well enough to give me my space. Patrick, not so much. We’ll have to work on that.

  “You’re going to be just fine,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster.

  But the truth is, I’ve never been more scared in all my life.

  ACT I

  Scene 8

  Thursday is “History Bee” day in my AP European History class. Think old-fashioned spelling bee, with students standing in a line at the front of the classroom. Mr. Donaldson fires a history trivia question at you, and if you get it right you remain standing for the next round. Get it wrong, and you sit. Last man standing is declared the winner.

  I have to admit, it’s kind of fun—way more so than listening to a lecture. Plus, the winner gets a Hershey Bar.

  “The Ardennes,” I say when it’s my turn, desperate for that chocolate.

  Mr. Donaldson cups a hand to his ear. “Could you please speak up, Jemma?”

  “The Ardennes!” I shout, wishing he’d invest in some hearing aids.

  “Correct. You advance to the final round.”

  Beside me, Lucy mimes a high five.

  Thirty minutes later, she’s glaring at me as I make my way back to my desk with the Hershey Bar clutched in one hand. “I’ll share,” I whisper as I slide into the molded plastic seat behind her.

  “You suck,” she tosses over her shoulder just a second before the A-lunch bell rings. “Thank God. I’m starving.”

  “Me too.” I stuff the chocolate bar into my backpack and rise, following the crowd out toward the cafeteria.

  As soon as we get our food—something that resembles fettuccine Alfredo—we join Morgan at our usual nice-weather table out on the patio. Mason and Patrick are already there, their trays piled high with multiple sandwiches and bags of chips. Ben and Ryder have B-lunch thi
s semester, so it’s a little less rowdy than usual.

  Morgan slides to the center of the bench seat, making room for Lucy and me on either side of her. “So?” she asks, one blond brow raised.

  Lucy wrinkles her nose in my direction. “She won again. Wench.”

  “Chocolate for dessert!” I say, pulling the bar from my bag with a flourish.

  Morgan grabs it with a scowl, hiding it beneath the table. “Don’t let the boys see.”

  “Don’t let the boys see what?” Mason asks around a mouthful of unidentifiable sandwich.

  Morgan shakes her head. “Nothing. And could you be any more gross?”

  “Oh, I’m sure I could,” he answers with a grin.

  I take a tentative bite of my pasta. Surprisingly, it’s not too bad.

  “Hey, how’s Nan doing?” Morgan asks.

  I swallow hard. “She’s okay. Mostly just . . . you know, resting. Trying to take it easy.”

  They’re leaving for Houston next week—Mama, Daddy, and Nan. Even Laura Grace is going. Everyone but me. I can’t miss school, they claim. They have no idea how long they’ll be gone, and they need me to hold down the fort. I’m not sure if I’m more angry or hurt about it. Probably hurt. Mostly.

  “You think she’d mind if Morgan and I dropped by this weekend to see her?” Lucy asks.

  “Nah. I’m sure she’d love to see y’all. Come by anytime.”

  “Speaking of this weekend . . .” Patrick clears his throat, vying for our attention. “Josh Harrington is having a party Saturday. Crawfish boil on their property, down by the creek. You coming, Jemma?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so. It’s really not a good time.”

  “Aww, c’mon, Jem,” he wheedles. “I’ll pick you up on my way over, and we’ll just stay for a little while. An hour, tops.”

  I glance over at Morgan, then Lucy.

  “I figured I’d go,” Lucy says with a shrug.

  Morgan nods. “Yeah, me too. Not much else going on.”

  I exhale sharply. “Fine. But just for a little bit. And I’ll meet you there,” I direct at Patrick.

  “The DUI thing, huh?” Mason asks, smiling wryly.

  “Pretty much.” My cheeks flame hotly. “Sorry, Patrick.”