“He had girls clawing each other’s eyes out to get to him,” I said. “But he only really wanted her.”
One of my most vivid memories of Wyatt was the night he finally worked up the nerve to call Hannah. Because of the layout of our house, I could stand at the top of the staircase that led to the basement and secretly watch all the activity in that room by looking at the reflection in the windows. It worked best at night when the basement lights were on and the glass lit up like a movie screen.
One night, I sat on the top step and watched Wyatt pace back and forth holding the phone and talking to himself, waving his hand around frenetically. He practiced the words he would say to Hannah once he’d worked up his nerve to dial her number. He made me so nervous that I felt like puking.
I could tell when Hannah answered because he got very still and sat down on the floor. His voice changed…no more wryness, just gentleness. I think if he’d lived, he would’ve tried to marry her one day. I told her that at the funeral and she cried.
“So what do you think it was about Hannah that Wyatt liked?” my dad said.
“She was sweet. He liked the way she smiled at people and how she was kind to everyone. He said he liked how she didn’t mess up ‘significant silence with a bunch of useless words.’”
“You’re sweet, too, Meg. Wyatt said that kids at school didn’t know what to do with you because you were so nice to everyone. He felt like he was becoming known as Meg Kavanagh’s big brother for once, and he liked it.”
“Liar,” I said, but I hoped he meant it. I wanted to believe Wyatt had talked about me like that. It made me feel like my brother had studied me like I had him.
“Nope. True story. It’s written in the Book of Kavanagh.” He clapped once, his usual signal that it was time to move on. “And we need to get some sleep. Long day tomorrow.”
He stood and held a hand out to me, just like he’d done all my life.
***
After three long days on the road, we were weary. Driving into our new town, my nerves started rebelling. The drive through the mountain range had felt life threatening to me even though every curve had a protective guardrail and we had inched along at forty miles an hour.
Chapin looked like a cool little town, in a Wild West postcard sort of way.
Dad stopped at a sign and slowly turned left. He had to brake hard to keep from running into a moose standing in the road. He rolled down his window and waved his arms until the moose moved on. A few blocks later, Dad tapped his brakes twice, and pointed his hand out the window. I glanced in the direction he pointed and saw the Hotel Wyoming sitting on a hill.
I expected to see swinging doors and hitching posts downtown but really it was just like any small town, simple and straightforward. The wide Main Street was lined with shops and an old sidewalk. The important businesses—a bank, a clothing store, and a pharmacy—stood proudly on Main. The lesser shops like an old boot repair store called “John Wayne’s Repair,” sat like afterthoughts in small wooden buildings directly behind the central businesses.
We took a left onto Pine Ridge Drive, drove another three blocks and turned down a narrow stone driveway. The house, surrounded by trees, sat far enough back from the road that you wouldn’t know it was there. Dad parked the truck off to the right under a carport. Mom followed and I pulled in behind them.
Dad knocked on my window and I rolled it down.
“We’re home.” He held up a keychain with a rectangular charm.
“Of course, Wyoming, the rectangle state.” I took the key and merged it with Wyatt’s Jeep keys.
“You’re going to like it here, I promise.” His brown eyes were tired but hopeful.
My mom walked toward the house. She wasn’t smiling, but she wasn’t crying, either. I took this as a good sign, or at least a neutral one.
It’s hard to explain the feeling that little house created in my heart at that moment. I loved it more than anything I’d ever seen. Wyatt would’ve given anything to live here. He was an archaeologist at heart and he would’ve dug through this yard until he’d unearthed every arrowhead and artifact.
The small house didn’t waste space. It was painted a perfect sunshine yellow with creamy white trim. The large front windows were wavy, delicate, ridiculously rare, outdated glass. The kind of glass that altered the view, magnifying and miniaturizing at will.
Behind the main house sat a smaller cottage, all white and understated.
“It’s the old servant’s house,” my dad said. “Wyatt would’ve taken it over as his cave, but I want your mom to make it her studio.”
Desperate hope. That’s what he was feeling. My emotions simmered and must have registered on my face.
“Ah, Meg,” he whispered. “Come inside with me.”
FIVE
Mom paused when we came in and then continued opening and closing cabinets, her expression mysterious. She probably wondered where we’d put everything. Our house in Canning Mills was four thousand square feet of craftsman beauty. This house, half that size, seemed more striking in its simplicity. Everyone should get to live in a place like this for a while.
My hand closed around my brother’s, a habit I’d developed because even holding the ghost of Wyatt’s hand helped calm me.
The front door entered into a small living area with a high, beamed ceiling. The windows were the only decoration. They framed a distant mountain—snow-capped. The trees made a perfect V that carried my eyes to the faraway peak. Whoever built the house had stood right here and felt justified.
My room was perfect, small and dark, with a large window that looked out into the forest of aspens and ponderosa pines. Two antique twin beds took up most of the floor space. The smooth walls were papered with an old floral design that faded to nothing in areas.
“We can paint over the paper,” Dad said.
“No,” I whispered. “I love it.”
A patchwork rug covered part of the worn wood floor and three old quilts rested neatly on each bed. Obviously Dad had done some work to make sure we’d be comfortable when we got here. He stepped out to find Mom and closed my door behind him.
The bed creaked when I sat on it. Whose life had I stepped into? How could I be sitting on this bed, in this place, when my life was in Pittsburgh? I was supposed to start school there the day after tomorrow.
The pain I had ignored during the drive welled up in my chest. Somehow, the feeling was different this time—it was a kind of resignation. The nerves weren’t quite as raw and the fight had mostly gone out of me. I lay down, suddenly so tired. The pull toward darkness was strong and I dreamed even before I was fully asleep.
My dream played out in vivid colors. Wyatt stood in the middle of a grove of aspens, with brilliant yellow leaves. They moved with such tiny, graceful movements that they shimmered—tiny jewels catching the sunlight. He wore my favorite shirt of his—a blue plaid flannel—and his favorite Levis. He smiled his best smile so his whole face looked happy. His crazy hair blew around in the wind, making me laugh because it stuck straight up. He held out his hand, which felt warm when I took it. He hugged me, then turned me around, draping his arms over my shoulders.
“Open your eyes,” he whispered. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
We were standing in a valley with mountains all around. Two rivers met just fifty feet in front of us. In the distance, smoke rose from the chimney of our little yellow house. Mom and Dad stood by the front window. I tried to talk to Wyatt, but nothing made sense. I spoke gibberish, or maybe Pig Latin.
A noise in the living room woke me and I opened my eyes reluctantly, knowing Wyatt would vanish. My parents talked quietly in the next room. I got up and walked across the floor to stare out the window, pressing my damp hand to the cold glass and watching the steamy print grow around my fingers.
The floor boards creaked, a quick warning before my door opened a crack. My dad watched me quietly for a moment, letting his eyes adjust. I smiled at his reflection in the glass.
&n
bsp; “Did I talk in my sleep?”
He came partly into the room. “You did.”
“I’m okay. Just a dream.”
“Good or bad?”
“Good, I think.”
The outline of his form lifted in that full body shrug he does when he’s feeling out of sorts. But this time he smiled and I had to adjust my understanding of the shrug to include relief.
“Well, if you find that dream again, you should send it to your mom and me. We could use a good one.” He walked over and kissed my forehead. “’Night.”
“’Night,” I said.
I owed my brother a letter. I’d fallen behind because of the trip so I took a notebook from my backpack and got back in bed to write.
Dear Wyatt… I started. Dear Wyatt what? Your family has moved to a house in which you’ll never live? Oh God—you’ll never live?
Dear Wyatt—
I dreamed you were here and it felt so real that I woke up and looked for you. That is a cruel moment.
I think you would like Chapin—it seems a likely place to find things of value.
Love,
Meg
***
Unfamiliar deep voices boomed too loudly from the front room. The movers had made it. And I had slept through the night.
I understood now why we left all but a few pieces of furniture in Pittsburgh. With no room here, our things would have been awkward. I changed into running gear and joined my mom in the kitchen. She sat on the counter and watched her boxes being stacked on the floor. She looked overwhelmed and out of place. Dad walked up behind her and nudged her with his shoulder.
“’Morning, Mom.” I offered her a tentative smile.
“How’d you sleep, Meggie?” She sipped her coffee and ignored Dad behind her.
“Really, really deeply.”
“It must be the mountain air,” she said. “Going for a run?”
“Do you mind?”
“Do what you need to do.” She flinched when one of the movers set a box of dishes down hard enough to rattle them. “Looks like I’ll be right here all day.”
“Take your time,” Dad said. “You can unpack your room this afternoon.”
Starting my “Run” playlist, I slipped out the door and jogged to the street, turning toward downtown.
People in cars waved at me when they passed and people on the sidewalk made eye contact and smiled. I lowered my sunglasses. In Pittsburgh, only crazy people looked strangers in the eyes.
I’d worried about being the new kid here for weeks, and I’d decided that I would be the new girl with no history—no dead brother, no very public displays of a mother’s depression to color anyone’s impression of me, no preset expectations of the perfect, happy family. I would be an only child. My mom would be a flaky artist who wasn’t expected to act like other moms. No one here needed to know about Wyatt. He was mine and I didn’t want strangers to think about him. They would change him.
As I ran in the shoulder of the wide Main Street, I kept my head down, counting my steps, an OCD thing I’d always done. I didn’t notice a black truck sliding into the shoulder and slowing to a stop until I was inches from the huge silver bumper.
I jumped quickly to the right and landed on my feet on the sidewalk, nearly taking out a kid who’d climbed out of the passenger seat of the truck. I did a hitch and go, an old football trick Wyatt had taught me, to avoid mowing the kid down. Once I’d reversed, I just kept running in that direction.
The driver of the truck climbed out and yelled, “Wait!”
I glanced back over my shoulder and nearly stumbled again, throwing out my arms and adjusting my stride to keep from going down. The driver was my age, way taller than Wyatt, and…um…wow. I tried not to stare. I couldn’t be trusted to run in a straight line with that kind of distraction.
He held his hands up and grimaced. “I’m so sorry,” he called. “Are you okay? Can you hold on a minute?”
I shook my head, pointed at my earbuds, and kept running. Eyes straight ahead again.
Twenty seconds later, he caught up to me in his truck and slowed down. A lane of cars separated us so he yelled out his window, “Really hoped you’d just let me apologize.”
Was he kidding me? I needed him to drop this. Instead, he slowed even more and lowered his voice like we were having a normal conversation.
“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. I promise I didn’t see you back there before I stopped.”
Guys who looked this good usually made me want to hide, but this one had waves of sincerity pouring off him. I sighed, pulled the buds out of my ears and slowed to a walk, my breath catching because I was mortified. “It’s no problem. Seriously, no worries.” I waved, dismissing him.
His brow furrowed, but the car behind him honked and the driver yelled, “Move it, Whitmire.” He waved and drove off into the blue unknown.
Once I was sure he was really gone, I turned again and ran the block or two back toward downtown. I’d studied a map of Chapin and knew there was a bookstore called Wind River Books on Main. I read signs as I jogged and then slowed to a walk. The bookstore happened to be where I’d nearly flattened the kid. Of course.
I leaned into the brick building with one hand and stretched out my hamstrings while I caught my breath. My plan was to check out the bookstore and see if they needed part-time help. Just as I reached to push open the glass door, someone opened it from the inside.
“You’re here,” he said, holding the door wide. The scent of coffee and the sounds of Ray LaMontagne drifted out and tugged me toward the one place in this town where I might feel at home. I glanced up to see who held the door and wasn’t surprised that he was the kid I’d dodged on the street.
“Are you coming in?”
He wasn’t a kid, exactly; he was close to my age, but small. I studied him as I passed. He had cerebral palsy or something like it. That would explain the warbled way he spoke, too. I had a friend in Pittsburgh with mild CP.
I stopped and held out my hand. “I’m Meg, the girl who almost killed you.”
He laughed and shook my hand with his crooked one. “Thanet. The guy riding with the idiot who didn’t look before he stopped.” His words halted and lurched along.
“That guy’s a jerk.” I tried not to smile. “He didn’t even apologize.”
Thanet’s mouth fell open. “He didn’t? ’Cause he tore out of here to catch up with you.”
He looked so sincerely startled that I held my hand up to erase what I’d said. “No. I mean yes. He apologized. He was very proper about it. Insistent, really.”
“Yeah, well, that’s Whitmire. Proper and insistent.” Thanet smiled and inclined his head toward the shelves along the wall. “Books,” he said. He pointed toward the coffee bar. “Breakfast.” Then he swept his thin arm toward a couple of worn couches in the back. “Dining room.”
“Okay, thanks.” I wanted to hug him. Instead I looked around. The long, narrow store featured a dangerous spiral staircase in the middle of the room. Shelves, crammed with books, lined every inch of wall space. A sign pointed to more books and a reading room upstairs. The place reminded me of the bookstore in my old neighborhood. Instant, knee-weakening nostalgia stopped my breath.
A pretty blonde woman hurried out of the back and headed toward Thanet with a stack of magazines. He held his arms out to accept them. “Mom, meet Meg the runner,” he said. “Meg, my mom, Annie Brewer.”
“Oh, Meg the runner,” she said. “Lovely name. Is that Native American?” She winked at me. “Where are you visiting from?”
“Pittsburgh. Only I’m not visiting. I’m a local as of yesterday.”
“Pittsburgh?” She glanced at Thanet and chuckled. “We’re from Chicago. We came here a couple of years ago.”
“Chicago.” I smiled. We weren’t the only city transplants.
“Are you worried about how small Chapin is?” Annie said. “Afraid there’s nothing to do here?”
I tried to figure out how cynic
al I could be. “Um, a little, I guess. I’m worried I’ll miss food trucks. I stalked India on Wheels back home.”
Annie pointed at me and lifted her eyebrows, amused. “Food trucks! I haven’t heard those words spoken together in ages! No food trucks here unless you count the local slaughterhouse that makes house calls at ranches outside of town. He carries steak tartare.”
I shuddered and Annie laughed.
“It took me a year to stop whining about the pizza here,” Thanet said, bending to shelve the magazines his mom had given him. “The Pizza Shack sucks, just saying.” He looked around to see if he’d offended any of the bookstore customers.
“So, Meg, what do you like to do?” Annie took my arm and led me toward the coffee bar, handing me a mug.
I poured cream and sugar in the mug and then added coffee labeled “Annie’s Favorite.” “I like to read.”
“Me, too,” she said. “In Chicago, I taught English at DePaul and loved every second of it. Especially when I had a class full of kids who liked to read.”
“Why’d you leave?” As soon as I said it, I wanted to take it back. It was the absolute last question I wanted people to ask me. Annie didn’t seem to mind, though.
She glanced over at Thanet who was helping a woman find a magazine. “My husband died.” Settling onto one of the couches, she patted the cushion next to her. “And Thanet and I needed a change. A place where he could do random things like be a manager for a high school football team. His school in Chicago would’ve never allowed it because of his CP.”
I tried not to stare as Thanet followed the woman up the spiral staircase. He put a lot of effort into holding the narrow rail and steadying one leg so he could pull his other leg up. When he reached the top, I breathed again.
I felt Annie’s gaze on my face. “He’s okay.”
I nodded. “It’s just those stairs must be…”
“They are.” She smiled. “But he’s strong.”
“So he manages the football team? What’s that like?”
She leaned toward me. “Between you and me…I don’t know why he does it. The short answer is that he loves football and he’ll never play, so this was a good compromise. I don’t think the boys treat him well. Bunch of wild horses.”
Glass Girl (A Young Adult Novel) Page 3