Candy Colored Sky

by Ginger Scott

  “Think they’d let us play sometime?”

  I stop in my tracks a few paces ahead of her at her suggestion.

  “Dear God!” It’s the only response that makes sense. It makes Eleanor laugh harder than she ever has in front of me.

  “Jonah! Don’t be such a chicken. I’m actually pretty good, you know? I bet I could get you another free alternator from Dale.” She taps the box in my hands with her perfectly manicured fingernails.

  My mouth curls, mostly because this feels flirtatious and I feel dumbstruck. “I kinda hope the alternator goes right on the first shot,” I say.

  She waggles her head side to side then peers up at the dark sky, a thin screen of clouds covering most of the stars.

  “You know what I mean. I’m gonna ask your grandpa if I can join in on the fun, next time I see him.”

  My stomach tightens because I am pretty sure she’s not kidding. I can already hear the laugh he’s going to belt out until he realizes she’s serious. I run a palm over my face to regain feeling in it and eventually just shrug an okay.

  I open my garage and set the new part on the bumper of the Bronco. The distant sounds from the football game break through the quiet air, and when I turn to face Eleanor, I catch a slight grin on her face as she tilts her head to listen more closely.

  “Hey, I almost forgot something,” I say, not completely sure it’s the right time for this. I reach into the front of my sweatshirt and clutch the hair tie from Gemma. I hold it out in an open palm as I take a few timid steps closer to where Eleanor stands in the middle of my driveway. I’m guarded, prepared for her to sour at seeing a reminder of her earlier life. I’m thankful when she doesn’t.

  Her lip ticks up and she takes the material from my hand, our palms grazing slightly on the exchange. I curl my fingers up the moment my hand is empty and stuff it into the depths of my front pocket.

  “Gemma made these,” she explains. I pretend I don’t already know.

  “She asked me to give it to you,” I say.

  “It’s a stupid tradition, but she makes them every year before we get ready to compete for cheer.” She stretches the tie around her hand, flexing it with her fingers a few times before sliding the hood away from her head with her other hand.

  The strangest grin spreads on her face as she backs away a few steps while twisting her hair up on top of her head with the new tie. She starts to clap with cupped palms and bends her knees before popping them into a locked position as she begins to cheer. It would seem weird if I didn’t understand exactly what it was all about. About a week after my dad was gone, I spent an entire night working my way through every difficult math problem in my SAT study guide. I’d already taken the test and scored fine, but in that moment, I was determined to sign up and take it again, to get a perfect math score just like he had. The feeling passed and I never took the test again.

  “We’ll fight ’til the end! That’s what makes Badger pride! Let’s go! Fight! Win, win, win!” Her commands are loud and metered, marked by stiff arms in the air, regular claps and a jump at the end that brings both of her legs straight out to either side, a feat that I normally find amazing but am in near disbelief at seeing pulled off in jeans.

  “Go Badgers!” I shout, probably the only time I have ever shown school spirit like that.

  “Yeah!” She nods, clapping again. She goes through a few more various jumps then pulls her arms in close to her chest and bends her knees before launching herself backward into a full tuck, her arms never wavering and her feet sticking to the ground in the exact same spot they left.

  She’s so good. This is her thing. Like math is my thing.

  “You aren’t going back at all?” The question comes out before I have time to weigh the consequences of asking.

  Eleanor doesn’t react immediately, and the smile from her one-woman cheer is still in place, but it’s rigid and locked there to keep the acid brewing beneath it inside.

  “I don’t know,” she says, a tinge of sadness touching the corners of the smile.

  She spins in place with her head tilted back, eyes to the sky. Her arms outstretched, her fingers flex wide then grip into fists before coming in and resting over her eyes. That’s when the maniacal laughter morphs into sobs. A seal has been broken, and I maybe broke it.

  It would have done so eventually, but goddamn it, Jonah, did you have to be the one?

  “El—”

  Her hand jets toward me, an open palm begs me to stop. I snap my mouth shut accordingly and rock back on my feet, pushing my fists even deeper into my front pockets because I don’t know what to do. I want to help, but that’s exactly what she doesn’t want. And maybe this is why she spends time with me. I’m not a reminder of anything from before. I’m neutral, familiar enough to carry on. Harmless.

  As if on cue, the echo of the high school crowd cheering breaks into our space and pulls Eleanor’s attention in their direction. Her hands drop to her sides, fingers unfurling until they hang limp. I feel utterly helpless in comforting her and my chest squeezes because of it.

  “Do you think we won?” Her question comes out with a sad, breathy laugh.

  “Nah,” I respond. “We are probably cheering because the bloodbath is over.”

  She laughs a little harder at my sarcastic response. Clueless to what I’m doing, I clap like she was a minute ago. She spins slowly, eyes drawn in with that expression that says “What the f are you doing, Jonah?” But she’s not frowning, and that’s all I need to keep going.

  “We tried really hard—”

  I clap and bend my knees.

  “We lost the game—”

  I do the same movement, and the ridiculousness of it makes her lips puff out an uncontrollable “Ha!”

  “Badger Pride is not enough! It turns out, we aren’t very good . . .”

  I’m fully committed to this now, and I attempt some sort of jump to match hers, which she reacts to by placing both palms on her own cheeks as she mouths, Oh, my God.

  “But that’s okay because people will still pay ten bucks every week to watch us be decent, okay, maybe kinda bad . . .”

  I’m caught up in my own search for snarky rhymes when Eleanor jumps forward and stomps her feet right in front of mine. I freeze mid-clap as she takes over.

  “And we’ll still talk about going pro one day, even though we’ve won four games—ever.” She nods to me as if I should know the next verse. I shake my head and offer another clap and jump that makes her smile grow.

  “But maybe come back next month and watch our basketball team. They are better. A little,” I ramble out. Eleanor nods with wide eyes and a grin, mouthing, Yes!

  Without warning, her hands reach for mine, placing them on her hips. For some reason, the first thing I notice is the feel of the denim belt loops on her jeans. I’m sure my mouth is open wide like a fool, but Eleanor snaps me to attention by leaning in and whisper-shouting, “Ready?”

  “No.” I chuckle.

  “We’ve got this,” she says, nodding at me until I nod back. It’s a big fat lie because I don’t even know what I’m nodding about.

  Her knees unlock, and I bend mine in sync as she counts backward from “Three, two . . . one!”

  With some strange innate instinct, my hands grip tight at her sides as she pushes up from the ground and I lift her up to the sky. Her knees move to my shoulders and I lock my arms around her legs as her entire weight is braced on my not very macho frame.

  I glance up, praying to myself not to drop her, and the bottom of her zip-up hoodie tickles my nose and chin. It’s difficult to see from my vantage point, plus I’m virtually having a heart attack while standing here, but I’m pretty sure her arms are V-shaped above her head like a superhero ready to jet off into the sky. Her hair tie falls loose as her chin drops to her chest and it lands in the tight space between her body and mine as we make eye contact and she signals with a short nod for me to let her down.

  The feel of her body sliding down mine as my
arms loosen just enough for her weight to return to earth sears through my chest, leaving a scar behind as I make mental notes of every single everything—the way her jacket lifts and shirt rolls up enough on her descent to reveal her belly, the exact route her hands take as they move from the sides of my neck to my shoulders as she braces herself, the curve of her back and the way my hands seem to know exactly where they fit.

  But mostly, it’s this moment we’re in together, blue eyes to green, inches apart, a quiet that is achingly uncomfortable. It doesn’t last nearly as long as I want it to, and when she breaks free, cold air sweeps into the growing space between us much too fast. My hands find their way back into my pockets and hers ball at her sides before slowly banging against her hips with what I hope isn’t regret.

  I bend down and pick up the hair tie that had fallen to the ground.

  “Here,” I say, tossing it to her. We’re too far apart for a direct handoff.

  “Thanks,” she says, holding it up before sliding it onto her wrist. Her hair spirals into wild waves around her with the slight breeze. She’s beautiful like this, and if I were another guy and this were another time and place, I would tell her that. Instead, I just stare at her like a foolish boy with a foolish crush and add this to my log of favorite Eleanor Trombley moments.

  “So when does the alternator get installed?” She tilts her head toward the garage.

  “Oh, uhm.” I twist where I stand and glare at the box still resting on the Bronco’s bumper, as if I have to think about it that hard. “Tomorrow, I guess. Jake’s supposed to come over around two. My mom’s making burgers for my birthday, so maybe three?”

  I turn back to her and am relieved that she’s staring at the box too. That damn alternator is like our reset button, letting us both pretend there wasn’t a quiet weirdness ever, at all.

  “Do I get to come over for birthday burgers?”

  Internally chastising myself for not immediately inviting her, I fumble out a quick, “Oh, I mean, yeah! If you want, that would be cool. But, don’t feel like you have to come, if you don’t—”

  “Burgers at two, then?” she interjects, halting me from digging a deeper hole, a sideways hole that would probably only lead to another hole. I glance up from the ground I’ve been staring at to find her head tilted to the side, bottom lip held between her teeth and eyes wide in expectation. She wants to come.

  “Yeah, burgers at two,” I say.

  “Hey, maybe I can talk to your grandpa about getting in on that poker game?” She starts to walk backward, a smirk on her lips that makes it little hard to tell whether she’s being serious or not. Drums beat in the distance, and I know from experience that the glow of lights over the rooftops at the end of our street will dim in minutes. The game is done.

  “My garage is your garage,” I say, gnashing my back teeth because I don’t want her to see me wince at my own lameness.

  “I mean, if that were the case, you think you’d give me your code,” she says.

  “It’s seven,” I say. I can tell by her quick laugh that she thinks I’m joking. “No, seriously. I put that keypad in for my mom and messed up the programming, so if you just hit seven a bunch of times, eventually it will open.”

  “Wow. Seems safe,” she teases.

  Her feet hit the end of my driveway and she stops backing away, giving me hope that maybe she’ll walk forward and decide to stick around a little longer. I’d stand out here and make self-deprecating jokes until morning if she let me.

  “So, two?”

  I stare at her, tempted to correct her that the garage is seven, but I know what she means. She means burger time.

  “Sorry, yeah. Two,” I confirm before scrambling for more words. “I mean, you can come earlier, too. If you want. My mom works at the brake shop in Old Town in the morning and my grandpa and I are usually up early enough to have breakfast with her before she leaves.”

  “What kind of breakfast?” Her head cocks to the right. She’s sincerely considering joining us.

  “What’s your favorite?” I swear to myself that if I have to ride my bike for miles to get actual quality breakfast for Eleanor in the morning, I will.

  Miles. On a BMX.

  “I make the best pancakes in the entire world,” she pronounces.

  “Well that’s weird,” I reply. I’m about to lie. “I’ve been told I make the best pancakes in the entire world.”

  I hold her gaze in a challenge, the real Jonah trapped inside me, screaming that I’m getting us in over our head because I can barely time microwaveable dinners right.

  “Oh, Jonah,” she practically sings while pointing a finger at me briefly with a tsk. “I really hate that someone’s been lying to you. Guess I’ll see you at seven, then. I’ll bring my best recipe and you try your best with yours. Grandpa Hank can be the judge.”

  “Deal.” I nod.

  Shit.

  My knee bobs with nerves, and I swear she notices before she turns and heads into the dark house across the street. I remain in the garage for twenty minutes with my mom’s keys in my hand, staring at Eleanor’s window and waiting for any sign that she’s staring back. When I’m pretty sure she isn’t, I shut the garage behind me with the usual series of sevens and hop into my mom’s car to hit the grocery store for pancake mix before it closes.

  Some recipe.

  Seven

  I’m not sure where I got that dose of swagger last night, but it was incredibly fleeting. My alarm went off at six, and I’ve been riffling through various cooking blogs for the last thirty minutes in search of easy tricks and tips to “take your boring pancakes up a notch.” Too bad I don’t have wild blueberries at my disposal, or farm-fresh hand-churned butter, or nutmeg. What is nutmeg? I have cinnamon, and that’s going to have to do.

  On top of feeling out of my element in the kitchen, I’m also anxious about what I’m wearing, and that my hair is combed. Is it too combed? Am I trying too hard? Grandpa’s heavy steps are getting closer, which means he’s going to find out that Eleanor’s coming over, and he’s going to tell Mom, and—

  “Shit!” I jerk my hand from the griddle and suck on the side of my pinky finger that grazed it. That thing heats up fast!

  “What, you couldn’t wait for your birthday breakfast so you decided to get started without me?” Grandpa follows up his curious question with a round of coughing. When he regains his breath, he reaches for the fridge handle, but I slap it closed.

  “No eggs today,” I announce. I’m maybe a little abrupt. I’m nervous, but also, Eleanor cannot witness the egg situation.

  “Well par-don me!” He holds open palms and waggles them to play up how offended he is but quickly turns his attention to making coffee.

  “Sorry, I’m just . . . I’m not sure what I’m doing, and well . . . Eleanor’s coming over.”

  “Eleanor’s coming over?” My mom’s voice echoes my words and my eyes flutter closed as I stand at the sink running cold water over what I feel may be a blister forming.

  “Ah, so that’s why you’re wearing the new shirt,” Grandpa Hank teases.

  “It’s not new,” I retort. That’s a lie, sorta. I bought this over the summer but I just haven’t worn it yet.

  “So is it the cool thing now to keep your tags hanging from the collar?” I feel a slight tug on the fabric hugging the back of my neck. “Relax, I got it.”

  The sound of the kitchen drawer sliding open is followed by my Grandpa’s throat clearing. I glance to my side in time to see him unfolding his reading glasses from his pocket and sliding them on his face as he comes at me with scissors in the other hand. At this rate, I won’t be shocked if somehow he slices off a chunk of my hair while he’s at it.

  With a quick snip my tag is gone, and at least one problem is solved. There are still plenty to choose from, though, so when my mom questions what I’m doing with her mixing cups and the glass bowl and the cinnamon, I freeze up and take a few steps back from it all.

  “I have no idea how t
o make pancakes. I got this mix because it says ‘easy’ on the box, but I’m worried it’s boring, so—”

  “So you figured you’d add cinnamon. Ah, I got it. Not bad, actually. Let’s see.” Now both my grandpa and my mom are inspecting my work with their glasses on. My mom reads the back of the box for the mix I bought and corrects some of the amounts I’ve poured. A quick check of the clock on the microwave sends a new round of panic-induced nausea through my system at the realization that I only have ten minutes until Eleanor arrives.

  “Are you supposed to wear your shirts in that order?” A new critique fires in from Gramps.

  “Huh?” I shift my focus from my mom at the counter to my grandpa on my other side. He tugs on the gray thermal shirt I’m wearing under my black short-sleeved button down. It’s one of those fifties-style gas station replica shirts. I always wanted one but didn’t think I was the kind of guy who could pull them off. My grandpa isn’t helping to cure me of that doubt, but it’s too late to run upstairs and change.

  “That’s the look,” I grunt back with a huff, and my frustration amuses both of them. “You guys are not helping!”

  “Aww, birthday boy is upset,” my mom teases, putting on her baby voice as she winks at my grandpa.

  I decide then to just give up and I plop down in a chair at the opposite end of the table, my pinky finger marred by a skin bubble and my mom taking over work on the pancakes I confidently bragged about making last night. At this point, I should just welcome my grandpa’s runny eggs.

  The buzz of at our door is the nail in my coffin, and I contemplate remaining glued to my chair and letting my mom or Grandpa Hank let Eleanor in. But the fear of them setting up an even worse scene than the one she’s going to get is enough to motivate me to stand and move to the door, cutting my mom off with a quick, “I got it.”