by Nessa Morgan
“It’s okay, dear,” Molly tells me. “But could you wake my son for me?” she asks, standing on her tiptoes to get a better look at him.
Antonios waves his arm in the arm. “Can I do it?” he asks his wife. She nods, a smirk tugging at her lips. But her husband’s expression is the one that scares me—no, terrifies me. His brown eyes, so much like Zephyr’s, narrow slowly and at the same time, his smile slowly blossoms and it’s filled with mischief. Oh, dear. “Joey, you might want to move.” I scramble off the couch, or fall to the floor if I want to be honest, and crawl over to my aunt.
“Now, Antonios, be nice,” Molly begs quietly of her husband, not disturbing Zephyr as she speaks, keeping her voice to a low whisper. However, I hear her giggle as she watches Antonios stalk toward their son with light, catlike steps.
Antonios shakes his head. He pulls something from the pocket of his jacket—an air horn—holding it up and waving it, showing us. Where does everyone get those things? No, I have a better question, why does he have it with him now. He holds it over his son’s head, signals for us to plug our ears, and presses the button.
Zephyr jumps up from the couch, somehow leaping through the air, and lands on his back. Hard. Like, painfully hard. We’re all laughing so loud, so hard, that I lose feeling in my stomach. Jamie falls to the floor, taking me down with her.
“Thanks, everyone,” Zephyr mutters, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head, the part that hit the floor.
The rest of the day is uneventful, very boring—very downhill from the morning. I take the usual pop quizzes, acing them all, and soon enough, I’m back at school, dressed in a white dress with a music scroll swirling up the side and black flats with skulls on the side. I decide to wear my hair in a side braid. There are only three of us left, a boy named Douglas Stephens from a high school in a neighboring town, he has pale skin, dark blonde hair, and his face is covered in freckles—he’s adorable. He stands three inches taller than I do, so he’s on the short side. Then there is Candice Wallace, a girl from the local private school. She has dark, chocolate colored skin and large green eyes, her long dark hair is straightened, falling stick straight down her back. She’s taller than Douglas by at least five inches—which means she towers over me without the help of her pink heels.
We’re all nervous, shaking like leaves as we sit together in the green room. We’ve also become quite chummy with each other through the past three weeks, talking about anything but singing and music. Though I do learn that Candice is a member of her school’s choir and Douglas is a member of a band that plays local bars in Seattle.
I pale in comparison to them but they don’t seem to mind, we all know we’re talented, and we all know that we showcase that talent in different ways. When they sing in front of crowds, I’m usually rocking out in a practice room, to-may-to, to-mah-to.
For the final night, we have two songs to sing. My choices are ZZ Ward’s If I Could Be Her and Gin Wigmore’s Dying Day. The latter might be wrong to sing in a school competition, but I like the song and I can play it on the piano.
At the end of the night, after they announce that Douglas Stephens is in third place, it’s down to Candice Wallace and me.
When Brittany stands before the microphone, the audience grows quiet, no; they are completely silent. If I were to drop a pin on the stage, you could hear it in the back row of the theatre. You can even hear the crinkle of the paper as Brittany tears open the envelope, complete overkill if you ask me. She could just say the winner and we could all move on with our lives.
“And the winner is…” she trails off, pausing for dramatic effect. Give me a break, people.
I steal a glance at Candice Wallace and give her a reassuring smile. I really don’t care if I win or lose, I didn’t want to do this thing anyway. Sure, I’d like to say that after all the time and effort that I have invested into this competition that I want to leave with that stupid trophy in my hands, but I really could care less. This is a high school competition, not American Idol, that is not Ryan Seacrest standing on stage, and neither of us will win a recording contract. I’m not even sure what either of us will win. But Candice smiles back at me before we both look out to the crowd seated before us. I connect eyes with Zephyr and wave to him. He waves back and shoots me a thumbs up.
“…Candice Wallace!” Brittany says into the microphone, a slight sound of surprise in her voice, as if she didn’t believe Candice to win. Did she think it would be me?
I reach out to hug the winner standing next to me, being a good sport and very proud of her—she is truly spectacular, and sneak from the stage as they hand her a trophy. Or try to sneak away. They hand me a second place trophy and I walk down the stairs, directly into Zephyr’s waiting arms, letting him envelop me.
“I think you were robbed,” he whispers into my ear as he holds onto me.
I hit him in the arm lightly. “She deserved it, she was fantastic,” I tell him. Is it a tad disappointing? Only a miniscule amount, really. I’m not, I mean, I refuse to dwell on it. “But I want to go home, now,” I mumble and let him lead me out of the theatre. I think there was an after party planned, but there’re other places I’d rather be. The cool night air is crisp against my skin. It’s drizzling outside and I forgot my jacket at home, but I refuse Zephyr’s offer of his. I just feel like walking in the rain. I release Zephyr’s hand and begin to drift away, moving farther into the rain, letting it wash over me.
“Jo, come on,” Zephyr calls loudly as I speed up my pace, nearly running through the rain--or frolicking. “You’ll get sick.” He worries too much sometimes.
“But it's fun,” I say from halfway across the parking lot. I stop; raising my arms above my head, feeling the rain hit my skin and soak through the fabric of my dress.
Zephyr walks up, pulling me into his arms tightly. The rain picks up, pouring down, flattening my curls to my body. I can see his hair is plastered to the side of his face. I lean up and press my lips against his, wrapping my arms around his neck.
“You’re wearing a white dress,” he points out after our kiss. I pull away, looking down at my dress, my soaked dress, but it doesn't show anything.
Still, I say, “Maybe, I should head home.” I offer.
***
“These two days of school are just pointless,” Zephyr grumbles as he closely follows me up the driveway to my house, his hand threaded with mine. We just finished school the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, and I was happy that a long weekend of food and family was a head of me.
Goody, goody gum drops!
“Shouldn’t you use the past tense,” I ask him as my hands search my pockets half-heartedly for my keys. I unzip the side pocket to my Dakine backpack and tug out the red-and-black lanyard holding my keys, letting them dangle and jingle.
“Maybe you’re right,” Zephyr replies. I look over to him and he shrugs and smiles. I lean over to kiss him on the cheek briefly.
The front door flings open before I can pull away from Zephyr. A loud squeal slices through the air, raising the hair on the back of my neck and sending a tremble of joy down my spine.
That can only be one person.
“There’s my little Joey Bean,” my grandmother, or Grammy as I call her when I’m not jokingly referring to her as Gram Cracker, yells, her Scottish accent not as thick as it used to be. She darts from the front door—surprisingly spry in her ripe old age of sixty (even though that isn’t really that old). She wraps her arms around me in a tight squeeze, rocking me from side to side. “Where do you think you’re going?” She must be talking to Zephyr because I feel him slam against my back, emitting a loud oomph. “I’ve missed you so, so, so much,” she announces loudly.
“Mom, you’re going to suffocate them,” a deep male voice, which can only belong to my Uncle Sam, calls from the door.
“These are my babies,” Grammy yells to her only son.
“Can’t… breathe…” I sputter out, tapping Grammy on the back. I hear Zephyr struggling behind
me.
“Okay, fine,” Grammy releases us and I fall back against Zephyr, taking a deep breath. I feel like I’ve just gone against a large boa constrictor—maybe, I should’ve been calling her that my entire like. “How was your day, kids?”
“Great, Gram Cracker.” I hear Zephyr giggle as I call her the name she despises. I don’t always call her that, it just makes me hungry for s’mores when I do. “Where’s the Popsicle?” Also known as Grandpa… most of the time. Sometimes, I mean actual popsicle—preferably cherry.
“In the house with Sam and Hilary,” my grandmother points out. “When are you going to stop calling me Gram Cracker?” she asks, following us as we walk toward the house.
“How does never sound to you?” I ask, turning so she can see my smile. I could call her worse names; she has to know that. “Remember how much you love me,” I sing as I hug Sam. Now, while I enjoy making up nicknames for people, his nickname was not my doing. His name is Sam and he is my uncle. “Hi, Unc,” I mutter into his flannel shirt as he hugs me. He smells like pine and Christmas. It’s a bit early, and I’m not sure where he’s been to gain that scent, but I don’t mind.
“Hello, little darlin’.” Ah, the familiar accent I’ve missed.
My favorite part of the holidays is when my relatives come to visit, or I visit them. Especially Thanksgiving because my grandparents, my uncle, and the Kalivas family join my aunt and me, and I can’t forget that Patrick is also joining the festivities this year because we all want to see him squirm around Grandpa, even Hilary, and he doesn’t want to go back to New York.
“Sorry to hear about that singing thing—” my uncle starts, but I’m quick to cut him off before he starts sprouting out conspiracy theories.
“Don’t even worry about it. My boyfriend over here”—I hitch my thumb behind me, pointing to Zephyr, the guilt culprit—“signed me up for it without my knowledge.” I shoot a glare over my shoulder.
“Did he, now?” Sam turns toward Zephyr, his mouth a tight, thin line. “Atta boy, Zephyr.” My uncle claps Zephyr on the back in appreciation and praise.
“Hey!” I complain loudly. “I thought you were on my side.” I punch him lightly in the arm.
“I’m on any side that showcases your talents.” I narrow my eyes. “I remember that I’d visit and you’d just be sitting in your room, playing by yourself, and all that we’d hear is your voice, all light and airy, floating through the air.”
Zephyr sticks his tongue out at me. How classy.
“Where is my grandbaby?” I hear Grandpa in the kitchen. “Joey!” He calls, his voice gruff and breathy, like he’d ran here just to see me, while his accent is smooth and familiar, also a little worn.
“Coming!” I dart through the people standing in the kitchen—my aunt, my uncle, and my grandmother—and launch myself into my grandfather’s waiting arms. His familiar scent wafts from his shirt and I take a deep breath, smelling the tobacco on his shirt. It shouldn’t smell like home, but it does. Grammy has been trying to get him to quit for years; he just keeps it up, smoking, even though we all want him to live longer.
“I’ve missed you.” His hand pats me on the head before it lightly taps my back.
“Me, too, Grandpa.” I lean back and smile up at him, taking in his bald, shining head that glints in the kitchen light. I need to call them more.
It’s great to have my family here, all in one place. We all sit in the living room, even Zephyr, who should really be home with his parents right now, but we all sit together, swapping stories of the past year, trying to catch up with each other in a way that can’t be done over the telephone. It takes no time. The same questions are asked around, such as “When are you going to settle down, boy?” Grammy will ask Sam, who’s only twenty-five. He won’t answer. “What about you, girl?” she’ll ask Hilary. She won’t answer either. Instead, she’ll blush brightly.
Then they start congratulating and complimenting everyone. “Congratulations on graduating early, Joey,” Grandpa will tell me and Grammy will tell my aunt “I heard about that new award nomination, Hilary.”
After a few hours of talking and laughing and joking, it’s finally time for bed. I send Zephyr home and walk my grandparents up to their room, the only guestroom in the house, while Sam camps out on the couch. I sometimes feel bad about it but the though quickly passes when I remember sleeping on that lumpy thing. Even with Zephyr, it hurt like a bitch.
On Thanksgiving morning, I awake to the delicious, mouthwatering scent of bacon. That’s enough to lure me from my room tugging a sweatshirt over my head and yanking down the hem of my Powerpuff Girls sleep shorts.
“I smell bacon,” I murmur like a zombie toward the giant mound of crispy bacon on the counter next to the stove. It’s the first thing I see, and with instinct and my arms outstretched, I wander to it, partially dazed.
I look to my grandmother, fully dressed in a floral dress and a cardigan. She smiles at me, the same she does on every holiday and summer vacation. I walk over to her and wrap my arms around her shoulders, trying to butter her up because I want as much bacon as I can get. Right now, I want the entire damned plate.
Grandma looks to me and nudges the plate in my direction, and like a lion, I attack, pouncing on the bacon like I’m a lion and it’s a fresh zebra carcass. Not to go on my own bacon appreciation moment, but I love it more than pancakes. Hell, I would kick a squirrel for some bacon.
The day before, we spent hours—literally long hours—at the store purchasing everything we need for this upcoming weekend. We took two cars and maxed out two credit cards, that’s how big and expensive the shopping trip was.
I take a good layer of bacon—one very large handful—and start snacking, leaning against the counter while my grandmother cooks at the stove. I’m sure the sight is entertaining.
“Don’t fill up on bacon alone, honey,” Grandma tells me. I can’t help thinking, That would be the greatest breakfast, ever! I quickly quiet the thought because she’d force me to indulge in some fruit, and in all our haste, we forgot to buy apples. She keeps her voice quiet to let my uncle continue sleeping soundly on the sofa in the living room. “I also fixed up some eggs and grits”—I’m in heaven—“I’ll start the pancakes and French toast in a moment.” Yum!
Hearing her say fixed up makes me giggle. While Grammy is from Scotland, born and raised, just like Grandpa, she has lived in the United States, primarily Texas, long enough to speak like one of her neighbors or members of her book club. I’m just waiting for the accents to combine.
“Did I ever mention how much I love you?” I tell her with a piece of bacon dangling from my lips.
The front door opens and I raise an eyebrow, catching a smirk play across my grandmother’s lips. “I remember the deal around here,” my grandmother tells me, her accent kicking in, as Zephyr and Jamie walk into the kitchen, both wearing jeans and t-shirts. It’s always customary we spend Thanksgiving together, and I’m not entirely sure when it started. Behind them, their older brother, Aidan, walks in. He looks the same, only taller with more hair and it’s as unruly as ever. I stand up and hug him, nearly tackling him in the doorway.
“Grammy,” Jamie announces loudly, I think my uncle is awake by now, wrapping her thin arms around my grandmother’s shoulders as I had done. “How have you been since we last saw you?” she asks.
“Been well, dear,” she replies, taking a good look at Jamie and her tiny frame. “Have you been eating? It’s good that I’m here to put some meat on those bones.”
Zephyr starts laughing—he snorts, in fact, receiving an angry look from his sister. “Good luck with that.” He grabs the plate of bacon from the counter and places it on the table between us. Jamie joins us and it’s like a normal school day morning. Soon, everyone is up and eating, even Molly and Antonios join us, and I head up to change into more appropriate attire.
“So where’ve you been applying, Joey?” my grandfather asks as I set a vegetable platter down on the dining room table.
He’s seated during a commercial break during the football game while Sam, Aidan, Antonios, Zephyr, Patrick, and Hilary wait for the commercials to end.
“Uh, mostly Pacific Northwest schools,” I answer, grabbing an olive and popping it into my mouth. “I really want to go to University of Oregon.” I resist the urge to quack like a duck.
“No schools in Texas?” my grandmother asks from the stove. I return to helping her cook. Mostly, I just stand by and place things on plates while Molly works on a pie and Jamie watches her. Jamie and I are really useless in the kitchen.
“Not really,” I answer honestly.
“Well, whatever makes you happy, dear.” She pats me on the head. “Now take this over to your grandfather for me, please.” Handing me a large salad that’d make a rabbit happy. My grandfather, not so much.
That night, when we all sit down for the delicious dinner, things get interesting. Patrick’s seated between me and Hilary and Grandpa refused to look anywhere else but at him. From what I could tell, they didn’t talk much during the game. I think he—Patrick—is terrified of my grandfather, as well he should.
“He’s scaring me,” I hear Patrick whisper to Hilary—thus affirming my theory. She giggles in response, shooting a glance to Grandpa as he winks to her.
“He’s really harmless,” I tell him, trying to reassure him. “At least he wasn’t cleaning his gun, or guns, at the table.” He does reside in Texas, he is a big fan of guns—when they are used for the right reasons.
The nervous smile falls from his face and he gulps. “That’s not helpful, Joey.” I could hear the fear in Patrick’s voice. It took all my effort not to laugh. Because Grandpa’s a sweetheart.
After all the fear and joking, Grandpa finally warmed up to Patrick. It wasn’t like Grandpa didn’t like him, he was just trying to put the fear of God in him, which worked. I’ve never seen any one more terrified. And then, there was the usual threat of “If you hurt her, they will never find you,” from Sam, which works considering that he’s a Marine.