The Precious Dreadful

by Steven Parlato

  In her defense, when I told her what I’d remembered, she managed to hold it together. She even asked if there was anything she could do. And she waited ’til I’d left the room to run to the fridge.

  She also offered to take me to Massachusetts to meet Micah and his mom. If that’s something I want. I haven’t figured out how to tell her I’m horrified just imagining that reunion.

  Aidan runs his thumb down the nape of my neck, bringing me back to JJ’s, back to right now. “So, you’re reading at this thing?”

  I don’t even need to scan the list of SUMMERTEENS writers because, as is often the case, Alder occupies the alphabetical top spot. I answer, “News to me.”

  I assume the flyer was printed before the world imploded. I’ve missed the last four workshop sessions; really doubt I have anything to offer. Plus, the prospect of seeing them all again literally makes me ill.

  Each time I’ve recounted what happened at the pond—including in a rambling e-mail to Eleanor yesterday—not my best work; hope she resists her critique impulse—it’s gotten a little easier. And that’s just wrong. I’m afraid if I have to tell it to the workshop group, all those faces drinking in details, it’ll lose its power, become meaningless.

  I know this sounds nuts, but the story is mine. Mine and Corey’s. That last moment together something we alone shared.

  Terrible, but solely ours.

  The Precious Dreadful.

  It’s all I have left of him. And I’m afraid if I share it too freely, it won’t belong to us anymore. That would mean losing him all over again.

  Willa says, “Teddi, you need to do this. Don’t you think Corey would want you to read? Would want you to go on with life?”

  “That’s very Hallmark of you, Wills, but Corey was a seven-year-old boy. If it was a monster truck show, he might be into it. But I doubt his ghost is all that invested in me making my SUMMERTEENS open mic debut.”

  Aidan risks a laugh, shakes his head.

  From behind us, I hear, “So do it for you.”

  It’s Ed, looking awful earnest as he says, “It might help you to jump back in, do something to take your mind off it.” When I raise an eyebrow, he adds, “Eleanor showed me your message.” Touching my shoulder, he asks, “How you holding up?”

  The usual spark of tension leaps from Aidan to him, but then Aid smiles at me and says, “She’ll get through it. She’s amazing.”

  Ed and Willa say, “Agreed,” one after another.

  Kissing my forehead, Aidan says, “I’d better get back to the beans before Norah gets bent.”

  As he heads behind the counter, Willa and Ed reintroduce themselves—a lifetime’s gone by since July 4th—and I go back to studying the flyer, considering whether they could be right about giving the reading a shot. I guess there are worse ways to spend my birthday. Yep, it’s in two days, July 26. Some sweet sixteen.

  “I’ll do it.”

  They seem surprised at my decision—but pleased. Willa says, “You can count on me and Nic being right up front, T Bear. Wouldn’t miss it!”

  Ed adds, “That’s great. Eleanor wants those seats filled. Of course, that means I’ll need to set them up. Do you feel like coming by later to give me a hand?”

  “Um, I guess, but remember, you have a girlfriend. And the big guy in the apron is the jealous type.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  When Willa says, “Nope, this isn’t uncomfortable in the least,” Ed and I both laugh. It feels good—a sip of carbonation—before a guilt dart swoops to burst the bubble.

  We text Nic, and he meets us at the library. Fist-bumping Ed, he claims he’s always been a “natural chair setter-upper.”

  Willa says, “More of a natural chair sitter-in-er,” and Nic does his patented sad walk.

  Ed smirks, enjoying their back-and-forth. I’m not sure why it matters to me that he gets along with my friends, but I savor watching him watching them.

  Standing in L718 feels right, like I belong here. And the reading won’t be such a big deal. Might even be nice to have some plan for my sixteenth birthday beyond sequestering myself in blankets and memory, sobbing on my bed.

  But two nights later, peering from the podium at the eager faces of friends and family—my own and those here for the rest of the group—reality is different. Awash somehow, I’m nauseated. Part of it’s natural, nerves. I’ve never been cool as center of attention. And the assortment filling the seats doesn’t help.

  It was weird seeing everyone from group, knowing they knew about Corey. I asked Ed to fill them in on the details, to save me having to tell it all over again. I also said to be sure to let them know I’m fine, to please act normal around me.

  Ken’s idea of acting normal was to pump my hand and say, “Welcome back, Teddi. I’m very sorry for your loss. It sounds cataclysmic.”

  Todd surprised me with a plastic Boba Fett figure, no explanation. I pocketed it with a heartfelt “Wow.”

  Jeanine hung back with the other three kids, while Petra gave me an extended hug. Handing me a card everyone had signed, she said, “Teddi, I know a little what you’re going through. I lost somebody special, too. I mean, not this way, but . . . every death is its own kind of bottomless pit, you know?” Looking embarrassed, she continued, “If you ever need to talk—”

  “Thanks.”

  Marisol warned me her tia Adaluz was eager to see me. That brought a pang, this slice of anger. Did she want to gloat about the fact that she was right, that it wasn’t a girl, but a dead boy with a message? But when she arrived, she just took me in her arms. Eyes drowned in tears, she said, “Oh, Teddi. Mi corazón esta roto.”

  Trying not to cry, I whispered in her ear, “Mine too, Tia Luz, mine too.”

  Eleanor let her formal demeanor slip when she saw me. Pooh-poohing my initial resistance, she, too, draped me in an embrace.

  Upon release, I hesitated, wishing I could stay there, enveloped in her serene essence, forever. As she broke the connection, straightening my shoulders, she said, “Don’t move.”

  After a brief expedition into her tapestry bag, she returned, holding out a small object, tissue-wrapped. Opening it, I discovered an intricately carved pin, a Celtic cross.

  As she fastened it to my collar, she said, “It’s alder wood, seemed appropriate. You truly do have the strength of an alder. Use it well.”

  I sort of stammered, “Um, I . . . I’ll try.”

  She looked away then, scanning the room. Dabbing the corner of her eye with her pinky, she said, “Your telling—even in e-mail form—was masterful, Teddi. You have a writer’s soul. Nurture it.” Then, extending her hand past me, she asked, “And whom have you brought to our little fete?”

  “Mom, this is Eleanor, our teacher. Eleanor, this is my mom, Brenda.”

  They did the whole “pleased to meet you” thing, and then Eleanor stepped away to greet other arrivals.

  I always have mixed emotions about public appearances with Brenda. Well, not so much mixed, I guess. Purely negative. It’s just nerve-racking, the possibility she’ll show up sloshed. But at least tonight, she’s behaved. She opted for the mock colada at my birthday dinner. I insisted Nic and Willa come with, to sort of deflect Brenda’s attention.

  They definitely deflected attention here at the reading. Nic left during the break, after they got in one of their fights. So I have a grand total of two in attendance—three, if I count Ed, which I sort of do—as I take my place at the lectern.

  Aidan’s a no-show.

  I’m not disappointed, though. I’m trying not to dwell on his warning: “I ruin things.”

  This is different. He texted this afternoon to say he couldn’t make dinner, had to cover last-minute at JJ’s. Honestly, I was relieved he’d be spared Brenda’s tableside manner. But he promised he’d make it to the library in time to hear me read.

  Seriously, though, he’s not missing much.

  Actually, the first few readers were solid. After Eleanor’s official welcome and
intro, Marisol started the evening with the piece she wrote about Adaluz. It was touching, her cousin and Tia Luz all misty, holding hands as Mari read.

  Acting as MC, Eleanor presented Todd next. He read a story about a futuristic society where sweat’s the sole form of currency, but ironically, average worldwide temps have plummeted to twelve degrees, so sweat is in short supply. Odd, but interesting, similar to the writer himself.

  And Eleanor must be some kind of miracle worker, because Ken’s condor piece turned out sort of brilliant. She got him to work past strict, scientific description to create what she called “a unique melding of prose, poetry, reportage, and surrealist observation.”

  I’m not quite sure what that meant, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget the line “Fidelity swathed in black, the master bird delivers life through death, rancid carrion his bride prize.”

  Though his story elicited only a smatter of polite applause, Ken blazed when Eleanor commented, “So unique, Kenneth. Bravo!” She followed that with “Well, I’m sure you’re all ready for refreshments, so let’s take a fifteen-minute intermission.”

  I’m guessing the audience had “rancid carrion” on the brain because nobody exactly dashed to the snack table.

  Now it’s my turn. Ed stands alongside my chair as Eleanor returns to the pedestal to announce me. Hand on my shoulder, he says, “You got this?”

  I nod, even as my stomach begins crawling up my esophagus.

  Eleanor says, “As an intensive, SUMMERTEENS demands much of its participants. The writing process can be challenging, leaving us bruised, but if we take our craft seriously, stay attuned to our muse, we can reap great benefits of mind and spirit.”

  I glance at Ed, with an Any clue what she’s talking about? expression. He returns a No freakin’ idea smirk.

  She continues. “Our next writer has shown enormous gifts of creativity and natural ability.” Brenda squeezes my hand as Eleanor finishes. “However, I am most impressed that she lives up to her name, showing us all what it means to possess the strength of trees. Please give a special birthday welcome to our next reader, Teddi Alder.”

  I can’t help flashing back to one of those long-ago Alateen meetings, especially when the audience responds in unison, “Happy birthday, Teddi.”

  Stepping to the podium, I mutter a self-conscious “Thanks.” Then, summoning power from the two seven-year-olds I imagine crouched by the tag-sale toys in the corner, I open my journal and slide out the pages I typed this morning.

  Inhaling a heavy breath, I begin.

  “There once was a pair unlike any before or since, a lonely giraffe and her one true friend, a small, brown frog.”

  30

  Joy—I can’t help it, I do prefer that to Ed—and I wander away from the crit clique. No one seems to care, or even notice our slow retreat across the parking lot. Petra’s preoccupied, sharing a pink cotton cloud with Ken and Todd. Jeanine bailed on her, saying she needed to get home. And Willa made an excuse; I think she just felt out of place, celebrating my sixteenth with my new writing group friends.

  Brenda took the night bus to the college right after the reading. Standing at the stop, she held my hands, told me for at least the hundredth time how proud she is. I felt strangely parental, as if I was sending her off to camp, when she boarded.

  The scent of popcorn mingles with zoo straw and that unmistakable goaty smell. Calliope tunes blare from the temporary midway. Somehow, even though this wonderland sprang up overnight, Pelletier Bros.’ Pet Zoo Extreme has the appearance of long-term dilapidation. The rides look ultra-rickety, and the ponies circling the fenced-in ring remind me of minimum wage workers, longing to punch out and hit the bar.

  Joy smiles, his cheeks lit with what seems to be heightened anticipation. Or else it’s the fluorescent beams of the Ferris wheel. “So, what do you think?”

  Shrugging, I answer, “I haven’t come here since I was little.”

  “Your folks bring you?”

  “My mom. And Peter. We brought Corey once, too.”

  It’s a happy memory, one I haven’t thought of in far too long—the two of us sharing a camel ride—but it feels sharp against my ribs, as if it might tear a hole there. The ache must show on my face, because when I finally look back at him, Joy’s wearing this super concerned expression. And holding out a dime.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Your thoughts. I’m betting they’re worth more than a penny.”

  “Cute.”

  “So?”

  “Nothing, guess I was feeling sort of nostalgic. But for something that never really was.”

  “Ah, the most powerful brand of nostalgia.” He takes my hand, which is strange, since he knows about Aidan and me. I meet his serious hazel gaze.

  “Um . . . what’s with the hand-holding?”

  He seems to contemplate letting go; instead, he squeezes gently. “Is there some rule against friends holding hands?”

  “Are we?”

  “Are we what, Teddi?”

  “Friends.”

  “What do you think?”

  “That you’re this sweet, sort of odd dude I’ve gotten way too comfortable flirting with.” He drops my hand, and I immediately regret the odd dude remark. “But we both know nothing can happen between us, Ed. I—”

  Shushing me, he leans closer. Fingers tracing the curve of my cheek, he says, “Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing, I’m in a relationship.”

  “Really? Now that’s odd.” He stops, stares above my head at the flashing Ferris bulbs.

  “Odd how?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, I just think it’s a little sad you calling it a relationship. Must be sort of a challenge having one with an empty chair.”

  “Wow, Ed, why don’t you tell me how you really feel about Aidan?”

  “Sorry, I know it’s none of my business.”

  “No, it’s really not.”

  “I just can’t believe he didn’t show up, Teddi. He had to know what tonight meant to you.”

  “I told you, he had to work.”

  “Right. Well, JJ’s closes at, what, seven o’clock? It’s past nine now.”

  “God! Would you just leave it alone? You want me to admit I feel shitty about him not showing up? That I’m wondering where he is, why he hasn’t even bothered to text me. On my freaking birthday! Fine! I feel shitty! Happy?”

  “It’s . . . of course it doesn’t make me happy.” He fumbles in his pocket, looks away. Then he says, “Look, Teddi, you’re going to think I’m a total prick for telling you this, but . . . I saw Aidan the other night at the library.”

  “I know. He told me he talked to you after class, that you said I hadn’t been there. Ed, I really think I should—”

  “No, I mean, before he came looking for you. He was in the park, with these two guys and . . . some girl. They looked pretty, um,”—he pinkens—“ ‘skeezy’ is the word I’m looking for.”

  “Look, I don’t monitor all his social interactions, okay? And apparently Glade doesn’t have to give you permission to talk to another girl.”

  At the mention of Glade’s name, he backs off for a moment; then he says, “Aidan wasn’t just talking, Teddi. That would’ve been difficult with this girl’s tongue wrapped around his tonsil.”

  I try not to react as if someone’s dumped a steaming bucket of heartbreak over my head. Taking a deep breath, I say, “So you expect me to cry or some shit like that.”

  “If you need to, it’s okay with me.”

  “Well, aren’t you the perfect confidant.”

  Cheeks darkening, Ed swipes his forehead with the back of his hand. Then, attempting a comforting smile, he says, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “No? Well, you sure seem awfully interested in my relationship status. Why is that, Ed?”

  “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  I avoid looking him in the eye as I say, “I wish you’d stop saying that! What makes you think I can’t take
care of myself? Or that Aidan has any plans to hurt me? I told you we’ve been having some problems. So he was hanging out with another girl while we were broken up. So what!”

  He takes this scuba-worthy gulp of air. I can tell he’s winding up for something big. “Teddi, there are things you don’t know about him.”

  “Wait. And you do? How do you know things about him, Ed? I’m the one who introduced you!”

  “That’s not exactly . . .” He fumbles; then, fingers tracing his wrist tattoo, he says, “All I can say is I knew him a while back. We were friends.”

  “You were friends?”

  “Yes. And he was into some stuff you wouldn’t like.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “All right, now you’re pissing me off. You can’t half say something and then get all freaking cryptic. It’s not fair.” I grab his wrist. “What are you talking about?”

  Pulling free, he refuses to meet my eyes. Worrying the hem of his T-shirt, he twists it into a knot at his waist. Finally, his voice a rush of air, he says, “We used to get high together, Aidan and me, this whole group of friends. We’d meet in the park mostly. By the pond.”

  I can barely process what he’s saying, but somewhere in the back of my head, gears start to click into place. How could I have overlooked the clues? The way Aidan acted that night in the store, and at play rehearsal. His anger when I asked about the park. And Willa’s worries about Nic and Aidan. What was it she said? He’s different, since he’s been hanging with Aidan. It can’t be true.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “It was a long time ago. I gave all that up, didn’t recognize the person I was turning into. January fourth I’ll be two years clean.”

  “Congratulations.” I turn to go.

  He stops me with “But Aidan—”

  “What?” It comes out a little girl whisper.

  “Maybe this isn’t fair. Maybe he’s changed, too. Maybe he really does care about you. But the Aidan I knew only cared about getting high.”

  “He told me he loves me.”

  “Teddi, wait. You’re upset. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to upset you. I just . . . I couldn’t keep his secret anymore.”