A Million Junes

by Emily Henry

  I close the door and perch on the edge of the table. Ms. deGeest swipes her hands together, wiping nonexistent chalk off them. “I’d like you to skip the poetry assignment.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “You have a knack for fiction. Or, rather, narrative nonfiction. Whatever you consider your first several assignments to be, that’s what I’d like you to keep working on.”

  “You gave me a D.”

  “That grade was waived, you’ll recall.”

  “Fine, you gave me a C.”

  “Junior, your work is too good to grade generously. An inflated mark and words of praise are not what you need. You have raw talent. Stop worrying about the grades the people around you are getting and push yourself. You are the competition here. I want everything you turn in to be like your last piece.”

  “You want me to write twenty stories about my dad seeing a death omen?”

  Her mask of cool shudders. “I’m sorry for your loss, June,” she says. “But yes, I see why it might feel like that’s what I’m asking. I want you to write the things you have the most to say about and the things you’re afraid of messing up.”

  “That’s how I felt about the first two stories, and you hated those.”

  “I didn’t hate them,” she counters. “They just lacked conflict, motivation, a clear sense of purpose—the fundamentals we’ve been talking about in class. The most epic character in the world isn’t much without something worth fighting for.”

  “There weren’t goals in the last one. There wasn’t any of that stuff.”

  She laughs. “The protagonist’s goal was to protect his daughter from seeing Death. He succeeded initially but ultimately failed. Listen, you need to learn the rules so your technique doesn’t hold you back, so don’t mishear me—but sometimes there’s so much heart in your words that the rules go out the window. You had me looking at that story as a reader, not a teacher. Your story made me pick up my phone and meet my parents for dinner.”

  “Your parents live in Five Fingers?”

  “Born and raised,” she admits. “You know what they say: Lake girls can’t stay away.” For an instant, it’s like I’m looking at a friend, someone who loves this place like I do, who left it for college but came back. When I think of it as a place to write, to take classes like deGeest’s, college sounds at least a little less boring. The thought of a path like this flutters in my chest, a new possibility I’ve never considered before.

  I tap my story. “I don’t know if I have more of that in me. But I’ll try.”

  “Whatever you did last time, do that again.”

  “Right, so take more LSD.”

  The corner of her mouth twitches toward a smile. “That’s not the kind of joke you should make to a teacher,” she says, “for future reference.”

  I nod, hesitating in the doorway. “So, I know you said my work is too good to grade generously but . . .” I lift the papers.

  She nods. “Let’s say a B.”

  “B?”

  She must think I’m disappointed, because she adds, “Plus.”

  • • •

  Mom and Toddy are going to an Arts Council event downtown—Wine & Lines, which apparently no one else thought sounded like a cocaine reference—that Toddy’s office sponsored, leaving me stuck watching the boys. But Hannah’s so bogged down with homework that she’s devoting her Friday night to AP calculus, so there’s nothing else for me to do anyway. Other than hunt for Whites, of course.

  In the days since Saul and I saw Dad in the yard, the need to see him—to smell, hear, touch him again—has spread through me like kudzu, but still none of the Whites I’ve caught have done anything but float away.

  It’s getting chillier as fall slogs closer to winter, so to get the boys outside before it becomes too frigid, I pretend Mom and Toddy banned video games for the night.

  “They did not,” Grayson calls me out as I stuff our designated picnic quilt into his arms and shove him toward the door.

  “Did too.”

  Shadow looks skeptical but doesn’t argue. He may be older, but he’s much more reticent than Grayson, who shouts, “Nuh-uh! They don’t care if we play video games!”

  “Remember last winter, Gray?” I say.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, so then you know that soon you’re going to have whole months where you do nothing but play video games. You’re going to cry from how cold it is when you walk to the bus stop. You’ll barely go outside. If there’s a house fire, you’ll feel grateful.”

  “What are you talking about?” he growls, scrambling out of my grip.

  “Enjoy the sunshine and fresh air, and in a while, I’ll take you to get pizza and three kinds of candy.”

  Grayson looks toward Shadow, whose bony shoulders shrug. “Okay,” Grayson answers for the both of them, and I push them out the door.

  At first they make a game of gathering the shriveled cherries beneath the tree and planting them in a circle around it. When they tire of that, they move on to playing aliens, zombies, soldiers, superheroes, and any other comic book subject matter they can think of while I lie on my back in the sun, eyes occasionally searching the windows. Soon the boys are circling my quilt, sighing and complaining, “We’re bored. When are we gonna go get pizza?”

  Eventually, this devolves into Grayson kicking my legs and Shadow rolling on top of me while I pretend to be asleep. When that doesn’t work, they resort to tickling me. “Fiiiine, you little monsters,” I relent, rolling Shadow off me. “Go get Dad’s car keys.”

  Grayson whoops and Shadow punches and kicks the air as they race to the house. “Lock the doors on your way out!”

  When Mom and Toddy first got married, it was a balancing act, learning how to talk to and about him. There’s what I’ve always called him: Toddy. There’s how I think of him and Mom as a unit: Mom and Toddy. The way I talk about them: my parents. The way I talk about just him: my stepdad or my dad, for the convenience of people I don’t know at all; Todd, for adults; Toddy, for people who are like family. And of course there’s how I refer to him when I’m talking to Grayson and Shadow: Dad.

  It doesn’t feel strange to me. At least no stranger than my own absurd smorgasbord of names.

  I liked how Saul couldn’t settle on one. I liked feeling like maybe he thought they all applied, in different situations.

  The boys come streaming across the yard. “LOCK THE DOOR!” I yell again, and Shadow dashes back to check the knob, then flashes me a thumbs up.

  We pile into Toddy’s truck and pull down the driveway onto the country road. I usually beeline for the scenic route through the cutesy part of downtown, but for quick errands and junk food runs with the boys, I head straight for the derelict IGA grocery store and Camponelli’s Pizza next door, which sells suspiciously old but not technically expired candy.

  We pull into Camponelli’s and hop out of the truck, and as we pass through the front door my eyes trail back to the car parked next to us. I’m milliseconds from figuring out where I recognize the junky sedan from when I walk straight into someone.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Sorry,” Saul says.

  Both of us freeze, rattled. “Hi,” he says.

  The scratch of his voice makes my stomach flip. “Hi.”

  “Wow, hi,” he says again, adjusting the pizza box under his arm.

  “Who are you?” Grayson asks.

  “He’s Junior’s teacher,” Shadow offers, which makes Saul laugh uncomfortably. “Remember?”

  “Tutor,” I say.

  “What’s a tutor?” Grayson asks.

  “He helps me with school.”

  “That’s not fair,” Grayson says. “That’s cheating.”

  “Yeah,” Saul says. “Come to think of it, it’s not fair.”

  “Well, tutoring isn’t cheating thou
gh,” Shadow explains, I guess to all of us. “They don’t do your homework for you or take your quizzes or anything. They’re just older kids who are good at school, and they help you go over things you learn.”

  Grayson must already be bored with this topic, because instead of responding, he blurts out, “Does our mom know you have tattoos?”

  “I . . . ?” Saul looks to me for help.

  “She doesn’t like tattoos,” Grayson says. “She says it makes you look like you’re trying too hard.”

  “Are you trying too hard, Mike?” I say.

  “Mike, trying too hard?” he says. “Mikes don’t try at all, Jack. Mikes pretty much just get individual pan-crust pizzas and go home to play video games in their fathers’ basements.”

  “Is the pan crust good?” Grayson asks.

  “No.”

  “Do you like video games?”

  “Yes,” Saul says.

  “Do you want to come over and play video games with us?”

  “Mom and Dad said no video games tonight,” Shadow says softly.

  “Nuh-uh, that was Junior.”

  “No video games,” I say again, helplessly.

  “I’ll tell Mom Mike has tattoos,” Grayson says.

  “Go for it.”

  “Does Mike get a say?” Saul says. “Because Mike would rather your mom didn’t think he was trying too hard.”

  Grayson scrunches his face. “Why are you talking like that?”

  “Can we get ham and pineapple?” Shadow asks.

  “Ew, no,” Grayson says. “We’re getting pepperoni with extra pepperoni.”

  “Junior, that’s not fair. I want ham and pineapple.”

  “No, no, no, no, no,” Grayson says while Shadow begs.

  “Okay, who wants to go home and play video games?” I say to make them stop.

  Grayson whoops. “With Mike!”

  Saul glances at me sidelong, making my stomach flip. I shouldn’t have Saul over.

  “We can at least get half ham and pineapple, right, Junior?” Shadow says.

  I’m going to have Saul over. “Fine. Let’s get the pizza and go.”

  As the boys rush the counter, Saul says, “You sure, Jack?”

  “Is that what you call me when you’re mad at me?”

  “It’s what I call you when you’re smirking.”

  I brush past him. “I don’t smirk.”

  Fifteen

  AT ten thirty, I force the boys into bed with the help of bribery (more candy, more pizza, another god-awful eighties horror movie to watch the next time Mike comes over) and drop onto the couch across from Saul, sending my mom what I hope is a casual When will you be home? text.

  Another hour? She replies.

  In case, though, Saul asks if he can borrow a sweatshirt to hide his tattoos.

  “Why do you care if my mom thinks you’re trying too hard?” I tease. “Are you trying to woo my mom, Mike?”

  His elusive dimple flickers into view as he says seriously, “Do you think she’d have me?” I laugh and throw a couch pillow at him, which he knocks away. “Please, June. Just let me borrow a sweatshirt. It’ll make me feel better.”

  “So I’m June when you want something.”

  “I guess so, June.”

  “Okay. I’ll grab one.”

  “Hey,” he says, stopping me. “Can I see your room?”

  “Why?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. This is your parents’ house, and I want to see the part that’s yours.”

  “It’s my great-great–et cetera–grandfather’s house.”

  “I’m less curious which pop-star poster he had over his bed.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, you can see my room.”

  “I don’t have to,” he says.

  “No, yeah, it’s fine.”

  “No, yeah?”

  “Follow me or don’t, Mike.” I move down the hall. He does follow, and for the first few seconds after stepping into my room we’re immersed in darkness together, standing close enough that I can feel his cells bumping into some of mine. I turn the lamp on, and the light breaks through some of the tension, allowing me to breathe again. I break from Saul and disappear into the closet to look for a sweatshirt big enough to fit him.

  I’m not much of an oversized-hoodie girl, and while Saul’s thin, he’s taller than me. The only legitimate option I have is a navy crewneck sweatshirt that belonged to Dad, which I’m hesitant to lend out. I hug it to my chest, imagining I can smell Dad on it, imagining I even remember his smell. I tamp down thoughts about what he’d say if he knew an Angert would be wearing it. When I come back into my room, Saul’s sitting on my bed, holding a picture frame. “Your dad,” he says. “I recognize him from . . . the chickens.”

  I hold out the sweatshirt. “This was his too, so don’t forget to give it back.”

  “I won’t.” He pulls it on. “So, Nate asked me to go camping tomorrow. I think your name was mentioned.”

  “Are you going?”

  He studies me. “I told him I couldn’t.”

  “Oh.”

  “Since you and I aren’t hanging out and all.”

  I lean against the wall. “Right.”

  He looks out the star-washed window then back to me. After a few still, heavy seconds, he asks, “Is it because I’m older than you?”

  My body begins to buzz. My stomach pulses, and an acorn of heat catches in my throat. It feels like, all along, we’ve been dancing closer and closer to this, to saying aloud the last thing an O’Donnell and an Angert should say to each other. I shake my head.

  Saul’s dark eyes stay intent on mine. “Because of Hannah?”

  “No.” The possibility that she wouldn’t be thrilled about Saul and I hanging out still lingers, but sometimes I catch her texting Nate. If things really could go anywhere with Saul, I’d ask her flat out. But they can’t, so why torture myself?

  Saul studies me for a few more seconds. “Because you don’t like me?”

  There, the one thing I shouldn’t say: I like you.

  “June,” he says.

  I laugh from pure distress. Answering truthfully would be betraying Dad. But then again, what is this? I’m flirting with him. I’ve brought him into my house—Dad’s house—lent him Dad’s sweatshirt. I’m ignoring every warning my father gave me, every rule he had for me, for a boy I’ve only known a few weeks. I shake my head. “Saul, I can’t.”

  Talk about this.

  Do this.

  Like you.

  I ignore the voice that says, It’s too late. You can’t walk away from this now.

  “Do you want me to leave?” he asks finally.

  “Yes,” I say. “No.”

  “June,” he says.

  I let out a frustrated sigh. “Yeah. You should go.”

  “Okay.” He stands, and I cross to my dresser to grab the B+ short story, whose grade I filled in myself. I hand it to Saul, who smiles down at it.

  “Keep it,” I say. It feels like I’m offering him the memory of my father and the hens itself, a tiny token, a piece of a heart I’m strictly prohibited from sharing with him.

  His eyes lock with mine for a long moment, and I think he’s about to kiss me. Instead, he turns toward the hall, and I follow. We’re halfway through the doorway when I see the White caught between our arms.

  By then it’s too late: The hall is gone. My house is gone. We’re standing in an unfamiliar bathroom, and, with one look at Saul’s face, I know where we are and who the girl lying on the mint-green tile is. She looks like him, though a bit younger—around seventeen, the age she died. Her skin is sheened with sweat, her dark hair shaved to the roots and cheeks sunken.

  “Please stop,” the girl whispers against the floor. “Make it stop.”

  Saul doesn’t g
o toward her. He stares, jaw flexed.

  There’s a knock on the closed door. “Bekah?” a man’s voice calls. “You okay in there?”

  “Make it stop.” Her eyes skirt toward the porcelain tub, inside which a pile of shoes sits. A shapeless darkness writhes over it.

  Nameless.

  Behind us, the door creaks open, and the ghost disappears as a gray-bearded man pushes into the room.

  I don’t see the Eli Angert of book jackets and news stories, the one who wears a tweed coat and sits in a leather chair framed by mahogany bookshelves, looking toward a window with an expression of almost brutal indifference.

  This is a secret Eli hurrying into the bathroom, a private Eli kneeling on the floor beside the girl. This Eli wears half a pajama set—the pants—and a ratty undershirt stained with coffee. He cradles the back of his daughter’s head with thick, blistered fingers. “Oh, kid,” he whispers, voice quavering. “Oh, kid.”

  “I need it to stop,” she murmurs.

  “I know.” He gently rubs her shoulder. “Let’s get you into bed.”

  “No,” she says more firmly, “I can’t keep doing it, Dad.”

  “You’re a fighter. You’ll get through this.”

  “I don’t wanna fight.” Her voice swings high. Eli scoops her into his arms and stands. “I’m tired, Daddy.”

  He shhs her, kisses her cheek despite the flecks of vomit there.

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah, kid?”

  “You’ll forgive me if I stop?”

  “Stop?”

  “The chemo.”

  Eli Angert falters. He breaks. He stops before the bathroom door and breathes. His voice cracks though he says no words. His chest heaves.

  Saul stares, body rigid like he can stop himself from cracking too.

  “You’ll beat it, baby.” Eli carries her through the door, a White glistening in his wake.

  Saul catches the fluff in his hand and studies it. As it sinks into his skin, I fold my fingers over his, nodding: I’ll go with you.

  We step forward and emerge into another moment.

  We’re halfway up a steep white dune overlooking Torch Lake, the turquoise water rocking over the happily shrieking bodies splashing through it. On the shore, a man and woman sit in folding chairs on a polka-dotted blanket, flanking two outstretched teenagers: the girl asleep with a wide-brimmed hat draped over her eyes, the boy watching her. A pile of shoes sits yards away, ignored by the beachgoers wandering past.