A Million Junes

by Emily Henry

  Not blood-smattered or grisly, but timid and barefoot. Impossibly still, like a tear in the world pulling everything toward her. Her strawberry waves hang on her shoulders, and her white shift clings to her, damp.

  The dead O’Donnell girl, Issa? Issa, who Dad spoke to the night Mom asked him to end the feud?

  Is Feathers Issa O’Donnell?

  She beckons me from the edge of the woods, noiseless in her prompting. I look over my shoulder at Saul, who’s still bodily supporting Eli. If Feathers is a dead O’Donnell, then we’re on the cusp of understanding what happened to destroy our families.

  On the cusp of breaking the curse.

  Of diving through the water and seeing him again.

  Saul gives one curt shake of his head. “June, no. I don’t think—”

  I step past the tree line, through the feathery softness. I’ve hardly caught the first desperate note of Saul’s shout when a tremendous warmth sinks into me and I’m tugged into a new world.

  Thirty-Three

  I’M standing beside O’Dang!

  Feathers—Issa—is gone.

  I circle the sprawling roots, disrupting sleeping Whites that rise and twirl as I pass. Each time I curve around the trunk, I cross a new threshold and find different people there, eyes that don’t see me, ears that don’t hear me.

  Children tightrope walk along roots. Preteens play chicken on low branches, slapping one another’s hands and screeching with laughter when one finally topples off. Couples kiss in dirt pressed with pine needles, against the trunk, in crooks between branches. Dozens of people. Hundreds of bare feet.

  They carve names and hearts, symbols and dates into the flaky bark. Flags are strung up, torn down. Mardi Gras beads tossed over limbs, bird feeders hung from the most inviting branches.

  I walk past Dad and me.

  I’m in the floral shorts that were my favorite at the time and the too-big yellow dinosaur shirt I often slept in. Dad won it for me in a milk-can toss. I’d wanted the stuffed tiger, but he’d talked me into the shirt: You can only have the toy in the house, he reasoned. You can wear that shirt for years, anywhere you go, June-bug.

  That was Dad, all about mobility, being able to walk away when he wanted and come back when he needed. I wriggle my toes into the mud and watch them together until eventually they turn away.

  A new White hovers at my sternum.

  I observe its fragility, the way light bends and refracts through it nonsensically. I clasp it and keep circling the trunk.

  I’ve come to her moment.

  The red-haired girl, Issa, stands, facing the tree, beside the dark-haired boy she kissed in the cave. She holds a pocketknife to the bark, and he grips a nail between two knuckles, both etching lines into the tree.

  “I’m writing yours.” Her voice shimmers. I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s not purely a matter of sound; it’s the way he reacts to it, his eyes squinting and mouth curling, ears pink. It’s the way her words hit him and reverberate through his grin, the fullness that sparks and palpitates between them.

  “I’ll write yours,” he says, and his voice shimmers into her too.

  I feel Feathers—Issa’s ghost—hovering behind me, watching.

  A whistle cuts through the air. They both stop carving. “He’s calling you,” the boy says.

  She folds the pocketknife and presses it into his palm. He slides his hand around her neck and kisses her slowly. “Tomorrow,” she says.

  “Tomorrow,” he promises.

  “I love you, Abe.”

  Abe.

  “Always,” Abe says. He leans against the tree and watches her retreat. Over his shoulder, their unfinished carvings are visible: O’D ANG.

  Here—where wolves and coyotes lie together and robins sleep on the haunches of wild dogs, where cherries taste like sunlight and chickens run free—here, it was possible for an O’Donnell and an Angert to fall in love. So what happened to it all?

  Why hadn’t I heard Issa’s name before?

  Why does no one talk about her, though her ghost still wanders our house?

  Issa’s ghost leads me to the forest’s edge, where another bobbing White waits for me. I cradle it, breathing deeply, and step through.

  The blazing light of a setting sun skirts across the waves I’m facing. Peals of laughter rise amid the crash of water on sand. Down the shore, made into shadow by the intense last light of day, a man with pants rolled to the knee chases a little girl with long red curls in and out of the water. She squeals as she dodges him, her curls bouncing across her back.

  Behind them, a petite woman with pinned-up hair walks barefoot across the wet sand, hand outstretched to a chubby toddler. The wind ruffles his Peter Pan collar and poufy shorts, dances through her yellow curls and blue dress.

  The light slices around the four of them, shaping their silhouettes. Hunched like an amateur wrestler and swinging his stiff left leg, the man shuffles after the delightedly shrieking girl. “Oh no you don’t!” he growls, bending to splash her. She shrieks and splashes him back, and he sweeps her into his arms, pretending to gobble her belly as she flails with laughter.

  “Don’t eat me, Papa!”

  He swings her onto his hip and jogs her there, her hair glinting down her back like a blaze of fire. “I won’t eat you, Issa,” he says. “What kind of a man would eat his own heart?”

  She grins, her face partially hidden under deep blue shadow. Beneath his one and a half eyebrows, the first Jack’s eyes sparkle in the light. He cradles her head and kisses her above her temple.

  Annie lifts a fussy Jack II into her arms and steps into the water beside her husband. They watch the half dome of sun melt into the waves; they squint against the wind. For a moment, my family—the first Jack, Annie, Issa, and Jack II—are happy.

  I take a step into the water behind them, wanting to become a part of this memory. Instead I find myself back on the hill.

  A pinkness, the aura of a red-haired girl, dances on the porch, and my chest aches with the memory of the one ghost who’s not inside that house.

  For the people who are left, I go inside.

  Thirty-Four

  “STRAIGHT to school and straight home,” Mom says sharply, pressing my phone into my hand. “Only for emergency calls.”

  “You’re seriously going to make me stay home on Halloween?” I say.

  “Oh, you’re not staying home,” she says. “You’re coming to Shadow’s basketball game.”

  “Mom, come on.”

  “We’ve been over this.”

  We “went over it” for two hours last night when I walked in, rain-soaked, through the front door, which, thanks to the Whites, Mom and Toddy hadn’t seen me walk out of in the first place.

  “I have half a mind to keep your phone even during the day,” she says, “and if I see you’ve been sending texts or using data, I will keep it tomorrow.”

  Hannah leans on the horn outside.

  “I’m going to fail creative writing without his help. I’m not going to get a letter of recommendation.”

  A fifth honk from Hannah’s car.

  “I’ll call your teacher and get a referral for a tutoring service,” Mom says. It’s both a genuine offer and a threat. Another end of story, final answer, no Saul Angert for you while you live with me.

  Is this really as simple as a fight over the land, over money? Why would Mom care about that?

  Since I got back last night, Feathers has been hovering against my Whiteless wall. “At least tell me Saul and Eli are okay,” I begged of her, but no matter how much I hissed and threw paper wads at her, she took me nowhere, gave me no new answers, and I spent the night willing Saul to be safe, praying nothing happened to him or Eli.

  Hannah honks again, and I throw Mom one last glance. “I can’t make you tell me what happened between our families
,” I say, “but I’m going to find out either way.”

  Her mouth tightens. “For your sake, I hope you don’t.”

  • • •

  “But we always spend Halloween together.” Hannah stabs her pasta salad with her fork and waves it toward the fake spider webs strewn over the cafeteria doors. “I’ll beg. Parents love me.”

  “One of the benefits of being a real-life Disney princess, Han, which, after our attempted campout, you’re officially not. You’re a brazen hussy like me now. How’s it feel?”

  “You know, it felt pretty good,” she says, “until Léa called my mom.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t get grounded. I think my mom would care less if I’d talked you into stealing a car than she does that you talked me into spending half a night at the falls with an Angert.”

  Hannah sets her fork down and studies me.

  I’d told her this morning about what happened in the woods last night—who Feathers was, that Issa and Abe were in love, that Saul and I would have to go in the water to break the curse, and what I heard at the falls last weekend—and the crease of worry between her brows hasn’t let up since.

  I look down at the pathetic tacos on my tray, a mess of low-grade beef and wilting iceberg lettuce. There’s some serious cognitive dissonance going on with the summery food they’re serving us and the actual snowflakes falling outside.

  “How did it feel?” Hannah asks quietly. “Hearing his voice.”

  Like nothing else mattered. Like he was really there.

  I stand and swipe the rest of my food into the trash can. “It hurt so much I thought I would die.”

  On my way to study hall, I stop by the office to pick up a drop/add slip on my way to the library, where I slide into the last computer in the row along the rear wall. I can see a sliver of Ms. deGeest through the open door to her classroom.

  A storm of anger and shame rages in my stomach.

  I’m furious with her for telling my parents about Saul, but I’m also furious with myself for spending the last four years obsessed with following in Dad’s footsteps. Now any other future I might want hinges entirely on my ability to write myself out of the hole of a straight-C student.

  And I can’t do it. Can’t face deGeest. Can’t write. Can’t figure out who I want to be or where I want to go. All I can think about right now is breaking this curse before it hurts someone else.

  I start an e-mail to Saul, telling him about the tree with O’D ANG carved into it and the moment on the beach with Jack the First, Annie, Jack II, and Issa—she was his daughter, I think. I write about Feathers guiding me through it all and my fight with Mom. I ask if Eli’s okay, whether he said anything after I disappeared after Feathers, then I hit SEND and wait.

  I open a word document—one last try—but I have no story, just broken pieces of one.

  I lay my spinning head on the desk. The computer pings, and I sit upright to find an e-mail waiting for me.

  Jack, I’m so happy you’re okay. A few seconds later another comes in: Sorry, I wanted to say that before I finished reading the e-mail. Back now. New York Times best-selling author Eli Angert is fine, but I couldn’t get anything out of him. Pretty much right after you ran off, he forgot he’d ever seen you. Have I mentioned how happy I am you’re okay? It’s almost enough to make knowing I can’t see you all right. Just kidding, I’m more selfish than that.

  Meet me tonight, I type.

  He doesn’t respond for four minutes, each of which takes approximately one hour to pass. When his message comes in, it reads: Juuuune.

  Sauuuuuuul, I reply.

  I didn’t think I’d ever get to kiss you.

  I’ll give you six dollars and kiss you again if you meet me tonight.

  Your family’s really upset, June.

  I stare at the words, chest burning, hands aching, eyes stinging. The next message that comes in reads: Promise me you’ll stay away from the water, June.

  Being apart sucks, I say.

  It does, he says. Promise me, June.

  I can’t wait any longer. I can’t spend every night waiting for something terrible to happen to my family, or to you. We have to end this tonight.

  Another six minutes pass. Where and when?

  Thirty-Five

  “JUNIOR, could you stay after class?”

  It’s infuriating that Ms. deGeest can even look at me, embarrassing that I can’t look at her.

  After the rest of the class files out, I count thirty seconds of pin-drop silence before Ms. deGeest crosses her arms and leans against the table. Her lipstick is miraculously crisp for this late in the day. Every detail of her seems curated, like her four years’ advantage over me gave her the time to determine the precise message she wanted her hair, makeup, wardrobe, and posture to communicate.

  “You didn’t turn in an assignment,” she says.

  “I haven’t written anything.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “My life took a particularly weird turn this week.”

  Her eyes flicker sideways, betraying an instant of discomfort before she pulls her Grown-Up Teacher mask on. “I understand why you’re upset.”

  Now I do meet her eyes. “You’re from here,” I say. “You must know about the bad blood between my family and Saul’s. You might’ve stepped into my business out of some misguided desire to protect me, but you have no idea what—”

  “I’m sorry.” She straightens the papers on her desk. When she looks up her cheeks are pink. “Okay? I’m new at this, and I crossed a line. I messed up, and you don’t need to forgive me, and you certainly don’t have to like me, but this thing you do? Writing? It’s not a hobby, not a phase. You are a storyteller. You have a chance to shape your world. You have talent and opportunities and something to say, and you’re choosing to blow it because you think this town defines you. I’ve watched your effort in this class dwindle—you haven’t turned in anything since I ran into you that night—and if I overstepped, it was only because I thought you were getting involved in a situation that wasn’t good for you, and if I were your mother, I’d want—”

  I can’t contain a jab of laughter. “My mother? To be my mother, you’d have to have gotten pregnant when you were four years old.”

  She lifts her hands. “The point is, don’t let my mistake be an excuse to give up on this class, and don’t let Saul be an excuse to stay here. Believe me, June, I know what it’s like, how hard it is to leave, to let yourself be different. And I know Saul. What the world stands to lose if he walks away from writing. Look, your grammar’s a mess, your vocabulary’s slim, and you could line the Great Wall with your adverbs, but you have something to offer. That’s a gift. And if you master the tools that go along with it, well . . . the world will be better for it. It’s okay to be angry with me—and it’s okay to take breaks from writing, and fine, college isn’t for everyone. But if you take this seriously, you need to fight for your future. Do something.”

  “I am doing something,” I say, frustration mounting. “I’m just not writing because sometimes writing isn’t worth anything. Sometimes your actual life takes over and you don’t have time to stare at a computer for four hours.”

  “I understand.” Her voice dims to a hum. “I do. But you shouldn’t feel guilty about taking time to nurture a part of yourself that matters. And aside from that, you need to turn in your homework. I can’t possibly communicate how ridiculous it would be for you to fail this class because you didn’t take an hour to pull together something to turn in.”

  I take the slip of paper from my pocket and set it in front of her. She lifts it between two polished fingernails. “This is a drop slip.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re weeks from the end of the semester.”

  “A month.”

  “It’s too late for this.”

  “The o
ffice gave it to me,” I counter. “They’ll do anything to get a few more seniors though graduation.”

  “And you think you won’t graduate without dropping my class?”

  I nod.

  “Because you plan to fail?”

  “Are you going to sign it?”

  She tears it in half and places the halves in front of me. “It’s too late.”

  “Okay.” It doesn’t change anything. I’m not going to do the work, because writing down the past is meaningless. I hate so much of my family’s past, who I am because of it. I want to undo it, not preserve it as record. All that matters is undoing it.

  “I can’t do the work for you,” she says. “You can’t save anyone, no matter how hard you try. I want good things for you, but that doesn’t matter if you don’t want them for yourself.”

  Her stare has at least as much steel in it as I imagine mine does. “I don’t need saving. I just don’t have anything to write.”

  “I’m not asking you to make something perfect. I’m asking you to put the work in.”

  “I’m not like you, okay? I’m stuck here. This town is me.”

  “Fine.” But I can tell it’s not fine. She’s upset and disappointed, and right now it’s easy to see she’s not much older than me. While she may have learned you can’t save anyone, she hasn’t stopped trying or feeling bad when she can’t.

  A strange feeling tangles in my chest.

  I want her to be right about me.

  “I’ll try,” I say over my shoulder.

  It feels like a lie. I guess I’m still nothing if not a Jack.

  Thirty-Six

  “I can’t believe her.” Hannah takes another slurp of her Diet Coke. We’re sitting in the bleachers of the Five Fingers Elementary gymnasium, watching Shadow’s basketball game. “Doesn’t she realize she’s your teacher, not your mother?”

  “Shh.” I tip my head toward Grayson, the only buffer between us and Mom and Toddy. Thankfully, Mom made an exception to the No Fun, No Friends rule and let me bring Hannah along. When Toddy found out, he was huffy. They’d almost certainly made a pact not to cave on my punishment, and Mom’s already broken it. Out on the basketball court, tennis shoes squeal over the floor and high-pitched shouts echo as the boys call for one another to pass the ball to them. It seems like everyone on the court is saying, Here! Here! I half-expect Grayson to join in from the way he’s bouncing on his butt.