Can't Look Away

by Donna Cooner

  “What call?”

  “That’s what we say when somebody dies. We have to go out to the house and help remove the body.”

  “Oh,” I say. Strangely enough, I’m not even weirded out by this. It just seems part of a strange new normal where Luis is concerned.

  “Great. We’ll talk on Saturday. Maybe we can catch a movie or something?” Luis offers casually, turning toward the van.

  “I’d like that,” I say, and realize I’d like it much more than I want to admit.

  “I love being able to communicate every day to my followers.” —Torrey Grey, Beautystarz15

  My eyes fly open and I am face-to-face with Stu. He is sitting on top of my rib cage staring at me. It takes me a minute to realize there are no skeletons, no moonstone-size holes in my chest, no bad dreams. Just one very heavy cat.

  It’s Saturday morning. I’m in my room and in my bed. I try to calm my ragged breathing.

  “Meow,” Stu says.

  “Go away,” I hiss, and squeeze my lids shut. I’m going to kill Raylene for leaving this cat here. I open my right eye. Stu is now nose-to-nose with me. He has a scary “I’ll wait you out” kind of look on his face. He definitely isn’t going anywhere.

  “MEOW,” he says as soon as I open one eye.

  “I’m ignoring you,” I say firmly.

  He looks at me. Blinks. And then very slowly stretches out his two front paws and begins kneading the top of my blanket with his claws.

  “Stop it!”

  I push him away with both hands. It is like moving a big, fat, furry brick. He makes a circle down one of my blanket-covered legs and up the other, ending up settled back on my chest with a “Hrruuummpp.”

  We repeat this process several times, until I finally give up. He ends up comfortably curled on my chest, purring loudly in victory.

  There is a knock at the half-opened door and both of us turn our heads to see who it is. Raylene pushes the door open wider and steps in. She’s wearing a black tank top, leopard-skin leggings, and pink glitter flats.

  “Your mom let me in. I left his carrier and some food in the kitchen,” she says, looking down at me and Stu in the bed. She pulls a long string of bright purple chewing gum out of her mouth and sucks it back in slowly with an obnoxious slurping sound. I slide over to the other side of the bed. Stu balances on my stomach.

  “I really think he likes you.” Raylene sits down on the side of the bed we just left.

  “Or really wants to punish me,” I say. I stretch my arms up over my head and Stu rides out my movements like a good surfer on a wave.

  “Your mom said to tell you she went to pick your dad up at the airport in Houston,” Raylene says.

  I’m surprised. Mom drove to the grocery store twice last week and once to Target. Little excursions. Baby steps. But driving to the airport is major progress. Houston is only a little over an hour away, but for my mom it must be like driving to New York City.

  “She said they might stop off in Conroe on the way back and have lunch.”

  “Okay.” But it’s better than okay. Now I don’t have to explain myself to anyone. I have the whole house to myself.

  “She said to be sure and watch the cat.” Raylene shakes her finger at Stu and he glares back at her. “Do not leave him alone to tear up anything in the house.”

  “I know, I know,” I sigh.

  “At the very least, I hope I make alternate,” Raylene says, changing the subject in her way.

  I suddenly remember the whole point of this cat-babysitting thing — the twirling thingy.

  “Oh yeah. Me, too,” I say, and then, because I can’t stop myself, “Is that what you’re going to wear?”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing.” What do I know about what twirlers are supposed to look like? This might be just the right outfit. I kind of doubt it though. And that teased-up bump of a hairdo has got to go. “Maybe you could do something different with your hair?” I suggest.

  “Like what?”

  “Maybe a fishtail braid on the side?” And then I say something that surprises even me. “I could do it if you want.”

  Raylene looks shocked, but then a slow grin spreads across her face. She nods slowly. “Okay.”

  Stu lets out a yowl of frustration as I push him off to the side and swing my legs off of the bed. My own reflection in the dresser mirror is depressing. I pick up a brush and try to pull it through the tangled mess of my morning hair, then give up. I’ll deal with it later.

  “Sit on the floor in front of me,” I tell Raylene, and wait while she gets settled cross-legged on the carpet. It takes fifteen minutes to brush out her ratted-up bump and complete an intricate braid down one side of her shoulder. All the while, Raylene eats Snickers that somehow magically appear from some pocket, and screeches periodically that I’m pulling her hair. Stu watches it all from the top of my dresser like he couldn’t possibly be more disgusted.

  “It’s beautiful,” Raylene says finally as we both survey my hard work in the mirror. I have to agree. She reaches for me, but I manage to deflect the hug with one stiff arm.

  “Don’t mess it up,” I say, but I smile back at her. Her hair looks so much better, if I do say so myself. It’s been a while since I did this makeover thing just for fun. It reminds me why I started the whole beauty vlog in the first place.

  “Oh, right.” She nods. Then she turns to Stu and scratches him under his chin. “Be good,” she tells him.

  “Good luck!” I tell her as she’s heading out the door. Rooting for Raylene was never part of the plan, but to my amazement, I mean it.

  After she’s gone, I pad down the hall through the now empty house toward the kitchen. Stu weaves wildly in and out of my legs, almost causing me to trip twice. I feed him some Mr. Purrfect and start to fix myself a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich. But reaching for the bread, I see spaghetti noodles instead. I used to fix spaghetti for Miranda. It was the first thing I learned to cook — just the noodles and the sauce out of a jar — and it was her favorite. She was such a picky eater, but she would eat my spaghetti for breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

  I eat spaghetti for lunch. With every bite, I remember Miranda. She feels so much closer to me now than we were in real life. She surrounds me.

  I wander around the house a couple more times, but I can’t shake the restlessness. I finally sit down on the dead-leaf-colored couch and try to let the television fill up my mind with other people’s thoughts. It doesn’t work. I flip the channel. It is a sports channel and two teams are playing softball. Miranda. I flip the channel. A nature show with chimps. Miranda. I flip the channel again. It is a cartoon with superheroes. Miranda. I turn off the television and let out a shaky breath. It is the same as in my head — all channels are set to Miranda.

  Finally, I realize that Luis’s invitation is a reason to get out of the house. I brush the tangles from my hair and cover up the dark circles under my eyes as best I can. Then I pull on skinny jeans, a lace tank, and layer on a baby-doll shirt. My black high-top Converse sneakers are under the bed, but I pull them out.

  Stu strolls into the bedroom. If I leave him alone in this house, he will have a great big Stu party with Mom’s cashmere throw in the living room and it will open up a whole big line of questions about where I’d been when Stu was destroying the house. I’m still not ready to talk to my parents, or anyone else, about Luis.

  I look at Stu. He looks at me. He has to come along.

  After some Mr. Purrfect bribery and one long scratch on my forearm, I finally get Stu into his purple harness and inside the carrier. He makes a horrible growling, yowling noise that I’ve never heard any kind of animal make before. I find the keys and manage to get the cat and the carrier out to the car.

  I turn on the ignition and look down through the holes on the top of the crate into the angry green cat eyes.

  “Meow,” Stu tells me, and I drive.

  “I think he’s traumatized,” Luis says. “Or maybe ca
rsick?”

  He’s sitting this close to me on the couch and all he is thinking about is the cat?

  “He’s fine.” I glare at Stu, who is stretched comfortably in Luis’s lap. The house is filled with the smell of baking bread and I try to blame the overall impression of mouthwatering deliciousness on that and not on Luis’s presence.

  He scratches Stu under his chin and the cat closes his eyes, purring loudly. I glare at Stu. He ignores me, his purr getting louder. I can’t seem to take my eyes off Luis’s hands, watching his fingers caress the fur. A sudden lump forms in my throat and I swallow uneasily. What is happening to me? I’m jealous of a cat? It’s just that I can almost imagine what it feels like….

  “What?” I jerk my eyes up to Luis’s face.

  “I didn’t say anything.” He smiles at me, and I hope that he has no clue what I was just thinking.

  “We’re making pan de muerto,” Mrs. Annie Florence announces from the doorway. She’s wearing an apron that says Never Trust a Skinny Cook, and waving a spatula. Her sudden interruption startles Stu from Luis’s lap. He jumps to the floor with a thud and quickly finds a corner to soothe his ruffled fur.

  “Have you ever had it?” Mrs. Annie Florence asks me.

  I shake my head. “What is it?”

  “It’s like a sweet roll with sprinkled sugar on top and it’s decorated with bones made of dough,” Maria says, appearing beside Mrs. Annie Florence.

  Who decorates bread with skeleton bones? People eat this stuff?

  “Delicioso.” Mrs. Annie Florence claps her hands together, her blue glasses wobbling wildly on the end of her nose. “It’s just coming out of the oven. I like to serve it with guava jelly and burnt-orange marmalade.”

  “You definitely have to try it,” Luis says, pulling me up off the sofa.

  I follow them all out to a large sun-drenched kitchen. The smell of the baking bread permeates everything, and some kind of classical piano music is coming from a boom box plugged in under the open window over the sink. I take a seat on one of the barstools at a massive island. A huge vase of yellow marigolds sits on the countertop in front of me. The last time I saw marigolds was that day at the mall. I blink and look away.

  Mrs. Annie Florence must have noticed my reaction. “Do you like the cempasúchil flowers?”

  “They’re beautiful,” I lie.

  “The ancient Aztecs used the cempasúchil flowers to honor the dead,” Mrs. Annie Florence says. “Their colors represent the colors of the earth. On el Día de los Muertos, their scent is thought to guide the spirits back to the earth and to their homes.”

  I feel my heart squeeze.

  Maria is at the stove. “I put those photos out for you to see,” she tells me. “It’s sugar-skull makeup. Luis told me about your makeup hobby, so I thought you might like them.”

  Makeup hobby?

  I wonder exactly how that conversation went down, but don’t ask because my eyes are drawn to the stack of photos on the counter. I’m completely captivated. Each one is a different close-up of a girl. Their faces are painted white, mouths “stitched” closed, and then decorated with elaborate flowers and hearts. I start thinking of what product to use to get the effect.

  Pencil or gel liner? What to use for the foundation?

  “You like it, sí?” Maria asks.

  “Sí,” I say, my eyes lingering on the bright heart noses and the stitched black mouths. It shouldn’t be beautiful, but it is. Dark and light. Color and shadow. Death and beauty.

  Maria slides her hands into mitts and pulls the oven door open. A puff of hot air ruffles her white hair and sends even more amazing smells into the room. She carefully pulls out two baking sheets full of rounds of bread and puts them on the top of the stove.

  “You’re going to leave us some, right?” Luis says, leaning over her shoulder and taking a deep inhale. He looks back toward me. “She’s making all of this for her Tejano Historical Society meeting. Not for me.”

  “Pobrecito. You might get a couple. If you’re lucky and your grandmother loves you.” Maria grins and then swats him out of her way. “Over there. I have to brush these with the glaze while they’re still warm.”

  Luis joins me on a barstool.

  “We’re also decorating sugar skulls,” Mrs. Annie Florence says. She places a box on the island, opens up the top, and starts taking out tubes of icing, foil, ribbons, and tubs of glittery decorations.

  Great. More skeletons.

  “I already did this one. You get a blank skull and then you make it … beautiful.” Mrs. Annie Florence pulls out a white sugar face covered with bits of glitter. It has bright pink lipstick where the lips should be and a red bow iced in on top. She displays it proudly and then tries to hand it over for me to admire.

  The mouth is laughing silently and the empty eye sockets remind me of my dreams. I don’t want to touch it, but I don’t know how to avoid it without hurting her feelings. I gingerly take it out of her hands and pretend to look closer.

  “Can you eat them?” I ask, handing the skull back to Mrs. Annie Florence.

  “Would you eat a Chanel or a Givenchy?” Maria asks in horror.

  I’m surprised at her fashion knowledge, considering the Star Wars T-shirt she’s wearing under the flowered apron.

  “But Chanel and Givenchy don’t make clothes out of sugar,” I point out, and Luis chuckles.

  Mrs. Annie Florence reaches back in the box and takes out a tiny chocolate skull covered with bright, primary-colored dots of icing.

  “This one is for a child,” she says. “Miniature candy skulls are made for the baby angelitos and put on the grave sites.”

  Warmth floods my face. Of course I think of Miranda. My angelito.

  Mrs. Annie Florence puts out more and more tiny decorated skulls. One after another, appearing out of the box. They are surrounding me. I suddenly feel dizzy and a little sick to my stomach.

  I remember last night’s dream and there is a rushing sound in my ears.

  “Are you okay?” Luis asks.

  “I’m fine.” I can feel the dampness of the cold sweat on the nape of my neck.

  Tiny baby gravestones. Everywhere. I’m at the cemetery. But there are hands. Clawing up out of the dirt. Reaching toward me. Everywhere I turn, more hands. Bony skeleton fingers grasping at my ankles and my legs. The white disembodied heads are coming toward me and I can’t escape.

  I stand up suddenly, bumping into Mrs. Annie Florence. The jolt knocks the skull out of her hands and it falls to the floor with a crash, shattering into pieces.

  “I’m sorry.” I drop to my knees and try to pick up the broken, scattered pieces. Part of the face is in my hands. Pieces of eyes. A mouth.

  “Look at me, Torrey.” The voice breaks through the fog, and I glance up to see Luis. “Leave it,” he says quietly. “It’s not important.”

  I blink. It’s not a nightmare. I spread my fingers and let the pieces of sugar fall to the floor. Luis’s hand is stretched out to me and I take it slowly, pulling myself up to my feet.

  “No worries.” Maria is there with a dustpan and a broom. “I’ll sweep this up. Why don’t you go out on the porch? I’ll bring some of the pan de muerto out there as soon as I get the sugar on top.”

  I follow Luis out the side door, trembling.

  “At least it wasn’t the one with the plaid bow.” I hear Mrs. Annie Florence say behind me. “That one is my favorite.”

  “Always look for the potential of what could be, not what is.” —Torrey Grey, Beautystarz15

  On the porch, Luis and I sit down on the swing. We rock in silence for a few minutes, the music from the kitchen drifting out through the windows.

  “What happened back there?” Luis asks.

  A sigh escapes me. I close my eyes, listening to the faint squeak of the swing as it rocks back and forth, tears gathering beneath my eyelids.

  Luis says, “Sorry. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay.”

  I do want to talk ab
out it. That’s the problem. I just have no idea how to start. “Those skulls reminded me …” My voice trails off and I pick at my fingernails, looking down at my lap.

  I glance up and meet his eyes. He nods, trying to encourage me to keep talking.

  “It just hit me wrong,” I say.

  His voice is so soft, his eyes so dark. “Maybe it’s not a bad thing to remember.”

  “Maybe,” I say, but I’m not sure. Remembering hurts. “It was nice of your grandmother and Mrs. Annie Florence to ask me over. I hope I didn’t upset them.”

  “They’re just happy to see me having friends over.”

  “Like Blair?” I hate that she’s the first person that comes to mind, and hate it even more that I ask out loud.

  “Blair never came to my house. She didn’t want to talk about my family and what we did. Every time I had to work it was a huge argument. Everything about the funeral home was a taboo subject. Finally, I had to choose.”

  He pushes the swing back into motion. “Ross was the one who was always over here.”

  “Ross?” My mouth falls open. “He doesn’t even speak to you.”

  “Yeah, that’s my fault,” Luis says. “We used to be friends. More like brothers. In middle school, we started making plans. We were going all the way to the state championship. I was going to throw him the game-winning touchdown.”

  “What happened?”

  “I quit the team.”

  “Couldn’t you explain to him though?” I ask. “About having to work?” But I’m thinking that I know all about losing a best friend.

  “We didn’t talk about it.” He gives me a rueful grin. “I didn’t talk about it. And then everything happened with Blair and it just seemed easier to avoid them all. I didn’t want him to have to choose sides.”

  “You were avoiding them?” I shake my head in wonder, then think of Zoe and Cody. How it was a relief, in a way, to escape both of them. Leave them back in Colorado.

  “I’m not proud of it,” Luis says. “It just seemed like more trouble to try and fix things. So I didn’t. I let him down.”