by K. A. Holt
Mrs. Grant is flipping my grilled cheese on the griddle behind the counter. Her silvery hair is bunched up on top of her head, but the swirls of curls refuse to stay tied down and spring out all around her face and neck. I don’t know how old she is, but she’s never seemed like a grandma to me. She doesn’t say a lot, but her eyes are these, like, magical black orbs that can apparently see into people’s souls. Folks will sit at the counter and spill all their problems and ailments, and Mrs. Grant will listen intently and then offer a sandwich or a milk shake or a steaming order of hand-cut fries that seem to miraculously solve everyone’s problems. At least for a few minutes.
I have more than a few minutes today, with Mom running late. I have no idea what her job is now that she’s a “part-time city consultant” instead of the city manager, but whatever it is means that she’s late a lot, and wears heels a lot. Not much different than before, really, except now when she’s late, it means four thirty instead of eight thirty.
Taylor is upstairs in the apartment she lives in with her parents and grandma. She didn’t say so, but I could tell she was ready to get out of the all-black clothes and put on one of her summery dresses. Taylor is a huge fan of flowy and flowery. I am so not, but I don’t begrudge her. Just like she doesn’t begrudge me my Chuck Taylor sneakers and constant stream of beat-up T-shirts.
I think my mom wishes I would dress more like Taylor, more like how Clara dressed, but she never says so out loud (unless you count deep sighs when I come downstairs dressed for the day).
“Let me know what you think.” Mrs. Grant flips the grilled cheese onto a plate and pushes it toward me. She pumps a big squirt of vanilla syrup into a glass, scoops in some ice, and fills the rest with Coke from the hose thing connected to the big soda cylinders under the counter. I don’t know why Cokes taste so much better here than anywhere else, but boy, do they. She gives the vanilla Coke a spin as she slides it to me, a smile sliding onto her face as well. She wipes her hands on the towel that always hangs from the front pocket on her apron.
“So,” she says, her elbows on the counter, and her chin in her hands. “How is eighth grade so far?”
I take a bite of the sandwich and can’t help the moan that escapes my lips. I catch a string of melted cheese dangling from my chin. “What is that? Cheddar, Havarti, and … did you put a sour apple in this?”
Mrs. Grant’s eyes twinkle. “You’re avoiding my question,” she says. “Tell me about your first day.” She winks and whispers, “Just a couple of thin slices of a Granny Smith apple. I know how you feel about tart things. If you like it, I’ll make it a daily special and you can help me name it.”
Naming the daily specials is a fun exercise in just the right puns. Taylor is really good at coming up with great ones. Don’t Go Bacon My Heart was one of her best (BLT with extra B). And Another One Bites the Crust was her idea for the French toast special. My suggestions are getting better. I’m Kind of a Big Dill tuna salad is one I’m proud of.
I take another bite and talk around the slight crunch. “It was mostly okay.” I think about the letter, and about not saying anything about it. But there’s something about those piercing eyes. They reach inside of me and I can’t help but spill.
Taylor walks through the curtain in the back that hides the stairs leading up to the apartment. Her dog, Ratface, is right at her feet, hopping around like a squirrel. I’m not sure you’re supposed to have a dog in a general store, but no one has ever said anything. Ratface is basically an unpaid employee. His job is to make everyone laugh. Taylor sits beside me and steals a fry just as I’m finishing up the story about Clara’s mystery letter.
“She’s going to do the things on Clara’s list,” Taylor says, nudging me with her shoulder and then dropping a fry to Ratface, who gobbles it up in one snap of his tiny jaws.
I give her a weak smile and feel Mrs. Grant’s stare laser its way into my brain. “Are you going to do that?” Mrs. Grant wipes the countertop as she looks at me. I look up at her and then at Taylor. Taylor’s smile is so wide I wonder how it’s possible. Could my face even stretch like that anymore?
“I mean, if I’m going to take eighth grade by storm, maybe it would help with that?” I eat a fry and it suddenly has no taste.
“But, Amelia, honey, do you want to take eighth grade by storm?” Mrs. Grant sets her towel off to the side and puts her hand on my hand. For some reason, this makes me want to just cry and cry and cry. Because honestly? I don’t know what I want. I just don’t want to feel like this anymore.
I shrug. “At least it would be different.”
“Different how?” Mrs. Grant is very good at asking questions, her voice so soft it’s like the opposite of her eyes.
I shrug again. “Doing something would be a nice change. Does that make any sense? Like … I can’t talk to Clara anymore. She can’t roll her eyes at me. She can’t be grouchy with me for borrowing a shirt. But crying all the time doesn’t accomplish much, does it? It doesn’t bring her back, and it doesn’t make me miss her less.” I choke back a knot in my throat. “So maybe I could get closer to her by trying to figure out why these things were so important to her? I don’t know. It sounds stupid when I say it out loud.”
Mrs. Grant and Taylor both stare at me. This is maybe the longest string of words I’ve strung together in about three years.
“Wow. You’ve been thinking a LOT about this.” Taylor’s eyes are wide. Mrs. Grant’s hand is still on mine.
“What does your heart tell you to do?” Mrs. Grant squeezes my hand.
“My heart tells me it doesn’t want to hurt so much anymore.” I look down at my half-eaten grilled cheese, the swirling tears in my eyes blurring it into a big blob.
“You’re going to have to go to all the parties with me,” I say, my voice thick with unshed tears. I clear my throat. “And help me figure out who the heck Billy is.”
“Of course, of course! It’s going to be fun, Amelia!”
I swipe at my eyes and notice the fountain through the front window. Some little kids are trying to climb the giant bird in the middle of the fountain. The bird stuck in stone forever. I don’t want to be stuck in stone forever. Even if it’s easier that way.
“Heya, kiddo!” Dad grabs me up in a hug as soon as Mom and I walk in the door. Mom drops her keys on the kitchen counter and her bag on the floor. She looks like she’s had a rough day. Is it possible for grown-ups to even have as rough a day as the first day of eighth grade? I thought the whole point of her doing this part-time consultant thing was to have less stress and more time at home. I think maybe she’s doing it wrong.
“Did you ruin your appetite?” Dad smells like meat and barbecue smoke, his big hairy arms tickling my less hairy arms as he holds on tight. I don’t say anything because I know he’ll keep talking. Dad isn’t big on silences. “You think you might want to try out some new sauces? I’ve been experimenting.”
“Uh-oh.” Mom cracks open a soda and tries to crack a smile, too. “More experimenting?”
Peabody’s Pits ’n’ Pieces is Dad’s new adventure. He’s always loved to cook on the grill. And he’s always loved meat. So, after he went crazy a while back and quit his job as a computer programmer and spent like three months in bed, he finally decided he was going to start a barbecue restaurant.
I could tell Mom thought he was nuts. Those golden eyes of hers can’t hide her feelings very well. But just like he didn’t say anything when she spontaneously quit her job so she could “enjoy more family time” and then just as spontaneously asked for half her job back so she could “feel useful,” she didn’t say anything when he came back from the bank in his rumpled funeral suit with a grin on his face. She also didn’t say anything when he went on and on about barbecue smokers and different kinds of wood and spice rubs. She didn’t even say anything when he decided he’d rather have a food trailer than an actual restaurant, and parked a sleek silver bullet Airstream in our front yard until the neighborhood snobs made him move it. It’s
been a couple of years since Dad found his voice again (and Mom started working fake part-time), and since then, there has been a LOT of experimenting and tasting and talking about barbecue.
I don’t really mind. The more he talks, the less I have to. And the more Mom is at work, the more Dad and I get to hang out. Plus, I like meat, too.
Now Dad takes my bag and herds me and Mom into the kitchen. There are little glass dishes all over the counter, filled with mystery sauces. There’s also a slab of smoked, but sauceless, spare ribs. Dad drops my bag by the table, throws on his apron, and starts whacking at the ribs with a cleaver. He doesn’t really need to whack them, though. The meat falls right off the bone.
His voice is soft as he says, “There’s gonna be a cook-off at the lake later this month. Food TV people are going to be there. It could be huge for Pits ’n’ Pieces. What do you both think about going? Cheer me on? Maybe get to make a silly face on national TV?”
Mom says nothing. I say nothing. I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear him over the tsunami of saliva in my mouth. Not a lot of things make me legitimately happy these days, but a mouthful of rib meat dissolving on my tongue comes pretty darn close, even if my belly is full of fries and a grilled cheese.
I will not let a mention of the lake ruin that.
Dad clears his throat and starts pointing at the dishes of sauce. “I have spicy and mild. Sweet and tangy. And this one …” He gestures proudly. “I might have to make you sign a waiver before you try it. Ghost peppers.” He waggles his eyebrows and makes a whoosh noise like a firework shooting into the sky.
Mom and I dig in while Dad watches with a look on his face that is both proud and terrified. He’s like a kid at the science fair. Will the judges give him a blue ribbon? Or are his experiments too strange?
I point at the one that is suspiciously orange. “I like to eat this one, but I don’t like to look at it.” Dad nods and pulls a little notepad from his apron pocket. He jots something down and sticks the pad back in his pocket. “Noted,” he says with a grin.
Mom points to the ghost pepper one, tears streaming down her face, sweat beading on her upper lip. “Wh-where’s the waiver?” she stammers. I can’t help but laugh.
“So, tell me about your first day of eighth grade, Amelia!” And just like that, Dad kills the mood. Suddenly, the sauce in his beard doesn’t seem charming anymore. It is annoying.
Why can’t he just let us have five seconds to live in a moment? All of a sudden, I feel like I might cry. I swallow around the growing lump in my throat and put down my rib bone. I lick my fingers as I blink back tears and shrug. “Fine?”
“A truer answer has never been spoken.” Dad gives me the tiniest of sideways looks and then starts tossing the little dishes in the sink. “At least you have the big prank this year. That’s something to look forward to, yeah?”
“Oh, Jim, don’t start.” Mom can’t help but smile, though. He’s still at the sink and she slides behind him, her arms around his big belly. They are so gross. I mean, come on. They were in eighth grade together. Heck, they were in kindergarten together. This town is like the La Brea Tar Pits, collecting souls, no escape.
For years my textbooks have had Mom’s or Dad’s name in them. (Small-town school funding, yikes.) Sometimes I’ve even had the same teachers they did. It’s insane. So, yes, I know Mom’s prank was yarn bombing a bunch of light poles on Main Street. Dad’s prank was huge and had something to do with stop signs and getting in trouble for endangering the public. Or at least that’s what I was always told. My hand clenches around Clara’s letter folded in my pocket.
I have no idea what my prank will be. Like zero idea.
I leave the two of them in the kitchen and take my bag upstairs. Lying on the bed, I stare at the ceiling. There was never really a game plan for what Taylor and I would wear to school on the second day of eighth grade. I get up and open my closet.
There’s a knock on my door and Mom sticks her head in. “You going to bed already?”
I don’t know. I feel like I can never answer any of her questions. Even the simple ones. I shrug, which has become my signature move.
Mom sneak-attack hugs me before leaving the room. I close my closet door and look at the empty bed on the other side of the room. The quilt is the same. The pillows the same. Mr. Bear leans to the side, his left ear hanging by a thread. I walk over to the other closet, the big one, the one I was never allowed to open.
I open it.
There’s a flowy top covered in a bunch of bright colors, and a jean skirt. That was the outfit Clara chose for her first day of eighth grade. The outfit she never got a chance to wear. And in the back, behind another flowery shirt and some white jeans, there’s a black shirt with a streak of silver down the side. I take it out of her closet and put it in mine.
“Okay.” My hands are on my thighs as I lean over, breathing harder than I have possibly ever breathed. “I—it’s—can we stop now?”
Taylor jogs in place next to me. “Stop?!” She looks like I just told her Beyoncé is retiring. “We’ve only run half a mile. HALF a mile, Amelia! That’s basically nothing.”
“I might puke,” I say to the ground, swallowing hard, my heart still pounding.
“You’re not going to puke. After mile five, you can puke. Come on. Let’s go!” She grabs my arm and gently pulls. I plant my feet and not so gently pull back. She stumbles toward me.
“Hey, hey, heeeeeeey!” A tall boy on a skateboard whooshes past, flips the board on its end, turns, and comes back toward us. He’s wearing a helmet that looks like a shark is eating his head.
“Hi, Twitch,” I breathe. “What’s the story?”
“Same as always,” he says, skating circles around us. “Though you freaked me out for a minute, out here in those sporty clothes doing sporty things. Thought for a second the ghost of Clara was haunting me.” His lopsided grin doesn’t match his sad eyes. Twitch and I used to see each other every day. He hung around Clara like a lost puppy, and she tolerated him because … well, I don’t really know why. I guess because she could boss him around and he would do anything for her. It’s hard for me now, to see him around. When he appears, it’s like the world goes foggy and I zoom through some kind of time warp. I can only ever see him, soaking wet, running in from the lake, arms waving over his head, screaming her name in a voice I’d never heard before, or heard since. The kind of terror and panic he must have been feeling, it made his voice jagged, louder than possible, high-pitched. You could almost see the spiky words shooting from his mouth: Help! Clara! Underwater! Boat flipped! Help! Help!
I stand up straighter, taking my hands off my thighs, my posture suddenly reminding me of Twitch catching his breath as the grown-ups ran past him to a motorboat and then sped to the middle of the lake.
Can you be in love with someone when you’re in the sixth grade? I don’t know. But maybe Twitch was in love with Clara. I don’t think she was in love with him, though. Maybe that’s the saddest thing of all.
“Whatcha doing?” he asks, turning tighter and tighter circles. The silver bracelet he always wears glints in the sun and blinds me for a second. You’d think a sophomore in high school wouldn’t care what little eighth graders were up to, but you’d be wrong. We have a weird connection, Twitch and I. When you’ve stood next to someone and breathlessly watched the world end, it gives you a bond whether you want one or not. That sounds dramatic, but it’s true.
“Amelia is broadening her horizons,” Taylor says, switching from jogging in place to jumping jacks. “She is endeavoring to break out of her shell.”
“‘Endeavoring’? You sound like my mom.”
“I’m just saying you’re attempting something big. Big things need big words.”
I feel my eyes start to roll, but I try to stop them. I don’t want to be grouchy with Taylor. She’s trying to help. And I know I need help. I mean, I guess I do. Moping for three years? A huge cry for help, right?
“How is puking in the str
eet broadening your horizons?” Twitch’s eyes finally match his smile.
“I am not puking!” I put my hands on my hips. “At least not yet. Anyway, I’m doing it for Clara.” I reach into the tiny zipper pocket in the back of my running shorts and pull out her letter, where I stashed it, folded as tightly as possible. It’s a little damp from my sweat, but not enough to smear the ink, just enough to make it kind of limp in my hand. I hand it to Twitch.
“I’m going to make sure everything on her list gets taken care of.”
He takes it, barely pinching it between two fingers.
“It’s not covered in poison, dork, just my sweat.”
“Why would I take your word on that? How do I know you aren’t some kind of mutant? The risk seems high.” Twitch is trying to hold the limp page in a readable position. He has to stop skating and arc his head toward the sun as his two fingers dangle the sweaty paper in front of his face.
I watch him read it, his face going from that smirking-joking-Twitch-expression to solid stone. The pink in his cheeks goes pale. When he’s finished, he carefully folds the paper, following the creases that are already there. He hands it back to me. I don’t think he cares about the sweatiness anymore.
“You’re going to do all these things?” His voice is a little rough. He clears his throat and looks down at his board.
I feel my infuriating tears threatening once again and nod. “It’s not like I’m trying to BE her, or anything. It just seems like I can help her do the things she didn’t get to do, and she can help me …” I can’t think of what to say. Be happy? Stop feeling terrible all the time? I don’t want to say any of these things out loud.