The Brilliance of Fireflies

by Leslie Hauser

  I don’t know any of these people and probably never will, but I treasure this special secret I share with the early morning. It spurs me on, and that’s a good thing because it’s right around the halfway mark that I want to die. The natural high I’d felt just a mile before—when I felt like Wonder Woman and thought I could conquer the world—vanishes like smoke rising into the sky. Everything hurts. The pinball pain starts and shoots from my hip to my foot to my thigh. My legs gain forty pounds each, and I swear I won’t be able to make it back. I curse myself for getting up at such an ungodly hour and debate whether or not trying to achieve Mom’s goal isn’t just some stupid idea that doesn’t even matter anyway.

  But I forge ahead. I stop to walk here and there, mostly on the way back, but I’m trying to push through the pain. I want to be tough. I need to be tough. So I increase the volume of my iPhone—so loud that it’s as if the headphones are connected directly to my muscles—and I let the beat of the music bring me home.

  When I finish this morning, the sunlight is beginning to peek over the buildings and shine on the bike path. I lean over with my hands on my hips in order to catch my breath then walk over to the drinking fountain. I gulp down some warm water as sweat drips down my body like rainwater down a window. It’s a steady stream that probably won’t stop until I’m almost home. But it feels good. I’m happy and proud and strong.

  I remember when Mom came home from her runs. I sat at the kitchen island munching on some cereal when she breezed into the room, seeming to have an electric current running through her. Even though she tried to explain, I never understood why she said she felt so good when she looked like an overripe tomato. She bounced and chirped and sang all while leaving pools of sweat everywhere she went. I couldn’t understand how she could get up so early on a weekend merely to punish herself with something that sounded like torture. She told me it made her feel alive.

  As I walk back to the car this morning—not having had my best run but finishing the six miles, the most I’ve ever run in my life—I finally understand what she meant. I feel alive.

  Later, Ryan is waiting for me in the parking lot when I arrive at work. He switched shifts this weekend.

  “You look tired already,” he jokes and offers me a piece of his donut.

  “Ha ha, thanks a lot,” I say and comment on his choice of a boring glazed donut. I don’t tell him that I was awake at five running; I haven’t shared anything about my personal life with him. I’m not ready.

  Once we’re inside, we splinter off to separate jobs. Lynn decides to give me a try at walking the dogs. On our way out, I see Ryan has the honor of cleaning the cages today. He pretends to shoot me with the hose, and I laugh.

  I leash up a tiny brown terrier mix first. His name is Pepper, and he is extremely friendly. Lynn accompanies me and recites all sorts of guidelines. It’s not as simple as just walking a dog. I’m going off grounds with rescue dogs of all different temperaments. This means there are a lot of if-thens I have to know. There’s even a special way to hold the leash and special commands I need to use.

  We walk outside the back of the property and into a beautiful neighborhood behind the shelter, lined with trees and tiny old Monopoly houses. It’s quiet except for the occasional rustle of leaves. Midway through, Lynn hands Pepper’s leash over to me. I guess I pass the test the rest of the way because when we return, she says I’m ready to continue on my own and she walks away to the office.

  I put the leash on the dog from the next stall, a little Chihuahua named Buddy. I get him out of the gate and into the neighborhood. I stop a few times right away to adjust the leash so I’m holding it correctly. Buddy jumps on my leg as if to say, “C’mon already. Let’s go!”

  “Okay, okay,” I say, crouching to let him sniff my hand. When he gives it the okay, I give him some scratches behind the ears. He licks my arm, and I swear he smiles at me.

  I rise, and Buddy leads the way. I think I’m supposed to keep him right next to me, but he’s so excited to lift his leg on every tree and plant, I don’t have the heart to rein in his fun.

  When Buddy’s turn is over, I take the rest of the dogs in his row. Mia, the Pomeranian mix, tries to chase a butterfly. Boomer, the shih tzu-terrier mix, rolls on his back in the middle of someone’s lawn, and Jimmy, another Chihuahua, nearly pulls my arm out of the socket chasing every squirrel in the neighborhood.

  After I put a whimpering Jimmy back in his pen, I turn the corner to the next row of stalls. The first one had been empty, but now it’s not, so I start with that dog. It’s a larger German Shepard mix; his name placard says Hunter.

  “Hey, Hunter. Do you want to go for a walk?” I carefully unlock the cage and step inside with the leash. I’m more of a small dog person, so my hands quiver a little as I attach the leash. Before we’re even out of the stall, Hunter is tugging and bucking. I struggle a little with his weight but manage to get the leash secured correctly and lead him to the back gate. From down the way, Ryan gives me a worried look, but I flash a thumbs-up and head out the back.

  We’re not two steps out when Hunter takes off, yanking my arm with him. I take back control, but he continues. He jerks and bucks, and I give the leash a gentle tug and repeat, “Easy, Hunter. Easy.” He tries to chase a squirrel, but it’s not as cute as when Jimmy did it. I think Hunter wants to rip the squirrel to shreds then eat its bones. He barks at a biker riding by whom I also think he wants to devour bones and all.

  Moments later, he sits down, and I can’t get him back up. I lean down slowly with my hand open like they taught me, but Hunter snarls. It’s so menacing that I jump back, and this makes him bark at me. I try to coax him, but he won’t budge. I give the leash a little pull and nothing. My heart races and a thread of perspiration unwinds down my back. Hunter continues to growl anytime I approach him. I try again, and he barks and nips at the space right next to my hand. Full panic mode sets in. My eyes search frantically up and down the street for someone, anyone who can help me, but there’s only a single leaf tumbling down the sidewalk. My hand instinctively reaches into my back pocket even though I know my phone is in the employee break room. What do I do? I’m all alone with this obstinate dog that hates me. I need help. I can’t do this.

  And then Hunter becomes a symbol for my entire life. I can’t do this all alone. I can’t be in this strange place trying to do everything on my own. Grandma needs more help than I can give her. And what am I thinking that I can run thirteen miles just because I’ve run six? That’s not even half. And like this minimum wage job is going to fund a trip to Greece? I can’t do this. I’m not a survivor; I’m a remnant, a leftover piece of shrapnel. I should’ve gone to Michigan and been that fragile bird everyone wanted me to be. My whole family is dead. That’s what I should be: a fragile bird with broken wings.

  The tears burn and fill my eyes until they’re ready to burst. And they might have if I didn’t hear a familiar voice yell out from a few houses away.

  “Loukas! Hey!” Ryan is running in my direction. I turn away and quickly fan my face. The tide ebbs.

  Ryan slows as he approaches and takes the leash from me. “It’s okay,” he says gently. I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or the dog.

  “Hey Hunter,” he says and opens his hand. There’s a treat in it, and Hunter gets up. Ryan commands him to sit. Then he says, “Hunter, come.” Hunter takes a step forward, and Ryan gives him the treat. Ryan and Hunter continue this ritual down the sidewalk, and I follow.

  When Ryan has him walking without the treats, he says, “I can’t believe Lynn didn’t tell you to skip Hunter. He’s super temperamental. When I saw you leaving with him, I knew what was going to happen. Sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I had to finish the cage I was in because Jupiter was back from his vet appointment earlier than expected.”

  I can only muster a smile and some nodding. I follow behind Ryan and Hunter back to the shelter, grateful to have been saved but not quite sure my internal meltdown is over.

  Rya
n finished his cleaning, so he walks the next few dogs with me. Gradually, I back off my meltdown ledge as he tells stories and we talk about school. We compare the odd teachers we’ve had and talk about college applications. He jokes with me that the most stressful part of the application process is the ethnicity choice. His dad is African-American mixed with Italian and Scandinavian, and his mom is half-Chinese. He also tells me about the non-profit he either wants to work for or start one day that matches emotional support dogs with veterans.

  Ryan’s eyes shine the same whether he’s talking about helping veterans or being the MVP of last year’s basketball team. One minute I’m mesmerized by his fiery passion and the next I’m doubled over in laughter at some silly image he’s planted in my head. Even the few moments of silence feel like a warm blanket around my shoulders. Now that he’s becoming a friend, I want so much to tell him all about me—who I am and why I’m here in California. But I don’t really want to be that fragile bird. I like the way he looks at me now, and I like how I feel in this moment. So I stay silent and enjoy this time as a regular girl.

  Chapter 10

  My first half-marathon is tomorrow, so I skip cross-country practice today. I know enough about running to know that I shouldn’t work out the day before a race. Mari decides to skip in a show of support, but I’m pretty sure it’s mostly because it’s a Friday, it’s wicked hot, and she hates running. Her mom is down with another migraine, so I invite her over to do some homework.

  My heart hammers as we approach the house. Susan is back to showing up regularly and Grandma hasn’t had any of her spells, but it’s still a box of chocolates anytime I come home.

  I enter slowly, pausing in the doorway, and I hear my grandma before I see her. Her voice sings out some Broadway show tune from the kitchen. My tension dissolves, and I step fully inside and motion for Mari to follow me to the kitchen.

  “Hey, Grandma.” Her hands are immersed in a bowl, and Susan stands next to her spotted all over with flour.

  “Hi, sweetie,” Grandma sings out as she removes her hands from the bowl and twirls around to face us. Susan looks over, and the flour spots are even more prevalent on her front side. The two of them look like long lost friends reunited. My mouth remains open, and Grandma laughs, probably inferring my thoughts. She wipes her hands on a yellow towel. “Susan and I thought we’d make some homemade pizza for dinner. I’m teaching her how to make the dough.” Susan wipes a hand across her forehead. This leaves a streak of flour, which elicits chuckles from both of them.

  “Maybe your friend would like to stay, too?” Grandma suggests, aiming her head at Mari.

  I pick up my jaw from the floor. I’d forgotten Mari was next to me. “Oh yeah, sorry. Grandma, this is Mari.” I turn to Mari. “This is my grandmother and Susan, her nurse.”

  Mari holds out her hand, but Grandma pulls her in for a quick hug. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mari. I do hope you’ll stay for pizza.”

  “I think I can.” She looks from Grandma to me.

  Susan dons one of her serious nods, and I feel a sense of normalcy return. “We’re going to study,” I say as I grab a couple of waters from the refrigerator and a bag of chips from the pantry.

  “Okay, you let me know if you need anything,” Grandma says and returns to her bowl of dough. As we walk down the hall, a chorus of laughter rattles the walls.

  “Your grandma seems to be doing better,” Mari says in a low voice once we’re in my room.

  “Yeah.” I’m still bewildered at the warm and fuzzy scene in the kitchen. “Susan has been here consistently, and that’s helped.”

  We both plop to the floor and unzip our backpacks. I hand Mari a water and set the chips in between us. We agree to work on our math homework first, and I’ll help with her essay after that. She scoots back to lean against the dresser, and I sit against the bed.

  I’ve only finished one math problem when Mari holds her paper out in my direction. “Check out what I drew today in my notes. Mrs. Clayton is so boring.” I let out a laugh at her BORING acrostic poem.

  I thought it was just because Callie and I were such good friends for so long that we could never actually do our homework together. We would start but end up talking about cheer or whatever guy we were interested in or one of us would start a cat GIF war. So we never actually did the studying part of studying together.

  I realize now that maybe it’s not just because Callie and I are best friends. Maybe it’s homework with anyone because after only one more math problem, I ask Mari, “Did you have Mr. Martin for Algebra II?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I overheard a kid in my Calculus class say he’s like some professional food eater.”

  “Oh yeah, he talks about that all the time in class. All. The. Time.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “He goes to all these competitions and like eats as much as he can. He says it’s a sport.”

  A burst of laughter escapes from me.

  “Yeah, like he was in some hot dog eating contest on July 4th.”

  The Nathans Hot Dog Eating Contest. Connor loved that. He forced us to watch it every year. He called us in when it started and made us watch these people eat like sixty hot dogs in ten minutes. It was so gross. I got sick to my stomach just watching them. But Connor thought it was so awesome. He’d keep repeating, “This is SO awesome!” all the way through. I only watched it so he’d shut up and stop pestering me, but now I’d give anything to watch it on repeat with him all day long.

  “What?” Mari’s voice jolts the needle on the record of my thoughts.

  “Nothing,” I say, pushing against the unexpected surge of emotion. I take a breath and add, “It’s just that my brother used to love watching that.”

  Her face tilts. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay.” I’m determined to cast aside the sadness. “It’s so gross. Have you ever watched it?”

  “I did this past year, just to see Mr. Martin. And yeah, it was gross.”

  “I think it would be so weird to see your teacher on TV shoving his face full of food,” I say.

  “It was.” We both laugh and begin listing other teachers with weird quirks.

  We manage to finish our math homework right before Grandma calls us for dinner at the usual 7:00 p.m. Susan eats with us, and their giggling and gabbing continues through the entire meal. I finally see why Grandma has been so adamant about keeping Susan around despite her friends’ pleas to request a change. Susan really is a nice lady, and I can see she cares about my grandma. I guess I’m not around all day to see how she really is. She is even sure to include Mari in every conversation and talks loudly so Mari can hear.

  They also made peanut butter cookies for dessert. My favorite. Grandma won’t let us help with the dishes, so we go back to my room with a plate full of cookies and work more on the essay. Mari is still getting her notes out when my phone dings. It’s almost 8:30. Where did the time go? It’s a text from Ryan.

  You up for yogurt?

  I quickly type a response. Studying

  I put the phone face down on the floor. My stare lingers on it, though, and Mari asks, “Who was it?”

  “Just Ryan.”

  Mari turns dreamy eyes on me. “What did he want?”

  “Nothing.” I dismiss it with a shrug.

  “C’mon. What did he want?” Her dreamy eyes reproach me.

  “He wanted to meet at the yogurt place.”

  “You should go!”

  “No, we’re studying.” I reach over for her essay outline as the phone dings again.

  She playfully swats at my hand. “We can do this some other time. You need to go!”

  “I won’t have any time to help you until Sunday night.”

  “That’s fine.” She closes her notebook.

  “Well, I’m not going unless you go, too.”

  Mari squints hard at me with her book half-inside her backpack.

  “We’re hanging out. I’m not just g
oing to ditch you. You’re coming, too,” I insist.

  Mari relents. “Fine. You win. But only because I know it’s the only way you’ll go.”

  A few nervous flutters escape from my heart as I reach for the phone to text him.

  We pull into the parking lot of the strip mall where kids swarm like bees. I manage to find a parking spot down in front of the teal-colored nail salon. Each storefront is a different bold color, so the whole place looks like a giant rainbow. The Big Chill is an ugly mustard yellow, but that doesn’t seem to be hurting business. The crowd spills out onto the sidewalk in front of the store. I guess this is the place where everyone hangs out. It’s the first time I’ve been out on a Friday night.

  “Is it always this crowded?” I ask Mari after we’ve gotten out of the car. She doesn’t hear me, so I move to the other side of her and repeat my question.

  “Well, since the football team was winless this year, their season is over, and this is what people do instead.”

  We approach the door, and I spot Ryan to our right in the middle of a cluster of guys and girls. He’s wearing more Union High basketball gear. I’d think he didn’t own any other clothes if I didn’t see him at work and once when I was at church with Grandma. I’d been surprised to see him there. He told me his dad’s had some crazy work hours lately—pulling all-nighters because of some big project—so his mom isn’t sleeping well. She goes to early Mass since she’s awake anyway, and Ryan and his little brother take turns going with her if they can get themselves out of bed.

  I feel stupid going up to Ryan in a big group. “Let’s order, then we’ll try to find him,” I lie to Mari. We step inside and get in the long line. We’re inching along, studying the flavors, when I hear Ryan’s voice from behind us. “Now, I recommend the vanilla. It may seem boring to most, but TBC’s is no average vanilla. It’s rich and creamy with floral undertones. It pairs nicely with the Strawberry Sensation.”