Perfect Glass (A Young Adult Novel (sequel to Glass Girl))

by Laura Anderson Kurk

  “I’ll be ready,” I said.

  He grinned and leaned against the windowsill. “Hard to believe we’re standing on a bona fide corporate write-off with a mission, isn’t it? Never thought it would go this way.”

  None of this was easy for John. He’d been having this discussion with himself, with Kate, with Sam and Patrick, with the government, with God, since he first came to Nicaragua. He knew it wouldn’t—couldn’t—last forever, but he’d poured all he had into it to make an impression on as many lives as he could. He was leaving so much of himself in Nicaragua, but he was taking a huge part of it home with him, back to Kate and Whit.

  I reluctantly drove my brother-in-law and my new baby niece to the airport. John jotted notes, reminders of where important papers were. Aidia took off her sandals, played with her toes, and sang.

  By the time we’d parked and carried boxes and bags in to be checked, we were strung out and overemotional. I kissed Aidia on both cheeks and told her I’d see her soon.

  John hugged me and said, “Dang, this is harder than I thought it would be.”

  He bit his lip and then looked far away, into the terminal. “If you see any of the kids…if you see Raf…before you leave, tell them how I feel about them.”

  But the odds were against us ever seeing the kids again and we both knew it. We entertained no illusions that we’d all be together again on this side of eternity.

  ***

  All the materials we’d hoped for were piled around me, shrink-wrapped and perfect. As I sat on a metal bench in the courtyard and ate the sandwich I’d thrown together, I decided on the order of business: roof patching, new doors and windows, siding replacement, plumbing repair, wiring upgrade, drywall patching, ceiling tiling, interior painting, appliance setup, exterior painting, and done.

  Granted, this was a small building, but, holy cow, that was a lot of work for one guy.

  I set everything up for a late night of patching the roof. I could work all night without worrying about waking kids, with the added benefit of it being twenty degrees cooler. The wind had officially become annoying, though, blowing out of the west right into my face.

  I had this memory of my dad, standing in a wheat field, holding his cap into the wind like a stained, sweaty windsock. He’d said, “There’s nothing good ever come from a west wind, son.” Now I paid attention to westerly winds.

  This one was kicking up heat and dust around me, coating my concrete roof tiles. I was pretty sure I looked like an overdone lady with a fine coating of Nicaraguan soil sticking to my sweaty face.

  As I worked, climbing up and down the ladder shuffling nails and tiles, I had plenty of time to think. Daydream, really. In my head, I mapped out an ideal scenario for this property. I saw a school for kids, hopefully at least a few of our own, in one of the buildings. I saw a teaching garden between the river and the property. I saw this flex building being put to outstanding use as a Nicaraguan version of a vo-tech school.

  I worked for several hours with only the high-pitched pinging of metal hitting concrete disturbing the late night silence. I think it must’ve been around two o’clock in the morning when I saw a dark figure emerge from between a couple of buildings a block down the main road. I stopped working and watched, wondering about a guy who dared to walk alone down a street with at least two crack houses.

  Although they didn’t make a sound, a few chickens fell in line behind the guy, following him like he would be the one to show them the way out of the fine mess they were in.

  He stopped, turned, and stared at the chickens for a second before he hopped up and landed hard, arms out wide, in an attempt to scare them away. They squawked, but continued following him. Closer, closer he came, with a stride full of purpose and no question about his destination. He was heading straight for me.

  Raf had returned. He caught my eye as soon as he knew I would recognize him in the light of the street lamps. He held a finger up to his lips, telling me to keep my mouth shut. I could almost swear he was smiling, though.

  I laid down my tools, but stayed where I was, figuring he’d rather come to me than the reverse. I heard him hit the bottom rung of the ladder and, within seconds, his dark head bobbed over the edge of the concrete beam. He pulled himself up, leaving his chickens to complain on the ground. He looked around for anyone other than me, sat down, and helped himself to the bottle of water I’d been trying to make last for another hour or so.

  “Where in Hades have you been?” I said.

  He smiled but shook his head. “Don’t be nosy.”

  “What questions can I ask?” I said, with barely concealed eagerness.

  “Hmmm,” he thought. “You can ask if I’ve had a nice evening, if I’m enjoying the weather—if I’ve eaten dinner yet.”

  “And the answers?”

  “No. It’s okay. Not enough.”

  I smiled. “Are you here to stay?”

  “Uh-uh-uh. Watch yourself.” He wagged a finger at me. “I’m not really here. You’re seeing things. I heard you were working by yourself and I’m here to make an offer.”

  “How’d you hear…,” I faded away, figuring that question would earn another finger wag. “What’s the offer?”

  “I can help. I said I would. But it has to be at night. If you can keep your mouth shut about it.” He held his hand out and I gave it a firm shake.

  And so began a partnership with my old friend Rafael. We worked another hour, then I took him inside and made sure he ate. He refused to sleep in his old room, saying his absence would be noticed in town if he didn’t return before dawn.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow night,” he said.

  I left it at that, but, as he disappeared into the dark, I was tempted to follow him.

  Around six in the morning, my cell phone rang, jarring me out of a deep sleep. I glanced at the clock. John and Aidia had been flying for hours and had dealt with a couple of brutal layovers. I grabbed my phone, hoping John was calling to say they’d made it.

  Before I could say hello, I heard the shuffling of pants and shoes on a hard floor and the muffled voices of strangers in the background. John called out, “Henry, you’re in my pocket because my hands are full, but I wanted you to be with us when we all saw each other again.”

  Kate shouted his name and she cried. Aidia squealed, too, and from the background noises, I could tell she had shifted from John’s arms to Kate’s. Whit must’ve jumped on his dad who grunted with the force that hit his chest. Whit talked to Aidia in quick, clipped phrases full of joy. I think Kate and John embraced because for a moment the phone went silent, pressed too tightly between them, the microphone blocked.

  “Henry’s here, too,” John said, laughing through his overwhelming emotions. “He’s in my pocket on the cell.”

  Someone dug the phone out. “Henry, are you there?” Kate said. “Can you hear this? Do you know how perfect it is?” She was crying. Her heart was coming through the phone. The timing was just right, for all of them, but especially for little Aidia.

  “I’m here, Kate. I’m so happy for you guys.”

  “Thank you, Henry—for everything. For understanding. For going back.”

  I couldn’t respond so I just listened to them talk and hug and cry. Someone must’ve bumped the phone. It disconnected and the silence of the dropped call was painful.

  I thought back to Meg’s advice about Hemingway sentences—simple declarative statements that showed the truth and distilled the meaning. My first attempt at that had been cynical and messed up. I gave it a go again.

  Find one lost sheep.

  The angels rejoice.

  THIRTY-THREE

  meg

  “You’re inviting me on a road trip?” Tennyson sat up in her bed and pushed me off the corner where I’d perched. “Shut up!”

  “I’m serious, T. I have to go to UW tomorrow to meet with the head of the writing program. We’re out of school for in-service so you can stay home and watch TV all day or go with me.” I crawle
d under her blanket and lay next to her, staring at the Georgia O’Keefe print she’d thumbtacked on her ceiling. “Why are you still in bed at noon and why do you have an O’Keefe on your ceiling?”

  She giggled. “Dylan kept me out most of the night and O’Keefe had a dirty mind like mine. Look at it.”

  I stared at the flower and squinted. “Yeah, I guess.”

  She rolled to her stomach and rose up on her elbows to stare at me. “I thought you hadn’t heard from UDub yet.”

  I shook my head. “I haven’t. Not officially. This woman left a message for me saying they’d like one more chance to convince me to come. She asked me to meet with her on campus before I made my decision.”

  Tennyson’s brow furrowed. “What decision?”

  “Exactly. I tried calling back to say, ‘Um…if you’re accepting me, my decision is yes,’ but she was out.”

  “Weird.” Tennyson sat up and unbraided her hair. “Hey, you never told me how upset Henry was about Quinn.”

  I turned to look at her. “Why? What have you heard?”

  She actually looked sympathetic for a second. “Dylan said Henry mentioned it.”

  “He talked to Dylan about it?”

  “Yeah, I mean, as much as those two talk about anything,” she said. “He said something about Quinn making a move on you. If Henry Whitmire gives more than a couple of sentences to a subject, you know it’s on his mind.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  Tennyson took my hand and intertwined our fingers. “It’s okay, Meg. Henry will be home eventually to remind you why you love him so much.”

  I pulled my hand away. “That’s what you think? That I’ve forgotten why I love Henry? I haven’t. At all.”

  “Okay.” She held her hands up like she needed to protect herself. “Tell me about this road trip.”

  “Thanet and Quinn are going and I thought it would be cool if you came.”

  “Someone has to get the three of you to Laramie. Holy Moly—Pittsburgh, Chicago, and where the heck is Quinn from?”

  “Charlestown, Rhode Island.”

  Tennyson watched me for a second with a strange look on her face. “Yeah, Rhode Island. Anyway, it’ll be fun. We should make ourselves look like runaways and bum food off guys at truck stops. Refer to me only as Skinny Bones Jones. Or we’ll pretend we’re a lame band on tour.”

  I touched the deep line on her cheek made from sleeping severely on rumpled sheets. “You talk about truck stops a lot,” I said. “We’re leaving at seven in the morning. Set an alarm.”

  ***

  All my life, I’d hated being the first one up. It scared me. Wyatt told me I suffered from Kafka’s “dread of night; dread of not night.” I made a little extra noise with the coffeepot, hoping to wake a parent.

  This trip to Laramie stressed me out. Something felt out of the ordinary about receiving a call from Dr. Matthews, the program director. Why did she want to see me in person? And what’s with the message about convincing me to attend? There’s no convincing that needs to happen. Just accept me and I’ll show up with my dorm bedding and a discount carpet roll.

  My dad shuffled in, yawning. “What time’s your meeting?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Nervous?”

  “Yeah.”

  He patted my back. “No need for that. You’ve got everything they want.”

  “I thought it was the other way around.”

  He laughed. “How’s the tank on the Jeep?”

  “Full.”

  “Names and cell numbers of kids going?”

  “On the fridge.”

  He kissed my forehead. “You’ve got this. I think you’ve already been accepted and this meeting is about something else.”

  Having dispensed this bit of prophecy, he shuffled back down the hall and climbed into bed.

  Quinn showed up moments later. He knocked softly on the kitchen window and when the bright security light flicked on, he covered his eyes and swore loudly. Like a longshoreman. I laughed when I tugged him into the kitchen.

  “Did your parents hear that?” he whispered.

  “Probably, but they’ve said worse.”

  “I can’t win with you. I get you arrested and then I shout swear words outside your house.” He accepted the granola bar I handed him and guzzled a cup of black coffee. By the time Tennyson knocked on the door, we were putting on our coats, ready to pick Thanet up and hit the highway.

  Tennyson called shotgun so the boys sat in the back. Thanet brought donuts and Quinn brought music, so, for at least an hour, we made fun of his taste in morose lyrics and licked donut sugar off our fingers.

  The closer we got to Laramie, the faster my heart beat. I tugged on the collar of the shirt I’d worn, feeling a little claustrophobic.

  Thanet must have been watching me. “Hey, Kavanagh, know what stressed spells backwards?”

  “Um…,” I said.

  But he beat me to the punch line. “Desserts.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at him and smiled.

  “Look at this place,” Tennyson said when we passed through the outskirts of town. “Are you sure you and Henry want to go here? Have you even seen Boulder?”

  “Henry wants to major in Ag. There’s no better place for him and I’m happy as long as I get into this writing program.” The town looked okay to me—larger than Chapin, but still safe.

  “Hey, you’re a brain, Quinn. Where are you going to school?” Tennyson focused her attention on the backseat. “You should come to Boulder with me.”

  “I’m going home. I’m waiting to hear from Brown. I got early acceptance to the U of Rhode Island if Brown turns me down.” Quinn handed his phone to Tennyson and said, “This might interest you.”

  “Dang,” she said. “I guess UDub doesn’t completely suck.” She held up the phone so I could see the picture of the rodeo team. “I want a ‘Ragtime Cowboy Joe.’ A ‘high-falutin’, rootin’, shootin’, son of a gun from Old Wyoming.’”

  “Stop it now, Tennyson,” I said.

  “Too bad Meg’s already got one of those sons of a gun,” Quinn said.

  “Ha ha.” I followed my map into a parking lot for visitors next to Hoyt Hall, the building that housed the English Department. The four of us stopped talking and stared at the main door where students were standing in clumps. Even Tennyson sat up straight to get a better look. I think it hit us all that, in a few months, we would be those people.

  Thanet leaned between the two front seats and punched me in the arm. “You’ve got fifteen minutes, Meg. Get a move on.”

  “Okay,” I said. “This shouldn’t take long. What are you guys going to do?”

  Tennyson looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “We’re going to find the saddle bronc rider from Iowa.”

  “We are not,” Quinn argued. “We’re going to sit right there on that bench by the door and try to look quasi-cool.” He climbed out, stretched his legs, and opened the driver’s door, offering me a hand.

  I stood, smoothed my skirt, and put on the blazer I’d brought. I hadn’t considered how much this outfit would make me look like a 1950s co-ed, especially when compared to the clothes worn by most of the students here.

  Quinn watched my face and shook his head. “Nope. You look good. Stop worrying.” He reached over the console and pulled out my bag, took the keys out of my hand, and pushed me toward the door. “Room 208.”

  “How’d you know?”

  He grinned. “I looked it up on the way.”

  “Go!” Thanet yelled. “Go and be awesome!”

  I picked my way gingerly through the crowd and found the stairs leading to Dr. Matthews’s office. Her door stood open and she had her head in a book when I knocked.

  “Yes?” she said, looking up at me. “Oh, are you Meg?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m a little early.”

  She came around her desk, and I liked her immediately because she had the biggest smile and the best eyes. “No, no, I’ve been waiting
for you. How was the drive?”

  “Fine. Not too far.”

  “Sit, sit,” she scooted two chairs together, looked at them, and pulled them apart a little and angled them a different way, mumbling something about the distance between furniture for comfortable conversation. “Okay, now, sit.”

  I held my bag in my lap, hugging it tightly for comfort.

  “What questions do you have, Meg?”

  “Questions?”

  “Yes. Like ‘What can you tell me that will make my decision easier?’ And ‘What sets this campus apart from XYZ campus I’m looking at?’”

  Was she serious? “Okay. Yes. I’m wondering why I’m here, I guess.”

  She jumped up from her chair and squeezed behind her desk again, opening and closing drawers until she found a letter, which she handed to me.

  “This is why. I mean, we’re all hoping you’ll come here.” She leaned in like we were sharing a private moment. “I think you haven’t accepted UW yet because you’re waiting on scholarship info from your top schools and that’s understandable. But this—this letter—is why you’re sitting in my office today.”

  I recognized Jo’s shaky, slanted cursive immediately. She’d handwritten a letter, using old-school formality with two address blocks and a Dear Madam or Sir.

  I must have smiled because Dr. Matthews laughed. “We don’t see many like that anymore. Go on…read it.”

  She turned to her laptop and started typing so I read Jo’s letter slowly.

  Dear Madam or Sir:

  My name is Jo Russell. Perhaps you’ve heard of me. I paint.

  This brings me to my reason for writing you today. As it is with all human beings, I will not live forever. In fact, I may not live much longer. I am old. Who really knows?

  What I do know is I have recently met a remarkable girl who wants to learn to write at your school. I believe art is best learned by living, but apparently you need a degree these days.

  This girl, Meg Kavanagh, is impressive. I haven’t seen her write a single thing the whole time I’ve known her. That shouldn’t disturb you, though. What I have seen is that her heart is bigger than the world and that she stands her ground when things are hard. Even when most people would leave.