“It’s about time, dude.” Mike and Derek offer high-fives as I shake Mr. White’s hand.
“Where’s Hope?” The question is answered by Hope herself.
She floats down the staircase—did I envision her as floating? —in her pale blue gown. An angel with long blonde hair and pale shimmering skin. The front of her hair is pulled back with a silvery rope, leaving the rest curled around her shoulders.
I struggle for the perfect words. “I’m speechless.”
She beams. Her heels click across the floor as she gives me the once over. “You look amazing.”
I stand, like an idiot, staring. Her eyes flick to the white box in my hands holding her corsage. “Oh, let me get your boutonniere.”
Mr. White offers and I step closer to Hope, my shock wearing off.
“You really are a Goddess.” I whisper the words for her ears only.
A blush colors her high cheekbones. “I’m so ready for tonight.”
Me too.
“Let your cheesy romantic prom date commence.” I announce as we drive away from Hope’s house after a million pictures with our friends. The limo carrying everyone else goes south, while we turn north. “First up, a private dinner for two.”
“Private?” She smooths her skirts over and over, spreading them as best she can in the small space she’s confined to. I hate that I didn’t rent a limo for the two of us, or a larger car. I don’t answer her question. Tonight is all about surprises, starting with the mixed tape of romantic songs made by Amber. I stretch my hand across the console and take Hope’s in mine.
Celine Dion wails on and on about love, but I force myself to not cringe as we drive toward Blue Mountain Resort and the special meal I pulled strings to set up. Sitting among a garden and the hills is a table strung with twinkle lights and set with a meal worthy of any restaurant in town.
“I can’t believe you did this,” Hope’s manicured hand presses to the base of her throat. A bouquet of pink roses occupies half the table, and she leans in, sniffing them, as I pull her chair out.
“I promised you special.”
The sun sinks behind the hills while we eat, coloring the sky with pinks and oranges as we talk about every topic possible. Our food tastes great. Eddie has his niece play the part of our server. She makes sure everything runs smoothly.
“This was very special, Brett. Thank you.”
I rise, offering her my hand. “No, thank you. You look beautiful tonight, and I didn’t tell you that earlier. I was too enamored by you.”
***
At the dance we take our posed photos and join our friends on the dance floor. None of us guys are especially skilled at dancing, so we goof off, mimicking dance moves learned watching MTV. However, each time a slow song comes on I pull Hope into my chest, dancing with her, heartbeat to heartbeat. The idea of prom—which felt girly and overdone a few weeks ago—becomes something more when I look at the girl with me. Her eyes glow with happiness each time they meet mine. I feel the same way. I’m stunned.
Some unrecognizable elevator lite rock song comes on and our bodies sway together. My lips, my body, and my mind want to devour Hope as we sink deeper and deeper into our own world in a dark corner of the dance floor. I kiss her. “You ready to leave?”
“My lips ache.” Hope pushes against my chest as we lay under the stars, wrapped in blankets and heat in my backyard. Our mix tape plays beside us, the slow rhythm joining with the sounds of the outdoors.
“I’ll give them a break then.” I slide down, my mouth covering her neck and shoulders in kisses. My fingers spread over her ribs, but I go no further. Teasing and kissing. That’s it. Hope plans on waiting for marriage. I haven’t made the same vow, but I believe sex is special, or it should be.
“You outdid yourself tonight, Brett Pratt.” I prop myself up, surveying our surroundings. We’re lying on an air mattress covered in blankets and pillows sitting in the middle of Mom’s prized garden. It’s a Sultan’s bed. Something out of Hope’s favorite Disney movie Aladdin.
“There’s more,” I hint. Rolling over, I uncover a basket full of her favorite treats. “Candy bars, chips, drinks—it’s all here.”
Her laughter fills the backyard as I place the snacks between us. “I love you.”
Hope’s mouth snaps closed. Her eyes grow wide. The words fell from her lips out of pure enjoyment. She didn’t plan them. It’s obvious by the mask of shock covering her pretty face. Her chest rises and falls as though she’s run a race.
I love you.
I don’t . . . I can’t think of what to . . .
“It’s true.” I bet I look like the panicked one now. “I’ve fallen in love with you. I didn’t mean to, and I don’t expect you to say it back.” She looks to the sky.
“It’s too soon.” I voice my internal thought process, externally.
“Too soon?” She rises to her knees. “I already knew who you were as a person, Brett. We’ve known each other—all our quirks, likes, and dislikes—for years. It wasn’t going to take much to fall. You either feel it or you don’t.” Her hands tug me close and she presses a soft kiss to my lips.
She’s right. I know her as a person. I know she’s a great fit to who I am.
But . . .
What is love, really? My chest stirred when I saw Hope tonight. It stirs when we kiss, when I hold her hand, and when I hear her voice. Is that love? It must be. Or close to it, but I can’t tell her I love her.
Carefully, I take her hands. “You are so important to me. I think . . . I mean, I might love you, too. I don’t know, I’ve never been in love before.” I don’t want to lie to her, I don’t want to hurt her.
Hope, being who she is, lifts her chin with a smile. “I can live with that, but I won’t take back what I said, I love you anyway.”
My chest stirs again.
Maybe it is love.
My smile dims. The stirring is familiar. It’s the way I feel when I get a letter from Ruby.
REASON TO BELIEVE
Ruby
Saturday, May 8
Laying on my back in bed, I look up at my paper planes hanging above me. All white and one colorful—the island Brett drew for me. If I’d known the kind of skills he has, I’d have asked him to draw me more things. It might be my favorite plane so far.
I need to write him back, so I sit up and grab a piece of my stationery.
Dreamer Brett,
I think you made a dreamer out of me. Or maybe it’s a believer. I always dreamed about making it to New York, but now I believe it’s actually possible to make it to Broadway. While I dance on Broadway, you can paint. We’d be quite the pair, taking New York by storm. I loved your island and you know, now that you’ve shared this talent with me, you’re going to have to draw me more pictures. Though most artists throughout history didn’t make an impact until they were dead. I don’t know anything about designing snowboards, so maybe you won’t need to die in order to be famous. You’ll break the mold!
You’re at prom right now, while I’m home on a Saturday night. That makes me sound incredibly pathetic, but I had another competition today, so I was too tired to go out with Kamry. Going miniature golfing after a full day on my feet didn’t sound all that enticing.
You know what the hardest part about competitions are? It’s not dancing in front of thousands of people or being judged for every little infraction. The hardest part is not having my mom in the audience. She never missed a dance performance, whether it was a recital or competition or audition. I could count on her to be my support, my own personal cheerleader. So I understand the loss you feel of that guiding hand. She was that for me.
Luv, Ruby
P.S. I got second place! It isn’t first, but it also isn’t third. See? I’m still trying to be Ruby the Optimist.
P.P.S. Favorite movie? That’s like asking me to pick my favorite book. It’s impossible! But...if I had to choose one I’d say The Little Mermaid. Wait. No. The Princess Bride. No! Edward Scissorhands!
Dangit! I can’t. It’s impossible. Tell me yours.
P.P.P.S. Savory snacks or sweet? I love chocolate, but I can’t live without pretzels. The thin stick ones. Put them together and you have heaven on earth. So, I guess I’m a mixture kind of girl. Give me both
!
I fold my letter into thirds and stuff it into the pale pink envelope, writing his address like I were writing my own. I could repeat his address backwards and forwards.
Falling back into bed, I listen to The Sundays flow through my speakers. The “cheesy” details of Brett’s plans for Hope and prom are burning a hole in my brain. And if I’m being honest with myself, they’re burning a hole in my heart, too. Why am I so bothered by this? Am I jealous? I can’t be jealous. Brett isn’t mine. I hardly know him.
But that’s a lie, isn’t it?
I know the deepest aches of his heart. They mirror mine. I recognize how much he loves and wants to protect Amber, would do anything for her. The way I love and want to protect Dad from more pain than he’s already experienced. I understand Brett’s secret dreams of someday displaying his art and making a name for himself. The way that kind of dream can give a person hope in this life when everything else feels as though it’s not worth living for.
I know Brett. I think I know him better than I know myself.
It makes this night even harder. Right now he’s probably dancing close to Hope, and she probably has the widest grin on her face, because why wouldn’t she? She has the most handsome date at prom. He’s probably whispering how beautiful she is in her ear and kissing her cheek. And he’ll respect her and treat her like a princess for the entire night. He won’t push her boundaries or try to turn her into someone she isn’t. He’ll probably kiss her on her doorstep and make her weak in the knees, and she’d wish the night wouldn’t end. He’ll pull away and thank her for the night, waiting on her doorstep to make sure she makes it inside safely. And he’ll say, “Have a good night, Ruby.”
Well, crap. When did I replace Hope in this scenario? That’s not right.
Oooh gosh.
My eyes squeeze tightly shut.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. There were only supposed to be a few letters exchanged, a connection for us to mourn our families together, maybe a small friendship if we were lucky. I wasn’t supposed to fall for Brett Pratt.
COME AND TALK TO ME
Brett
SUNDAY, MAY 9
I work up the courage to open Ruby’s letter mid-afternoon Sunday. That’s new. Up until this week I’ve looked forward to each and every word she’s sent.
I remove the paper from the envelope, noticing how her normally precise and narrow handwriting is sloppier today. It’s as though she rushed through her thoughts. I read:
Brett,
I needed to send you a quick note. I’m going! I’m going to NYU! My dad and I talked and it’s all going to work out. I still can’t believe it. We’re going to fly out there in a few weeks to find somewhere for me to live and to take a tour of the school. I might be able to find housing close to campus, but I think we’re going to look in Brooklyn, too. I’ll probably have to live in some hole in the wall studio apartment, but I don’t even care!
Maybe we’ll meet someday after all.
I’M GOING TO DANCE IN NEW YORK CITY!
Overly excited,
Ruby
She’s coming?
Holy crap!
Ruby is going to be four hours away. She’s going to be by Cole.
Holy ever-loving crap!
Jumping to my feet, I pace the length of my room. This is real, she is real. Ruby Kaminski is no longer simply a paper plane, she is a person . . . a beautiful girl with red hair, and a nose ring, and funny habits and quirks, and . . . crap, crap, crap!
I’m having a heart attack. My pulse is racing, my blood pounds within my ears. My eyes go to the black and white photo strip of Hope and me from two weeks ago at the mall. She’s staring at me with the same tenderness she had on her face last night. I love you.
I pull Ruby’s picture from under my boxers and tee shirts in my top dresser drawer. There it is. The racing, stirring beat. The same one Hope gives me.
Yep, I’m so screwed.
THURSDAY, MAY 13
Amber enters my room with a light knock, dodging the crumpled piece of paper I toss toward my trashcan.
“Two-points.” Her eyes settle on the mound of paper that didn’t make it into the target. “Problems?”
“You could say that.” I concede. I can’t find the words for Ruby’s letter. Nothing is good enough. No confession comes close to sounding right. Amber’s forehead wrinkles as she walks further into my room. I slide my notebook over Ruby’s letter, covertly pushing back from my desk. “I’m having trouble with a history assignment, no big deal. What’s up?”
“There was a call . . .”
***
I pick up and replace the receiver three times. Call her, you big chicken.
I dial.
The phone clicks and rings once it goes through. I’m doing this. I’m calling Ruby.
“Hello?”
My brain short circuits at the dulcet voice on the other end of the line. Ruby? “Uh, is Ruby there?”
“This is Ruby.”
Oh crap! “Ruby. Hey, it’s Brett. Um, Pratt. Brett Pratt.” Oh my gosh. Who am I? James Bond? There’s silence. “Ruby?”
“Umm . . . yes. Hi. Brett. Wow. How did you get my number?”
A long ago line creeps into my mind. “I have my ways.” Much better, Pratt. Get a grip.
“I’m familiar with these ways,” she chuckles.
I can’t believe she’s on the line. I can’t believe she laughed. Man, it sounds exactly the way I imagined it would. Airy, breathless, and perfect. I breathe.
“Um, I got your letter. The one about NYU. That’s wicked news, you dancing in New York.” I should tell her how excited I am for her to be so close, but I hold back, testing the water first. I don’t want to sound like some lovesick freak on our first phone call. Crap, lovesick? I slap my forehead.
“Oh my gosh. I still can’t believe it. I haven’t gotten over being worried about my dad, but I trust my nana will take care of him. So, now it’s just planning! We leave for New York the day after graduation, on the 5th.”
“We graduate the same day then. What are the chances?”
“What are the chances . . .”
“You’re the odds girl, you tell me.” Did that come out wrong?
She laughs, louder this time. “I’ll have to research that.”
“And get back to me?” With every word she speaks, I want more. Why did I wait so . . .
“Of course.” Her promise interrupts my thoughts. “And I received your letter with the island. I wrote you back Monday. Did you get it?”
“No, the mail must be running slow this week.”
“Well, I said—”
“No! Don’t tell me,” I interrupt before she can spoil her written words for me. “I love the anticipation.” I’m a masochist.
“My lips are sealed,” her voice teases. “I get it. That’s half of the fun, isn’t it?”
“Why did I wait so long to call you?” I ask aloud.
“Good question. I’ll be honest. It never crossed my mind until now.”
“Well, I called for a reason. I mean, besides getting to speak to you in person.” She clears her throat lightly and I dive in. “Um, we received a call today from a group representing the family members of the victims. They’re planning a memorial event for the one-year anniversary. Have you heard about it?”
“No, I’m surprised we haven’t gotten a call yet. Or maybe my dad got the call and hasn’t told me. Is it being held on the actual anniversary?”
“Yeah, Friday.”
“Are you going?”
“We wouldn’t miss it. Amber, Cole, and I. My Gram will want to come, but I’m not sure if she can. How about you, think your dad will want to fly here twice? I mean, with your school s
tuff and all?” Please say yes, please say yes. The pleading is crazy since she’ll be here for school soon enough, but I don’t know how to make plans to see her while she’s here for that. The memorial though—
“I’ll have to talk to my dad and get our flights changed. I doubt he’d want to miss the chance to honor her memory like that. Neither would I . . . And it shouldn’t be a problem to delay our trip for a couple weeks.”
“They’re planning on building a monument off the coast. You know they labeled Long Island the crash site? I’ve been a few times since it happened.”
“You have? What’s it like?”
“A beach.” I give a half-shrug as though she sees me. “It’s nothing special, which pretty much sucks since it’s their—” What’s the word? Their final resting place. Their death bed? “—island. Not the tropical one you pictured, I’m sure, but it’s their island. You probably think I’m crazy.” I sound like an idiot. I should hang up now. Say goodbye, tell her you’ll see her—
“Not at all.” Her voice wavers. Is she crying?
“Ruby?”
She clears her throat. “They deserve an island. Tropical or not.”
“I want to meet you.” I blurt out the five words. “Damn it, I want to know you so bad.” My words make no sense. Know you so bad? I don’t have to know her more than I already do. What a terrible lie, Brett.
She pauses. “That makes two of us. I really want to meet you, too.”
“You know how I send you those paper planes?” Gah, such a dumb question. “Of course, you do . . . but, you know how I write notes on them?”
Paper Planes and Other Things We Lost Page 16