One Small Thing

by Erin Watt

  “I wouldn’t be able to focus in school tomorrow if you hadn’t told me,” he confirms solemnly.

  I laugh. He doesn’t make any observation about how all the memories I’ve mentioned have to do with fighting with my sister. It’s just that those moments, when she was imperfect, seem the most real to me.

  “I really loved her,” I whisper.

  “I know.”

  “I miss her every day.”

  “I’m sorry, Beth.” He’s returned to lying on his back. An arm is thrown over his eyes, as if he can’t bear to look at me or feels like he doesn’t deserve to. Either way, it sucks.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “I know you are.”

  We fall silent again. I’m caught between the past and the present. Looking at the swing, I can almost see Rachel there, pumping her legs furiously and going higher and higher and higher until she was nearly a blot in the sky next to the glaring sun. Yet, there’s Chase at my side. A real live human being who listens to me, scolds me and makes me laugh.

  I choose Chase, I tell the shadow. Rachel nods and keeps swinging.

  “She had the most amazing serve,” I say quietly. “Even when she was young, like sixth grade, she could put this weird spin on it. Her serves were real flat, like you were always surprised they cleared the net, but once the ball was on the other side, it would curve to the corner. And she was really good at serving it in that sweet spot along the line.”

  “How come you don’t play anymore?”

  “It wasn’t any fun. Without her, it wasn’t fun.” I hadn’t realized how much I’d looked up to Rachel until she died. “We fought a lot, so I didn’t realize I’d miss her this much.” I stop talking because my throat’s too tight. It hurts to even look at the moon so I shut my eyes. Hot liquid seeps out the corners.

  A big warm hand covers mine, and then I hear a muffled curse. Chase slides an arm under my head and pushes my face against his sweatshirt-clad chest.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmurs over and over.

  I want to stop crying, because I know it’s painful for him, but I can’t control the tears. Memories that I’ve pushed down deep bubble to the surface. Rachel showing me how to shave my legs. Rachel French-braiding my hair. Rachel giving me one of her favorite T-shirts when I tried out for the A team at the club. Rachel holding me just like this when my name was not on the final roster.

  “I miss her,” I sob, curling into Chase’s arms. “I miss her so much.”

  Under the tree with the shadow of Rachel’s legs flying overhead, I let the buried hurt spring out of its hidden place. The pain stretches its tendrils, traveling through my veins until every part of my body aches and shudders under its burden.

  This is why I held it in for so long—because it’s too much to deal with. Snot bubbles in my nose. Tears stream out of my eyes like a raging river. Hoarse, ugly sounds growl up through my throat.

  When Rachel died, I was scared that tomorrow my life might be snuffed out, too, so I fought my parents. I fought every boundary, every restriction as if it were a noose.

  “She was my big sister,” I whisper against Chase’s neck. “She was supposed to protect me forever.”

  “I know. I know. I’m sorry.” He buries his head next to mine.

  One hand cups my head to his chest, muffling my sobs while the other moves in wide swaths up and down my back. I lean into him, borrow his strength, because now that the seal is off, I can’t stuff any of this back inside the bottle.

  I keep crying. I’m not sure how much time even passes. But he doesn’t ever tell me to hush. He doesn’t pull away. The rhythm of his comforting hand never skips a beat. Underneath my ear, I make out the steady beat of his heart.

  He’s alive. I’m alive.

  Rachel’s gone.

  And I have to let my broken heart heal instead of pretending I’ve been fine.

  “Shhh,” Chase whispers in my ear. “I’ve got you.”

  Warm breath hits the outer shell of my earlobe, travels down my spine, spreads like a virus, fast and heated throughout my body. I raise my face and see wetness in his eyes.

  I’m not the only one in need of comfort. I unfurl my fingers from his sweatshirt and run my thumb across his damp cheek. My fingertips skate along the sharp jaw to land around his neck.

  A little pressure, only the tiniest bit of force, dips his face toward mine.

  “Chase,” I breathe.

  His eyelids flutter shut. So do mine. And I wait. And wait. And wait.

  The next thing I know, I’m on my back and Chase is five feet from me, dragging an agitated hand through his hair.

  “Chase?”

  “I need to go,” he says. He shoves his hands into his pockets. His shoulders cave in as he withdraws from me.

  “But...” I’m lost. He was going to kiss me. I know he was.

  “I can’t.” He looks toward the house as he says this. “I can’t.”

  He can’t what? Kiss me? Hold me any longer? “What? You can’t what?”

  “All of it,” he says quietly, this time shifting his gaze to the ground.

  I sit up on my knees and extend a hand. “Come back. Talk to me. Please.”

  His eyes finally meet mine and I’m nearly knocked backward by the anguish in them. “Your sister never left you, Beth. I took her from you. I don’t deserve to be holding you, let alone standing in this yard. Your dad is right. I need to be kept away.”

  “No. Please.” I shake my head. I can’t form coherent sentences right now. I’ve got no rational thoughts at this point. I’m just emotion and feeling.

  “I need to go. I’m sorry, Beth. For everything.” He turns on his heel and slips into the shadows.

  Stunned, I remain paralyzed on the ground. The chilly earth turning my leggings damp and cold. His goodbye sounded so final, as if he’s never going to meet me again, never even going to acknowledge the connection we have. And we have one, dammit.

  I jump to my feet and race after him. “Chase. Chase,” I yell, uncaring that I’m waking the neighborhood. I trample over a leaf pile on the Rennicks’ lawn and then nearly run into the corner of the Palmers’ shed.

  “Holy crap, Beth, you’re making more noise than Godzilla in a forest.” Chase appears in front of me, shaking his head in irritation.

  “Then stop running away,” I snap.

  “You’re mad?” He sounds astonished. The stupid boy.

  “Yeah, I’m mad. I just poured my heart out to you and in response, you run away.”

  He sighs. “I’m not running away. I just don’t belong with you.”

  “Says who?” I push his chest. “And don’t say my parents, because they don’t count.”

  “How can they not count?”

  “No one counts, Chase. No one but you and me. If you tell me you don’t care about me, I’ll cry but I’ll get over it. That’s your choice. But if you’re pushing me away because guilt is your current girlfriend and you don’t want to leave her, then that’s bullshit. If you feel so wrong about being let out of prison, go back there. Violate your probation and get sent back in.”

  His expression turns bleak. “It’s hard to live with myself, so, yeah, I tolerate the stuff at school because it feels right. Because I don’t want to go back to prison, but I feel guilty about that, too. Maybe the punishment should be endless.”

  “And that’s going to bring her back?”

  “Nothing’s going to bring her back. That’s the point,” he insists, but this time he doesn’t move away.

  I poke him in the chest again. “Are you ever going to let me forgive you?”

  “I...”

  I take a different tack. “If you’re so desperate to make it right for Rachel, don’t you think she’d want me to be happy?”

  He narrows his eyes. “You’re trying to manipulate me.”

 
; “I’m trying to make you understand that what happened with Rachel was an accident. I’ve forgiven you. Your response is to walk away and leave me.” My finger stabs him in the chest for a third time.

  He captures it, probably trying to prevent me from drilling a hole through his sweatshirt. “There are a dozen other guys at Darling who would be better for you than me.”

  “Name one.”

  He opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then opens it again. Then closes it.

  “Ha,” I declare. I close the distance between us and loop my arms around his waist. “There’s no one out there that would listen to me like you do.”

  He relaxes a tad and wraps his arms around me. “You have low standards, doll.”

  “Not really. You were my first and I’m a senior, so I’d say I have high standards. You have a low opinion of yourself.”

  “Is this where you tell me to climb down off the cross?”

  “Do I need to?”

  He exhales heavily. “No.”

  We stand there for a long time next to the Palmers’ shed. Finally, I let him go. “I need to go in,” I say reluctantly.

  “Yes.” He makes no move to leave.

  I walk backward, afraid that he’ll retreat into his guilt-ridden shell if I take my eyes off of him.

  “What’s your small thing for today?” I ask as I cross the neighbors’ lawn to my own.

  “You.”

  26

  On a Friday morning, I find a wildflower in my locker. An ear-to-ear grin spreads across my face, but I keep my back turned so nobody walking down the hall can see how giddy I am.

  “Who’s that from?” Scarlett demands, peeking over my shoulder.

  I roll the single stem between my fingers. “I picked it at the bus stop,” I lie, because whatever is going on between Chase and me has to remain a secret for it to survive.

  Scar makes a sympathetic face. “That sucks you still haven’t gotten your car back. You seem okay about it, though. Like you’re smiling more these days.”

  I tap the bloom against my cheek. “I’m trying to focus on the good instead of the bad.”

  This one small thing concept of Chase’s isn’t bad. It’s been two weeks since the fire alarm incident. My car hasn’t been returned, but my door has. I’m not sure why, but it was put back up the day after I broke down in the yard with Chase. The alarms are still on the doors and windows, but I’m hopeful that as long as I toe the line, those will come off soon.

  As for being grounded, it doesn’t matter much, since Chase sneaks into my backyard almost every night. I have no desire to go out. Scarlett’s always busy with Jeff—they’re officially together now—and Chase is the only person I want to see anyway. He’s the one I want to snuggle up with on a blanket in the dark and talk to.

  Sadly, talking is the extent of it. I’m dying for more, but Chase is stubborn. He still insists we’re just “friends.”

  Because friends leave flowers in each other’s lockers.

  Ha.

  “Cute top,” I say, redirecting the conversation. Scarlett’s wearing a sheer rose-colored shirt over a camisole. Two rhinestones dot the tips of an overlarge collar. She’s paired it with a slim gray skirt and gray flats.

  Scar beams. “It’s Chanel,” she squeals.

  “Shut up. For real?”

  “Yes.” She lifts the corner of the shirt so I can see the tiny gold square with the interlocking Cs. “I bought it off an online consignment shop. I was so worried it was going to sell to someone else before I had enough money saved up and then I was worried it wouldn’t fit. I got it on Sat—”

  “Where have you been?” Jeff interrupts.

  Startled, Scar drops her shirt and spins around to face her angry boyfriend. “Um, talking to Beth.”

  “I told you to wait at the front door for me.” His hand falls on her shirt at the nape of her neck. The delicate fabric wrinkles around the edges of his palm.

  “I—I—I just came to say hi to Beth,” she stammers.

  I glance from his hand to her face, pale and unhappy. The dynamic here is weird. Scar’s acting guilty—like talking to me is somehow inappropriate.

  “Don’t,” he replies flatly. “If I tell you to be somewhere, be there. I waited out there for ten minutes, looking like a fool. If you don’t want to be with me, then be up-front about it instead of leaving me hanging. That’s rude.”

  “Come on, Jeff. We were just talking.” I eye his hand. It doesn’t look right on her neck, and it’s not just because the green-and-black plaid of his shirt clashes with the rose of hers. It’s that his hand looks punishing instead of playful.

  “You guys can talk on your own time. Before school is mine.”

  Scarlett’s face is now emotionless while Jeff’s is flushed with something I don’t fully understand.

  “Jeff, let her go,” I order with a scowl. “You’re leaving a red mark on her skin, for Pete’s sake.”

  He ignores me. “Should I let you go, Scar? Is that what you want? To break up with me?”

  “I didn’t say break up with her. I said let her go.” I gesture toward his hand clamped around her neck.

  “Scarlett?” he prompts.

  We both look at her. She’s staring at the tips of her gray flats.

  “No. I don’t want to break up with you, and I don’t want you to let me go,” she replies dully.

  “There you go, Lizzie. Scar likes my hand right where it is.”

  He squeezes her nape, and I swear I see her wince. Or maybe I imagine it. Maybe because I’d wince if Jeff was touching me like that.

  “Ready to go to Calc?” I ask my friend.

  Jeff answers for her. “She’ll be there soon. You go on ahead.” He directs a smile at me that isn’t friendly at all. It makes me take a step back.

  “Scar?” I say uncertainly.

  “I’m fine.”

  She doesn’t sound fine. She sounds down—a muted version of herself. I hesitate, not entirely sure what to do. Students start filing out of the hall. Calc is starting in less than five minutes. Finally, I tuck the wildflower in my notebook and say, “I’ll see you in class.”

  I walk six feet and then bend down to tie my nonexistent shoelace.

  Behind me, I hear Jeff ask, “What are you wearing?”

  “It’s Chanel,” Scarlett responds. “I got it—”

  “This is so slutty, babe. I thought we talked about your wardrobe choices. Are you so insecure that you need to give all the guys boners? Is that when you’ll start feeling good about yourself? At this point, why bother even wearing a shirt? All the ones you own are fucking see-through anyway.”

  I wait for her to blow up at him. To tell him to take his disgusting opinions and shove them where the sun doesn’t shine.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll change,” she says instead.

  My jaw drops.

  “When?” he demands.

  “After class.”

  “You better.” There’s an or else implied.

  I don’t like the tone he’s using with her. She’s his girlfriend, not his puppet. Straightening my shoulders, I stand up and confront him. “Leave Scar alone.”

  But it’s not Jeff who responds. It’s Scarlett, and in a way I didn’t expect.

  “Why are you sticking your nose in our business?” she bites out. “I know your home life sucks right now, but maybe stop hanging out with drug dealers and murderers. I don’t do that. Jeff doesn’t do that. But I guess that’s why we have doors on our rooms and you don’t.”

  I stare in dismay at how she just threw out my secret for everyone to hear. A few of our classmates start whispering. A couple laugh.

  I tighten my jaw. “Whatever, Scar.”

  I can’t believe she just blabbed something I told her in confidence. I was sticking up for her! I stomp to
class, steam blowing out my ears. I slam my books on my desk and scrape the chair against the tile. Hard.

  Chase, already in his seat, arches an eyebrow. I want to vent to him, but I can’t. We’re not allowed to have a friendship. I’m supposed to hate the sight of him.

  That makes me even angrier. I’m going to tell Scarlett off when she shows up to class. Best friends do not say shit like that in front of other people. Best friends do not... My thoughts dry up in my throat as Scar walks in wearing an oversize green polo. Her cute sheer top is nowhere to be seen.

  Jeff’s behind her. His plaid shirt is no longer hanging open. He made her put his polo on. What a jackass.

  Another burst of alarm hits me when Scar walks right by the empty desk next to mine and stops in front of Chris Levin’s desk.

  “Scar’s going to sit here,” Jeff announces.

  “What?” Chris’s perfectly groomed eyebrows crowd together in confusion. “This is my desk.”

  “Did Mrs. Russell assign seats when the semester started?”

  Chris continues to look confused. “No.”

  “Then move.” Jeff says it with a smile—the same unfriendly one he used on me.

  I sigh. “Scarlett, just sit down.”

  “Butt out, Beth.” Jeff points to Chris. “Move.”

  “Please,” Scar adds, putting her hands together in prayer. “Just for today.”

  “I get it, I wouldn’t want to sit near Manson, either,” Troy says snidely. “Sight of him’s been making me ill for weeks.”

  “Is that why you sucked so bad last Friday?” I interject. Troy and his defense allowed five touchdowns in their last game.

  “Screw you, Jones.”

  “Not if you paid me a million dollars.”

  “Right, because you’re only going to screw guys who kill your sister.”

  I almost fall out of my chair. Inside me, ice-cold rage battles with red-hot embarrassment.

  Someone gasps.

  Chairs scrape and I find myself shooting to my feet to stand next to Chase.

  “That’s enough.” His tone is low, rough and dangerous.

  Troy leans away and folds his arms defensively across his chest. “Or what?”