by Emily France
He saw her.
She was barefoot, standing on the bricks around the fire. Half her hair was pulled into a messy knot, and the rest tumbled down her shoulders, her back. The firelight blinked on her arms, the thin, crisscrossing straps of her black tank top. A skirt was wrapped around her waist and tied at her side.
She was dancing.
She held what looked like some sort of hula hoop wrapped in multicolored tape. She arched her back and let the hoop roll over her chest and then down one arm. She caught it and spun it over her head, stepping through. Her long legs peeked out of her skirt as they moved, as her hips moved, as her whole body slid through the air to the music.
He told himself he couldn’t look away because he’d never seen someone dance like that in Chicago. People didn’t swirl barefoot next to fires in the woods with hula hoops. People didn’t move like she was moving, or wear what she was wearing. He told himself he was watching her because he was bored, because there was nothing else to see out here in these woods, nothing else to do but get stoned or drunk.
But really, he didn’t know why.
All he knew was that he couldn’t look away.
He had the distinct feeling that he was peering through a window at Essa, at an entire foreign world that was so much better than his own. That it would be impossible to crawl through it. Impossible to be where she was, on the inside, with her. He half-hated himself for it, but all he wanted right then, was for her to look up. To see him.
She did.
The hula hoop stopped moving. So did her feet. She locked eyes with him, recognized who he was.
A look of total and complete disgust swept over her face.
11
ESSA
What on earth is he doing here?
Essa wanted to drop the hula hoop and set off in the crowd to find Micah. He had to be at the bottom of this. As far as she knew, Oliver was new in town. He didn’t have any Boulder friends. Had he come in the shop again and met Micah somehow? She told Micah not to even tell Jan he wanted to work there. She was so confused.
She wanted to pretend like she hadn’t seen him, that she hadn’t recognized him. But she’d looked straight at him. It was too late to pretend otherwise. Plus, she hated blanking people. Even arrogant asses from Chicago. She looked in his direction again and gave him an obligatory wave. He smiled and waved back.
Then she bolted.
She dropped the hoop and pushed her way through the various groups. It got harder and harder to see the farther she went from the fire. But finally, she spotted Micah. He was sitting with the hardcore stoners, a.k.a. The Thirty-Minute Parkers. During the school year, just before study hall, they always walked up to the thirty-minute parking lot behind Boulder High to get stoned. Micah was sitting on a broken lawn chair listening to a girl named Skye tell him why it was “pure justice” that Bob Dylan won the Nobel Prize for Literature.
“Micah.” Essa knew she was failing to keep the annoyance out of her voice. But Micah didn’t even look up.
“So what is the difference between poetry and song lyrics?” Skye asked. She was sitting cross-legged at Micah’s feet, playing with her braided pigtails. She was wearing a T-shirt that said Shenanigan Enthusiast.
“Yeah,” Micah said slowly. “And why have I never even asked this question?”
“My granddad always plays Dylan,” Skye continued. “And he always goes off about how awesome it is. And I was always, like, ‘Whatever, it’s ancient.’ But I really listened to it the other day. And seriously. It’s poetry. I could feel it in my arms.”
“Micah,” Essa said again, more urgently this time. Finally he looked up. Even in the dark, she could see that his eyes were beyond glassy. They were glass-marbles-covered-with-a-layer-of-melted-sugar-covered-with-a-layer-of-varnish glassy. It was nuts. And so unlike him. Well, used to be.
Why is he getting so messed up lately?
“Ess . . . ence,” Micah said, dragging out her two-syllable name to one with roughly five. “I can’t believe it.”
“You can’t believe what?”
“That you’re here. And I’m here. And we’re all here. You know? I mean, it’s amazing if you think about it.”
“Yes. Amazing.” Essa rolled her eyes. “Can you come here? I need to talk to you.”
With some effort, Micah got out of his broken lawn chair. Skye looked very upset to see him go. “Come back with more of those weird pineapples?” she asked.
“But of course, madam,” Micah said. He bowed to Skye in a show of mock medieval chivalry. Skye burst into a fit of laughter. Micah turned to Essa. “How may I be of service?” He put an arm around Essa’s bare shoulders.
“Weird pineapples?” Essa asked. “What does she mean?”
“Nothing. She’s out of it . . .”
“Wait.” Something was tickling at the edge of Essa’s memory. “My mom almost got in trouble at work the other day for messing up a batch of weed pineapple gummies. You didn’t . . .”
“Your mom was throwing them away! I couldn’t let that happen.”
“Ugh,” Essa said. She stared up at the night sky. “I’m going to yell at you about this later. But for now, did you see that guy Oliver? He’s here.”
“Oliver . . . Oliver . . .”
“The new guy. From Chicago. The one I told you about. He came by the store and wanted to work there. And he’s a total arrogant ass. I don’t get how he even knew about this party.”
“Oh! Oliver. Right.” Micah sounded way more excited than he should. “I brought him.”
“What? Why?” Essa wiggled out from under Micah’s heavy arm and led him toward the fire. “You didn’t tell Jan he came by for a job, did you?”
“No, I totally didn’t. But he showed up anyway. First day was today.” Micah yawned and rubbed his face. “I’m tired all of a sudden. You tired?”
“No. It’s nine o’clock.” Essa saw an empty log by the campfire and sat down. She scanned the crowd to see if Oliver was still close by. She didn’t see him. “So we’re stuck with him at the shop for the summer?”
“Go easy.” Micah joined her on the log and gently bumped his shoulder against hers. “There’s something wrong.”
“Yeah, that’s obvious. He was standing over there earlier staring at me like a total weirdo.”
“No. Not with him. There’s something wrong with his sister.”
Essa felt a catch in her chest. A small hitch. “What’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t know exactly,” Micah said. “But she’s sick or something. I think it might be bad. That’s why I invited him. Sounds like his life kind of sucks.”
Essa looked at the dancing flames and thought about her own sister. If something ever happened to Puck or she got really sick . . . Essa couldn’t even bear thinking about it. “So you have no idea what the deal is?”
Micah nudged her in the side, hard. “Speak of the devil . . .”
Oliver was standing a few feet from them, still sporting an awkward smile. “Hey,” he said.
Essa didn’t respond. Micah nudged her even harder in the rib cage. “Hey,” she blurted out.
“You having a good time, bro?” Micah asked. “There’s some killer weed floating around. Watch it, though. Sneaks up on you fast. It’s Willie Nelson’s new brand. Willie’s Reserve. A-mazing.”
“I don’t really smoke.”
Essa felt that tiny hitching sensation again. She wanted to say something to save Oliver from any more of Micah’s Weed Trivia. “You want to sit down?” she asked. There was plenty of room on the log for all three of them, but Micah apparently took this as his cue to leave. Which made the whole encounter feel way more awkward than necessary. She reminded herself to add this to the list of things she needed to yell at Micah about.
“Catch you later,” Micah said. “I’ll be in Thirty-Minute Parking.”
He smiled and knocked Oliver on the arm. Oliver looked confused.
“Ignore him,” Essa said as Micah sauntered off into the darkness.
Oliver sat down on the log, his long legs bumping into her as he tried to find a comfortable position.
“So . . .” Essa searched for something to ask him about. “Boulder. You’re here for the whole summer?”
“Yeah.” Oliver looked at the leaping flames in front of them. Essa could feel a little sadness wash over him, like a cool breeze had just blown through, refusing to be warmed by the fire. “My mom sent me out. To live with my aunt. To get away from some stuff in Chicago.”
“Oh.”
Oliver shifted on the log. “And sorry I was a jerk about Boulder when I met you. I just—”
“It’s cool,” Essa interrupted. The slit of her skirt was on Oliver’s side. She crossed her legs, and it fell open, exposing her left thigh in the warm firelight. It felt good on her skin. She wasn’t sure whether it was the reds and golds from the flames or if Oliver was blushing.
“So what do you guys do around here? I mean, other than have bonfires.” Oliver pulled at a stray thread on the knee of his jeans. “And I don’t mean that in a shitty way. Like there’s nothing to do or whatever. I mean . . . just, what do you do around here?”
Essa pondered his question for a minute. She wasn’t sure she’d ever really thought about it. “My favorite thing would be camping. But it’s not really camping. We try to find our way . . .” She paused. “You camp?”
Oliver was seized by the urge to lie. To say that he spent his every weekend back in Chicago in a tent camping at . . . where? He didn’t even know if anyone camped in Chicago. He didn’t know where they would go or what they would even do once they got there.
“Not so much.” He gently dug his heel into the soft dirt beneath them. “And by not so much, I mean never. Like, not once.”
“Right,” Essa said. She searched for a way to explain it. “We do wilderness stuff. We try to find our way off-trail with just a compass and a map. It’s called orienteering.”
Oliver thought that sounded terrifying. Trying to find your way through the woods.
“And I guess when we’re in town, we hang out on the Hill and listen to bands on Pearl Street. We tube down Boulder Creek. Stuff like that, I guess.”
“The Hill?”
“It’s the hill by CU. The college campus. Mostly full of college kids. There’s a great theater where bands play. And lots of restaurants. Cheba Hut.”
“The what-hut?”
Essa smiled. “You were serious when you said you don’t smoke, weren’t you?”
Oliver nodded.
“Cheba’s a nickname for weed. They don’t actually sell it there or anything. They just serve sandwiches and stuff. But they’re all in a stoner theme. Like, there’s a toasted sub called Pineapple Kush. Or Shatter Platter.” Oliver looked confused again. She could tell he didn’t know what kush or shatter were, either. “The pineapple one is just a ham sandwich.”
Oliver picked up a pine needle and rolled it between his fingers. “You’re into it, then?”
“What, Cheba Hut? It’s okay, I guess. I mean, I’ve had better sandwiches in my life from—”
“No, smoking. You’re into it?”
Essa couldn’t help but smile. She thought about the stash her mom kept in their kitchen at home. The brownies, the buds, the shatter. How excited her mom was when she got to bring home a sample of newly released weed brands: Willie’s Reserve. Snoop’s Leafs. Essa had never tried any of it. Ever. “No. Not into it.”
Oliver seemed surprised. “Is it weird? Being legal and all out here?”
“Not really.” Essa shrugged. “It was easy to get before. It’s easy to get now.”
“Can I ask why?”
“Why I’m not into it?”
Oliver nodded.
“It’s just—” Essa paused. She’d never been asked directly like that before. Her mom made it look like the best thing in the world. Fun. An instant ticket to not caring. Not caring if everything sucked. Not caring if something went wrong. Not caring if the whole world burned down around you. “I’m into Zen. And there’s this idea about not getting intoxicated with anything. That you’re not mindful. That it causes harm. To you, to society, to life . . .” She drifted off, worried she was boring him. “Plus, it’s my sister.”
“Puck?”
“She needs me. To be with it, you know? Our mom is . . .” Essa paused. “She just needs me, that’s all.”
Oliver looked at her. She saw something in his eyes she couldn’t quite place. “Same,” he said. “I don’t get messed up. Because of my sister.”
She didn’t want to ask him to explain. She tucked her leg back in her skirt and sat on her hands. Waiting.
“It’s for her,” he said. “It’s complicated, but . . . I don’t get messed up. For her. It wouldn’t be right.”
Essa pulled in a deep breath. “Same.”
They both looked away and stared at the fire again. Essa felt this tiny tug, a soft shift in her shoulders. A question tumbled out of her mouth before she even had time to think about it. “You want to come out with a bunch of us tomorrow night? We’re going hang out on the Hill. Get some food.”
The softness in her shoulders disappeared.
Did I just ask him out?
“Yes,” Oliver said too quickly. Then he paused. Casually tossed another pine needle into the fire. “I mean, yeah. Sure. Cool.”
“It’s just a group of us going. It’s not like . . .” Essa stalled.
A date. Because I don’t date. Ever.
But she couldn’t say it. Oliver looked confused.
“Just . . .” Essa continued. “Meet us at seven tomorrow night. Cheba Hut.”
12
ESSA
Essa got home around midnight. Not that she had a curfew. She stood at the front door, fumbling for her keys in her bag. She couldn’t stop thinking about what Oliver had said. She couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that she’d asked him to meet her tomorrow night. She couldn’t stop thinking about sitting next to him by the fire.
She let her house key sit in the lock before turning it. She closed her eyes, took a few slow breaths, and tried to follow them, to let the thoughts of Oliver drift by.
Thoughts are clouds drifting by a mountain.
Watch them. Tend to them.
But know
You’re the mountain.
She felt solid. Safe. She took one more deep breath and opened her eyes. Puck’s window was on the corner of the house. The light was still on.
Why is she still up?
Essa unlocked the door and pushed it open. The house was mostly dark. A dim light filtered into the hallway from the kitchen.
She heard a thump. A shuffling.
“Hello?” she called. She went into the kitchen and saw a clear cellophane bag of gummy watermelon wedges open on the table. She picked it up and read the label.
Edi-Sweets. 500 mg THC. 25 Individually infused 10-mg pieces. Keep from children. No resale.
She opened the bag and sniffed. Mostly the soft pink wedges smelled like melon. But there was a faint swampy odor she knew all too well. Like mown grass that had been left in a trash bag for a week.
Weed.
And only eighteen pieces left. She closed the bag and started down the hallway toward Puck’s room. But she heard the thump again. It was definitely coming from the living room. She turned and headed back that way. As she rounded the corner, movement caught her eye.
Her mom. Ronnie. All tangled up on the couch. In a massive makeout session.
Oh my god.
She put a hand over her eyes. “Mom! What the hell are you doing?”
They pulled apart as Essa peered through her split fingers. Ronnie wasn’t wearing a sh
irt, and his gross man-chest hair was in full view. The top of her mom’s dress was pulled down around her waist. At least she still had her tie-dyed bra on.
“Hey, sweetie.” Her mom pulled her dress up, one arm at a time, but she was moving way too slowly. Ronnie ran a hand through his dirty blond hair. At least he had enough decency to look embarrassed. Essa’s mom started to giggle.
“Don’t laugh,” Essa said. “Puck is home. Can you at least go to your room?”
“She’s asleep, honey. It’s so late. She’s—”
“No, she’s not. Her light is on.” Essa threw her hands up in the air, disgusted. “Do you even know your own daughter? She’s probably in there studying differential-fucking-calculus while you’re out here being an idiot.”
“Don’t you talk to me like that, Essence.” Her mom’s bloodshot eyes flashed with anger.
Guilt snaked its way up Essa’s legs and then her arms. Not about yelling at her mom. About leaving Puck here while Essa was at that stupid bonfire. She’d left Puck, thinking it would be okay, thinking she was at home and safe. But really, she left her with a bare-chested stoner and her flaky mom. Which was like leaving her with no one at all.
She stared at her mom’s baked eyes. “Why can’t you just be here when you’re here?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Essa didn’t stick around to explain. She made a beeline for Puck’s room and knocked on the door. “Pucky? You up?”
Silence.
Essa knocked again. “Puck? You in there?”
She slowly pushed the door open. Puck was sitting in the middle of the floor surrounded by a crumpled, broken kite. She looked up at Essa, her blonde hair tangled around her shoulders, her blue eyes flat, almost lifeless. Something pink caught Essa’s eye. A small pile of candy on Puck’s bedside table. Three pieces of gummy watermelon slices.