100 Days

by Nicole McInnes

  Strangely, the day ended up sort of okay after that. It was only a little weird having Mom wandering around the house as if being around other humans was a foreign experience for her. Which it kind of is.

  For the rest of the afternoon the two of us hung out, just making cookies and goofing off. At one point, when Mom was in her room, I threatened to lick the wooden spoon before we’d finished using it to drop dough onto the baking sheet. Moira tried to take the spoon away from me, and I resisted. In response, she wrapped an arm around my waist to brace herself as she wrestled it from my grip and then pointed it at me like she’d had quite enough of my shenanigans. She couldn’t hide her smile, though, and I didn’t allow my brain to linger for too long on the warm softness of her body when she’d pressed it against me. She was even stronger than I’d suspected. Both of us were out of breath afterward.

  Later, while the cookies cooled on sheets of newspaper, Moira and I sat facing each other at the old wooden table. A thick slice of sunlight slanted down through the air between us, and all I could think looking at her through that light was, This will do. This will do just fine.

  58

  AGNES

  DAY 43: MAY 13

  I must have boogied a little too hard the night of the chastity ball, because now, three days later, I still don’t feel good. More specifically, I feel like I was “drug through a knothole backward,” which is something I once heard Boone say. Mom would kill Dad if she knew about our late-night dance party in that parking lot Tuesday night. It was worth it, though, even if my head does feel like it’s stuffed with cotton and sand.

  59

  BOONE

  DAY 42: MAY 14

  Agnes is staying at her dad’s house for the weekend, so Moira and I decide to hang out at my favorite downtown dive, a little hole-in-the-wall diner where they serve fifty-cent coffee with free refills. “I’ve heard that new movie about undead circus clowns is supposed to be pretty cool,” I say once we’ve settled into our booth. The seats are covered with cracked vinyl, and the Formica tabletop is etched with decades’ worth of graffiti. We’re the only customers at the moment. As usual, I’m struggling to find a topic of conversation that won’t make me sound like a complete tool. I’ve always sucked at small talk, but I remind myself that it’s okay. We’re just hanging out. It’s not like I’m trying to impress her or anything.

  Moira perks right up when I mention the movie. “Oh my God, I want to see it so bad.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  Moira hesitates for just a second. Then she says, “Okay.” Gives me a little smile, even.

  I can’t believe I’m being so bold. For one thing, it’s not like I have wads of spare cash lying around. TJ has shown no sign of increasing my hours beyond the every-other-weekend crap I’m doing now. Antler sales have been slow, and wood sales won’t pick up for another six months, at least. And what if Moira thinks I’m asking her out on a date? What if I am asking her out on a date? What the hell, I think. She’s going to be gone soon anyway. For an entire week. Maybe even longer, if she decides she loves California, and why wouldn’t she? What the hell is there to keep her here?

  Well, okay, there’s Agnes.

  We hang out at the diner for a while, getting overly caffeinated, and then I drive home to finish some horse chores and get dinner ready for Mom: reheated food bank lasagna. I shave and then take a quick, mostly cold shower, since I don’t want to waste water by waiting for it to warm up. Then I stand in the middle of my room in my boxers and socks trying to fend off a panic attack about what I’m going to wear. Get a freaking grip, I tell myself. You’re going to a movie, not getting married. I finally choose a casual button-down shirt and the cleanest jeans I have. They’re not pristine or anything, but at least they don’t reek of horse manure or transmission fluid. I knock on Mom’s door and tell her I’ll be home later. There’s no response. I tell her to call me if there’s an emergency. Saying it makes me feel a little better about leaving her alone after dark.

  I pick Moira up at her house. I sit in the truck for a minute, trying to decide if I should go to the door or just wait outside. There’s a new hole in the Chevy’s exhaust pipe, so I’m sure she heard me pull up. Going to the door would be more respectful, obviously, but it also seems more date-like somehow. If Moira was one of my guy friends (not that I have any), I’d just tap the horn and wait behind the wheel. That’s what guys do, right? Then I think about her parents and how cool they were about paying me to do stuff around their property. I could use going to the door as an excuse to say hi to them. I’m halfway up the walk when Moira comes out of the house. She’s dressed fancier than usual, and she’s gone a little lighter on the war paint. Her hair is pulled back from her face with shiny clips. “Let’s go,” she says.

  “I was going to say hi to your parents.”

  “They’re busy.” She walks past me and toward the truck quickly, with her head down. Reluctantly, I follow.

  * * *

  Once we get to the movie theater, I still have all these unanswered questions in my head. Moira insists we go Dutch, so is it a date, or isn’t it? Am I dressed okay, or do I look like a total hick? God, I wish I could just pull it together and relax already, just live in the now. But being out at night with Moira like this, just the two of us, it’s like my brain stem activity has been compromised. As if to prove it, I’m distracted by something sparkly in the lobby. My eyes simply latch on and follow the shimmer of their own accord. I’m not even aware of what it is or even that I’m staring, but it turns out the sparkly thing is a girl. She’s about our age, and she’s wearing a sequin top that looks like it’s a few sizes too small.

  “Um, hello?” Moira is glaring at me.

  I snap to consciousness. “Hi. Uh, what?”

  “I mean, I know this isn’t, like, a date or anything, but still. It’s so disrespectful.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest.

  “What?”

  Moira looks in the direction of Sparkle Girl, who has joined a group of her friends, also sparkly. They’re wearing short shorts, low-cut tops, makeup, and shiny jewelry.

  “I mean, I’m right here,” Moira says. She looks away when I turn to her.

  Was she … is she … jealous? Heat surges through my chest. I want to tell her that I’ve never been good at multitasking, at doing things like thinking and keeping a reasonably intelligent expression on my face at the same time. But I also don’t want to make the situation worse. Did she say this isn’t a date? “I wasn’t—” I start to say.

  “Yes, you were. Just admit it already. God.”

  I don’t know what else to do, so I just stand there looking ashamed. I make a show of ignoring Sparkle Girl, which isn’t at all difficult. I may have been looking at her, but it’s not like I was seeing her. I glance back over to where she’s standing with her too-skinny, wannabe-fashion-model friends. Now I do see her. She’s pretty, sure, but she’s not amazing or anything.

  She’s not Moira.

  * * *

  The movie is stupid as hell, but it’s also terrifying. I mean, clowns start off creepy anyway. Once they get killed by zombies and then turn into zombies themselves, the situation becomes truly horrific. During a few of the more graphic scenes, Moira practically jumps out of her seat and clutches my arm. Every time she does it, I have to close my eyes and focus on my breathing.

  Later, the two of us sit in the truck as it idles in front of her house. I know she has to pack, but I’m also not ready to part ways yet.

  “So,” I say.

  “So.” She looks at me sideways with one eyebrow raised.

  “You’re leaving for California tomorrow.”

  “Yup.”

  “Are you excited?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  Moira looks down. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.” She doesn’t say anything more after that, but she does turn her face toward me and smile again.


  I wonder, briefly, if I should kiss her. Just lean forward and do it. Moira’s looking at me strangely now. I wonder if she wonders if I’m going to kiss her. Within seconds, the moment passes. Moira opens the door and gets out.

  “See you when I get back,” she says.

  And then, just like that, she’s gone.

  60

  MOIRA

  DAY 41: MAY 15

  Miraculously, I manage to fit into my assigned seat, but it’s not exactly roomy. I’m wedged in next to the tiny lozenge of a window, and a woman with a baby is in the center seat next to me. The baby is fussing, whining, pulling at the woman’s hair. I don’t blame the kid. We’ve been sitting on the runway for almost an hour. According to the captain’s overly soothing voice coming through the speakers, this sort of thing happens. None of the other passengers seem too worried about it, but I have to actively remind myself to breathe so I don’t pass out.

  The plane lurches into motion, a slow turn into position. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the captain says, “we’ve been cleared for takeoff.” A few people clap. Moments later, the roar of jet engines fills my ears. I’m pressed back into my seat like I’m on the Gravitron ride at the county fair. It’s so loud that even the baby next to me is spooked into silence. I dare to peek out the window, where clumps of grass and weeds next to the runway are blurring past. The plane is tilting back now, making me feel like I’m on a lounge chair at the beach. My stomach feels like it might float right out of my body.

  And then, just like that, I’m flying.

  61

  AGNES

  DAY 40: MAY 16

  I expected to miss Moira so badly over finals break that I wouldn’t be able to eat or sleep or do anything else. And I do miss her.

  Just not so much that I can’t function or anything.

  When Moira first announced that she’d be gone for the entire week, I felt my heart sink. It literally felt like my heart was hanging lower in my chest. Which was silly, since she’s only going to be gone for a week. Then I got a cold and we didn’t get to see each other before she left, either. We did talk briefly on the phone the day before, but that was it.

  “I want to see you before you go, Em, but I still feel like death on a cracker.”

  “It’s okay,” Moira said, her voice softer than it was the last time I spoke to her. I thought she’d be more upset, considering the fact that we hadn’t seen each other in several days.

  “When’s your flight?”

  “I need to double-check. All I know is I have to get up at the crack of butt.”

  This made me giggle. “I’m jealous, you know.”

  “I know,” Moira told me. “I wish you could come, too.”

  I wondered if this was really true. I’ve heard the excitement in her voice lately any time the trip has come up in conversation. It makes sense, that excitement. Moira’s going to be traveling and exploring and hanging out in a new city, like an actual adult. I’m proud of her.

  Still, it’s only Monday, and I’m already starting to get a little restless and bored. Mom is subbing today at a nearby school that doesn’t have finals break. I’ve done some studying, but it’s a relief when Boone shows up. A few minutes after hearing the rumble of his truck outside my bedroom window, I open the front door to find him standing there with his hands in his pockets.

  “Wanna chill?” he asks, looking down at me.

  “Definitely,” I tell him. “I’m over my cold and bored out of my mind. Come on in.”

  Mom would have no problem with us hanging out in my room together with the door closed, since it’s totally obvious nothing would ever happen. Even if something ever did happen with a boy (which it wouldn’t, of course—a person has to take just one look at me to know this), it’s not like I’d get pregnant or anything. Not with my octogenarian ovaries.

  Boone stands with his back to me, looking at the picture wall where I’ve tacked up hundreds of photos over the years. There I am with the mayor of the town. There I am as the grand marshal of the Fourth of July parade. There I am with the governor of the state and a team of doctors from Massachusetts. The doctors were working on an experimental cure and convinced my parents to sign me up for the clinical trial. “You know, Agnes,” Boone says, “someone should write a book about you.”

  “They tried. It didn’t work.”

  He turns around to face me. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. They weren’t telling the story right, and I guess I didn’t want to be one of those kids where it’s like, ‘Oh, she has such a hard life, but she’s so inspiring.’ You know? So, I told the writers I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want people to see me as the innocent victim of some dreadful, rare disease, which was basically the whole idea behind the book. But it’s like people can’t help it. They can’t stop seeing me that way. The latest thing is a bunch of businesses in town got together to sponsor a trip to Disneyland for me and my mom.”

  “That’s pretty cool,” Boone says.

  “It’s good PR, is what it is. At first, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to go.”

  “Wow. Seriously?”

  “Yeah, but I said yes anyway. Look, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I am grateful. It’ll be good for me and Mom to get away for a little while. I just … I don’t want people feeling sorry for me. But I can’t stop them from feeling sorry for me. It sucks.” I can’t remember the last time I’ve talked so much about myself and my condition. Usually, talking about it is the last thing I want to do. Right now, though, I feel … fierce about it for some reason.

  Boone’s smiling at me. “I don’t feel sorry for you,” he says.

  “Thanks.” I start to smile, too, but then immediately close my mouth over my ugly teeth.

  62

  BOONE

  DAY 39: MAY 17

  I wake up at three a.m. and immediately start thinking about the meal I ate last night at Agnes’s house. It was quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life.

  “You’re staying for dinner, aren’t you, Boone?” This was what Deb asked as I headed toward the front door. My stomach rumbled at the mention of food. I tried not to look too eager as I nodded.

  Honestly, I hadn’t planned on hanging out for dinner. I half figured I’d already overstayed my welcome. Plus, there were evening chores still waiting for me at home. The longer I stayed in Agnes and Deb’s clean, comfortable house ignoring that fact, the more unpleasant the chores were likely to be when I finally got to them. So far that day, I’d eaten only a couple of Slim Jims, which were on sale at the gas station, two for one. “Uh, I guess I could stay,” I told Agnes’s mom. “If it’s not too much trouble.” I called Mom to let her know I’d be home a little later than expected, but there was no answer. She was probably asleep already.

  The scent of dinner went to my head the second I walked into the kitchen. Deb said something about the recipe being from Morocco. All I knew was that it smelled like cloves of garlic and chunks of juicy meat being juggled by baby angel unicorns. And the taste of the chicken when the three of us finally sat down to eat—oh God, the taste. I tried to pace myself. Reminded myself to chew each bite thoroughly before swallowing and to come up for air occasionally. I also tried to remember to sit up straight and keep my elbows off the table—those manners Mom reminded me about when Moira came over to bake cookies.

  All told, I had four helpings of the Moroccan chicken and the couscous side dish. I was ashamed to eat so much, but not ashamed enough to stop shoveling forkfuls of heaven into my mouth. Deb seemed happy to see me enjoying the food. It was probably a rare sight for her, since Agnes seems to survive on portions that would leave a pygmy mouse begging for more.

  After dinner, Agnes asked her mom if we could watch TV in the living room. She pulled me out of the kitchen by my sleeve and pointed to the big couch. “You can put your feet up,” she said. “We don’t care.”

  I knew better than to put my feet up on someone else’s couch, but I did recline the upper half
of my body against a bunch of pillows piled at one end. It was insanely comfortable. About five seconds before falling into a hard sleep, it occurred to me that I was like Goldilocks or something. Entering a strange house, eating the porridge, trying out the furniture …

  I woke more than an hour later with Agnes standing over me grinning and holding a box of tissues. “It’s for the drool,” she said.

  Deb came into the living room from the kitchen. “Your mom’s probably wondering where you are,” she added as I stood up fast and tried to clear my head.

  “Whoa,” I mumbled. “Sorry. I must have fallen asleep.”

  “Ya think?” Agnes giggled.

  Deb just smiled. “Nothing to be sorry about. Here.” She handed me a brown paper shopping bag with the top rolled down to seal it closed. “I packed a container of the chicken for you to take home. Maybe your mom will like it, too.”

  I took the bag from her. It was warm. “Thank you,” I said, but I couldn’t look at her for too long. I was afraid I’d do something psycho, like start crying out of gratitude.

  Throwing off the blankets and getting up from bed, I head to the kitchen in the dark, open the fridge as quietly as I can, and pull out the container of leftover Moroccan chicken. Mom woke up after I got back from Agnes’s house last night, and she had some of it, too.

  “This is delicious,” she said.

  “It is,” I agreed. “It’s almost as good as that one chicken recipe you used to make. What was it again?” I knew the answer, but for some reason I wanted her to say it. I wanted us to have an actual conversation.

  “Chicken cacciatore,” Mom said, studying her plate.

  “That’s right. It was really good.”

  “Not as good as this.” She smiled at me for about half a second. I’d take it, though. I’d almost forgotten what her smile looked like.