How many dreams can one person lose?
Before we even get to the non-privacy of the overcrowded girls’ room, I bury my head in Kylee’s shoulder and start to cry.
26
I’ve been in love with part-imaginary, part-real Cameron for so long it’s hard for me to know which part is which anymore.
I wonder if this happens more to writers than to other people, that we fall in love with characters we make up in our heads. It wouldn’t even be so terrible to fall in love with a purely imaginary person. It’s hardest if you fall in love with someone who is partly imaginary and partly real, and the real part ends up breaking your heart.
He really is a good writer. Those rock formations he made in the creek really were amazing. He really did travel all over the world. He really did write a song Hunter’s band played; it just wasn’t the song I thought it was. The weirdest discovery of this weird evening is that the beautiful song I loved so much was written by my own awful brother.
In a lot of ways, Real Cameron isn’t all that different from Imaginary Cameron. The main difference is that Imaginary Cameron was in love with me and Real Cameron isn’t. And I was in love with Imaginary Cameron, and I’m not in love with Real Cameron. But that’s pretty much a total deal breaker for our romance.
“Is it okay if we leave now?” I ask Kylee, after I’ve told her everything. “Or do you think Tyler might ask you to dance again?”
“We can go,” Kylee says.
Have I recently said that I love Kylee more than anyone in the world?
Then she adds, “Dancing with Tyler was pretty great. But I’d rather go now, anyway. I want to keep my first memory of dancing with a boy and not let anything ruin it. You know what I mean?”
Boy, do I know.
Kylee calls her parents to pick us up. My parents are out on a date night; they have a subscription to the symphony down in Denver. Mom wanted to cancel to stay home tonight to keep Hunter company—family Scrabble game, anyone?—but Dad knows how much she loves classical music, so he made her go.
“Did you girls have a good time?” Kylee’s mother asks as we buckle our seat belts in the backseat.
“Yes,” Kylee says, just as I say, “No.”
“I have to say,” Kylee’s mom remarks, “that junior high dances are not my life’s favorite memory. Autumn, maybe you have material for a story here?”
Kylee’s mom is as supportive of my career as Kylee is.
“Maybe,” I say.
But maybe not.
Usually when something bad happens to me, all I want to do is get home to write it down, to find a way to make peace with it by putting it into words with my pen.
But not this time. I don’t feel like a writer anymore, and, besides, this is too embarrassing. On my deathbed, when my life flashes before me, I’ll be out there on the dance floor doing weird awkward motions while Cameron is in his mystical trance, the Zen guy in the Zen zone.
I’m glad when Kylee’s mom drops me off at home to an empty house with no worried mom to ask me any questions and nobody to interfere with my plans to cry myself to sleep all by my little, lonely, miserable self.
Which I do.
* * *
Something wakes me up. The digital clock next to my bed reads 11:30. It’s pitch-black outside, so it’s clearly still nighttime.
I hear my father’s voice. He and Mom must have just gotten home from the symphony down in Denver. He’s not shouting, exactly, but his voice is louder than usual, and he definitely sounds upset. Like, really upset.
The dance ended at ten, an hour after Kylee and I bailed. Was Hunter’s ungrounding just meant to be long enough for him to play at the dance? Was he supposed to be home again right afterward? Is Dad yelling at him for staying out too late? Or is he yelling at Mom because Hunter’s not home yet?
I try pulling my pillow over my ears. I’ve had all the hideousness I can take for one night. But curiosity gets the better of me, the fatal flaw of cats and (former) writers. I slip out of bed and creep to the top of the stairs in time to hear Dad race out to the garage, banging the door behind him. The big garage door whirs open. The car’s engine starts.
Back in my room, I tie on my fluffy robe and scuff my feet into my bunny slippers. I’m shivering now from cold and from dread.
I find my mother in the kitchen, her head buried in her folded arms on the kitchen table.
“Mom?”
She looks up as if she doesn’t recognize me.
“Oh, Autumn, honey, go back to bed.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask, claiming the prize for dumbest question asked in the history of the world.
“Hunter’s gone,” she says.
“I know,” I say, puzzled at her telling me something I obviously already know. “He was at the dance.”
“The dance?” she asks, as if what I’ve said makes no sense. Then, as if I haven’t spoken, she adds, “The Subaru’s gone, too.”
It all starts to sink in now.
“But … Hunter couldn’t have taken the car. He doesn’t have a license. He only has a permit, so it’s against the law for him to drive without a grown-up in the car.”
“I know,” Mom says dully. “Believe me, I know.”
* * *
So Hunter wasn’t ungrounded for the night, reprieved from “consequences” by Dad so he could honor his commitment to play at the dance. He’s AWOL and a car thief, too, though I guess the crime of taking your own parents’ car doesn’t count as grand larceny. But driving without a license, when you don’t even have a license, is definitely illegal.
Plus there’s the small matter that Hunter doesn’t really know how to drive.
Dad’s been out looking for him; Mom just called to tell him that Hunter was last seen playing with the band at the dance. So maybe Dad’s driving past David’s house? Timber’s? Moonbeam’s? I don’t know if he called their parents to ask if they’ve seen Hunter. Maybe they’re already asleep for the night and not answering their phones.
If Dad doesn’t see our Subaru parked in front of someone’s house, where would he look next? I guess he’s just so worried about Hunter he has to be out of the house at least doing something.
Mom and I are sitting at the kitchen table drinking herbal tea, not even trying to talk anymore about anything—because what is there to say?—when the phone rings. It’s the landline, not Mom’s cell phone, which she has right beside her mug. I can see the caller ID light up with the words “Broomville Police.”
She snatches up the receiver.
“Yes, this is the Granger residence.” Then: “No,” she says. “Oh, no!”
There has to have been an accident. Why else would the police call our house at one in the morning?
And the last thing I ever said to my brother was that I wished he was dead.
27
Spoiler alert: Hunter’s not dead—he’s not even injured—but the car is totaled.
A police officer brings Hunter home in her squad car, something that would have thrilled him to pieces when he was ten but is not thrilling him one tiny bit now. I’m not in the family room when the officer comes in with him; I’m within hearing distance but out of sight in the kitchen.
It does feel like I somehow made this happen, like I have this magical wishing ability, except that it’s powerful enough to get me part of what I wish for but not all of it. Like in this terrific book Half Magic I read as a kid, where the children find a magical coin that will grant them half, but only half, of anything they wish for. I wished Cameron would ask me to dance during “his” song, and he did, only it turned out not to be his song, and he didn’t dance with me, just near me. I wished Hunter would die—well, I didn’t really wish it, but I said it and at the time it felt like I was wishing it because I was so hurt and furious. And Hunter did have an accident that might have killed him, and he did totally wreck the car. Of course, none of my wishing for publication came true at all; all that wishing did was just make me give up on my wr
iting dreams forever.
The moral is: I need to be careful what I wish for.
But I also need to be careful never again to say anything as hateful as what I said to Hunter that afternoon, because if he had died, I would have had to live with it for the rest of my days.
The officer, who introduces herself as Officer Williamson, explains to our parents—Mom called Dad, and he’s home now, too—that it was a single-car accident. Hunter took a corner too fast, lost control of the car, and hit a tree. It’s kind of miraculous—or maybe magical?—that he wasn’t hurt. He has a court date where the judge will decide what will happen to him.
I can’t see Hunter’s face as Officer Williamson is saying all this, but I can imagine it: trying to look like he doesn’t care in front of my parents, but to look like he does care in front of the police officer, in case she has to write a report that might determine his fate. She asks him some direct question I can’t catch, but I hear him answer, “Yes, ma’am.” So he’s definitely trying to act like a kid who deserves a second chance rather than a kid who should be sent away to reform school or wherever they send incorrigible kids these days.
“I’m sorry this happened, Officer,” Dad says. “I know my son is sorry, too.”
“Thanks for bringing him home,” Mom adds.
The officer says, “Well, we were all young once,” as if all young people break the law and smash up automobiles. Then she says good night and leaves.
I can’t miss out on what’s going to happen next, so I take my chances and creep into the living room and do my trademark small-little-ball thing on a corner of the couch. My parents and Hunter don’t even seem to notice. I’ve heard people say, when they can’t stop looking at something, “It’s like the way you can’t stop looking at a car wreck.” I’ve never had any desire to look at a car wreck. But I can’t stop looking at what’s happening after this car wreck, to my family.
“Hunter,” Dad finally says, “I’m too upset to talk to you right now. As long as I live, I pray I never have to go through another night like this, wondering if my son is alive or dead. I hope that by morning you’ll come up with something to say that will make us understand why on earth you thought you had a right to defy our rules, wreck our car, and break our hearts.”
With that he turns and walks heavily up the stairs to bed. Dad knows how to make an exit.
Now it’s just Mom and Hunter. And me, but I don’t count. I’m still wearing my cloak of invisibility.
“Hunter,” she says in a low, wobbly voice, “how could you?”
Hunter’s ears flame scarlet. “Dad had no right to make me miss my gig just because he doesn’t like my grades. I didn’t even fail anything. I only got two D’s. Two!”
“Of course he had a right!” Mom says. Gone is the mother who was trying to take Hunter’s part yesterday, suggesting he shouldn’t be “grounded,” he should just “limit his activities” so he could concentrate better on school. “He’s your father! He cares about you! He wants to help you make the right choices in life to give you the best chance at realizing your dreams!”
Hunter laughs then, as if what Mom said is the most hilarious thing he’s ever heard.
I hear myself opening my mouth. “That’s true,” I chime in, like a little echoing parrot. “That’s exactly what he said.”
Both Mom and Hunter ignore me.
“He loves you,” Mom insists.
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Of course he does! Just because parents have rules and try to enforce them, it doesn’t mean they don’t love their children. It means the exact opposite.”
“Well, I know the things he says when he thinks I’m not listening,” Hunter retorts. “And the things you say, too.”
“Like what?” Mom’s tone is challenging, trying to call Hunter’s bluff.
“This past summer?” Hunter prompts her. “The night before school started? I came downstairs after you guys thought I was asleep, to ask you something. I forget what it was, something stupid, probably, because you both think anything I really care about is stupid.”
“Hunter,” Mom tries to interrupt, but he doesn’t stop.
“I was still on the stairs, and I could hear you talking, and I heard what Dad said, what both of you said.”
I pull in a deep breath. Whatever Hunter is going to say next, it can’t be good.
“What did we say?” She looks uneasy now, as if she’s trying to remember that overheard conversation and can’t come up with anything but knows there might well be something he heard that she and Dad hadn’t meant for him to hear.
“You said you hoped I’d have a better year in school this time.”
“Well, that’s not so terrible,” I say, even though my previous comment wasn’t appreciated. I so much want whatever Hunter overheard to turn out to be not as bad as he’s making it out to be.
“And Dad said…” Hunter pauses, and the muscles in his jaw tighten in that exact same way Dad’s do when he’s upset and trying unsuccessfully to get his face back under control. “Dad said, ‘With his dropping out of cross-country, it sure isn’t looking like it so far.’ And then he said, ‘The biggest disappointment of my life has been Hunter.’”
For a moment nobody speaks. I swear, even the refrigerator stops its humming. Even the clock on the kitchen wall stops its ticking.
“Oh, Hunter, sweetie, oh, Hunter, he didn’t mean it—”
“And then you said, ‘I know.’ That’s what you said, Mom. You said, ‘I know,’ like you were agreeing with him. Like I was the biggest disappointment of your life, too.”
I try one more time. I’m supposed to be good at words, though lately words haven’t worked out for me the way I spent my whole life dreaming they would. But if I ever needed a reminder of how powerful words can be, this is it.
“Hunter,” I say, “Mom didn’t mean it that way. And Dad didn’t mean what he said either. People say things they don’t really mean all the time.”
Things like: I wish you were dead.
Mom is crying now in this wordless way, with her face all contorted and no sound coming out. I’m not crying. I want too badly to find words to say that could somehow make this be all right. But that’s the thing about words. They can’t ever really erase other words. They can scribble over them, but they can never make them totally go away.
Hunter juts up his chin, as if daring us to say another syllable. Then he stands and walks away, clomping up the stairs to his room, while we listen to the silence.
28
I sleep in late on Saturday. I’m stunned when I look at the clock: 11:30. Stunned both because I’ve never slept this late before in my life, and because it’s the exact same digits I saw when I woke up to find that Hunter had disappeared. Was that really just twelve hours ago?
I’m afraid to go downstairs, but I don’t have any choice. So I do.
I don’t see anybody. My chest tightens. For a moment I wonder if Hunter could have stolen Dad’s Jeep and run away with it in the night while the rest of us were sleeping. Maybe my parents are off desperately trying to find him.
Then I see Mom, poking her head from the garage into the kitchen, dressed in slacks and a yellow sweater, her face normal looking as if the events of last night had never happened. “Go throw some clothes on, sweetie. Your dad and Hunter are in the car. We’re heading out for brunch. We didn’t want to wake you, but we’ll wait for you to come with us.”
Maybe I should let them go without me. Maybe they need to talk without me there.
But I’m part of this family, too.
Three minutes later, I’ve pulled on a pair of jeans and a ratty sweater, jerked a comb through my hair, and done the world’s fastest brushing of teeth. I’m in the backseat next to Hunter, with Dad at the wheel, which is much better than being in the backseat all by myself with Hunter at the wheel.
Dad drives to this mom-and-pop breakfast place named Ya-Ya’s that’s usually really crowded on weekend mornings and doesn’t t
ake reservations, but for some reason today, when the hostess lady asks, “Party of four?” and Dad nods, she leads us to a booth right away.
Maybe it’s a good omen. I try not to believe in omens, good or bad, but I’m grateful that we don’t have to wedge ourselves into the little bench by the front door trying to think of what kind of conversation to make on the morning after Hunter wrecked the car and told our parents that he heard them say he was the biggest disappointment of their lives.
Of course, we’re still going to have to talk once we settle into the booth, but maybe the talking thing will be easier in a restaurant than it would be at home. We can’t shout in a restaurant. We can’t get up and stomp away from the table. We can’t do or say anything that would make other people look at us funny.
Our parents sit on one side; Hunter and I sit on the other. It takes everyone a while to decide what to order, except for me, because I already know I want the pumpkin pancakes. Mom finally picks eggs Benedict, and Dad picks a Denver omelet. I thought maybe Hunter would refuse to order anything, like in a Gandhi-style hunger strike, but he orders fried eggs, bacon, hash browns, and a side of pancakes. And after all, for whatever reason, he did agree to come. As far as I know, nobody had to drag him bodily to the car.
We tell the waitress our order just as if we were a normal family.
I have a strange thought: We are a normal family.
This is what normal families do. They order bacon and eggs. They say terrible things that hurt each other. They feel horrible afterward. And then they try somehow to make it better.
For a while, nobody says anything. This might be the most awkward moment of my twelve years on this earth, which is saying a lot given a certain very recent, very awkward moment with a certain boy at a certain dance. So I do what I do whenever we come to Ya-Ya’s for breakfast. I make a tower out of the jam and jelly packets, trying to see how tall I can build it before it topples over. It’s interesting that it always does topple over, given that the packets are all the same size and shape and perfect for stacking. But at some point they eventually do.
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