by Denise Jaden
She shrugs. “Suit yourself.” Then looks behind me. “Next.”
I slowly sip my latte, but another half hour passes and she still doesn’t take her break or even glance in my direction. Every time there’s a lull in customers, she ducks behind the counter or through a swinging door. I just hope she isn’t escaping through a back exit.
I arrive at the counter again, this time with no one behind me. “Listen, Celeste, I’ll wait as long as I have to. I don’t know why you’re trying to hide from me, but—”
“I’m not hiding from anything.” Her eyes dart back and forth. “What makes you think I’m hiding?”
Oh, I don’t know, your freaked out response just now? Not to mention nearly driving over me in the school parking lot. “Well, something’s definitely wrong.”
“It’s not … Are you going to order something?”
“Low-fat brownie.” I know I can’t sit here without purchasing something. And it is low-fat.
A man in a white button-down shirt moves up beside Celeste on her side of the counter. Obviously her boss, he looks at her register, glances at her for a few seconds, and heads to the baking display unit a couple feet away.
I give her a hard stare so she knows I won’t let up, even if it means getting her in trouble with her boss.
“I’ll … we’ll talk, okay. On my break in ten minutes,” she whispers.
Smiling my thanks, I head back to my table.
“Hi,” she says when she sits across from me with a dark coffee.
“Hi.” I’m not nervous anymore. After being here so long processing memories, I feel strong and ready for whatever she tells me about Faith. I’ve got a thousand questions, but I don’t want her to run away again, so I start easy. “I get it if you’re having trouble talking about it. I can’t say I’m having the easiest time either, but my parents, well, they don’t talk about her at all, and nobody at school does … and it’s making it all really weird.”
“So you just want to talk about her, then? About Faith?” Celeste’s voice wavers a little on the name.
“Well, yeah.” I nibble on my lip. It looks like this relaxes her a bit, but she doesn’t respond and I’m not sure exactly where to start. “There’s something I wanted to ask you about too,” I say, finally.
Her eyes rest on the table between us. She takes methodic sips of her drink. “Okay. What’s up?” She sounds casual, but her tensed forehead and non-smile make me think it’s an act.
“I was just wondering where you and Faith had been going to youth group. Pastor Scott said—”
“Yeah, we haven’t gone there in ages.” She waves her hand in front of her, another casual motion that doesn’t quite match the rest of her. “We didn’t, uh, we didn’t have a church youth group, really. I mean, not in a church.”
Okay, that makes sense. So maybe their home group was it. “Yeah, because I checked around, and it seems like Faith wasn’t going, but you—”
Celeste glances to the counter and then to the outside window. “I should probably get back.”
“No! Celeste, please just talk to me. Were you at Grass Roots the night of the accident? Because I thought you were with Faith, but then I saw your name listed on the roster there.” I don’t even know why I’m asking this. I want to know about Faith’s life, not her death, but because Celeste is acting so strange, I just need for it all to make sense.
Her forehead wrinkles and she looks down at the table between us for so long, I don’t think she’s going to answer. But the longer she stays quiet, the more I need to hear something. I sit patiently, rubbing a dent in my thumb under the table.
“I … you’re right. I was at Grass Roots that night.” Her voice sounds like a songbird with a vice around its neck. She’s trying so hard to sound like this is normal. I just wish I could figure out why it isn’t.
“When I heard Faith on the phone with you that night, I just assumed she’d be going out with you,” I say, more to myself than to her. “And when the police said she’d been with friends—”
“I—I don’t … I wasn’t.” She stands and backs away from the table so I start to follow.
“Rumors are circulating at school that Faith killed herself,” I say, “and I thought at first no way, but I don’t know, maybe she did, and—”
“No! No, she didn’t. Brie, you should know better than anyone.” She backs up so fast, she bumps into another table, the two coffee cups on top splattering. The women seated there stop chatting and stare up at her. Celeste doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even apologize, just turns back to me and says, “I gotta go.”
“Wait, Celeste!”
She moves away from me but I feel like my feet are stuck to the floor. I reach out, pleading with her to stay.
“I’ll call you later,” she says, scooting behind the counter. Before I know it, her boss stands between us, glaring at me.
My hands shake and I don’t have it in me for any more confrontation. I grab my purse and place hand over hand on tables and chairs to get myself to the door. Maybe Celeste just needs some time to calm down too. Maybe she hasn’t talked about any of this either and so it all came out wrong.
When I make my way across the parking lot, I notice Celeste’s red SUV parked a few feet away. I walk over and peer through the back windows. I don’t know what I’m looking for. A worship CD case on the back seat? A sweatshirt I’d seen on her a thousand times? Something that makes me feel like my memories aren’t all lies.
Her back windows are tinted, and it’s hard to see anything, so I move to the front ones. Clean and empty. Just before I turn away, my eye catches a familiar sight on her dash. In the exact same spot as in Faith’s Toyota, there’s a small round sticker.
It’s yellow, just like the one in Faith’s car, but this one looks like someone’s tried to scrape it off.
My heart pounds inside my chest. I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything, just some “Sisters in Christ” type of bonding thing. But still, somehow it feels like this is important. That I have a new piece of Faith that matters.
chapter FIFTEEN
the next day after last class, I call Dad and stay an extra half hour in the locker room eavesdropping on all the after-school teams. I hear about a couple of parties, a bit of celebrity gossip, but nothing about Faith or even about Dustin and Amy. My dead sister and my dead relationship are already old news.
I trek toward my locker to pick up my backpack, but remember along the way that I wanted to get a reading list from Mr. Clancy so I can catch up with the rest of the class. Just as I turn the corner, a guy emerges out of Mr. Clancy’s classroom. Red and black Mack jacket, dark, shoulder-length hair. I have instant recognition. He’s the same guy I saw at Faith’s grave site.
It hadn’t occurred to me to look for him at school, but here he is, right in front of me.
Once I get past the fact that he isn’t a mirage, I call, “Hey!”
He looks my way and his dark bangs fall over half his face. My heart beats faster and I step toward him. He flicks his hair back and our eyes meet. His gaze pulls me in further, questioning me. I bet he’s wondering who I am or why we haven’t seen each other at school before. The same things I wonder about him. But then, abruptly, he spins and jogs the other direction.
“Wait!” I pick up speed. When I turn into the hallway that leads to the back of the school, there’s no sign of the guy, but the double doors at the end clack shut. I burst through after him.
Still no sign of him, but since there’s a fence in the other direction, he must have gone for the parking lot. Taking one deep breath after another, I keep my sprint until I stand in the middle of the twenty or so cars that are left.
Did he drive away already? I scan all directions and don’t see any movement. Well, except for the couple sucking each other’s tongues off at the car beside the fire hydrant.
One more search around the area and I give up. He’s gone.
But who is he? I need to know.
Finally I sigh
and head back into the school, straight for Clancy’s classroom. The door’s ajar and he sits solemnly at his desk with his eyes closed. It doesn’t surprise me. I pegged him as a meditator.
I stand there for several seconds letting my heart slow before scuffing my foot to make a noise.
No reaction. I clear my throat. “Mr. Clancy,” I say, just above a whisper.
Slowly, his eyelids open. He stares ahead for several seconds before turning to me.
“Ah, Miss Jenkins.” He says it like he expected it to be only a matter of time before I appeared here before him.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” I say, “but I was just wondering about a boy who came out of your classroom.”
His eyes scan the desks, as though he might find someone still sitting there.
“I mean a few minutes ago. He was wearing a red and black jacket?”
“Oh, yes, yes. The homeschool class.”
“The what?”
“There were a few homeschool students who came in to take a test.”
“Oh.” That explains why I’d never seen him in the hallways. It also gives me hope. If he doesn’t attend Sharon High, maybe he doesn’t know about all the stuff that makes me a leper around here. “Can you tell me his name?”
Clancy looks up at the ceiling. Is that where he keeps his class list? I follow his eyes, but the plain, white expanse reveals nothing. I wipe a sweaty palm on my jeans with anticipation.
“Hmm … I’m afraid I don’t remember which of them wore a jacket like that. Mr. Monakey maybe.” He turns back to me. “Ms. Lamberton just picked up their tests a few minutes ago.”
Clancy eyes my purple top, which is riding an inch or so above my jeans. Not quite school regulation.
I tug it down before he comments and slink toward the door. “Thanks, Mr. Clancy. I’ll be sure to ask Ms. Lamberton.”
By the time I get to the school office, I realize I forgot to ask about the history homework. And Ms. Lamberton’s already gone for the day.
It’s four thirty when I walk through the door to our empty house. It appears exactly the same as I left it this morning. The blender from my protein shake still overflows with water in the kitchen sink, the newspaper is spread open on the table.
I wonder if Mom went back to work. The thought makes me smile. I know it will take her much longer to get over Faith, but if she’s working with flowers, doing something she used to enjoy, at least there’s hope she’ll be able to function normally again, at least one day.
I pull the curtains back, let in some light, and begin my regular dusting routine. It’s not looking any fresher in here, but at least I’m keeping it at a consistent stale. Even though it’s into October, I crack a few windows.
Mom walks through the front door just before six with Dad trailing behind her. I’ve made scrambled eggs—my one culinary ability—and set the table. Sure enough, Mom wears a skirt and blouse. Her hair is tied back, and a sprig of baby’s breath pokes out from the ponytail. She’s been working at the flower shop again.
But she hasn’t brought any home, in fact she appears quite worn-out from the day. Maybe she’s not ready to go back full-time yet.
“I made scrambled eggs,” I say.
Mom gives me a look that says I’m her saving grace. The best daughter in the world.
Of course it’s not much of a competition anymore. The thought drains my smile.
Dad’s jaw is tense and I wonder if they’ve been arguing.
When we sit down to dinner, Dad eats fast, like he’s in a contest.
“What’s up, Dad? Somewhere to be?”
He takes a drink; his chin is a mess of ketchup. “I’m at the church tonight.” He says it the way he’s always said it. And in that moment, I realize it’s Friday night. Praying Parents night. Is he really going back to lead it? So soon?
“Oh,” I say and turn to Mom. They always led it together. “Are you going?”
Mom flattens her napkin several times on her lap until it looks like it’s been ironed. “No. I don’t think that would be the best thing for anybody.” Her words are quiet, and she takes her flattened napkin and carefully folds it exactly in half. Then in half again. She places it on her still-full plate and pushes herself back from the table. I watch her back as she lumbers out of the kitchen.
Dad doesn’t seem to notice the whole conversation. Or he ignores it. He slurps the last of his eggs a mile a minute, barely taking a breath. The fact that my parents barely talk to me is one thing, but barely talking to each other? It makes my stomach twist in knots.
By the time I clean up the dinner dishes, Mom is zoned out in front of the TV, and Dad has left to teach his class. I head upstairs for the computer. Even though I do have homework, I can’t concentrate on anything until I check the online directory for the listing “Monakey.” As I sit down I realize, happily, that I haven’t thought about Dustin and Amy all afternoon.
The computer room is really just an alcove situated between my room and Faith’s. I pull my eyes away from Faith’s door. Regardless of the fact that I can’t stop thinking about her death, about the cause, or the possibility of suicide, I’m not going back in there.
The sound of the Friday Night Movie jingle trails up the stairs. I spread my schoolbooks out on the desk, just in case Mom heads up to bed and looks in on me.
Opening the online directory for Sharon, Oregon, I type in “Monakey.”
No entries found. I try “Moanakey,” “Moanakee,” “Monakee,” plus other variations. Still nothing.
I click on the Google icon and try four or five spelling combinations. “Monachie” and “Sharon, Oregon” nets a few results. I quickly tab over to my other open window and type this spelling into the local phone directory. Still nothing. So if there’s some homeschool student in our town with that last name, he must be unlisted.
Clicking back to the first Google entry, a Portland online newspaper article comes up. The small write-up talks about a car being hauled from Trundle Valley Lake, which is only an hour or so away, with the body of Mrs. Annie Monachie still in it. The article is dated three years ago and cites the tragic incident as a suicide.
The word “suicide” brings a sick feeling to my stomach.
I click on the other two listings, but they reroute me to the same article. There’s no address, no phone number, and no pictures. Just some dead lady.
chapter SIXTEEN
monday morning, I’ve almost forgotten about Dustin and Amy when I round a corner and see them leaning up against a locker kissing. I gasp, but I’m far enough away that they don’t hear me. I can’t seem to turn my eyes away though, as Dustin moves from her lips to her ear with the exact same form he always used with me.
The thought makes me feel sick, grossed-out, like he’s kissing us both at the same time. Amy giggles when his hand slides down her side. I can’t stand looking and yet I can’t stop. It’s not until I hear Clancy’s voice that it jolts my attention away.
“Hey! Enough, you two. Miss Cooper, do I have to warn you about this again?” Mr. Clancy goes on about Principal Voth and I smile inwardly, glad that the whole world isn’t behind this happy couple. After they’re escorted toward the school office, I notice the eyes of all my schoolmates. Not staring after Dustin and Amy, but instead with their eyes on me. Were they watching me watch them? My face heats up. I drop my eyes and head for my locker.
When the first bell rings, I hustle to Ms. Lamberton’s office. She offers her same warm smile, obviously thinking I’m struggling emotionally over my sister again.
“There’s a homeschool student I’m trying to get a hold of. The Monachie kid?”
When her face straightens, I realize that’s probably not a great reason to miss first period.
“I mean, I think he knew my sister and I just want to talk to him about her.”
“You can talk to me about her, Brie.” She reaches a hand across the desk. “That’s why I’m here.”
I look down at her hand. “I know I ca
n. You’ve been really great, it’s just he …” He what? He’s cute, so I think he’ll be a better listener? “I wonder if he knows things about her that I never got to know.” Probably untrue. He did bring carnations in full bloom to her grave, after all. But Ms. Lamberton looks like she’s mulling it over.
“I’d like to help you, Brie, but I can’t give out personal information on the homeschool students. If you’d like, you can write him a note. Next time he’s at the school I can make sure to get it to him.”
I stare at the desk and wonder if I should bother. The guy has run off on me twice already. But even so, something about when our eyes met makes me think it wasn’t because of me. I scrawl a quick note with my name and phone number, and pass it over. Who knows if he’ll actually call, but it’s all I can think of to do.
Plan R: Follow Mr. Clancy’s lead and stare at the ceiling until the mysterious guy’s name, address, and phone number miraculously appear.
At lunchtime, Tessa leans against her locker when I approach. I’m always tentative about going to mine if she’s around. She still scares me. But she appears happy today. Not smiling—she never actually smiles—but her lips are twisted into a kind of smirk.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey. How’s it goin’?”
“Good.” It sounds fake as it comes out of my mouth. “Not great, actually. I’m trying to find this guy and they won’t give me any information on him at the office.”
“Who’s the guy?”
I eye her. She pulls a black Sharpie out of her pocket and starts writing notes on the inside of her arm.
“Just some guy I saw at the cemetery.”
She stops writing and studies me.
“He was at my sister’s grave and when I went to talk to him he took off. Like, ran away.”
Tessa nods. “And so he goes to school here, but you can’t find him?”
“No,” I say. Then I explain the whole homeschool thing. It feels good to be honest with someone. “I can’t find a phone number or address for him anywhere. I don’t even know his first name.”