by Katrina Leno
“Not—Melanie?” Jane asked, shocked.
“Melanie’s sister,” Susie said. “I don’t know if Alana mentioned her. But she was really sick. She’s been living in a hospital for a few years.”
“What happened?”
“Alana was kind of hysterical on the phone,” Susie said. “But I guess one of the nurses found her last night.…” Susie paused, sniffed loudly. They reached a stop sign, and she dug a tissue out of the center console and wiped at her eyes. “They’re not really sure what happened, but they think she must have gotten something sharp. She had all these cuts on her hands, her arms. That’s all Alana told me.”
“They think she… did it herself?” Jane asked, turning her own palm over and running a finger over the scratch she’d gotten from the thorn. “That’s terrible.”
“I know.”
Jane had thrown the rose into the trash last night, then washed the blood off her palm in the bathroom.
She hadn’t told Ruth what had happened.
She hadn’t told anybody.
But that couldn’t have had anything to do with Melanie. It was just a coincidence, just a weird coincidence.
Alana missed school that day and the next. Melanie was out for longer.
It turned cold, quickly.
A new sort of cold. A cold Jane had never experienced before. A cold so invasive that if she left any part of her hair damp from the shower, it was frozen by the time she reached Susie’s car in the morning. She wore jeans and thick socks and flannel shirts and her new winter coat, and she wrapped her neck in a scarf, and she was still cold. She was always cold.
A week after the night with the rose, she let herself into Susie’s car and, as usual, pressed herself against the vents, letting the warm air hit her neck, letting it blow down her shirt and over her goose-bumped skin.
“Morning,” Susie said.
“Morning,” Jane replied, trying to stop shivering.
“It’s ridiculous, right? I swear there was snow on the ground this morning.”
“How do you deal with it?”
“I wish I had a very good answer for you,” Susie replied. “But I don’t. You just sort of… try not to freeze. And eventually, it gets warmer. For about two months. And then it gets cold again. And you find ways to take your mind off it.”
“That’s what I need. Something to take my mind off it.”
“Oh! Well I have the perfect thing, actually. Do you like Halloween?”
“I do! I love it. Back home my friend Salinger and I would always wear matching costumes.”
“Well—it’s next Friday. And they’ve just announced the theme of the dance.”
“You have a Halloween dance?”
“Yeah, and it’s actually pretty cool.”
“What’s the theme?”
“Haunted Forest.”
“That sounds promising.”
“I know, right?” Susie said. “So… wanna go? With Alana and me?”
“Definitely. Do people dress up?”
“You have to dress up. I bet you’re just Rapunzel every year, right? With that hair?”
“I’ve never been Rapunzel,” Jane said, laughing.
“Are you serious? A wasted opportunity.”
“We’ll have to go shopping for a costume. I don’t have anything.”
“That can be arranged,” Susie said seriously.
Jane was excited about the dance, and she, Susie, and Alana spent lunch discussing costume possibilities. Alana was especially enthusiastic, and Jane got the impression she was using it as a welcome distraction from her cousin’s death. She hadn’t ever been that close with Melanie’s older sister, she’d admitted to Jane, but she was surprised at how much her death had affected her. She found herself crying at random moments, remembering little things, like going to visit her cousin on her birthday. She couldn’t even imagine how Melanie must be feeling.
When it was time for chemistry, Jane got to the classroom just before the bell rang and took a seat at her desk.
It was actually an interesting lesson involving dropping a gummy bear into a tube of molten potassium chlorate (the resulting reaction was fairly violent and fun), and the time passed quickly. When the bell rang. Mr. Barker waved her to the front of the classroom before she could get her things together.
“Just wanted to check in,” he said as the rest of the class filed out around them. “See how you’re settling into everything.”
He was probably around her mother’s age, friendly green eyes, black hair peppered with gray. He was one of her favorite teachers so far, and the one who’d waited the longest before throwing any significant homework her way.
“It’s been okay,” she said honestly. Not great. Not terrible.
“Alana and Susie are good kids. I’ve seen you around with them.”
“Yeah, they’re really nice.”
“You know, I actually went to school with your mother. Ruthellen and I were good friends, back then. Will you tell her I said hello?”
“Of course,” Jane said.
“It was a shame, when she left. I always wondered whether she was okay.” He waved a hand, as if brushing away old memories. “Anyway, if you need anything, some advice or just a sounding board, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
“All right, get along, so you’re not late.”
Jane gathered her things, then started toward her locker to exchange some books, stopping at the beginning of the hallway when she saw Melanie standing at her own locker, staring blankly into it, unmoving.
There was no one else around.
Jane approached her cautiously; Melanie was in her own world and didn’t even hear her coming.
“I’m so sorry about your sister,” Jane said when she’d gotten close enough.
Melanie turned around slowly, as if moving through water, and when she saw it was Jane, her eyes narrowed. “Don’t talk to me about my sister,” she said softly, her voice almost a hiss, low and dangerous.
Jane froze, confused—why was there so much hate in Melanie’s eyes?
“My father just passed away,” Jane continued, “so I know what it’s like. I know how you feel, and I’m so, so sorry.”
Melanie slammed her locker shut then, in a movement so quick and so unexpected that Jane jumped backward. The crash of metal on metal reverberated down the hallway. The silence that followed was just as loud, just as deafening.
Melanie took a step toward Jane. “You have… no idea how I feel,” she said, her voice steady and even and mean.
“Okay. Chill. I just wanted to say I was sorry.”
“Get the fuck away from me,” Melanie replied, squeezing her eyes shut. A tear leaked out of the corner of one, trailing a slow line down her cheek. “Get the fuck away from me,” she repeated, and Jane stared at her for a second, then turned and practically ran down the hallway, her skin prickling uncomfortably. What the fuck was wrong with Melanie? Jane was just trying to be nice, to extend some sympathy, some common ground.
Jane took the long way to her locker and when she finally reached it, she opened it, then angled her body so no one walking past her would be able to see her face.
The anger again—palpable and quick, like it had been waiting just underneath her skin to bubble up to the surface.
Distantly, in the back corner of her mind, she heard the warning bell ring.
She grabbed a random book from her locker. Her English textbook. She ripped a corner off one of the middle pages. A small piece with nothing printed on it except a page number—157. It wouldn’t be missed. She crumpled it into a tiny ball and set it on her tongue like a pill.
It tasted bitter and greasy. It didn’t break down with her saliva.
How many hands had touched that page before hers? How many germs had she just put in her mouth?
She spat it back out into the palm of her hand, then let it drop wetly to the floor.
She took a breath. Her lungs fe
lt insufficient and weak.
The bell rang again. The hallway emptied of voices, of footsteps.
She closed the English book and put it in her locker.
She couldn’t move.
She couldn’t calm down. She couldn’t get enough air to breathe.
She shut her locker but it was more like a slam in the empty hallway, an echo of Melanie slamming her own locker. Jane felt the crash deep in her skull; it thrummed inside her, a heavy vibration.
She’d been twelve, and she had slammed the front door of their house so hard she’d heard something crash in the small foyer within.
She couldn’t remember now why she had been so angry.
Hearing the crash had calmed her down, somehow, and she’d opened the door again and stepped into the house.
Ruth had been kneeling on the floor, cradling something in her hand. The broken pieces of a ceramic figurine, a devil Greer had painted when he was just a little kid. It had been displayed on a shelf in the foyer and the slamming of the door must have been enough to vibrate it off the edge.
“Mom, I’m—”
“Are you pleased with yourself?” Ruth had said, her voice sharp and filled with her own rage.
Jane hadn’t been able to respond.
Ruth had gathered up the pieces of the figurine and left the room with them.
And Jane had felt alone. Really alone. And with the realization that you could never go back. Time marched forward. The figurine couldn’t be unbroken.
And now, in the hallway, that same bitter truth.
Jane couldn’t un-slam the locker door. They couldn’t un-move to this terrible town. Greer couldn’t un-die.
Jane was grateful for work that afternoon, relieved to have the distraction. Her interaction with Melanie had left her feeling confused and strange and angry, and she’d spent the rest of the day looking over her shoulder, nervous about running into her again.
Susie gave her a ride to the coffee shop, and it was so busy when she arrived that for the first hour of her shift, Jane didn’t have a moment to breathe, let alone think. She made latte after latte after espresso after Americano. When she finally got a break, she was hot and a little sweaty, and her hair had started to curl even more by her forehead. She was relieved when someone asked her for help finding a book; walking into the stacks felt like taking a dip into cool water. She led the customer to the history section, then went to mysteries by herself. There’d been a small delivery of paperbacks that morning, and she hadn’t gotten a chance to check them out yet.
There were about ten more Agatha Christie books than the last time she’d worked, all vintage paperbacks with the odd, funny covers she loved so much. She picked one up. Curtains. The final appearance of Hercule Poirot. Widely considered to be one of Agatha Christie’s best works. She picked up another one. The Mysterious Affair at Styles. Another Poirot. Then she saw one with a brown spine. She pulled it out. The tagline on the cover read “Hercule Poirot saw DEATH coming!” Two hands held an axlike weapon that sliced a space right through the title: Mrs. McGinty’s Dead.
It was one of Jane’s favorites. The copy she owned had a different cover, and she liked this one way more. She brought it up to the register and set it down on the counter.
Will was sipping an espresso and leaning against the wall.
“That after-school rush will be the death of me,” he said.
“I can’t feel my fingers,” she replied.
“You high-schoolers drink too much coffee. It’s going to stunt your growth.”
“I think that’s a myth.”
“You’re probably right.” He picked the book up and turned it around in his hands. “Well, well. What do we have here?”
“A very underrated book,” Jane announced. “It never makes any best-of lists, but it’s so good.”
“I am very into this cover.” Will put the book down on the counter. “I have to say, this feels like a bit of kismet.”
“How so?”
“Because”—he reached into his back pocket and whipped out the copy of The ABC Murders—“I finished it!”
“You did? Finally!”
“It’s been, like, a week,” Will said, laughing. “That’s a perfectly respectable amount of time to finish a book.”
“Not an Agatha Christie book. An epic fantasy, maybe, but Agatha’s books are tiny.”
“Well, I liked it. A lot. So I’m taking this one now.”
He slid The ABC Murders toward Jane and put Mrs. McGinty’s Dead into his apron pocket.
“Just try and get it back to me in a timely manner,” Jane said seriously, slipping The ABC Murders into her own apron.
“Fair enough.” Will snapped his fingers. “Oh, look! I almost forgot. We got these in.” He reached into a cabinet over the espresso machine and pulled out two bottles of syrup. They were clearly hand-bottled, with little corks and watercolor labels. One had a bunch of lavender on it, the other a rose. He set them carefully on the table. “These are from a farm a few miles away. A woman named Madge Delaney makes them. Lavender and rose syrups. For lattes. Did you know roses are edible?”
Jane picked up the bottle of lavender syrup, uncorked it, and breathed it in. It was rich and beautiful; she’d always loved the smell of lavender. “I don’t know, aren’t most flowers edible?”
“Most flowers are not edible, Jane,” Will said. “Now I’m a little worried you’re going to make me an oleander latte.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “Have you tried them yet?”
“Nope. She just brought them by this morning. Want me to make you one?”
Jane handed him the lavender bottle. “Yes, please.”
“A lavender latte it is,” he said. “They’re kind of pricey, these things, but she said a little goes a long way. I think it’s time we changed up the menu a bit. I’m getting sick of vanilla lattes.”
She watched him make the drink, tamping down the espresso firmly, steaming the almond milk until it was smooth and hot. He added a tiny bit of the lavender syrup to a mug, then he poured the milk in a complicated, fluid motion. When he handed her the mug she saw that he had made an intricate fern. It made her latte designs look childish in comparison.
“That’s beautiful,” she said.
Will scoffed and swatted a hand in her direction. “It has to taste good, too, or else its beauty is meaningless.”
“Isn’t all beauty meaningless?” Jane asked as she studied the leaf. A few seconds passed before she realized Will was staring at her with his eyebrows raised. She laughed. “Just kidding.”
“You’re getting very existential with that latte, Jane.”
“It’s been a long day.” She took a sip. The latte was the perfect balance of smoothness and bitterness. The lavender was subtle but lingered in her mouth after she had swallowed. She sighed and closed her eyes, breathing in deeply as the mug warmed her hands.
When she opened her eyes again, she saw that Will was staring at her with a funny look on his face.
“What?” she asked, suddenly self-conscious.
“Are you okay?” he replied. “You just inhaled enough oxygen for a small village with that sigh.”
“I’m fine. The latte is helping.”
“It’s drinkable?”
“It’s perfect.”
“Good enough for the menu?”
“Absolutely.”
“What should we call it? Lavelatte? Lavenator?”
“How about just lavender latte?”
“I love it,” he said. “To the point.” Then, serious again, he asked, “Are you sure you’re okay? You can talk to me. I know we don’t know each other that well, but…”
“I’m really okay,” she said. “Just tired. The usual. Cold. Homesick. Sad.”
“Sad?”
Jane bit her lip. Something made her want to tell him. “Did Susie tell you why we moved here?”
“She didn’t say anything,” he replied, shaking his head.
“I asked her not to say
anything. To anybody. But it would have been fine if she told you.” She took a deep breath. “My father died. He had a heart attack. There was a lot of money stuff, so… we had to move here.”
“Jane, I’m so sorry,” Will said. He took her hand, just for a moment.
“Every so often it’s just like… I remember that he’s not here anymore.” She felt herself tearing up, so she smiled instead, a sad smile. “That’s all. I don’t really want to talk about it anymore.”
“Of course. Well… I’m glad you told me. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“Okay, so…” He reached behind her and picked up a piece of chalk from the lip of the vintage chalkboard that hung over the espresso machine. “Lavender latte. Officially added to the menu. Who wants to do the honors?”
“You have nicer handwriting.”
“Years of chalkboard practice,” he said with a smile.
Jane watched as he fit “lavender latte” right underneath “vanilla latte.” The loops of the l’s were perfect.
“You know, if you end up adding the rose latte, too, you’ll have to do the entire thing over,” Jane pointed out.
“Oh shoot. I forgot about the rose. Want me to make you one of those next?”
“I don’t like roses,” Jane said flatly. She finished the rest of her latte in one long sip.
When she got home that evening she felt happy and warm with coffee, even though it was already dark and bitter cold as she ran from Susie’s car to her front door. She was shivering as she fit her key into the lock and pushed into the foyer. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment.
She didn’t know if she would ever get used to it—how the cold worked its way into your body, forcing its way through you, taking up all the space in your lungs.
She pulled herself away from the door and locked it behind her, then walked toward the kitchen. Even though the house got warmer the deeper into it she went, she still felt heavier and heavier, like the cold was slipping deeper into her, weighing her down.
Ruth was at the kitchen table looking over some paperwork.
“I thought this was supposed to be a part-time job,” Jane said.