As in, he excites me, a lot.
“Mmhmm, I know what you mean,” he mutters before he starts kissing me again.
We kiss for a while.
And while we are kissing, I keep hearing Danny’s voice in my head saying, This could be something.
Which is good, right?
That means that it was more than him feeling sorry for me.
Didn’t he also say he had been wanting to kiss me for a while?
Could we really turn our friendship into something more?
Something amazing?
As in, something that might last longer than his typical three weeks?
The long, amazing kiss eventually comes to an end. Danny still has me wedged up against his body and I’m loving that.
He says, “Now that we have that straight, I have a favor to ask you.”
Sure, anything. I think to myself.
“So I have this problem, I’m dying—”
“Bad choice of words, Danny,” I interrupt him and surprisingly let out a little chuckle.
“Oh, sorry. But I am dying to go to prom and no one will ask me.”
Yeah right.
“And, well, I figured since you probably don’t have a date either . . .”
“I’m not going, Danny.”
“Come on, ask me.”
“I’m not gonna ask you. Going to Prom is like the last thing I want to do.”
Phillip walks out on the porch. I expect him to freak out over me being in Danny’s arms, but he looks relaxed.
“So, did you ask her?” Phillip asks Danny.
“Nah, she asked me.” Danny gives me a smirk.
“I did not!”
“Mac, my man, I’m still trying to convince Jay she needs to take me to Prom.”
“Danny, it’s sweet of you to want to go.”
“Jay, I’m not just being sweet. I really want to go with you, and I think you should go. It’s your senior Prom. It’s a big deal.”
“In light of recent events,” I sigh, “it just doesn’t seem like that big a deal anymore.”
“I think your parents would want you to go,” Phillip says, ganging up on me.
I start to say no again, but wonder if maybe they would want me to go. Mom shopped with me forever to find the perfect dress. She probably would be disappointed if I didn’t wear it.
“Don’t you think it’s a little callous to go to something as frivolous as prom, so soon after my parents’ deaths? It seems, you know, disrespectful.”
I can’t. I shouldn’t.
“Everyone thinks you need to start getting your life back,” Danny states.
“I don’t have a life anymore.”
“Bullshit. You have lots of friends who care about you, and I’m pretty sure if you could ask your parents, they would tell you the same,” Danny says, getting slightly worked up over this.
I look at Phillip. “You agree with this?”
I thought it would never work.
He nods.
“Actually, both Phillip’s mom and my mom agree. Your parents wouldn’t want you to miss it,” Danny informs me.
Then Phillip butts in. “And we’re sure as hell not gonna let you go with Jake.”
Okay, now I get it. Evidently, Danny is the lesser of two evils.
“I mean, come on,” Danny says, “you’ve got everything for it, right? Everything’s already planned?”
“Yeah,” I waver.
“Great!” Danny says, then gives me a chaste, but still delicious, kiss. “I’ve got to head back to Lincoln. Call me. Let me know how you’re doing or just to talk. Anything, okay? Is there anything I can do, anything you need?”
“No, I think your mom and Mrs. Mac have thought of everything.”
And they have.
I owe those ladies big. But I know they did everything not just for me, but also for my parents. They loved them too, and it was their way of showing it.
“Saturday. Six o’clock. Don’t keep me waiting,” Danny says with a grin as he leaves.
Phillip goes back in the house to get a drink. I look across the street at my house. The lights are on, and I’m drawn to it like a moth. I halfway feel like I can just run over there, bang open the door, and hear my dad yell at me. So I run home, bang the door . . . and hear nothing but silence.
I look at the kitchen and can practically see my memories.
Me sitting up on the counter, helping Mom mix a special chocolate cake for Daddy’s birthday. I can’t wait to lick the leftover batter off the beaters.
Mom and I making sugar cookies at Christmas while Dad sets up the tree.
I turn my back on the memories and run up the stairs to Mom and Dad’s room. There, more memories come rushing into my mind.
Bringing Mom breakfast in bed on Mother’s Day. I tried to surprise her, but I had to tell her to stay in bed. I made her peanut butter toast and milk; although I think I ate most of it.
Me, running and diving under their covers at bedtime because I wanted to sleep with them and not in my own bed. Daddy would pretend he couldn’t find me. He’d bounce on the bed, grab under the covers and tickle me silly. Then I would jump on his back and get a piggyback ride to my room.
Me, lying in bed sick with the chicken pox, getting to watch TV all day, while eating crackers and drinking 7up.
Mom and me playing cards and watching movies.
Mom and Dad telling me to come snuggle up between them when I had a bad dream.
I feel like I’m in a bad dream right now. I close my eyes.
I think I’ve become a memory junkie.
Even though the memories make me want to cry, they also make me feel warm inside, and I like the feeling. I go sit on the floor of Dad’s closet, watching him in my mind, Getting dressed in his tuxedo. He looked so handsome that night.
Mom running over to get the back of her dress zipped up. I love the way he kissed her on her neck and told her she looked beautiful and how she blushed. They seemed so in love.
I grab one of Dad’s big flannel shirts and put it on over my blouse. I’ve worked so hard throughout this whole ordeal to maintain control, to keep it together, to represent my family proudly, to be tough and hold it all in.
I can’t do it any longer.
I run back into their room, throw myself across their big bed, and lose it.
I mean totally, completely lose it.
I break down and cry, and sob, and wail, like I’ve never done before. I have never, ever, hurt so much. I didn’t even think it was possible to feel this much pain.
You’d think eventually my tears would run out, but they don’t. I just cry, and cry, and cry.
And cry.
I'm startled by a noise, flip around, and see Phillip staring down at me.
He sits on the bed and shakes his head at me, as he gathers me into his arms.
“I wondered when you’d finally lose it.”
I can’t seem to choke out a response, so I just bury my head into his shirt and sob.
On Friday morning, I wake up feeling groggy. Finally took that sleeping pill.
I glance over at the clock and see it’s nearly ten, so I go downstairs to the kitchen.
On the breakfast bar, I find a note from Phillip’s mom.
It says, Had some errands to run. Back by two.
Four hours by myself.
What am I going to do?
Normally, I would relish having four hours of peace and quiet, or I would call and have Jake come over. But now? Well, Jake—although he did come to the visitation and was very polite—isn’t an option, and I don’t think I can relish the quiet.
I’ll just feel lonely and start thinking about my parents.
Plus, I’m feeling edgy. Like I need to do something.
Like I can’t sit here alone.
Maybe I’ll go to school today. At least there’s always a lot going on there. I’ve been feeling edgy since the funeral. It’s weird, when I’m at home—home being Phillip’s house for the ti
me being—I feel like I need to go and do something. Then when I get there, all I want to do is come home. I feel like I should be out looking for something.
Unfortunately, I’m afraid what I’m looking for can’t be found.
I can’t have my parents back.
If I hurry and get ready, I can be at school in time for AP English. It’s my favorite class. We’ve been reading the play Our Town. The main character, Elizabeth, dies, but she doesn’t want to leave the living. One of the most important lines in the book, the one I quoted at the funeral is, “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it—every, every minute?” The quote is Elizabeth’s way of saying we should put more emphasis on the value of daily life. After dying, she finds out that life’s not just about special events or occasions. It’s about seeing the wonder in daily life and not wasting opportunities.
You know, like stopping to smell the roses.
I wonder if I have been too busy living life.
Did I take my parents for granted? Probably, a bit. But as we tried to show at the funeral, my parents’ philosophy on life had been to work hard and play hard. And we always did. Even when we were working on a project, like staining the fence, which is a really horrible job, we had fun. My parents always did a lot with me. Dad helped coach my soccer and basketball teams and always had time to play with me in the back yard. Mom stayed at home, and there were often warm cookies and milk waiting for me when I got home from school. I loved coming in the door after school and trying to guess what she had baked, based on the smell. She always talked to me about my day and gave me great big hugs for no reason. And they both told me they loved me, a lot. I think they lived life fully.
I make a promise to myself to try and always do the same.
And I guess that means getting back to living.
So I go to school. I manage to sign in at the office without attracting any attention and am early to class, the first one here. I slide into my desk and open my notebook. None of my good friends are in this class. They think it’s stupid to work so hard your senior year, but I’m getting college credits for the class, so I think it’s worth it. Besides, the teacher is great and even though the class work is difficult, she has a way of making it fun. I also love it because we read novels, and I love to read.
Because most of our class time is spent discussing the novels and because there are only eleven kids in the class, Mrs. Reece will often let us have class outside or in the commons area. A few weeks ago, we talked her into going to the bowling alley for lunch and checking out a slice of life in Westown. It was really fun.
The first bell rings and the students slowly file in.
A man walks in and stands up front.
Great. Substitute teacher. That means today’s class will be completely worthless. I so should have stayed home. What was I thinking?
After the tardy bell rings, the substitute, whose dress and actions are very stiff and formal, introduces himself as Mr. Gustafson.
He starts in a droning voice, “Today we are going to talk about the essays you will be writing regarding the play, Our Town, by Thornton Wilder. Mrs. Reece says that you have discussed how this play shows a slice of life, circa 1922. For your essays, you will write about a slice of your own life. Mrs. Reece wants us to use this class time for brainstorming, which will help you decide what to write about in your essays. I’m going to ask each of you to share a slice of your life with the class. We’ll cover sports, home life, friends, family, weekends, dates, etc. Let’s start with something easy. Who would like to volunteer to tell the class about their weekend? Share a slice of your life? Anyone? Anyone?” he asks hopefully, looking around.
Of course, no one raises their hand because they know however they tell it, their weekend will sound boring and lame. And no one wants to be that. But my insides are squirming for entirely different reasons. Obviously my weekend was anything but boring, but I’m darn sure I don’t want to share it. So as he walks around the desk and grabs the seating chart, I’m pleading in my mind, Please don’t pick me, please don’t pick me.
“Well, if there are no volunteers,” he says, “I will pick someone. Let’s see, how about Miss Reynolds? Stand up please and tell us about your weekend.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I don’t stand up, but say, “Um, I really didn’t have a typical slice-of-life weekend. Could you choose someone else?”
“Nonsense. Please stand up,” the sub says. The class becomes dead silent.
I still don’t stand up, but say, “Um, how about I tell you about a different slice-of-life weekend?”
“No, I would like to hear about this weekend.”
He’s being difficult, so I say with a pissy voice, “I thought the whole point of this exercise is to show the typical and mundane goings on in life. I’m telling you my weekend wasn’t typical. It was anything but.”
I mean, it’s not that most of the class hasn’t heard about my weekend. I’m sure there’s some great gossip going around and if it wasn’t all about me, I would probably want to hear it, but there is just so much involved, and I’m not sure I can get through it without a breakdown.
“Miss Reynolds, you are being insubordinate and just plain stubborn. Even if your weekend wasn’t typical for you, I’m sure others have had similar experiences. We are all friends here.”
Like he’d know.
I seriously doubt there are any others that have had a weekend like mine. In fact, I’m sure of it. I’m also getting mad at this man.
Very mad.
“Stand up now and tell us about—”
Suddenly, Ricky Leeman stands up behind me and says, “I’ll do it. Let’s see, on Friday we had a track meet . . . ”
“Mr. Um . . . ” the substitute says, consulting the chart again, “ . . . Leeman. Sit down.”
But Ricky doesn’t sit down. He leans up from behind me and says quietly, “JJ, you don’t have to do this. Just leave. Come on, I’ll go with you.”
Ricky surprises me. He’s being so kind, but risking getting into serious trouble. The sub is furious at him.
The class is murmuring a bit; they know he’s about to blow.
I mean, this man is supposed to have an education of some kind; you would think he’d have a clue that something is up.
But no. He’s too puffed up on power to take a look around him.
“That will be enough. You all had plenty of chances to volunteer, and I’m in charge of this class. I will not tolerate such a blatant lack of respect. Mr. Leeman, if you do not sit down and stop the interruptions, you will go to the principal’s office.”
“Can I go to the principal’s office?” Part of me wants to run away, but now, because my insides are boiling mad, part of me kind of wants to tell this idiot all about my slice.
Just for shock value.
“Absolutely not. You will stay here. Please begin. Now, Miss Reynolds.”
“Fine.”
The grief inside me is suddenly gone and all that’s left is anger.
“Where should I begin? Well, like I said, this weekend was so not typical.” I roll my eyes. “Thank God. I don’t think I could live through another one.”
“Teen angst,” the sub interrupts, “I like it so far.”
Smart ass. Well we’ll see if you say that when I’m done.
“Well, let’s see, I go to a party where I get dumped by my boyfriend. Needless to say, that upset me and I was going to leave, but then a guy friend of mine shows up, told me not to leave and, well, kissed me.” I can’t help but smile a little smile about that. It was the one bright spot of the whole damned weekend. “Okay. So ex-boyfriend sees me kissing said friend and tries to humiliate me in front of everyone. When that doesn’t work, he starts a fight. Another friend drags me out of the party and back to town. We stop to get gas and his cell phone rings. It’s his dad who, believe it or not, has been looking for me. It seems that my parents were in a car accident.” I swallow hard. “We speed through town
and get pulled over by the police. Luckily, it’s a nice Westown officer, who drives us to the Med Center.”
I glare straight into the evil substitute’s eyes and smile an obviously fake smile as I continue, “When we get there, I find out that my mom is dead. Oh, and my dad dies a few hours later.”
I can feel the tears wanting to come, but I push them back.
Just stay mad, I tell myself.
“That is not very funny, Miss Reyn . . .” he starts to say.
I look at him and smirk. Told you!
I interrupt the idiot and say, “You’re very right. It is so not funny. But it’s the truth.”
“And that,” I say with a curtsey to the class, “is a slice of my life.”
I grab my books and storm out the door.
I can hear the teacher ask the class if it was true.
I hear him mutter, “Fu*%”, before the door closes.
I stomp in an angry daze out to the empty commons area, sit down, and let out a big sigh. Ricky Leeman is on my tail. He sits down, puts his arm around my shoulder, and says, “God, what an asshole. You okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. So do ya think the sub liked my slice of life?”
“Well he dropped the f-bomb in front of the class, so I’m guessing not. I don’t think we have to worry about him coming back.”
“I appreciate what you tried to do in there and, well, no offense, but how come you’re being so nice to me?”
“Um, well, I feel really bad about what happened to your parents and, well, I’m kinda in charge of you this period.”
“In charge of me?”
I don’t like the sound of that.
“Well, yeah, I mean I am the only guy from the team in AP English, but I would’ve volunteered anyway.”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
“Uh, um . . . I take it you didn’t hear about the meeting?” He grimaces.
“Evidently not. Enlighten me, please.”
“Um, well, maybe I wasn’t exactly supposed to tell you that,” he says, suddenly nervous. “You know what? I think I’m gonna go get Phillip. That’s what I’ll do. You stay here.”
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