But now, it occurs to me there is something else to do with it. Someone else who might want it.
I leave a note for my parents on the kitchen counter, put the box in my backpack, and drive.
Every Girl
“Yes?”
I’m suddenly aware of the huge empty space in my stomach. Because one, I didn’t have breakfast. Two, I hate talking to people I don’t already know. Three, Charlie is one door over and I don’t want him to see me here. Four, I’m about to return the sweater of a dead girl to her mother and, really, how is that sort of thing done?
“Hi,” I say, and then in one big breath, “I’m a friend of Charlie’s, I didn’t really know Jamie, but you were her mom, right?”
“Yes, I am.” She is a tall woman, with chocolate-brown hair, in a brown-and-purple floral dress and unzipped knee-high dress boots. I know her by sight, but only from a distance. Up close, she looks beautiful, despite the lines under her eyes and the gray at her roots. “Oh, of course”—she points her finger vaguely, like she’s shaking something loose—“from the courtroom… and you’re Charlie’s sweetheart.” She smiles, and it’s a lovely smile. Jamie’s smile.
“Um, maybe?” I say. “I, uh, I found—I thought you might, I didn’t know if you would…” I start to rummage in my backpack.
“Why don’t you come in?” she says, backing into the foyer as she swings the door wider. “I was just getting ready for church. Would you like some coffee?”
“Um, no thank you,” I say, walking inside.
She sits on a decorative white metal stool at the edge of the living room and bends down to zip up her boots. She points to a bench in the foyer. “Have a seat. What can I do for you?”
“I’m all right,” I say, still standing. “I just wanted to give you this.” I wrangle the box loose from my backpack. “I found it in Charlie’s tree house. I’m sorry.” I hand the box to her. “I didn’t know if you’d want this or…”
She opens the box. “Oh!” The sharp oh! of recognition. This scrap of her lost life.
She runs her palm across the surface of the sweater, takes it out of the box, and holds it to her cheek. But then there’s that smile. Her eyes welling up with tears, and that wrenching smile.
“I gave this to Jamie for her seventeenth birthday.”
“It was outside,” I say. “There’re some stains I couldn’t get out.”
She holds the sweater out with both hands, arm’s length, as if considering a purchase at a department store. “This is—I cherish this. Thank you,” she says. “I donated Jamie’s clothes to charity. I wanted to think of some part of her going out in the world, doing some good for someone.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to remind you.…”
“Oh, honey, you didn’t remind me. I was thinking about Jamie when I opened the door. When I poured my coffee. When I brushed my hair. I’m always thinking about her. Don’t you worry about reminding me. I’m glad you did.”
She shakes her head, puts the sweater in her lap.
“Sometimes that’s a hard thing,” she says. “I see it on people’s faces. They’re thinking of Jamie. But they don’t want to say it. I know they’re worried it would upset me. They don’t say anything.”
She sighs. “But look here?” She jangles her bracelet, a silver feather dangling from a chain around her wrist. “This was Jamie’s. It was there, on her wrist through it all. They found it when they found her. I wear it now, because it was with her. Because I want to be reminded, see?”
She reaches out for me, like I’m supposed to take her hand. So, awkward as it is, I take it. Her palm is soft and the back is spotted with brown dots. For a second, the silver feather skims against my wrist, and I’m startled by its unexpected warmth.
“I’m glad you remember her,” she says, the tears spilling over now, trickling down her cheek. “That’s a gift.”
She drops my hand to wipe her face with her fingers. “I must look a mess,” she says with a quiet laugh. “You think I’d be all cried out by now.”
“Well, I guess I should let you get ready for church,” I say, backing toward the door.
“Hold on a second, honey.” She stands, retrieves a brochure from the drawer of a little table near the window. “Take this. And I want—” She reaches out like she means to touch my hair, but then her hand drops. “I want you to know I’m happy Charlie has found you. He’s a special boy. This has been hard on all of us. I’m glad he has someone to help him through.” She smiles again, her eyes glistening wet. “I think Jamie would be happy, too.”
I remember the times Charlie has said we can’t speak for Jamie. Somehow I doubt he’d argue with Jamie’s mom, though.
“Thanks,” I say, and it’s maybe the oddest thing I’ve ever thanked anyone for. I look down at the brochure in my hand.
EVERY GIRL MATTERS
Advocating, Educating, Empowering
Below, there’s a picture of three teen girls holding hands.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“It has some tips on how to stay safe,” she says.
I flip open the brochure:
Let people know where you’re going and how long you expect to be out.
Always carry pepper gel spray, your cell phone, and a whistle.
When out, stay aware of your surroundings. Don’t let your cell phone distract you.
If someone harasses you, be vocal. Try to gain the attention of people around you.
Alert the police when you see someone in trouble.
If someone you know makes you uncomfortable, avoid that person and let your friends and family know.
The list goes on for two pages. All the things I should do to keep the monsters away.
“It’s a group I volunteer with,” she says. “We advocate for victims’ families, educate young people about personal safety, share missing-persons alerts on social media, that sort of thing.”
“Wow,” I say, forgetting myself for a second—talking like I’d talk to anybody, not a mom, definitely not Jamie’s mom. “That seems hard. Having to deal with everyone else’s stuff, on top of, you know, what happened.”
“It saved me,” she says simply. “I can’t tell you what a difference it makes—knowing I might be able to help someone going through the same heartache, maybe even stop it from happening.”
“You must hate me—”
“No. What? Why would you say that?”
“Because—because…” I can’t say it, but we both know what I mean: Because I’m alive and your daughter is dead.
“Oh, honey, I don’t hate you.” And this time, she does touch my hair, gentle and familiar.
Mercy Garden
“I’m not doing it,” I say.
“But it’s tradition,” Lindsey says.
“A stupid tradition!”
“Yeah, well, that’s kind of what makes it a tradition,” she says. “Is it smart that we pile a table with food and sit around eating until we puke? Or that we hide eggs in our yards once a year? Or encourage kids to sit on some old bearded guy’s lap and tell him what they secretly desire? Traditions are stupid! That’s how they work!”
“But willingly jumping into ice-cold water? That’s just wrong.” I pull my blue stocking cap farther down, past my ears, and shiver dramatically.
We’re in Lindsey’s Toyota, cruising down the highway in the dark on our way to Mercy Garden. By its name, it sounds like an old folks’ home or maybe somewhere you’re supposed to sprinkle your grandmother’s ashes, but really it’s just a regular park out in the woods next to Blue Haven Lake, about fifteen minutes outside of town.
It’s also the site of the infamous December Dunk, held annually the first Sunday of December. The so-called tradition, which has been going on since sometime in the last century, involves open tailgates, music, a bonfire, and, contrary to all logic, swimsuits. The evening culminates at midnight, when everyone is beyond making good decisions, and all the seniors jump into the icy water.
I’ve been on the sidelines for the past two years, cheering on the idiots. But this year, Lindsey insists we are the idiots. “You’re only a senior once. Assuming you graduate, which of course you will,” she says. “So that’s it. You’re holding my hand and we’re doing it.”
There’s no arguing with her when she gets like this, so I keep quiet and pray some miracle saves me before the stroke of midnight.
As we ride, I tell her about my visit to Jamie’s mom that morning. I’m still trying to get my mind around how someone can be simultaneously so sad and so serene. And how that same someone can then go out and try to change the world.
“She was like a superhero, Linds,” I say. “The Grieving Flower! The Amethyst Wind! The Protector!”
“Seriously?”
“Yep,” I say. “Kicking butt and taking names!”
“You should be like her when you grow up,” she says.
“What?”
She flashes me a look out of the corner of her eye as she drives, like it’s obvious. “Well,” she says, “maybe you should be a superhero. Maybe you should change the world.”
“Okaaay. And how exactly am I supposed to do that?”
“You’re awesome,” she says. “You’ll figure it out.”
“That’s helpful,” I answer. Not.
When we get to the Garden, Lindsey parks at the end of the tailgate line. She pulls out a cooler and a bag of chips from her back seat and sets them out on her trunk. “There’s soda here, but if you want…” she says, wagging a six-pack of canned beer. “We might need some liquid courage.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say. I snap one free and carefully pry open the lid, holding it away from my body so the foam that bubbles out doesn’t soak my coat. I think of the can as more of a prop than an actual drink. I’ll carry it around, maybe nurse it a little, and the other 99 percent of my graduating class won’t bother me.
Lindsey must have the same idea. She takes one, tucks it unopened in her coat pocket, and hides the remaining beers under her passenger seat.
Someone has strung fairy lights above the boat dock and set up some floodlights on stands. A guy from my psych class is deejaying, pumping low-key reggae into the chilled night air. To one side, a small bonfire flashes in the man-made sandy area near the water, and a few people are playing grab-ass in a clump near its fringe.
I spot Robert Leuger with a cluster of football dudes throwing crap into the fire. He stands behind a petite redhead from the cheerleading squad, his hands on her hips in that I know her in the Biblical sense way.
“Hey,” I say to Lindsey, “you okay with that?” I nudge my head in Robert’s direction. “I’m good with leaving.”
“Nah,” she says. “It’s… whatever. I’m fine with it.”
“Fine with what?” It’s Charlie’s voice, out of nowhere, right behind us.
I turn and, sure enough, there’s Charlie’s face to match.
“Hey, stranger,” I say.
And suddenly the moth in my stomach starts doing kamikaze dives because I’m not sure how we left things yesterday, and I don’t know exactly how I want to pick them back up again. I still haven’t answered my own question: Can I be with Charlie as things stand?
“Fine with… getting that deejay to play something we can dance to,” Lindsey says, heading off toward the dock. “I’ll catch you later.”
Charlie gazes out over the water. The reflection of the crescent moon squints up at us from the lake’s rippled surface.
“So, what’s the verdict?” he asks.
“What verdict?” For a second, I’m thinking Kyle, the case, was there some new verdict?
But then he clarifies, “You and me.”
“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t know—I mean, I’m that transparent?”
“Maybe.” He scuffs his foot into the gravel of the driveway. “Maybe I know how to see you.”
“You know how to see me,” I echo, taking it in.
He looks up then, eyes bright. “I’m wild about you. If it makes any difference.”
His face is beautiful, but it’s his eyes that do me in. There’s a reason the poets call them windows to the soul. His window opens on a field at night, surrounded by woods. Leaves in the wind, a fox’s cry. The encircling trees, both safeguard and temptation.
I say, breathless and eye-drunk, “You too.”
“But—?” he asks. I let the word linger because I don’t want to say what comes next.
I think about what Jamie’s mom said, how glad she was that I could be there for Charlie. About what Charlie himself said, how I’m the one who just keeps digging.
I’m not sure either one of them is right.
“Me being with you now, it’s kind of like asking the recovering alcoholic to work the bar,” I say. “I’m not sure I have what it takes. Are you going to be okay with me? Am I going to be okay with you? I just—I don’t know. It’s not going to be easy.”
He runs his hands through his hair, like he’s trying to tug out words.
“It doesn’t have to be so hard,” he says. The phrase sounds familiar, and it’s a second before I realize he’s repeating the same thing to me I said to him weeks ago at the riverside. He leans in, just as I did then, and kisses me. A kiss that is an ask as much as it is an answer. “These last weeks, it’s been difficult, I’ve been difficult, yeah, and you’ve been patient as hell. But I’m trying. That’s all I want, is that you try. We don’t have to agree about everything. We’re not going to. We’re not the same person.”
He gives me a wry smile, then adds, “Thank God. I’m not really my type.”
“You said you were right, though.”
“I think I am.”
“But I can’t deal with that anger, Charlie. Even if it’s deserved,” I say. “I’m not going to hate him anymore. I have to let go of it. I have to.”
“But you don’t have to let go of me,” he says, catching my hand, like I’m going to bolt any second. “And I—maybe I can, you know, in time, I don’t know.”
“You literally just said nothing.”
“I could—I don’t know. Jesus! You’re a good influence on me, okay?”
“Really?” And I can feel the smile invade my cheeks. I never knew I’d been waiting for someone to say those words to me. But apparently, I have been. Boys will lie about love, but this—how could he even know to lie about this? I repeat his words, slowly, incredulous. “I am. A good influence. On you.”
“Did you see me earlier this year?”
I think of the Ghost of Charlie Past, gray-faced, hoodie up, eyes down.
“You woke me up,” he says. “You were so annoying. Like a tag poking the back of my neck. Just a little frustration at first, but it won’t go away. And then you just keep thinking about it, but it’s weird because the more the tag is there, the more you realize you kind of like how it feels. You think it’s kind of a cute tag. And then a really cute tag. Smart and funny and deep. And then you realize you’re awake. The sun is a beautiful thing. And the tag—it’s even more beautiful. You don’t know what you’d do without it. You fucking love this tag.” He throws his hands up in frustration. “This is maybe the worst metaphor ever.”
My super-identity—Tag-Girl. Annoying People for Justice!
“Let me try again.” He holds my gaze like it’s a bowl of water he doesn’t want to spill. “I’m only here—I’m here because of you. I was pretty out there after that verdict. That was… hard. It was messed up. But I’m here now in the land of the living, getting ready to jump into a lake in forty-degree weather, because I’m still awake, and apparently that’s what you do when you’re awake. You undertake ill-advised and reckless acts.”
I’d laugh, but I don’t know where my face went.
“I’m here,” he says again, “because of you.”
Everything in me tells me this isn’t bull. This is real. That Charlie is not just my boyfriend, but my friend. That, however frustrating I might be, I matter to him. Just like he matters to
me. And isn’t that worth fighting for, too?
Plus, God, he looks super hot when he’s saying it.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?”
“Yes, definitely.” I nod.
The music shifts to a techno club mix. A group of girls on the dock start bouncing around in what approximates dance.
“Lindsey got her way.” He holds out his hand. “Dance with me?”
“That’s a yes, too.”
Jump
So we do.
We dance on the dock like we’re at the edge of the world, and we don’t care if we fall off. We bop and twirl, flash our hands. One song bleeds into another, and we keep dancing. Others churn around us—thrashing grinding crunking. All the seniors are here—Jared, Randy, Nick Richert, the Allisons, Amanda Wells, Monica and Andie, Shavelle Rylan, Clarissa Coleson, Paige Sanchez.
Taylor even showed up with Kai—“for moral support only—not a senior”—she insisted, when Lindsey tried to convince her to do the jump.
By the time the midnight call comes, we’re part of one big mass of dance, my coat’s off, and I’m sweating in the cool night air.
Lindsey sashays up, holding a wad of beach towels, with Jared Hilley right behind. “IT’S TIME!” she yells over the music, but she needn’t have bothered because the deejay announces on the mic, “Yo, the moment’s here, people. Time to show some skin! Get ready for the… DECEMBER DUNK!”
And everyone’s yelling and hooting as the seniors start stripping down to swimsuits or undies. Thanks to Lindsey’s insistence, I’m ready with a black one-piece under my clothes. She, meanwhile, is in a frosted-pink bikini. Charlie and Jared, no surprise, are not in actual swimsuits, but boxers. Charlie’s gray knit, Jared’s red flannel.
“Holy crap it’s cold!” All the sweat I’ve worked up is making me colder now, as the air chills the perspiration on my skin. “Are we seriously doing this?”
“Believe it,” Lindsey says, grinning. “Let’s go!”
“Hold up,” Charlie says, checking his phone. “Mark’s here. Somewhere.” He scans the crowd, sends a text. “He better get down here.”
How She Died, How I Lived Page 25