What Light

by Jay Asher

  “Before they split, our whole family used to go nuts this time of year,” he says. “We went hardcore, from decorating to all these things we did with our church. Sometimes even Pastor Tom would go caroling with us. But when Dad moved to Nevada, I found out everything did stop for him. His house was this dark and depressing place to visit. Not only were there no Christmas lights, half the regular lights in his house were burned out. He didn’t even unpack most of his boxes after being there for months.”

  He takes a couple of bites of his pancake, looking down at his plate the whole time. I consider telling him he doesn’t need to tell me more. Whatever happened, I like the Caleb sitting in front of me now.

  “After our first visit to his place, Abby bugged me about him all the time. She was so mad at me for how he was dealing with things, for making us choose Mom. And she wouldn’t let up about it. She’d say, ‘Look what you did to him.’”

  I want to tell Caleb his dad isn’t his responsibility, but he must know that. I’m sure his mom told him that a thousand times. At least, I hope she has. “How old were you?” I ask.

  “I was in eighth grade. Abby was in sixth.”

  “I can remember sixth grade,” I say. “She was probably trying to figure how everything fit together in this new life you all had.”

  “But she blamed me for how they weren’t fitting together. And I blamed me, because some of it was true. But I was in eighth grade. How could I know what was best for everyone?”

  “Maybe there was no best,” I say.

  For the first time in minutes, Caleb looks up. He attempts a smile, and while it barely registers, I think he now believes that I do want to understand.

  He takes a sip of his coffee, leaning forward more than lifting his hands. This is the most fragile I’ve seen him. “Jeremiah had been my friend for years—my best friend—and he knew how much Abby was on me about this. He called her the Wicked Witch of the West.”

  “That’s a good friend,” I say. I cut up more of my pancake.

  “He’d say it in front of her, too, which of course made her even madder.” He laughs a little, but when he stops, he looks out the window. His reflection against the dark glass feels cold. “One day, I snapped. I couldn’t take the accusations anymore. I just snapped.”

  With my fork, I lift a piece of pancake dripping with syrup, but I don’t bring it to my mouth. “What does that mean?”

  He looks at me. His entire body echoes hurt and grief more than any remaining anger. “I couldn’t listen to it anymore. I don’t know how else to describe it. One day she screamed at me, the same thing she always screamed: that I’d ruined our dad’s life, and hers, and Mom’s. And some switch in me . . . flipped.” His voice quivers. “I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a knife.”

  My fork remains frozen over my plate, my eyes locked with his.

  “When she heard this, she ran to her room so fast,” he says. “And I ran after her.”

  He holds on to his mug with one hand. With his other hand, he numbly folds his napkin until it conceals the butter knife. I can’t tell if he’s aware he did this. If he is, I don’t know if it was for my sake or his.

  “She got to her room and slammed the door and . . .” He leans back, closes his eyes, and puts his hands in his lap. The napkin rolls open. “I stabbed her door with the knife over and over. I didn’t want to hurt her. I would never hurt her. But I could not stop stabbing the door. I heard her screaming and crying to our mom on the phone. Finally, I dropped the knife and just slumped onto the floor.”

  It comes out as a whisper, or it could be all in my head: “Oh my God.”

  He looks up at me. His eyes beg for understanding now.

  “So you did it,” I say.

  “Sierra, I swear to you, I’ve never had anything like that happen to me before or since. And I promise, I would never have hurt her. I didn’t even check if she locked the door, because that wasn’t what it was about. I think I just needed to show how much everything was hurting me, too. I’ve never physically hurt anyone in my life.”

  “I still don’t understand why,” I say.

  “I think I wanted to scare her,” he says. “But that’s all. And it did. It scared me. It scared my mom.”

  Neither of us says anything. My hands are folded tight between my knees. My entire body clenches.

  “So Abby went to live with my dad, and I’m here living with the fallout and all the rumors.”

  All the breath has escaped me. I don’t know how to reconcile the Caleb I’ve known and adored hanging out with and this broken person in front of me. “Do you still see her? Your sister?”

  “When I visit my dad, or when she visits us here.” He looks at my plate, and he must see that I haven’t taken a bite in several minutes. “For almost two years, whenever she came home, we went to a family counselor. She says she understands and has forgiven me, and I think she’s being honest. She’s a great person. You’d love her.”

  Finally, I take a bite. I’m not hungry anymore, but I also don’t know what to say.

  “Part of me keeps hoping she’ll change her mind and move back, but I could never ask for that,” he says. “That has to be something she wants. And she likes Nevada. She has a new life there now and new friends. I suppose if there is a silver lining, I’m glad my dad has her around.”

  “You don’t always need to find a silver lining,” I say, “but I’m glad you found one.”

  “Still, it’s had a huge impact on my mom. Because of me—without a doubt this time—one of her kids moved away,” he says. “My mom’s missed years of watching her daughter grow up, and that is my fault. I’ll live with that forever.”

  The way his jaw tenses, I know he’s cried over this many times. I consider everything he’s told me. How hard all of this has been for his mom and sister, as well as for him. I know this should scare me a little, but somehow it doesn’t, because I do believe he wouldn’t hurt anyone. Everything about him makes me believe that.

  “Why did your parents split?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I’m sure there’s plenty I don’t know, but my mom once told me she always held her breath around him, waiting for him to tell her what she was doing wrong. When they were together, I think she spent a lot of time feeling bad about herself.”

  “What about your sister?” I ask. “Does your dad treat her the same way?”

  “No way,” Caleb says, and finally he laughs. “Abby would give it right back. If he says anything about how she’s dressed, she’ll go on and on about double standards and he’ll end up taking it all back and apologizing.”

  Now I laugh. “That’s my kind of girl.”

  The waitress comes by to refill our coffee, and I see the worried creases return to Caleb’s forehead.

  He looks up at the waitress. “Thanks.”

  When she leaves, I ask, “How does Jeremiah fit into this?”

  “He had the bad luck of being at my house when it happened,” he says. He stares out the window again. “And he was just as freaked out as we were. He ended up going home and telling his family about it, which was fine. But that’s when his mom said we couldn’t be friends anymore.”

  “And she still won’t let you see each other?”

  His fingertips barely touch the lip of the table. “I’d be wrong to blame her,” he says. “I know I’m not dangerous, but she’s just protecting her son.”

  “She thinks she’s protecting him,” I say. “There’s a difference.”

  He shifts his gaze from the window to the table between us, his eyes narrowed. “I do blame her for how she told other parents about it,” he says. “She made me into this thing to avoid. You’re only hearing about it years later because of his family. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t hurt . . . a lot.”

  “It should never have ever gotten to me,” I say.

  “And she exa
ggerated, too,” he says. “Probably to make sure other parents didn’t think she was overreacting. That’s why I’m still a knife-wielding maniac to people like Andrew.”

  For the first time, I can see the anger he still holds over this.

  Caleb closes his eyes and holds up a hand. “I need to take that back. I don’t want you judging Jeremiah’s family. I don’t know for sure that she exaggerated anything. It could have changed as the story moved around.”

  I think about Heather’s warning, and how Rachel and Elizabeth dropped their mouths in disbelief when I told them. Everyone reacted so fast. Everyone had an opinion without ever hearing from Caleb.

  “Even if it was her, it doesn’t matter,” Caleb says. “She had a reason for saying what she did. Everyone had a reason. That doesn’t change what I did to cause it.”

  “But it’s still not fair,” I say.

  “For so long, whenever I walk through the halls or I walk downtown, and anyone I know looks at me but doesn’t say anything—even if their look means nothing—I’ve wondered what they’ve heard or what they’re thinking.”

  I shake my head. “I am so sorry, Caleb.”

  “The stupid thing is, I know Jeremiah and I could’ve stayed friends. He was there. He saw everything. I’m sure he was scared, but he knew me well enough to know I would never hurt Abby,” he says. “It’s just gone on too long. I was younger than she is now when it happened.”

  “His mom can’t still be worried about her grown son hanging out with you,” I say. “No offense, but he’s got a few inches on you.”

  He laughs once. “But she is. And so is his sister. Cassandra’s almost like his shadow. Even when he has been friendly, she’s right there to pull him away.”

  “And you’re okay letting this continue?”

  He looks at me, his eyes numb. “People think what they want. That’s what I’ve had to accept,” he says. “I can fight it, but that’s exhausting. I can feel hurt about it, but that’s torture. Or I can decide it’s their loss.”

  No matter how he chooses to think about it, it’s clear that it does still exhaust and torture him.

  “It is their loss,” I say. I reach out and place my fingers over his. “And I’m sure you would expect more impressive words from me, but you’re a pretty cool guy, Caleb.”

  He smiles. “You’re pretty cool, too, Sierra. Not that many girls would be this understanding.”

  I try to lighten things up. “How many girls do you need?”

  “That’s the other problem.” His smile is lost again. “Not only would I have to explain to a girl about my past—if she hasn’t already heard—I’d have to explain it to her parents. If they live here, eventually they’re going to hear the rumors.”

  “Have you had to explain a lot?”

  “No,” he says, “because I haven’t been with anyone long enough to find out if they’re worth it.”

  My breath escapes me. Am I worth it? Is that what he’s admitting?

  I pull back my hands. “Is that why you’re interested in me? Because I’m leaving?”

  His shoulders fall and he leans back. “You want the truth?”

  “I believe that’s what tonight’s about.”

  “Yes, at first, I thought maybe we could sidestep the drama and just hang out.”

  “But I heard the rumors,” I say. “You knew that, yet you kept coming around anyway.”

  I can see he’s holding back a smile. “Maybe it was the way you used peruse in a sentence.” He puts his hands in the middle of the table, palms up.

  “I’m sure that was it,” I say. I place my hands into his. A weight has lifted for both of us tonight.

  “Don’t forget,” he says with a childlike grin, “you also give great discounts on trees.”

  “Oh, that’s why you come around,” I say. “And if I decide you need to start paying full price?”

  He sits back, and I know he’s debating how much to keep teasing. “I guess I’d have to start paying full price.”

  I lift an eyebrow at him. “Then I guess it really is just me.”

  He runs his thumbs along my knuckles. “It’s just you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  After I buckle in, Caleb starts the truck. We pull out of the diner’s parking lot and he says, “Now it’s your turn. I’d love to hear about a time you completely lost it.”

  “Me?” I say. “Oh, I’m always in control.”

  The way he smiles, I’m glad he knows I’m joking.

  We drive onto the highway in silence. I look from the oncoming car lights to the impressive silhouette of Cardinals Peak just outside the city. I look back to him, and his profile flickers from silhouette to a happy expression, and then from silhouette to worry. Does he wonder whether I feel differently about him now?

  “I gave you a lot of ammunition back there,” he says.

  “To use against you?” I ask.

  When he doesn’t answer, I’m a little upset he thinks I would possibly do that. Maybe neither of us has known the other long enough to be sure of anything.

  “I would never do that,” I say. It is entirely up to him now whether he believes me.

  We drive over a mile before he finally responds with a simple “Thank you.”

  “I get the feeling enough people have already done that,” I say.

  “It’s why I stopped telling most people the truth,” he says. “They’re going to believe what they believe, and I’m tired of explaining. The only people I owe anything to are Abby and my mom.”

  “You didn’t have to tell me either,” I say. “You could have decided to—”

  “I know,” he says. “I wanted to tell you.”

  We drive the rest of the way back to the lot in silence, and I hope he feels less burdened now. Whenever I get painfully honest with any of my friends, I always feel a sense of lightness. That occurs only because I trust them. And he can trust me. If his sister says she forgives him, why should I hold anything against him? Especially knowing how much he regrets it.

  We pull into the parking area of the tree lot. The snowflake lights around the perimeter are turned off, but the lampposts are still on for security. The lights inside the trailer are off and all the curtains are shut.

  “Before you leave,” I say, “there is something else I need to know.”

  With the engine running, he turns toward me.

  “When it gets closer to Christmas,” I say, “will you be leaving to visit Abby and your dad?”

  He looks down, but soon a smile appears on his lips. He knows I’m asking because I don’t want him to leave. “This is my mom’s year,” he says. “Abby’s coming here.”

  I don’t want to hide my enthusiasm entirely, but I try to maintain some cool. “I’m glad,” I say.

  He looks at me. “I’ll see my dad over spring break.”

  “Will he be lonely at Christmas?”

  “A little,” he says, “I’m sure. But another good thing about Abby living there is she forces him to get into the holiday spirit. She’s taking him out to get a tree this weekend.”

  “She really is feisty,” I say.

  Caleb faces the front window. “I was looking forward to doing that with them next year,” he says, “but now I don’t know. I think a big part of me won’t want to leave until the last minute before Christmas.”

  “Because of your mom?” I ask.

  With every second that passes without an answer, the more weightless I feel. Is he saying he’ll want to stay because of me? I want to ask—I should ask—but I’m too afraid. If he says no, I’d feel ridiculous for assuming. If he says yes, then I’d have to tell him that next year may not be like this year at all.

  He steps out into the cool air and comes around to my door. He takes my hand and helps me out. We hold each other’s hands a moment more, standing so close.
In this instant I feel closer to him than I have with any other guy. Even though I won’t be here for long. Even though I don’t know when I’m returning.

  I ask him to come back tomorrow. He says he will. I let go of his hand and walk toward the trailer, hoping the silence in there will calm my rushing mind.

  For the past three years I’ve gone to school with Heather for one day before their winter break. It began as a dare during one of her movie marathons; we were curious if her school would allow it. My mom called to find out, and since the high school principal used to be a teacher at the elementary school I went to each winter, she didn’t mind. “Sierra’s a good kid,” she said.

  Heather applies eyeliner, looking into a tiny mirror stuck to the inside of her locker. “You asked him about it while eating pancakes?” she asks.

  “Huge pancakes,” I say. “And Rachel told me to do it somewhere public, so . . .”

  “What did he say?”

  I lean against the next locker. “It’s not my story to tell. Just keep giving him a chance, okay?”

  “I’m letting you hang out with him unchaperoned. I’d say that’s giving him a chance.” She caps her eyeliner. “When I heard the two of you were prancing all over town delivering Christmas trees like Mr. and Mrs. Claus, I figured the rumors must be exaggerated.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  She shuts her locker. “So now that you two are legit, I should remind you why I encouraged a holiday fling to begin with.”

  We both look down the busy hall to Devon, standing in a circle of his guy friends.

  “Are you over that whole Winter Queen thing?” I ask.

  “Believe me, I made him grovel over that,” she says. “A lot. Still, look at him! He should be standing over here with me. You’d think if he really liked me—”

  “Stop!” I say. “Listen to yourself. First you want to break up, but you say you would never do that to him over the holidays. And yet when he doesn’t give you attention, you get despondent.”

  “I do not get . . . ! Wait, is that like being all pouty?”