What Light

by Jay Asher

  I blink. “Are you serious? You avoid the girls around here because you don’t want to deal with explaining your past to them. That’s pretty focused on the difficult.”

  The frustration pours out of him. “That is not what I said. I told you I wasn’t with anyone long enough to find out if they were worth it. But you are worth it. I know that.”

  My head swims in what he just said. “Really? You think we’re possible?”

  His eyes are adamant. “Yes.” Soon they turn gentle and he gives me a delicate, sincere smile. “Sierra, I combed my hair for you.”

  I look down and laugh, and then push my hair out of my face.

  He rubs his thumb along my cheek. I raise my chin toward him and hold my breath.

  “My sister gets here this weekend,” he says. There’s a nervousness in his voice. “I want you to meet her. And my mom. Will you?”

  I look deep into his eyes to answer him. “Yes.” With that one word, I feel like I’m answering a dozen more questions that he no longer needs to ask.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  When I get to the trailer, I collapse on my bed. I set the picture of Caleb and me with Santa on the table, gazing at it sideways while I rest my head on the ugly-sweater pillow.

  Then I leap to my knees and hold our picture up to my frames from back home. First I show it to Elizabeth. In my best Elizabeth voice, I ask, “Why are you doing this? You’re there to sell trees and hang out with Heather.”

  I answer, “I have been, but—”

  I switch back to Elizabeth. “This can’t go anywhere, Sierra, no matter what he says about focusing on the possible.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t know, you guys. Maybe it could.”

  I move on to Rachel’s picture. The first thing she does is whistle and point out his dimple.

  “I know,” I say. “Trust me, that does not make it any easier.”

  “What’s the worst that can happen?” she says. “You get your heart broken. So? It sounds like that’s going to happen anyway.”

  I drop back onto my bed, clutching Caleb’s picture to my chest. “I know.”

  I go outside to see if I can help in the Bigtop. Things are slow, so I mix hot chocolate in my Easter egg mug and head back to the trailer for schoolwork. Passing our tallest Fraser firs, I see Andrew tugging a garden hose between them. After our blowup the other day, I decide to make nice for the sake of working together.

  “Thanks for always checking their water,” I say. “They look good.”

  Andrew completely ignores me. He twists the nozzle on the hose and starts misting the trees. So much for staying cordial.

  In the trailer, I pull out my laptop and review a chapter write-up I threw together late last night. Checking my email, I see Monsieur Cappeau is upset I blew off our last conversation, so I reschedule it and then shut everything down.

  Peeking through the curtains I watch Dad approach Andrew, motioning for him to pass him the hose. He demonstrates the way he wants the trees misted and then hands it back. Andrew nods and Dad smiles, patting him on the shoulder. Then he walks into our forest of trees. Instead of resuming misting, Andrew quickly looks over to the trailer.

  I snap back, letting the curtain close.

  I decide to make dinner for the family, slicing up vegetables from McGregor’s and cooking them together in a large pot of soup. While that simmers, I watch another flatbed loaded with trees pull up outside. Uncle Bruce hops down from the cab. While some of our workers swarm the truck and climb the ladder to the trees, Uncle Bruce jogs over to the trailer and opens the door.

  “Wow, it smells great in here!” He pulls me into a bear hug. “Out there, it smells like tree sap and teenage boys.”

  He excuses himself and ducks into the bathroom while I check on the soup. I sprinkle in a few spices from the cupboard and then stir it with a wooden spoon. Uncle Bruce returns to have a taste before heading back out to the trees. I lean against the counter and stare at the door as it closes behind him. These are the moments that make me look forward to doing this for the rest of my life. When my parents get too old, it will be up to me to decide the fate of our farm and whether we run any lots.

  When the truck bed is empty, Dad stays outside to direct the workers, but Mom and Uncle Bruce come in and join me. They’re so thrilled with the soup, slurping it up like hungry wolves, they say nothing about me bailing on the heavy labor.

  Ladling himself a second bowl, Uncle Bruce tells us about Aunt Penny wrapping their whole Christmas tree in lights without plugging them in first. “Who does that?” he says. When she finally turned them on, half of the lights didn’t work, so now they’ve got a tree half as bright as it could be.

  After Uncle Bruce goes outside to take over for Dad, Mom heads into the tiny bedroom for a short nap before the evening rush. Dad comes in and I hold out a bowl of soup for him. He stands just inside the door, seemingly agitated, like he wants to talk to me about something. Instead, he shakes his head and walks to the bedroom.

  The next afternoon, when things slow down, I return a call to Rachel.

  “You are not going to believe what happened!” she says.

  “Some actor saw your post about the winter formal and accepted?”

  “Hey, they do that sometimes—it’s good press—so I’m still holding out hope,” she says. “But this is way better than that.”

  “So spill!”

  “The girl in A Christmas Carol, the one playing the Ghost of Christmas Past, she has mono! I mean, that’s not good. But I’m going to replace her, which is!”

  I laugh. “At least you recognize mono isn’t good.”

  Rachel laughs, too. “I know, I know, but it’s mono, not cancer. Anyway, I know it’s last minute, but Sunday night’s the only show that isn’t sold out.”

  “As in . . . tomorrow?” I ask.

  “I already looked it up, and you can hop a train at midnight and—”

  “Midnight tonight?”

  “You’ll get here in plenty of time,” she says.

  I must have paused too long because Rachel asks if I’m still here.

  “I’ll ask,” I say, “but I can’t promise.”

  “No, of course,” she says, “but try. I want to see you. Elizabeth does, too. And you can stay at my house. I already asked my parents. And then you can give us the scoop on Caleb. You’ve been way too quiet on that front . . .”

  “We had the talk about his sister,” I say. “I think he told me everything.”

  “So I’m guessing he’s not a knife-wielding psychopath?”

  “I haven’t said much to anyone because it still feels complicated,” I say. “I’m not sure how I feel, or even how I want to feel.”

  “That’s confusing to hear,” Rachel says. “It must be really confusing to think.”

  “Now that I know it’s not wrong to like him,” I say, “I obsess over whether that makes it right. I’m only here for a couple more weeks.”

  “Hmm . . .” I can hear Rachel tapping the side of her phone. “Sounds like you don’t expect to forget him when you leave.”

  “At this point, I don’t know if that’s possible.”

  After we end the call, I find Mom in the Bigtop hanging up newly made wreaths. Over her work shirt she wears a dark green apron that says It’s Beginning to Smell a Lot like Christmas. Last year we gave that apron to Dad on Christmas Eve. We always get him something cheesy before going home, where the real presents are.

  I help her fluff up some of the branches within the wreaths. Eventually I blurt out, “Can I take a train and see Rachel be the Ghost of Christmas Past on Sunday?”

  Mom freezes while adjusting a wreath. “I think you said something about Rachel and a ghost, or . . .”

  “It’s terrible timing,” I say, “I know. This weekend is going to be so busy here. I don’t need to go if
it’ll be an inconvenience to anyone.” I don’t mention not particularly wanting to go. I don’t want to waste two potential days with Caleb stuck on a train by myself.

  She walks to a sealed cardboard box set on the counter and slices through the tape with a razor. “I’ll talk to your dad,” she says. “We may be able to work something out.”

  “Oh . . .”

  After opening the box, she hands me several thin white boxes of silver tinsel. I set those on the shelf below the wreaths, and then she hands me more.

  “A few of the workers have been asking for more hours,” she says. “We can staff up for a few days while you’re gone.” She sets the empty box below the counter and wipes her hands on her apron. “Can you watch the register for me?”

  That means she’s going to talk to Dad.

  “Actually,” I say, closing my eyes, “I don’t really want to go.” I smile at her with gritted teeth.

  Mom chuckles. “Then why did you ask?”

  I scrub a hand over my face. “Because I thought you’d say no. I thought you’d need me here. But I told Rachel I would ask.”

  Mom’s face turns soft. “Honey, what’s going on? You know your father and I love having you here to help, but we would never want you to feel like you gave up everything for the family business.”

  “But it is a family business,” I say. “One day I could take it over.”

  “We would love that, of course,” Mom says. She pulls me into a hug and then leans back so we can see each other. “But if I’m reading you correctly, we’re not just talking about the family business or a play.”

  I look away. “Rachel’s important to me. You know that. Even though the Ghost of Christmas Past doesn’t even talk, I’d still love to see it. But . . . well . . . Caleb asked me to meet his family this weekend.”

  Mom studies my expression. “If I was your dad, I’d be booking that train ticket right now.”

  “I know,” I say. “Am I being stupid?”

  “Your feelings are not stupid,” she says. “But I need to tell you, your dad has some real reservations about Caleb.”

  I frown. “Can you tell me why?”

  “I told him we need to trust you,” Mom says, “but I can’t say I’m not a little concerned myself.”

  “Mom, tell me,” I say, searching her eyes. “Did Andrew say something?”

  “He talked to your father,” she says. “And so should you.”

  “But it’s A Christmas Carol!” Rachel says.

  I lay on my bed with the phone to my ear and one hand on my forehead. Rachel’s photo looks down on me as she pretends to hide from paparazzi. “It’s not that I don’t want to see it,” I tell her. I could say my parents won’t let me leave, but she and I have always been honest with each other.

  “Then get on the train!” she says. “I swear, if this is about that boy—”

  “His name is Caleb. And yes, it is. Rachel, I’m supposed to meet his family this weekend. After that, we only have a few days before—” I hear a click. “Are you there?”

  I slam my phone on the table, put the ugly-sweater pillow over my mouth, and scream. Giving myself a moment to be angry, I decide to use the energy to confront Dad about what Andrew said to him.

  I find Dad carrying a small tree out to a car.

  “No, there’s too much going on tonight,” he says. The bluntness of his tone tells me he’s just not ready to talk. “Your mom and I have to review sales, and . . . No, Sierra, I can’t.”

  When Heather calls to see if we can make cookies tonight with the guys, I don’t even bother asking. Mom said she doesn’t want the family business intruding on my life, so when Devon pulls up, I tell her I’m leaving, hop into his car, and we go.

  We pull into the supermarket parking lot and Caleb leans forward. He asks Devon to park at the opposite end from the Hoppers’ Christmas tree lot so there’s no awkward conversation about why he hasn’t been around lately.

  “You should buy from them, too,” I say. “I love the Hopper family. I mean, then I would have to rescind your discount, but . . .”

  Heather laughs. “Sierra, I think you’ll have to tell him what rescind means.”

  “Ha. Funny,” Caleb says. “I know what it means . . . in context.”

  My phone pings with a text from Elizabeth, and I cover the screen with my hand to read it. She tells me I need to consider which friends will be here years from now. Obviously, Rachel called her once she hung up on me. A second text from Elizabeth expresses disappointment that I’m doing this over a guy I barely know.

  “Everything all right?” Caleb asks.

  I turn off my phone and put it in my pocket. “Just some drama in Oregon,” I say.

  Especially coming from Elizabeth, those texts feel aggressive. Do they think my decision was easy? Or that Caleb can’t possibly matter to me? It’s not easy, and I am not becoming one of those girls. I’m here for a short time, and I don’t want to erase several days from the calendar that I could spend with him.

  We get out of the car and Caleb exaggerates flipping up his collar and scrunching down so Mr. Hopper won’t notice him. Even though we’re too far away for him to see us, I do the same, and we run into the store.

  Heather folds the shopping list in half and then tears it along the crease. She gives half the list to me and Caleb, keeps half for herself, and then loops arms with Devon. We agree to meet at register eight when we’re done. Caleb and I start by heading toward the dairy section at the back of the store.

  “You seemed out of it when we picked you up,” Caleb says. “Is everything okay?”

  I can only shrug. Things are not okay. Rachel’s mad that I’m not coming to her show. Dad would be mad that I’m here right now.

  “That’s all I get? A shrug?” Caleb asks. “Thanks. That’s A+ for communication.”

  I don’t want to talk about this while shopping, so now Caleb is upset with me. He walks a full step ahead. When we reach the wall of refrigerated milk, he abruptly stops and reaches back for my hand.

  I follow his gaze until I spot Jeremiah setting a gallon of milk in a shopping cart. When a woman who looks like his mom wheels the cart around, we all face each other. I give his mom a closer look. I recognize her—she came to the lot a few days ago. When I offered to help, she mumbled something about our prices and walked right past me.

  Jeremiah gives both of us courtesy smiles.

  His mom begins to push the cart around us. “Caleb,” she says, instead of “Hello.” Her voice is tight.

  Caleb’s voice is soft. “Hi, Mrs. Moore.” Before she can pass, he adds, “This is my friend Sierra.”

  Mrs. Moore looks at me, still pushing the cart past us. “Nice to meet you, dear.”

  I meet her gaze. “My parents own one of the Christmas tree lots,” I say. I step in the same direction they’re heading and she stops the cart. “I think you came by recently.”

  Her smile is hesitant and she looks at Jeremiah. “Which reminds me, we still need to get ours.”

  I feel the tension in Caleb’s hand, but I do my best to ignore him and continue the conversation. I follow beside their cart, pulling Caleb with me. “Come by again,” I say. “My uncle brought down a whole new shipment. They’re really fresh.”

  Mrs. Moore looks back at Caleb again, with less coldness, but turns to me to speak. “Maybe we will. It was nice to meet you, Sierra.” She pushes the cart ahead, and Jeremiah follows her down the aisle.

  Caleb’s eyes look glazed. I squeeze his arm to show that I’m here, but also to apologize if I forced that moment on him. But it’s clear to me that he and Jeremiah should not have stopped being friends.

  Before I can express any of this to him, there’s an angry voice behind us. “My brother doesn’t need your mess, Caleb. He’s good.”

  I wheel around. Jeremiah’s sister stands wit
h her hands on her hips, waiting for Caleb to react, but he says nothing. When his gaze drops to the floor, I take a step toward her.

  “What’s your name?” I say. “It’s Cassandra, right? Listen, Cassandra, Caleb is good, too. You and your brother should learn that.”

  She looks from me to Caleb, probably wondering why he’s not sticking up for himself. I tilt my head, ready to ask her the same thing about Jeremiah.

  “I don’t know you,” Cassandra says to me, “and you don’t know my brother.”

  “But I do know Caleb,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “He is not getting mixed up in that. Not again.” She takes off down the aisle.

  I squeeze Caleb’s hand as we watch her disappear around the corner. “I am so sorry,” I whisper. “I know you can stick up for yourself. I just couldn’t stop.”

  “People will think what they want,” he says. The confrontation over, I can see his calmness slowly returning. Over the years, he’s clearly learned to let these moments wash off his back, and now he smirks at me. “So, did you get it out of your system?”

  “I was ready to take swings if it came to that,” I say.

  “And now you know why I didn’t let go of your hand.”

  Heather and Devon come up behind us. He’s carrying a basket with eggs, frosting, and sprinkles.

  “Can we please go make cookies now?” she asks. She looks at our hands. “Where’s all your stuff? It was a short list!”

  After gathering our items we walk to the checkout line together. Jeremiah, his mom, and Cassandra are two registers over. None of them acknowledge us, but the way they look everywhere but at us says everything.

  “Doesn’t it bother you that he won’t even look at you?” I ask Caleb.

  “Of course it does,” he says. “But it’s my fault, so let it go.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I say. “It’s the three of them who should—”

  “Please,” he says. “Let it go.”