“Like who?” I asked, setting down my bag.
“Anyone,” said Jasper. “There’s literally nobody I want surprising me in the night.”
“Right, but who would want to come in?” I asked. “Who would be here at night? Or in the day? Nobody even knows about this place. I’ve lived here all my life, and I didn’t know about it.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Jasper. “The police, looking for runaways. Or some scary dude hiding from the police.”
“Wow,” I said. “I guess I hadn’t thought about any of that.”
“There’s a lot of people who sleep outside,” said Jasper. “I can’t be the only one who knows about this place. I’m sure other homeless people would love my setup. I mean, look at it!”
“Yeah,” I said, thinking about all the homeless people who shuffled around the hipster shops and bars in East Atlanta on the weekends, asking for spare change. I thought about the tired-looking men who stood by the on-ramp to the interstate with their signs that read Will Work for Food God Bless. “I guess you’re right. I just hadn’t thought about you that way.”
“Well, that way is what I am,” said Jasper.
“Kind of,” I said. “But not really. I mean, you have a sister.”
“Don’t you think most homeless people have a sister?” asked Jasper. “Or a brother or a mother or a father or a kid?”
“I guess they do,” I said, trying to wrap my brain around it. Though the thought was a terrible one. I decided to change the subject. “I’m not sure the fire will work. It’s not raining anymore, but it’s still super wet outside.”
Jasper laughed and pointed to a few buckets and cans in the middle of the room, collecting drips from leaks in the ceiling. “Yeah, it’s pretty wet in here too.”
“Ugh,” I said. “That’s no fun. But anyway, I brought the other stuff we need. For flaming brains. And I found some marshmallows too.”
“What are we waiting for?” Jasper slipped on her flip-flops and I hoisted the bag up on my shoulder. Then we left the house to hike back down through the kudzu, slipping a little in the mud. We walked the short trek up the creek, and then to the farm, heading for the very middle, where no tree branches would block the sky. There I unpacked my bag and laid the quilt down. Luckily it was thick enough that the wet grass didn’t soak all the way through. I set out the marshmallows and the lantern in the middle of it. Then we sat down around the lantern. Almost like it was a campfire. Jasper’s face glowed in the lantern light.
Once we were finally sitting down, the night changed. It settled. It calmed along with us. The sky above us was overcast, soft and thick with clouds. It looked like gray felt. All around us, the trees dripped, and each time the wind blew, a scatter of drops could be heard hitting the ground. The occasional intrepid firefly blinked here and there. Everything felt hushed and cooler than usual. Like the night was waiting.
Jasper tore open the marshmallow bag and popped one into her mouth. “Okay,” she said. “What’s the big deal with these brains?”
“You’ll see,” I said, reaching for a piece of newspaper.
I laid it out in front of me on the quilt and folded the corners like my dad had taught me, into triangles, and then I popped the whole thing open, like a sort of box.
“Is it basically a paper airplane?” asked Jasper.
“More like a blimp,” I said, reaching for another piece of newspaper. I folded a second box. Then I stood and motioned for Jasper to do the same. “Come on,” I said. “Not on the blanket.”
We walked about twenty feet away and stood, holding our newspaper contraptions. I struck a match, watched it flare, and then lit Jasper’s brain. “Okay, now let go!” I said.
As the flaming box of paper floated up into the sky, I lit my own brain and released it too. Then we both stood and watched the sky, watched the orange burning creations melt into the soft darkness above. They lifted and drifted, beyond the oak trees, and bits of ash fell down onto our heads. It was so dark I couldn’t see the ash falling on my arms, but I could feel it. Like gentle whispers on my skin.
“Wow,” said Jasper, once the fire in the sky was gone.
“I know, right?”
“Can we do it again?”
“Sure,” I said. “Of course.”
We made another set and watched them float. Then we made ten all at once, and set them all on fire as quickly as we could. They illuminated the wet branches as they rose, filled the sky with their soft, glowing embers. It was maybe the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. It was so perfect that after that, neither of us even suggested making more.
Back on the blanket, we lay on opposite sides of the camping lantern, staring silently at each other through the bright plastic glow, so different from actual fire.
“Why are they called flaming brains?” asked Jasper after a minute. She rolled over onto an elbow and reached for a marshmallow. “They don’t look like brains.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “My dad just always calls them that. We used to do them with all the neighbors, after cookouts.”
“Like on the Fourth of July?”
“Yeah, but we used to have cookouts all the time,” I said. “There used to be this whole crew of families that hung out together. Once a month, at least, we’d all get together at someone’s house. Me and Sam and our friends would be all crazy in the yard, playing games and whacking things with sticks and running around with hot dogs and watermelon. I don’t think any of us ever used a plate. And meanwhile the parents would sit on the porch and drink beers. Lots of beers.”
“I know about moms and beers,” said Jasper. “Does that bother you? Does your mom ever get mean?”
I shook my head. “No way, my mom only ever got really happy. Annoyingly happy. She’d drink her beer, and then laugh super loud. Like a bird, kind of, HEE-HEE.”
“Yeah, that does sound a little annoying.”
“It was,” I said. “But it was, like, she was so, so, so happy. It kind of made me happy too. Sometimes, she’d just dance. By herself, in the yard. She’d come down to where the kids were and dance alone, all happy. And barefoot! My mom is always taking off her shoes. Even now. But she doesn’t dance anymore, or laugh like that. No more HEE-HEE. That was all before . . .”
“Before Sam?” asked Jasper.
“Yes, before Sam,” I said. Then I sat up and looked at Jasper. “I wonder if the neighbors still get together, once a month, but nobody calls us anymore.”
“That would be really unfair,” said Jasper. “But sometimes things are unfair.”
“Yeah. Yeah, they are. . . .”
I lay there for a minute and thought about that—about unfairness. And Sam. After a minute I said “Hey, Jasper? I think I’m ready.”
“For what?” said Jasper.
“To tell you about Sam. I think I want to tell you about it. About him. What happened. I haven’t told anybody. Not even my parents. I mean, they know what happened, but they don’t know the whole story. What I was thinking when . . . But I want to tell you. If you don’t mind. If you want to hear it?”
She swallowed. “Are you sure you want to tell it?” she asked.
Suddenly I was sure. Suddenly, it was like some aching hole was in me, like the damp dark night or the fires in the sky had changed everything. I wanted to tell Jasper what had happened. In fact, I didn’t think I could stop myself.
“Yes.”
“Okay,” she said in a whisper that told me she was ready. Or was trying to be. So I lay back down again on the other side of the lantern. I faced Jasper, took a deep breath.
“We were at camp,” I said. “It was the very last week of camp.”
The Whole Story
“We both started going to camp when we were eight,” I said. “Me first, and then Sam. It was a family tradition. My mom had gone to Camp Whippoorwill too, when she was eight, and her mom before her. So it was the fourth year for me, and only Sam’s second year.”
“What’s it like?” asked Ja
sper. “Camp, I mean.”
“Camp Whippoorwill is . . . good. Or it was for me, anyway. It was like I got to go there each year, for a whole month, and I wasn’t the regular version of Leah Davidson anymore. Like my camp friends knew this other version of me. Camp Leah was louder and more fun and she laughed more. Camp Leah would do things that Regular Leah wouldn’t, like water ski. I don’t know why. Camp Leah wore her hair in pigtails.”
“You’d look cute in pigtails,” said Jasper.
“Every year, I’d promise myself that when I got back home, I’d try to keep being Camp Leah. But it never worked. I’d walk into school that first day and turn back into Regular Leah. I’d put my hair in pigtails but then take them out again. And just be my usual self, trailing after Tess and trying not to be left out of things.”
“I think I get it,” said Jasper.
“I know you do,” I said, staring at her in the greenish light of the lantern. “Anyway, it was Sam’s second year. And he was . . . well, he was my little brother. He was annoying. He didn’t like it there as much as I did. And mostly, we got divided into groups at camp. So he was in a cabin for boys his age, pretty far away. But sometimes I’d see him, at the lake or the cafeteria, and he always seemed to be alone. I felt bad . . . but not bad enough to pay too much attention.”
“Was he a loner at home?”
“No. He was exactly the opposite. Sam had a whole little gang of kids he loved to play with, all these boys his age in the neighborhood. But at camp it was flipped. I had my camp friends—Hazel and Tali and Jess—and he didn’t seem to have anyone.”
“Poor kid,” said Jasper.
“Yeah, so I’d look over at lunch or dinner and see him eating quietly. He was never quiet at home. Regular Sam was fast and loud and always making crazy noises and always in a hurry or jumping on people. So much that it was embarrassing! But Camp Sam was quiet and alone. The whole time.”
“That sucks,” said Jasper.
“So one day, the last week of camp, I’m at the lake, with Hazel and Tali. We’re out on the raft, just talking. And I look out. I see him, heading our way. Sort of a cross between a dog paddle and a crawl. He wasn’t a great swimmer.”
I stopped talking for a minute and saw that Jasper was staring at me now, silent. I could see it register, what I was about to tell her. She knew before I said another word. Of course she did. Just like the moment she opened the door to his room. Jasper had a weird kind of magical intuition.
“Oh, God,” she said.
I closed my eyes for a minute. Then I opened them again, and she was still staring at me. I thought maybe she’d tell me to stop, but she didn’t. She sat there. She was ready. And I needed her to be ready. I needed her not to freak out.
“So anyway,” I said. “Anyway . . .” I took another breath. I closed my eyes, and kept them closed as I said, “It only took a minute. I saw him, swimming our way. And I was annoyed, kind of. Not in a serious way. Just, like . . . my little brother was coming to hang out with me and my friends on the raft. Which meant we were going to have to stop talking about whatever it was we were talking about. Which I don’t even remember now, because it didn’t matter at all. But I was annoyed.”
“Yeah,” said Jasper in a soft voice.
“So when I saw him, I . . . I turned away for a minute. I looked away. I think I was hoping he’d see me turning away and get the message, go find someone else to pester.”
“Oh, Leah. . . .”
“Right? I’m the worst. The worst sister ever.”
I opened my eyes again and looked at Jasper. I didn’t know what to expect. Shock? Disgust? But she was just waiting, listening, and I wasn’t sure what her face was saying, but it didn’t say that I was the worst. I kept talking.
“Anyway, after a minute, when he didn’t turn up at the raft, I figured he’d swum somewhere else. But when I looked around the lake for him, to see where he’d headed . . . I couldn’t find him. He just . . . wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere. There was nobody swimming near the raft, or near where he’d been. The water was empty. Flat.”
“So you didn’t see him . . . go?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t see anything happen. Because I wasn’t watching. On purpose. Because I was choosing not to watch. I was ignoring him. When he was dying, I was ignoring him, Jasper.”
“But he didn’t thrash or anything? Shout? Weren’t there other people around?”
“That’s the thing. Nobody saw anything. He just . . . I guess he just got tired. And slipped down. He sank. Just like that.”
“Just like that,” whispered Jasper.
“Yeah . . . ,” I said. “Just like that.”
Telling Jasper was so strange. Telling anyone was so strange. I wasn’t crying. Why wasn’t I crying? Shouldn’t I be crying? How was I able to just tell the story? Like it was any other story? Like it was something that had happened to someone else? Finally, I was saying it out loud, and I felt . . . nothing. It was like I was made of stone. It felt like the earth should rip open, like some monster should come devour me; but I just sat there, under that foggy wet sky, and said it. Like any other words. Like no big deal. I really was the worst sister ever.
“And that was all?” Jasper asked.
I nodded. “At first it was. For, like, a second. And then I freaked, jumped up. I remember my heart was beating super fast. I looked all around. Everywhere. I was turning circles on the raft, trying to look everywhere at once. It seemed crazy. I remember I worried I was overreacting. Like Tali and Hazel might laugh at me for going nuts and stressing out. But I knew. I just knew. He was my brother. I knew Sam, and I could feel it, that he was gone. I could feel him not being there. The hole he’d left. Already. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
Jasper shook her head. “I don’t,” she said. “My sister and I . . . aren’t like that. But I can imagine.”
“So then, there I was, looking all around me, all around the lake, at other groups of kids, trying to find his hair—he had really dark hair, like mine. Almost black. I was looking for it, and not seeing it, and it was like something was winding up inside me, as I looked, and then the winding-up thing snapped and I just started screaming and screaming. And Tali and Hazel didn’t understand, because of course they hadn’t even noticed him. Because he wasn’t their brother. He wasn’t theirs. He was only mine.”
At last, there were tears in my eyes, waiting, trembling, and I could feel the heaving building in my chest and I knew I only had a minute before the heaving turned to crying. I could feel it coming. Like a wave about to break.
“He was mine, Jasper,” I whispered. “My person. Until he wasn’t anymore. And he drove me crazy, because he was always there. But then . . . he wasn’t there . . . anymore. He just disappeared. When I . . .” My words disappeared suddenly. “When I . . .”
“Leah?”
“When I . . . turned away.”
Then I burst. I broke. All through me it came now, like the storm earlier that night. Crashing and throbbing. I curled up into a ball and cried. I couldn’t help it. Right there on the old blanket. I buried my face in the thick dusty-smelling cloth, and I cried. I cried. I cried. Alone.
I don’t know how long I was like that. I cried, and Jasper let me. She didn’t say anything. She just let me cry.
But then I felt her. Not a hand or a pat or a voice, but her whole body, pressed against me, curling around me like Mom used to do when I was littler and I had a nightmare and crawled up into bed with her. Jasper’s chin was on my shoulder, and her knees were up inside my knees. She was there, fitted into me. Her arm crept around me, and she held me, calming the storm. “Shhhh,” she said. “Shhhh. It’s okay.”
It wasn’t. It wasn’t okay and it never would be. But it was still nice to be held. It was better than being alone. Slowly, the sobbing softened. It quieted. Until I was still. But when it was over, Jasper was still there, holding me. The two of us, lying side by side, in the fake light from the lantern. And it wasn’t
weird. She was just helping, holding me together. She was just taking care of me. Being there.
“So, yeah,” I said at last. In a tiny voice that didn’t sound like mine. “That was how it happened. That was how he died.”
“And then you came home?” asked Jasper, into my hair, right behind my ear.
I flipped myself over. Our faces were close, but we weren’t touching anymore. I nodded. “Yes. My parents drove up right away. A few hours later, they were there. And I remember we hugged, but they weren’t real hugs. You know what I mean?”
Jasper nodded. “I do. I know exactly.”
“They were numb hugs,” I said. “Hugs made of . . . I don’t know . . . sadness and glass. Like we were all afraid to break each other. And they were dragging the lake by then, and while I was in my cabin, packing, they found him. His . . . body. It wasn’t him anymore, not really. And so, yeah, we came home. And buried him.”
“Just like that?” asked Jasper.
“It’s a Jewish thing,” I said. “You’re supposed to bury people right away, get them into the ground quick.”
“How quick?”
“Too quick. Or that was how it felt. To me.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Jasper.
“Yeah, and then all these people came over to our house and brought food. So much food. When you’re Jewish and someone dies, everyone comes to visit for a few days, and you have to be polite. My grandparents were here a bunch, and the neighbors and people from school. But then they all went away again and we were left behind in this house that felt the same, only not the same. And nobody thought to eat, or clean out the fridge, and the food went bad. Because nobody thought to throw anything away. So then the house smelled like death. Literally. Like rotting things.”
“That’s . . . awful,” said Jasper. “I didn’t know that either.”
I nodded at her. “It’s the most awful thing. To be so . . . empty. And the whole house was just gross. And it was summer, so there was no school, and eventually my parents went back to work. So there I was in this house completely full of rotting food, alone. One day I went into the kitchen and threw everything away. Every single thing in the fridge. The ketchup and the olives and the old box of baking soda that’s been there my entire life. Even the ice trays. I dumped it all in the trash outside.”
My Jasper June Page 12
