by Lacey Dailey
Thwack!
“Dude!”
“Don’t use that language in my house, and I am not your dude.”
I scoot away from the crazy old man in the recliner and his weapon, massaging my abused noggin. “Sorry,” I mutter, yanking open the other drawer, finding similar items plus a membership card to Sams Club that expired four years ago.
I’m tempted to pocket the item and take it to Alma.
“Are you liking school?”
“Hm?” The drawer shuts with a click. “Yeah. I guess. I don’t mind it, but it’s not my favorite thing.”
“Any plans for the future?”
Find my mother, stop sleeping on a pizza slice, ask Alma Underwood out on a date…
“I’m helping Alma study for her Spanish quiz this weekend.”
He regards me with a straight-laced expression I’m all too familiar with. “That is not what I meant and you know it.”
“Ungh.” I throw my head back and flap my arms dramatically. “I don’t know. Alma dragged me to a career fair a few days ago.”
“And?”
I look up. “I don’t know.”
Hand in hand with Alma, I walked out of the career fair, my back pocket stuffed with eight pamphlets. I haven’t looked at them since.
Signing off on a decision so paramount, without my dad, is not only exhausting but agonizing in a way that tugs on all my joints. Pulling myself off my pizza bed the next morning was damn near impossible.
Some days, I just need to catch my breath.
“Well, if all else fails, you have a career putting together furniture for old men with arthritis.”
I snort. “How reassuring.”
He winks.
I shuffle across the carpet on my knees. “Could you lift your feet, Reg?” I poke the top of the slipper he’s wearing. “I need to check under this chair.”
He looks severely unhappy about it but lifts his feet with an annoyed huff anyway. I make quick work of wedging my upper body beneath the chair and feeling around blindly for the long lost remote. Wrapping my fingers around something solid, I start to wiggle my way free, hoping it’s not another phone.
“Bingo.” I blow off the dust. “Found the remote, Reggie.”
“Good. Now get out of there so I can put my feet back down.”
I scramble free and try to hand the remote to him.
He shakes his head. “Just put it on one of the tables.”
Extending my arm, I place the remote among the coaster collection. My nosy eyes skim the coasters, and I’m caught off guard when I spot Reggie’s face on one, attached to a much younger looking body. Curious fingers hold the ceramic disc up to the light.
Reggie has kids?
“Is this a photo of you and your kids?”
“Yep. That’s them.”
I squint, trying to make out the figures in the faded photo. Reggie’s clearly in the middle, a broad smile on his face with an arm around both his son and daughter. He’s wrinkle free. Weird.
“When was this taken?”
“Oh, about twenty years ago.” The recliner creaks when he starts to rock. “The coasters were a gift to my wife before she left me.”
“Oh.” My throat threatens to close. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“What?” The blue in his eyes twinkles. “Oh, kid, she isn’t dead. She’s living in a swanky retirement home with her boyfriend.”
I bite my cheek to cover my smile.
“We divorced about a decade ago. She was a great woman and a wonderful mother, but we weren’t a perfect pair.”
I wave the coaster. “Who needs a fancy retirement home when you got to keep these bad boys in the divorce?”
“Exactly.” He snaps his fingers. “It was the only thing I wanted. I said, 'take the house, but by God don’t take the coasters.’”
My laughter is sudden, and I can’t control the way it lurches out of me. Reggie’s smirking, his own chuckle rich and booming. When a snort escapes his nose, he throws his hand over his mouth in shock.
I double over.
“It wasn’t that funny.”
“It was,” I argue. “The first time I met you, you were like a brick wall with eyes. And now you’re snorting and telling me you own coasters with your kids on them.”
What a trip.
“Where are they now?” Laying on my back, I lift the coaster still in my hand and run my finger along a crack on the edge. “Your kids, I mean.”
“Davis lives across the bridge with his wife.” The air moving around us comes to a standstill. The hair across my arms rise, and the action is a mystery until he says, “Allison passed about a few years after that picture was taken.”
The bones beneath my skin feel ten tons heavier. “I’m sorry, Reggie.”
I want to ask him if it ever gets better. If there will ever come a day I won’t wake to a rock in my throat and its twin inside my chest.
I can’t manage the words.
“Allison’s biggest fight was the one she fought against herself.” The traces of cheer in his dialect are long gone, replaced with something more pained not everybody would notice. “Her smile was her greatest feature. She gave it freely to everyone but herself.”
She’s wearing a smile in this photo, an arm around her father, her head on his shoulder. Long, chestnut waves cascade down her shoulders, sweeping the top of her waist.
I brush my thumb over the smile she’s giving me. I give one back.
“There’s a larger picture over on the mantel.”
I scramble to my feet, taking the two hefty steps required to put me in front of the fireplace, the concrete shelf on top home to a golden-edged frame with only one face inside.
Her cheeks are tinted the same color as the rose tucked behind her ear. With a smile baring all her teeth, she has a hand over her heart playfully, staring into the camera with—
“Hey.” I blink slowly, carefully. “She has eyes like mine.”
“She sure does. Noticed that about you right away.”
“When I was a kid, my dad used to tell me the little flakes of gold floating around my pupils made me magic.”
“Allison was a magical girl.”
My fingertips trail over her cheek. “I’m sorry she can’t create magic anymore.”
“She can. She just does it in a different way.”
I turn around. “Do you really believe that?”
“I do.” He sits up, the groan of the recliner obtruding on the moment and its delicacy.
“Do you still miss her?”
“Every second.”
I press my eyes closed.
It never gets better.
“You know, Rumor, grief is really just stored love.”
“Love?” I open my eyes and damn them for the sheen of moisture they wear. “How so?”
“Losing Allison didn’t make me love her any less. When she was gone, I had nowhere for her love to go. So it found other places to gather—my throat, my chest, my eyes. At the time, it felt a lot like an ache, but now I recognize it for what it really is.”
“Love.”
His nod is slight. “That’s what got me out of bed every day.”
I look down at the coaster still clutched in my hand. It’s hard to imagine her not smiling. “I’m sorry your love had to be stored up.”
“One day, I will see her again. Until then, I’ll have you to change the lightbulb in the bathroom upstairs.”
My smile is only a little bit watery. “Is that my cue?”
“Lightbulbs are under the sink.”
That’s my cue.
Walking across the carpeting, I gently place the coaster back where it belongs. The staircase is just behind the couch, leading up to what looks like a hallway. “How many bedrooms do you have, Reg?”
For the first time since stepping inside, I really comprehend the idea that Reggie is living all alone in a big house with a staircase.
I don’t like how toxic my insides feel.
&nbs
p; “Three bedrooms. One for me and two are for strays.”
“Strays?” I recoil. “Like cats?”
“No like people. Davis used to tell me I should take in a few roommates since I refuse to live in a suburb of old people.”
“I have a hard time picturing you with a roommate.”
“As long as he or she cleans up after themselves and finds my television remote from time to time, I wouldn’t mind some company.”
With those words, I uncover the notion that Reggie and I share the same truth. In a world full of people, we’re both all alone.
18
Keeping Up With The Copelands
Alma
If this social worker thing doesn’t work out, I could be a ninja. Or an FBI agent. Or wear a suit and protect the president.
I’m that good.
A sharp chin rests on my shoulder. “Your tongue is hanging out.”
“It’s the face of concentration.”
“Looks like the face of someone trying to slurp their boogers.”
“Hush.” I bat my hand in Echo’s face. “I’m on a stealth mission.”
The spring on the rolling chair beside me squeaks when Echo drops into it. “You’re on Google.”
“Google is an avid companion in this mission.” Ignoring my burning retinas, I lean closer to the library’s oversized computer screen.
From the corner of my eye, I spot her pull a pencil from the bun on top of her head. She starts gnawing on it. “How long have you been in here? The bell just rang.”
Busted.
“I may have skipped music appreciation and came straight here after lunch instead.” My fingers click against the keyboard, moving in rapid succession as I type in a few identifiers and press the search button with fervor.
“What are you searching? I thought we already established typing Alice’s name and the town Flat Rock into Google wasn’t getting us anywhere because Rumor’s a chickenshit.”
I pound the desk hard enough to rattle the keyboard. “Don’t call him that!”
She flinches, biting down on her eraser. “I just don’t understand what his hold up is. I mean, we found the address.”
“We didn’t find the address, Echo. We found nine addresses.”
Sixteen yearbook Alices became nine Alices that still live in Flat Rock. Nine addresses written in Jackson’s scrawl on the back of french fry printed wrapping paper. Rumor took those fries, folded them up, and tucked them in his wallet. They haven’t seen the light of day since.
I don’t blame him for not being keen on the idea of perching himself on the stoop of a stranger’s house, clutching desperately to the dream of meeting his mother.
That sort of plan would set him up for nine disappointments. Nine potential letdowns that would weigh on his soul. Each time a door closed in his face, a teeny fissure would develop on his heart until a crack so big formed, the piece of his heart he saved for his mom drifted away from the rest of him.
I refuse to let his heart get away from him.
“I’m sorry.” Echo pulls the pencil from her mouth, eyes cast low. “I didn’t mean to be insensitive. I sort of get the gamble he’d be taking by just showing up and asking. Not to mention the idea that his mom could straight up lie and he’d never know.”
“Exactly. He wants more proof.”
Some protection before he leaps off a cliff.
“I just don’t know what else we can do. Google only gets us so far.” Slim fingers start to fiddle with her pencil. “Maybe we should hire a hacker or something to stalk all nine of them.”
“I didn’t realize going to prison sounded fun to you.”
“Oh, hell no. It sounds horrifying. The orange jumpsuit would totally clash with my hair.” She runs her tongue along her bottom lip. “We just have to find a way not to leave a paper trail.”
“Hackers don’t use paper, Echo. That’s sort of the point. Besides, I don’t know any hackers and I’m not about to post an ISO on my Facebook.”
Her mouth forms a perfect oval. “Touché.”
She goes back to shaving down the pencil’s eraser with her teeth and watching me as I scroll through my searches. “How do we get more proof?”
Clunk!
“We don’t.”
I lurch in my chair, my hand leaving the mouse and flying to my chest. A pair of feet decorated with tie dye converse find a home beside my keyboard.
“Unless she runs a mommy blog and made a four-page post about giving up her one-handed kid seventeen years ago.”
My gaze travels up his denim overalls and lands on his lips wrapped around a jumbo pickle. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
Arthur makes a slurping noise in response.
“What are you even doing? You can’t eat in the library.”
“I missed lunch. Did you not notice?”
“I noticed,” Echo says. “It was the most peaceful meal I’ve had since meeting you.”
He flips her off. “I missed lunch because I was making out with Spencer in the supply closet.”
I choke on my own spit.
Echo flies from her seat, the wheels and the force of her action catapulting it half way across the room. “Shut the hell up. Are you for real?”
“Hell no, girl.” The pickle makes a crunching noise between his teeth. “That man still doesn’t know I exist. I did spend lunch in the supply closet, though it wasn’t because I was locking lips with the reason for my constant erection. I was hiding from Ms. Bailor.”
I press my palms against my eyes. “Arthur...”
“What? I heard she was looking for me.”
“This is getting out of hand,” Echo chides, before stomping off to retrieve her chair.
“I agree, Art. Just tell Ms. Bailor you don’t know what you want to do yet. I’m sure she can help you figure it out.”
“Or try to glamorize the dry, mundane world of finance and politics like my parents.” He shoves the rest of his pickle in his mouth, catching the juice that runs down his chin with the tip of his finger.
I interpret his gesture for what it is. The end of that conversation.
Swiveling on my chair, my butt cushioned comfortably against the cotton, I place my hand back on the mouse. “I doubt Rumor’s mom has a mommy blog.”
“What’s a mommy blog?” Echo saddles her chair up next to mine, repositioning herself so she can peer at my screen.
“It’s a blog where mommies post about meal prep, craft time, and the horrors of non-organic Ketchup.” With his pickle gone, Arthur reaches into the breast pocket of his overalls, retrieving a mini bag of pork rinds. “My aunt has one. Her last post was condemning Harry Potter. Like, excuse you bitch.”
I snuff a laugh. “Well, thankfully, I’ve developed a new plan that doesn’t include mommy blogs.”
Echo snatches my mouse and scrolls to the top of my webpage, inspecting my search with a bemused wrinkle above her eyes. “Who is Simon Rawlings?”
“Rumor’s dad.”
“Uh, A.” Arthur pops a pork rind in his mouth. “He’s dead.”
“Thank you, wise one.” I roll my eyes and apprehend my mouse from Echo’s grip. “I thought that if I searched Rumor’s dad, it may lead me to his mom.”
“Rumor’s dad is from Chicago, A.” Echo points at the screen. “Why’d you search Flat Rock?”
“Because he had to have lived in Flat Rock at one point, right? Long enough to meet Alice and—"
“Do the bow chicka wow wow?”
“—have Rumor.” I push the bangs off my face. “I’m sure there were a lot of men named Simon in Flat Rock at one point. But how many were named Simon Rawlings?”
Echo clicks her tongue, seemingly impressed.
“Have you tried going through the library’s database and searching his name there?”
“We aren’t looking for an academic article, Art.”
“Well, duh.” He sits forward, his feet smacking the thin carpeting. “I meant newspaper articles. You ca
n go to the library’s database and search his name in the archives. Even the small-town newspapers that no longer exist will show up.”
Laying my head against his shoulder, I wrap one arm around his middle. “You’re a genius, Arthur.”
“Well, they don’t call me the futureless Valedictorian for nothing.”
“You aren’t futureless.” I kiss his cheek and straighten my spine, rocking excitedly in my chair. “And also, you smell like the pork rinds you’re inhaling.”
“It’s not the chips, girl. It’s my new cologne.”
“No wonder Spencer hasn’t come near you,” Echo drones.
With a shake of my head and a smile peeping out from the corner of my mouth, I close Google and log into the library’s database. Typing in Simon’s name with rushed, anxious fingers, I’m forced to hit the backspace button four times before I’m successful.
Echo’s impatient groan is loud in my ear. “Finally.”
With my pointer finger on the scroll of the mouse, the three of us put our heads together and lean forward simultaneously. My restless eyeballs track the results, ignoring all the articles penning news of a Rawling’s Grocery Store that must have existed and died before I was born.
“There! Go back.” Arthur smacks my shoulder and presses the tip of his finger against the screen so hard, the skin beneath his fingernail lightens. “Click that!”
I click the article he’s referring to, skimming the headline about Flat Rock’s community fair.
“Scroll down,” he instructs. “I just saw Simon’s name in the fine print.”
“I didn’t see anything.” Echo leans closer.
Feeling like a marshmallow in a straw between these two, I hunch my shoulders forward and keep my eyes peeled, bypassing the long list of marathon participants and photos of the event.
“Art, are you sure you saw––oh.” My hand flutters against my throat, my fingers spreading out across my collar bone as I stare, stunned. “Holy shit.”
Leaning across my body, Arthur hits the keyboard and increases the photo size. “We found her!” He flails in glee, clapping his hands and littering the desk with pork rinds.
Simon Rawlings (38) and Alise Copeland (29) enjoy large buckets of cotton candy as they wait in line for their turn at the dunk tank.
