All This Time

by Mikki Daughtry

  She doesn’t say anything, but she twines her fingers tighter in mine. I tuck her hair behind her ear, my hand lingering on her face, her lips inches away from mine. I lean slightly forward, barely even breathing, unsure if she’s going to lean forward or bolt.

  She doesn’t bolt.

  She closes the gap and we kiss, and it’s a rush of everything all at once: her face framed by the flurry of cherry blossom petals, her eyes the day we first met, a waterfall of pearls.

  I pull away, smiling at her, her face aglow in the afternoon sun. “My friend rule was a terrible idea—”

  She muffles the rest of my sentence, laughing as she leans in for another kiss. I move to wrap my arms around her, but her eyes widen as she looks past me and suddenly jerks away, my hands grasping at empty air.

  She rushes across the grass, frantic, pushing past a group of kids playing soccer. She races into the street to grab a little girl from the middle of the road, pulling her onto the sidewalk.

  What the hell? Did I miss something?

  I hurry to catch up as Marley marches the child toward a group of older kids. She deposits the kid next to a tween girl who shares the same shade of hair as the little girl.

  “Is this your sister?” Marley asks angrily.

  The girl nods, clearly frightened. She can’t be more than twelve.

  “Do you know what could have happened to her running into the street like that?” Marley is yelling now, her hands on the girl’s shoulders. Her eyes are wild, but I can’t tell if it’s with anger or fear. This is a side of her I’ve never seen. “What is she…? What if…?”

  I step in, reaching out to touch her shoulder. “Marley,” I say firmly, but she ignores me.

  “You’re supposed to watch out for your sister. She could have been killed.”

  I stand there, confused, my eyes taking in the other kids, their scared expressions as they simultaneously try to hide behind one another and get a closer look.

  “Take your hands off my daughter!” a voice calls suddenly, and a woman who could only be the girls’ mother is storming across the grass, out for blood. We have to get out of here.

  “Marley,” I say, pulling her away. “Stop. She’s fine. Let’s go.”

  She looks around at the group of kids, at the terrified girl, the angry mother, her eyes finally landing on me, her wrists now grasped firmly in my hands. Tearfully, she rips out of my grip, running off across the grass, in the direction of the cemetery.

  “What is wrong with you?” the mom calls after her.

  I watch her go, taking a second to process whatever the hell just happened.

  I make a quick apology to the lady and the frightened girl and run after Marley, cutting quickly through the park, knowing exactly where she’ll be. I head straight into the cemetery, where I find her slumped next to Laura’s grave, her head down, long hair hiding her face.

  “She’s right, you know,” Marley says as I come closer, my chest heaving. “Something is wrong with me.”

  I bend to gently push her hair behind her ear so I can see her face. “What’s going on?”

  “No sad stories,” she says, shaking her head.

  “Okay,” I say as I sit down next to her. All I want is to understand what just happened. But I know better than anyone what it takes to be ready to tell that story. “You don’t have to tell me. But if you want to, I’m here.”

  Her body has totally huddled in on itself. Then she looks up, touching what I now see is a pink sapphire pendant around her neck. Usually, only the chain is visible; I’ve never seen the stone before.

  “I always wore yellow,” she says, and I think about all the touches of it I’ve seen her wear. The headband, her shoes, the cardigan, the raincoat. “At first it was just something my mom did when we were really little to give us our own special look, since everything else about our appearance was exactly the same, but… later it became more than that. Yellow made me feel happy, light. Even when I was anxious.”

  Her fingertips touch the pink Stargazers growing around the grave. “But Laura… she loved pink. The brighter the better. Always.”

  I try not to move, afraid that even the slightest breath will stop her from talking. It’s rare to get more than a sentence out of her when it comes to Laura.

  “I was never like her. She was fun, you know? Outgoing. She could talk to anybody, for hours.” She plucks one of the flowers off, smiling sadly. “I didn’t mind that everyone loved her more, because I loved her more too.”

  I reach out and take her hand, silently encouraging her to continue.

  “We looked out for each other, always. Well, Laura looked out for me, mostly. On that day… she was…” Her voice breaks, and I tighten my grip around her fingers, giving her strength.

  “She was going to teach Jenny Pope a lesson,” she says, returning the squeeze as she continues. “She wasn’t going to hurt her, just embarrass her, the way Jenny embarrassed me.” She pauses and shakes her head. “God, I was terrified. I just knew that someone would know that it wasn’t me, but that it was Laura, pretending. Then I’d be even more embarrassed.” She looks over at the grave, the name on it. “But Laura… she was so sure. So calm. So ready to take charge. I couldn’t say no to her.”

  I notice a pile of petals at her feet, the Stargazer shredded into tiny pieces with her free hand. I swallow, afraid of where this story’s headed.

  “So we were in each other’s clothes. She had my yellow; I had her pink. Her hair was down; mine was up. We… were each other.”

  She stops, her breath going ragged. She tries a few times to continue, but she can’t. There’s something stopping her, some barrier she can’t break through.

  “If…,” she manages to get out. “If I’d been looking. If I’d just been paying attention. I… I…”

  “What? Marley, what happened?” I urge her to keep going, to fight through it.

  She shakes her head, but her voice continues on. “We… we had these stupid necklaces. Pink and yellow sapphires. Laura knew that if we were going to pull this off, we had to be perfect. We were waiting by the road, at the bus stop, when she remembered.” She reaches up to her neck. “I was still wearing my yellow sapphire—she was wearing her pink one.”

  I watch as she starts to tremble, her memories consuming her.

  “She took it off and asked me for mine. But… while she was putting it on, it… it got tangled in her hair. She was so used to having her hair up—and mine, mine was always down. But hers was… Shit.” She starts to shake harder. “I… Shit.…”

  “It’s okay. Marley.…” I try to hold her, but she’s angry now. Frustrated.

  “It’s not okay!” she says fiercely. “That fucking yellow pendant—my yellow pendant—got tangled in her hair. Her hair that was down because of me. She was pulling it and yanking it and laughing, and it snapped. The pendant rolled into the street.”

  She stops, the memory alive in her eyes.

  “I saw the car before she did. She… never even saw it. But I did. I saw it and I froze. I didn’t even try to warn her. My voice was frozen too.”

  I lean back in shock. Holy shit. She tenses, as if she’s hearing the screeching tires, the sickening thud.

  “Marley. It wasn’t your—”

  “Then I heard screaming,” she says, cutting me off. “I thought it must be me, but it was our mom. I don’t even remember how she got there. She was just there, on the ground, holding Laura. Screaming…” Her voice goes high and shrill, the pain of the words, of the memory, embodying itself in her. “ ‘You’re supposed to watch out for each other! How did this happen? Marley, how did this happen?’ ”

  She’s silent for a long moment as she struggles to catch her breath. “That was what she screamed, over and over.”

  She wraps her arms around her knees, burying her face as she fights the tears that threaten to fall. Her voice drops to a whisper. “I’ve been screaming that same question to myself every day since. Every minute. But I scream it i
nside, where no one can hear me.”

  I see it now. Hidden behind her every movement. Her every breath. She still blames herself for what happened, even though it isn’t true. It’s not her fault.

  It’s the truth to Marley.

  “I’ve never cried. I never even talked to anyone about it. I don’t tell the sad story. I just try to disappear,” she says finally. “Because if Laura can’t be here, neither should I.”

  “Marley,” I say, reaching out to touch her hand. “It wasn’t your fault.” I have never wanted to make someone realize something so much.

  “It was,” she says, looking down at where my fingers meet hers. “My mom was right.”

  “Sometimes…,” I say. “Sometimes when we’re hurt, we say things we don’t mean. We say things without thinking about the consequences. I’m sure she didn’t mean it.”

  But she’s not convinced.

  “Laura always looked out for me. She was trying to save me, and I didn’t even try to save her,” she says, angry with herself. “I just stood there.”

  I squeeze her hand, thinking. “Marley. Do you think the accident that killed Kim was my fault?”

  She looks up, confused. “No. That was an accident. You know that was an accident. I mean… you were hurt too.”

  “Then how is this any different?”

  “It just…” Her voice trails off, and she looks away. “It just is. You got hurt. I didn’t. Laura was just trying to help me, and I couldn’t…” Her eyes grow distant. “She was just better. In every way,” she adds. “It’s not fair that I’m here and she’s not. I want to be like her, but I’m not. I never will be.”

  I lightly touch her cheek, her face turning toward me. “You don’t need to be like her, Marley. You’re already everything.”

  She shakes her head and looks down at the tiny bits of torn Stargazer on the ground.

  “You are,” I repeat, thinking of all the things we’ve shared since we met. “Marley, you’ve made me feel understood in a way that no one ever has. You’re kind, and you’re such a good listener, and you’re so fucking strong. I think your stories are as incredible as they are because you know loss. You know love. You know what it means to feel,” I say.

  She keeps her head down, silent.

  “For me, you’re the best part of everything. I was such a mess when we met, and you made me feel alive again. Can’t you see how special you are?” I try to lean forward to catch a glimpse of her face, but she doesn’t budge, so I lighten it up. “I mean, who gives people flowers based entirely on their meaning? Who else has a small army of popcorn-loving ducks ready at their beck and call?”

  I know that one moment won’t convince her, but we have more than just today. More than just this moment. We’ve got time.

  “I meant what I said, Marley,” I say, pulling her close, relieved when she leans into me, smelling like jasmine and orange blossoms, warm and familiar. I wrap my arms around her, holding her tight for the first time.

  “No more sad stories. I promise,” I whisper.

  And just like that we start a new one.

  19

  “Try this one on,” Mom says, holding up an oversize pin-striped blazer. I squint at it, unsure of how to break it to her that she’s successfully found the ugliest item in this place.

  Sometimes my mom is right on the money when it comes to picking out clothes. And other times she holds up a blue pin-striped blazer for me to try on.

  Luckily, she registers my expression and holds up a casual dark-gray sports coat instead. “You want to look casual but professional.”

  I take it from her, shrugging on the jacket, the fabric clinging comfortably to my shoulders and arms. I check myself out in the department store mirror.

  I wonder what Marley would think. Would she think I look good?

  I try to smooth down my hair, and my eyes find the thin scar on my forehead, the ever-present reminder of all that’s happened in the last few months.

  The longer I look at the sports coat, at my reflection, the more nervous I get for this interview tomorrow.

  Mom adjusts the collar and gives me a once-over.

  “I know that face,” she says, patting my cheek lightly. “That’s your worried-on-a-big-game-day face.”

  I look down at her. “Is it that obvious?”

  “What? The expression of existential dread?” She shakes her head, smiling back at me. “Not at all.”

  I look to the mirror, turning right and left to get a better view of the jacket. I let out a long huff of air. “What if I don’t get the internship?” I ask her. “What if he thinks my writing sucks?”

  Her face gets serious, and she reaches up, turning my face away from the mirror and back to her. “Kyle, you had to hit the reset button not once, but twice in this last year. Your shoulder injury was rough,” she says, taking a deep breath. “But what you went through with that doesn’t even hold a candle to when you lost Kimberly.”

  I swallow, my shoulder and scar suddenly aching at the thought of it all.

  “If you can get through that, you sure as hell can get through this,” she says, meaning it. “You’ll always find a way to reset if you have to.”

  I clear my throat, looking away, while she sniffs loudly, wiping quickly at her brown eyes, an exact copy of my own. “All right,” she says, smiling and nudging me. “Let’s get you a shirt.”

  I sling an arm over her shoulder as we cut through to the shirt section.

  “Always forward,” she says, patting my chest.

  “Never back,” I say, smiling down at her.

  * * *

  The next morning I’m sitting in the lobby of the Times, wearing my new gray sports coat, waiting for Scott Miller to come out of his office to interview me.

  In the meantime, I’m trying not to make awkward eye contact with the receptionist while I scan the walls, taking in the framed editions and clippings occupying every square inch.

  I catch sight of a couple of headlines: AMBROSE HIGH WINS THE STATE CHAMPIONSHIP, GORDON RAMSAY DID NOT HATE LOCAL RESTAURANT, TOWN SAFETY MEETING ENDS IN ACCIDENT.

  A door opens down the hall and I quickly wipe my hands on my pants, because although I normally don’t have sweaty palms, my body apparently has decided it’s going to give it a go right here and now.

  Scott pops his head into the lobby, flashing a quick, toothy smile at me. “Kyle! How’ve you been?”

  I stand up to shake his hand, tucking the folder with my articles and résumé under my arm. He’s a little bit taller than I am. About Sam’s height, with close-cut silver hair and a pair of stylish black glasses.

  “I’ve been good, sir. Thanks so much for meeting me today,” I say as we head down a long, thin hallway and through a door into a busy newsroom filled with cubicles and people talking and the sound of typing. Scott nods hello to a few people, leading me to his spot in the corner, the space littered with sports memorabilia, an Ambrose High pennant tacked loyally to the wall.

  He slides into a swivel chair, pulling over another one from an empty desk.

  I hold the manila folder out to him as I sit down. “Uh, here’s my résumé. I brought a couple articles I wrote—”

  He gestures to his computer and pushes his glasses farther up on his nose. “I’ve read them. I subscribe online. Your senior player profiles are really something.”

  If my palms weren’t sweaty before, they definitely are now. What did he think of them?

  “You been back to Ambrose for any of the games this year?” he asks.

  I hesitate, remembering the game I went to, when I turned to see Kimberly sitting beside me, dead but not dead. “I caught part of one.”

  “Well,” he says, leaning back in his chair, the hinges squeaking loudly. “I would love for you to do the same kind of profiles for the seniors this year.”

  “Like… for the Times?”

  Scott laughs, nodding. “Yeah. Like for the Times.”

  “Yeah!” I basically shout. Be cool, Kyle. Be c
ool. I clear my throat, taking it down about eighteen notches. “Yes, sir. I’d love to do that.”

  “Great,” Scott says, swinging around to his computer. He moves the mouse and the screen comes to life. He minimizes the Word document he has up, a calendar coming into view. “I was thinking fifteen to twenty hours a week, twelve dollars an hour. Obviously, when you do the profiles or we go off-site for a game, that counts as paid time. That good for you?”

  “Wait,” I say as he looks over at me. “So… I’m hired? For the internship?”

  He grins. “You were hired the second I read your player profiles. You managed to bring each player to life on the page. I was very impressed,” he says, and it feels like making varsity all over again, except this time I’m getting paid.

  We work together to fill out the schedule, adding my name to certain empty blocks, while I make sure I can still meet Marley over lunches or in the afternoon when I get off. When we’re finished, he prints it and holds it out to me. Still warm. It feels good to have a schedule in my hands again, to have people counting on me.

  It feels like a step forward. A step toward the person I am becoming.

  * * *

  I call Marley the second I get out of the building, and we make plans to meet at the park in half an hour. It’s hard to play it cool when I feel like I’m going to literally burst from excitement.

  I have some time to kill, so I stroll down Main Street, window-shopping. I stop when I see a big yellow kite on display. A few minutes later I’m carrying it with me to my mom’s car.

  The drive to the park is quick, and I get out to wait for Marley, texting my mom and Sam the good news about the interview.

  I tuck my phone back into my pocket and breathe out a big sigh of relief, my warm breath turning to fog in the chilly air. When it clears, I see Marley walking toward me on the path, a reddish-pink flower clutched in her hand. The trees around her are nearly naked in the autumn air, their brown and orange leaves crunching noisily under her feet. I hold up the kite in hello and her face breaks out into a smile. She runs the rest of the way to me, pushing her mustard-yellow beanie higher on her head, ignoring the kite completely.