All the Little Lights

by Jamie McGuire

  The gravel in the driveway crunched under the tires of Mama’s Lexus, snapping me to the present. The driver’s-side door was open, and she was bent over, retrieving something from the floorboards. I watched her search feverishly, holding trash bags in each of my hands.

  I put the bags in the dumpster by the garage and closed the lid, wiping my hands on my denim shorts.

  “How was your last day of ninth grade?” Mama asked, swinging her purse around her shoulder. “No more being the low man on the totem pole.” Her smile pushed up her rosy, full cheeks, but she barely navigated the gravel in her high heels, carefully walking toward the front gate. She was holding a small bag from the pharmacy that had already been opened.

  “I’m glad it’s over,” I said.

  “Aw, it wasn’t that bad, was it?”

  She gripped her keys in her hand, kissed my cheek, and then stopped short of the porch. A runner in her pantyhose climbed from her knee to under her skirt, and one dark spiral of hair had fallen from her high bun to hang in her face.

  “How . . . how was your day?” I asked.

  Mama had worked in the drive-through of First Bank since she was nineteen. Her commute was only about twenty minutes, and she enjoyed using that time to wind down, but the best thing Mama had ever called the other two women she worked with was condescending skags. The small drive-through building was detached from the main bank, and working day in and day out in that tiny space made whatever problems the women had seem much bigger.

  The longer she worked there, the more pills she needed. The open bag in her hand was a sure sign she’d already had a bad day, even if it was just because she remembered her life wasn’t panning out the way she’d planned. Mama had a habit of focusing on the negative. She tried to be different. Books like Finding Contentment and Processing Anger the Healthy Way made up most of our library shelves. Mama meditated and took long baths listening to soothing music, but it didn’t take much for her anger to surface. Her rage was always simmering, building, waiting for something or someone to create an escape.

  She jutted out her bottom lip and blew the loose curl away. “Your dad is home.”

  “I know.”

  She didn’t take her eyes from the door. “Why?”

  “He’s cooking.”

  “Oh God. Oh no.” She rushed up the stairs and yanked open the screen door, letting it slam behind her.

  At first I couldn’t hear them, but it didn’t take long for Mama’s panicked cries to filter through the walls. I stood in the front yard, listening to the yelling get louder as Dad tried to reassure his wife, but she wasn’t having it. She lived in the world of what-ifs, and Dad insisted on the right now.

  I closed my eyes and held my breath, hoping at any moment the silhouettes in the window would collide and Dad would hold Mama while she cried until she wasn’t scared anymore.

  I looked up at our house, the lattice covered in dead vines, the railing wrapping around the porch in need of a new coat of paint. The window screens were choked with dust, and the boards in the porch needed replacing. The outside only looked more ominous as the sun moved across the sky. Our home was the biggest on the block—one of the largest in town—and created its own shadow. It had been Mama’s house and her mother’s before her, but it never felt like home. There were too many rooms and too much space to fill with echoes and angry whispers my parents didn’t want me to hear.

  Moments like this, I missed the hushed rage. Now it was spilling out into the street.

  Mama was still pacing, and Dad was still standing next to the table, pleading with her to listen. They yelled while the shadows from the shade trees moved across the yard until the sun was hovering just above the horizon. The crickets began to chirp, signaling sunset wasn’t far away. My stomach growled as I picked at the grass—I’d resorted to sitting on our uneven sidewalk, still warm from the summer sun. The sky was splotched in pinks and purples, and the sprinklers hissed and sprayed our yard, but the war didn’t seem like it would end anytime soon.

  Juniper Street was only busy with cars trying to avoid after-school traffic. After everyone had clocked out and reached home, we were back to being the quiet edge of town.

  I heard a click and a winding sound behind me and turned. The boy with the camera was standing on the opposite side of the road, his odd contraption still in his hand. He lifted it one more time and snapped another photo, pointing it in my direction.

  “You could at least pretend not to be taking pictures of me,” I snarled.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because taking pictures of a stranger without her permission is a creepy thing to do.”

  “Who says?”

  I looked around, offended by his question. “Everyone. Everyone says.”

  He placed the cap on his lens and then stepped off the curb into the street. “Well, everyone didn’t see what I just saw through my lens, and it was anything but creepy.”

  I glared at him, trying to decide if he’d just complimented me or not. While my arms remained crossed, my expression softened. “My dad said you’re Miss Leigh’s nephew?”

  He nodded, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his shiny nose.

  I glanced back at the parent-size shapes in my window and then back at the boy. “Are you here for the summer?”

  He nodded again.

  “Do you speak?” I seethed.

  He grinned, amused. “Why are you so angry?”

  “I don’t know,” I snapped, closing my eyes again. I took a deep breath and then peeked from under my lashes. “Don’t you get mad?”

  He shifted. “Just like everyone else, I guess.” He nodded toward my house. “Why are they yelling?”

  “My, um . . . my dad lost his job today.”

  “Does he work for the oil company?” he asked.

  “He did.”

  “So did my uncle . . . until today,” he said. He suddenly looked vulnerable. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  “I can keep a secret.” I stood, brushing off my shorts. When he didn’t say anything, I begrudgingly offered my name. “I’m Catherine.”

  “I know. I’m Elliott. Want to walk down to Braum’s with me for an ice-cream cone?”

  He was half a head taller than me, but by the looks of it, we weighed the same. His arms and legs were too long and skinny, and he hadn’t quite grown into his ears. His high cheekbones protruded enough to make his cheeks appear sunken, and his long, stringy hair didn’t help the appearance of his oval face.

  He stepped across the cracked asphalt, and I pushed through the gate, glancing over my shoulder. The house was still watching me, and it would wait for me to come back.

  My parents were still yelling. If I went inside, they would stop long enough to take the fighting into their bedroom, but that just meant I would have to listen to Mama’s muffled wrath for the rest of the night.

  “Sure,” I said, turning to face him. He looked surprised. “Do you have money? I’ll have to pay you back. I’m not going back in there for my wallet.”

  He nodded, patting his front pocket as proof. “I’ve got you covered. I mow the lawn for the neighbors.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “You know?” he asked, a small, surprised smile on his face.

  I nodded and shoved my fingers in the shallow pockets of my jean shorts and, for the first time, left home without permission.

  Elliott walked beside me but at a respectable distance. He didn’t speak for a block and a half, and then he wouldn’t stop.

  “Do you like it here?” he asked. “In Oak Creek?”

  “Not really.”

  “What about the school? What’s that like?”

  “I liken it to torture.”

  He nodded as if I’d confirmed a suspicion. “My mom grew up here, and she always talked about how much she hated it.”

  “Why?”

  “Most of the First Nation kids went to their own school. Her and Uncle John got a lot of guff for being the only two nati
ve kids at Oak Creek. They were pretty mean to her.”

  “Like . . . like what?” I asked.

  He frowned. “Their house was vandalized, and so was her car. But I just know that from Uncle John. All Mom has told me was that the parents are small-minded and the kids are worse. I’m not sure how to take it.”

  “Take what?”

  His eyes fell to the road. “That she sent me to a place she hates.”

  “I asked for luggage for Christmas two years ago. Dad bought me a set. I’m filling them the second I get home from graduation, and I’ll never come back.”

  “When is that? Your graduation?”

  I sighed. “Three more years.”

  “So you’re a freshman? Or were? Me too.”

  “But you’re here every summer? Don’t you miss your friends?”

  He shrugged. “My parents fight a lot. I like coming here. It’s quiet.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Oklahoma City. Yukon, actually.”

  “Oh yeah? We play you in football.”

  “Yep. I know, I know. Puke on Yukon. I’ve seen the Oak Creek banners.”

  I fought a smile. I’d made a few of those banners with Minka and Owen during Pep Club meetings after school. “Do you play?”

  “Yeah, like seventh string. I’m getting better, though. That’s what the coach says anyway.”

  The Braum’s sign loomed high above us, giving off a pink and white neon glow. Elliott swung the door open, and the air-conditioning blasted my skin.

  My shoes stuck to the red tile floor. Sugar and grease saturated the air, and families gathered in the dining area, chattering about summer plans. The pastor of the First Christian Church stood next to one of the bigger tables with his arms crossed over his middle, trapping his red tie, while he caught up with some of his flock about church events and his disappointment in the level of the local lake.

  Elliott and I approached the counter. He gestured for me to order first. Anna Sue Gentry manned the register, her bleached-blonde ponytail swinging when she made a show of assessing our relationship.

  “Who’s this, Catherine?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at the camera dangling from Elliott’s neck.

  “Elliott Youngblood,” he said before I could answer.

  Anna Sue stopped addressing me altogether, her big green eyes sparkling when the tall boy next to me proved he wasn’t afraid to speak to her.

  “And who are you, Elliott? Catherine’s cousin?”

  I made a face, wondering what about us drew her to that conclusion. “What?”

  Anna Sue shrugged. “Your hair is about the same length. Same awful haircut. I thought maybe it was a family thing.”

  Elliott looked to me, unaffected. “Mine’s longer, actually.”

  “So not cousins,” Anna Sue said. “Did you trade in Minka and Owen for this one?”

  “Neighbor.” Elliott shoved his hands into his khaki cargo shorts, already unimpressed.

  She wrinkled her nose. “What are you, homeschooled?”

  I sighed. “He’s staying with his aunt for the summer. Can we order, please?”

  Anna Sue shifted her weight from one hip to the other, gripping each side of the register. The sour expression on her face didn’t surprise me. Anna Sue was friends with Presley. They looked alike, with the same shade of blonde hair, style, and thick black eyeliner—and they made the same face when I was around.

  Elliott didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he pointed to the board above Anna Sue’s head. “I’ll have a banana fudge sundae.”

  “With nuts?” she asked, apparent that her question was obligatory.

  He nodded and then looked at me. “Catherine?”

  “Orange sherbet, please.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Fancy. Anything else?”

  Elliott frowned. “No.”

  We waited while Anna Sue lifted a clear lid and dug at the sherbet in the freezer behind the clear barrier. After she’d rolled it into a ball with a silver scoop and steadied it onto the cone, she handed it to me and then began Elliott’s sundae.

  “I thought you said we were just getting cones?” I said.

  He shrugged. “I changed my mind. Thought it’d be nice to sit in the AC for a while.”

  Anna Sue sighed as she placed Elliott’s order on the counter. “Banana fudge sundae.”

  Elliott chose a table by the window, and he passed a few napkins across to me before digging into the vanilla and fudge sauce like he’d been starving.

  “Maybe we should have ordered dinner,” I said.

  He looked up, wiping a smear of chocolate from his chin. “We still can.”

  I looked down at my dripping ice cream. “I didn’t tell my parents I was leaving. I should probably get home soon . . . not that they’ve noticed I’ve left.”

  “I heard them fighting. I’m sort of an expert at that. Sounds like an all-nighter to me.”

  I sighed. “It won’t stop until he finds another job. Mama is sort of . . . neurotic.”

  “My parents fight about money all the time. My dad thinks if he’s not making forty dollars an hour, he can’t work. As if a dollar isn’t better than zero. Then he gets laid off all the time.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s a welder, which is awesome because he’s gone a lot.”

  “It’s a pride thing,” I said. “My dad will find something. Mama just tends to freak out.”

  He smiled at me.

  “What?”

  “Mama. That’s cute.”

  I sank back into my seat, feeling my cheeks burn. “She doesn’t like it when I call her mom. She says I’m trying to pretend I’m older than I am. It’s just habit.”

  He watched me squirm with amusement, and then he finally spoke. “I’ve called my mom Mom since I could talk.”

  “I’m sorry. I know it’s strange,” I said, looking away. “Mama’s always been particular about things.”

  “Why are you apologizing? I just said it was cute.”

  I shifted, sliding my free hand between my knees. The air-conditioning was on full blast like most businesses in Oklahoma during the summer. In winter, you layered because it was too hot inside. In summer, you wore a jacket because it was too cold.

  I licked the tangy sweetness from my lips. “I wasn’t sure if you were being condescending.”

  Elliott began to speak, but a small group of girls approached our table.

  “Aw,” Presley said, dramatically touching her chest. “Catherine got herself a boyfriend. I feel so bad that all this time we thought you were lying about him being from out of town.”

  Three carbon copies of Presley—Tara and Tatum Martin and Brie Burns—all giggled and tossed their bleached-blonde tresses. Tara and Tatum were identical twins, but they all strived to look like Presley.

  “Maybe just outside of town,” Brie said. “Like a reservation, maybe?”

  “Oklahoma doesn’t have reservations,” I said, appalled by her stupidity.

  “Yeah, they do,” Brie argued.

  “You’re thinking of tribal land,” Elliott said, unfazed.

  “I’m Presley,” she said to Elliott, smug.

  I looked away, not wanting to witness their introduction, but Elliott didn’t move or speak, so I turned to see what was holding up their exchange. Elliott offered me a small grin, ignoring Presley’s outstretched hand.

  She made a face and crossed her arms. “Is Brie right? Do you live in White Eagle?”

  Elliott raised an eyebrow. “That’s the headquarters for the Ponca tribe.”

  “And?” Presley sniped.

  Elliott sighed, seeming bored. “I’m Cherokee.”

  “So that’s an Indian, right? Isn’t White Eagle for Indians?” she asked.

  “Just go away, Presley,” I pleaded, worried she would say something even more offensive.

  Excitement sparked in Presley’s eyes. “Wow, Kit-Cat. Are we getting a little big for our britches?”

  I looked up at her,
anger blazing in my eyes. “It’s Catherine.”

  Presley led them to a booth across the room, continuing to tease Elliott and me from afar.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “They’re just doing it because you’re with me.”

  “Because I’m with you?”

  “They hate me,” I grumbled.

  He turned his spoon upside down and stuck it in his mouth, seeming unaffected. “It’s not hard to see why.”

  I wondered what about my outward appearance made it so obvious. Maybe that’s why the town hadn’t stopped blaming Mama and me for my grandparents’ mistakes. Maybe I looked like someone they should hate.

  “Why do you look embarrassed?” he asked.

  “I guess I was hoping you didn’t know about my family and the smelter.”

  “Oh. That. My aunt told me years ago. Is that what you think? That they’re mean to you because of your family history with the town?”

  “Why else?”

  “Catherine.” My name sounded like a soft laugh tumbling from his mouth. “They’re jealous of you.”

  I frowned and shook my head. “What could they possibly be jealous of me for? We barely have two pennies to rub together.”

  “Have you seen yourself?” he asked.

  I blushed and looked down. Only Dad had ever complimented my looks.

  “You’re all the things they’re not.”

  I crossed my arms on the table and watched the warm hue of the corner streetlight blink between the branches of a tree. It was a strange feeling, wanting to hear more and hoping he’d talk about anything else. “What they said doesn’t bother you?” I asked, surprised.

  “It use to.”

  “Now it doesn’t?”

  “My uncle John says people can only make us angry if we let them, and if we let them, we give them power.”

  “That’s pretty profound.”

  “I listen to him sometimes, even though he thinks I don’t.”

  “What else does he say?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “That you either get good at rising above and meeting ignorance with education, or you get really good at being bitter.”

  I smiled. Elliott spoke his uncle’s words with respect.

  “So you just choose not to let what people say get to you?”