“Camera?” Catherine asked.
I patted the bag. “Of course.”
“You’ve taken hundreds of pictures of grass, the water flowing at Deep Creek, the swings, the slide, trees, and the railroad tracks. We’ve talked about your parents a little bit and mine a lot, at length about Presley and the clones, football, our dream colleges, and where we want to be in five years. What’s the plan for today?” she asked.
I grinned. “You.”
“Me?”
“It’s going to rain. I thought we’d stay in.”
“Here?” she asked.
I stood and held out my hand. So much for waiting for her to do it. “Come with me.”
“What? Like a photo shoot? I don’t really . . . like getting my picture taken.”
She didn’t take my hand, so I hid my fist in my pocket, trying not to die of embarrassment. “No pictures today. I wanted to show you something.”
“What?”
“The most beautiful thing I’ve ever photographed.”
Catherine followed me out the gate and down the street to my aunt and uncle’s house. It was the first time in weeks we had walked somewhere without our clothes being soaked with sweat.
Aunt Leigh’s house smelled like fresh paint and cheap air freshener. The fresh vacuum markings in the calico carpet told a short story of a busy housewife and no children. The ivy stencils and plaid came straight from 1991, but Aunt Leigh took pride in her house and spent hours a day making sure it was immaculate.
Catherine reached for a painting on the wall of a Native woman with long, dark hair, adorned with a feather. She stopped just before her fingers met with the canvas. “Is this what you wanted to show me?”
“It is beautiful, but not what I brought you here to see.”
“She’s so . . . elegant. So lost. Not just beautiful . . . the kind that makes you want to cry.”
I smiled, watching Catherine stare at the painting in awe. “She’s my mother.”
“Your mother? She’s stunning.”
“Aunt Leigh painted it.”
“Wow,” Catherine said, looking over painted plates with similar styles. Landscapes and people, all looking like any minute the wind would make the grass sway or a dark hair would brush against rich, bronze skin. “All of them?”
Elliott nodded.
The flat-screen television hanging high on the wall was on, the news anchor talking to an empty room before we’d arrived.
“Is Leigh at work?” Catherine asked.
“She leaves the TV on when she’s gone. She says it makes the burglars think someone is home.”
“What burglars?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Any burglars, I guess.” We walked past the TV down a dim hall to a brown door with a brass knob. I opened it; a rush of air with the subtle hint of mildew blew Catherine’s bangs from her eyes.
“What’s down there?” she asked, peeking down into the darkness.
“My room.”
A steady beat sounded on the roof, and I turned to look out the front windows, seeing pea-size pellets of ice bouncing in the wet grass. As they fell, they grew bigger. A white ball the size of a half dollar made contact with the sidewalk, breaking into a few pieces. As quickly as the hail came, it vanished and melted like I’d imagined it.
She returned her attention to the darkness. She seemed overly nervous. “You sleep down there?”
“Mostly. Wanna see?”
She swallowed. “You first.”
I chuckled. “Chicken.” I tromped down the steps and then disappeared into the darkness, reaching up exactly where I knew a string would be for the single bare bulb above.
“Elliott?” Catherine called from halfway down the stairs. Her calling for me with her tiny, nervous voice made something inside of me click. I only wanted her to feel safe with me. “Hang on, I’m getting the light.”
After a click and a jingle, the bulb hanging from the ceiling illuminated our surroundings.
Catherine descended the remaining stairs slowly. She looked down at the large green shag carpet centered in the middle of the concrete floor.
“It’s ugly, but it’s better than stepping on a cold floor first thing in the morning,” I said.
She peered around at the small loveseat, a console television, a desk with a computer, and the futon I slept on.
“Where’s your bed?” she asked.
I pointed to the futon. “It lays flat.”
“It doesn’t look . . . long enough.”
“It’s not,” I said simply, pulling my camera out of the bag and pinching the memory card from the bottom. I sat in the lawn chair that Uncle John had bought for me to use at the desk Aunt Leigh found sitting on the side of the road, and pushed the tiny square in my hand into a slit in the desktop.
“Elliott?”
“I just have to pull it up.” I clicked the mouse a few times, and then a faint, high-pitched wail sounded above us. I froze.
“Is that the . . . ?”
“Is it the tornado siren?” I said, scrambling to stand and then grabbing her hand, pulling her to the top of the stairs. The sound was coming from the television; a meteorologist stood in front of a map splashed with reds and greens. A severe thunderstorm warning had been issued for the whole county, and it was going to hit us at any minute.
“Elliott,” Catherine said, squeezing my hand, “I’d better get home before it gets bad.”
The sky was getting blacker by the minute. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You should just ride it out here.”
A small map of Oklahoma, divided by counties, was nestled in the top right corner of the flat-screen, lit up like a Christmas tree. Names of towns streamed across the bottom.
The meteorologist began pointing to our county, saying things like flash flood warning and take immediate precautions.
We stared out the window, watching an invisible force blow the trees and scatter leaves. Lightning flashed, splashing our shadows onto the wall between two overstuffed, brown leather recliners. Thunder rolled over Oak Creek, and it began to hail again. Rain hammered the roof, accumulating so fast that water spilled over the gutters, splashing on the ground. The streets were turning into shallow rivers filled with what looked more like chocolate milk than rainwater, and soon the overloaded drains began to gurgle and regurgitate it back into the street.
The meteorologist pleaded with viewers not to drive in the torrential rains. The wind howled through the window seams as the glass rattled.
“My dad’s out there. Probably driving. Can I borrow your phone?” she asked.
I handed her my phone, unlocked and ready to dial. She frowned when her dad’s voice mail picked up.
“Dad? It’s Catherine. I’m calling from Elliott’s phone. I’m at his house and safe. Call me when you get this so I know you’re okay. Elliott’s number is . . .” She looked at me, and I mouthed the numbers. “Three six three, five one eight five. Call me, okay? I’m worried. Love you.” She returned the cell phone to me, and I stuffed it in my pocket.
“He’ll be okay,” I said, hugging her to me.
Catherine’s hands gripped my shirt, and she pressed her cheek against my shoulder. She made me feel like a superhero.
She looked up at me, and my eyes fell to her lips. The bottom one was fuller than the top, and I imagined for half a second what it would be like to kiss her before I leaned in.
Catherine closed her eyes and I closed mine, but just before my lips touched hers, she whispered, “Elliott?”
“Yeah?” I said, not moving another inch.
Even through my closed lids, I could see lightning light up the entire house, and a crack of thunder immediately followed. Catherine threw her arms around me, hugging me tight.
I held her until she relaxed, letting me go with a giggle. Her cheeks flushed. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“For . . . being here with me.”
I smiled. “Where else would I be?”
<
br /> We watched the hail turn to rain that splashed against the ground in large drops. The wind forced the trees to bow before the storm. The first snapping sound surprised me. When the first tree fell, Catherine gasped.
“It’ll be over soon,” I said, holding her. I’d never been so thankful for a storm in my life.
“Should we go to the basement?” Catherine asked.
“We can if it’ll make you feel better.”
Catherine stared at my bedroom door, then her grip on me relaxed. “Maybe not.”
I laughed.
“What’s funny?” she asked.
“I was just thinking the opposite.”
“It’s not that I . . .” She stood next to me, hooking her arm in mine and holding tight, pressing her cheek against my arm. “I’m just going to say it. I like you.”
I leaned my head to the side, resting my cheek against her hair. She smelled like shampoo and sweat. Clean sweat. It was currently my favorite smell in the world. “I like you, too.” I stayed facing forward when I spoke. “You’re exactly like I thought you’d be.”
“What do you mean?”
The hail began again, this time blowing in the direction of the windows that ran along the front wall of Aunt Leigh’s living room. A section of glass cracked, and I stretched my arm across Catherine’s chest, stepping back. A bright light flashed from across the street, and a loud boom shook the house.
“Elliott?” Catherine said, fear in her voice.
“I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise,” I said. We watched the trees outside thrash in the wind.
“You want to be out there, don’t you? Taking pictures,” Catherine said.
“I don’t have the right camera for that. Someday.”
“You should work for National Geographic or something.”
“That’s the plan. There’s a whole world out there to see.” I turned to face her. “Have you changed your mind yet? You’re packing a bag after graduation, anyway. Why not just come with me?”
The first time I’d asked, we’d just met. A wide grin stretched across her face. “You’re asking me again?”
“As many times as it takes.”
“You know, now that we’ve spent time together, the thought of traveling the world with you feels more stable than staying at home.”
“So? You in?” I asked.
“I’m in,” she said.
“Promise?”
She nodded, and I couldn’t control the stupid look on my face.
The hail stopped all at once, and then the wind began to die down. Catherine’s smile faded with the rain.
“What’s wrong?”
“I should probably go home.”
“Oh. Yeah, okay. I’ll walk you.”
Catherine cupped both of my shoulders and then leaned in, just long enough to kiss the corner of my mouth. It was so fast, I didn’t even have time to enjoy it before it was over, but it didn’t matter. I could have climbed a mountain, run around the world, and swum the ocean in that moment, because if Catherine Calhoun could decide she wanted to kiss me, anything was possible.
The sun had just begun to peek out from behind the clouds, the darkness moving on to the next town over. The neighbors began to wander out to check the damage. Despite a few broken windows, a lot of detached and scattered shingles, broken power lines, and downed trees and branches, the houses mostly seemed to be intact. Green leaves littered Juniper Street, bordered by two streams of dirty water racing for the storm drains at the end of the road.
Catherine noticed the same time I did that her driveway was empty. I opened the gate and followed her up the walk, and we sat on the wet porch swing.
“I’ll wait with you until they get home,” I said.
“Thank you.” She reached over and slid her fingers between mine, and I pushed off with my feet, swinging and hoping that the best day of my life so far would pass slowly.
Chapter Four
Catherine
The rest of the summer was filled with triple-digit days and the constant staccato of nail guns as various companies repaired rooftops. Elliott and I spent a lot of time laughing under shade trees and taking pictures on the banks of Deep Creek, but he never invited me to his aunt’s again. Every day, I fought the urge to ask him to finally see the photograph in his basement, but my pride was the only thing stronger than my curiosity.
We watched the fireworks on the Fourth of July together in camping chairs behind the baseball fields, and we made sandwiches and shared picnic lunches every day after, talking about nothing important, like our summer together would never end.
On the last Saturday in July, it seemed we had run out of things to say. Elliott had shown up every morning at nine o’clock, waiting faithfully on the swing, but the past week he’d grown sullener.
“Your boy is on the swing again,” Dad said, straightening his tie.
“He’s not mine.”
Dad took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. Being unemployed had taken a toll on him. He’d lost weight and hadn’t been sleeping well.
“Is that so? Where’s Owen been?”
“I’ve stopped by his house a few times. I’d rather be outside than watching him play video games.”
“You mean outside with Elliott,” Dad said with a smirk.
“Did you eat breakfast?” I asked.
Dad shook his head. “No time.”
“You have to take better care of yourself,” I said, gently pushing his hands to the side. I adjusted his tie and patted his shoulder. His shirt was damp. “Daddy.”
He kissed my forehead. “I’m fine, Princess. Stop worrying. You should go. Don’t want to be late for your creek date. Or park date. Which is it today?”
“Park. And it’s not a date.”
“Do you like him?”
“Not like that.”
Dad smiled. “You could have fooled me. He doesn’t fool me, though. Dads know things.”
“Or imagine things,” I said, opening the door.
“Love you, Catherine.”
“Not as much as I love you.”
I stepped outside, smiling at the sight of Elliott swaying back and forth on the porch swing. He was wearing a pin-striped button-up and khaki cargo shorts, his camera hanging from the strap around his neck like always.
“Ready?” he asked. “I thought we’d grab some biscuits and gravy from Braum’s.”
“Sure,” I said.
We walked the six blocks to one of our favorite places and sat down in the booth that we’d made ours. Elliott was as quiet as he’d been for the past week, nodding and replying in the right places but he seemed a thousand miles away.
We walked downtown, not going anywhere. As we’d done for the past couple of months, we walked as an excuse to talk—to spend time together.
The sun hung high in the sky by the time we’d made it back to my house to make sandwiches. A picnic lunch had become our ritual, and we took turns picking the spot. It was Elliott’s day, and he chose the park, under our favorite shade tree.
In silence, we spread out a quilt Mama had made. Elliott unwrapped his turkey and cheese as if it had offended him—or maybe I had, but I couldn’t think of a single moment of our summer that had been anything but perfect.
“No good?” I asked, holding my sandwich in both hands. Exactly one bite was missing from Elliott’s sandwich, even though mine was half-eaten.
“No,” Elliott said, putting down his sandwich. “Definitely not good.”
“What’s wrong with it? Too much mayo?”
He paused, then offered a sheepish smile. “Not the sandwich, Catherine. Everything else but the sandwich . . . and sitting here with you.”
“Oh,” I managed to say, even though my mind was falling all over Elliott’s last sentence.
“I leave tomorrow,” he grumbled.
“You’ll come back, though, right?”
“Yeah, but . . . I don’t know when. Christmas maybe. Maybe not until next
summer.”
I nodded, looking down at my lunch and putting it down, deciding I wasn’t that hungry after all. “You have to promise,” I said. “You have to promise you’ll come back.”
“I promise. It might not be until next summer, but I’ll come back.”
The emptiness and despair I felt in that moment was equal only to when I had lost my dog. It might’ve seemed like a silly connection to anyone else, but Goober lay at the end of my bed every night, and no matter how many times Mama had a down day or an outburst, Goober knew when to growl and when to wag his tail.
“What are you thinking about?” Elliott asked.
I shook my head. “It’s stupid.”
“C’mon. Tell me.”
“I had this dog. He was a mutt. Dad brought him home from the pound one day out of the blue. He was supposed to be for Mama, to help cheer her up, but he took to me. Mama would get jealous, but I wasn’t sure which of us she was jealous of, Goober or me. He died.”
“Does your mom suffer from depression?”
I shrugged. “They’ve never said. They don’t talk about it in front of me. I just know she had a tough time as a kid. Mama says she’s glad her parents died when they did, before I was born. She said they were cruel.”
“Yikes. If I’m ever a father, my kids will have a normal childhood. One they can look back on and wish they could go back to, not something they have to ride out and recover from.” He peeked up at me. “I’m going to miss you.”
“I’m going to miss you, too. But . . . not for long. Because you’ll be back.”
“I will. That’s a promise.”
I pretended to be happy and sipped from the straw in my pop can. Every subject after that was forced, every smile contrived. I wanted to enjoy my last days with Elliott, but knowing goodbye was just around the corner made that impossible.
“Want to help me pack?” he asked, cringing at his own words.
“Not really, but I want to see you as much as I can before you leave, so I will.”
We gathered our things. Sirens sounded in the distance and then drew closer. Elliott paused and then helped me to my feet. Another siren was coming from the other side of town—the fire station possibly, and it seemed to be heading in our direction.
All the Little Lights Page 6
