by S. L. Naeole
“Well, we’ll just have to convince them to let you out at night, too, right Grace?” Graham managed to say while chewing. “Hey, I just thought of something; if everything’s cool between you and Robert, are you still gonna go to prom with Salsa Boy?”
“I told Shawn that I’d go with him; it wouldn’t be right to suddenly say that I wouldn’t just because Robert and I are working things out,” I replied.
“It’s nice that you’ve got principles, Grace, but if I had to choose between Robert and Salsa Boy, I’d choose Robert,” Stacy chimed in, her voice tinged with exasperation. “He’s your boyfriend, your soulmate for crying out loud. You can’t go to the most important senior function besides graduation with someone else. It’s just not…kosher.”
“I gave Shawn my word and I’m not going to break it, okay? Besides, what’s not kosher is you going to prom with your best friend’s boyfriend.”
“You’re the one who suggested it!” both Graham and Stacy shouted at me before laughing in unison.
“I know I suggested it—did either of you have to agree? No. You’re doing it because it’s better that you two go together and have fun than staying at home and wondering what I’ll be doing with Salsa Boy.”
Graham eyed me suspiciously, one eyebrow raising in the process. “And what will you be doing with Salsa Boy?”
“With my luck, probably getting him killed,” I answered with little humor. “I should probably just not go period. I haven’t even begun looking for something to wear and it’s less three weeks away. I don’t even know how to shop for a prom outfit.”
Stacy groaned as she rubbed her temples. “Dress, Grace; you’re going to be wearing a prom dress. Not an outfit, not jeans, not a t-shirt—a dress. And now that I’ve got a little bit of freedom, I plan on making the most out of it, starting with a shopping trip to the mall tomorrow so that we can get some girl time in.”
Graham shook his head and said with food still in his mouth, “I-don-thing-tho. The-mall-wuth-on-fire-member?”
Stacy and I looked at each other and then turned our gazes to his. “What?”
He swallowed his partially chewed cheeseburger and took a swig of soda before repeating what he had said. “I said, I don’t think so. The mall was on fire, remember?”
“That’s not the only shopping center in Heath, Graham,” Stacy pointed out. “Besides, everyone else is going to be going to the same stores at Indian Mound anyway. I want to go somewhere else, someplace where there won’t be a dozen of the exact same dress hanging up, where we can find something that’s unique.”
“Well, don’t expect me to be unique. I got my tux from the same place the rest of the guys did. We got it as a group so we could get a discount,” Graham said proudly before patting his belly. “I’m going to look hot.”
I looked apologetically at Stacy and sighed. “Graham, if you keep eating the way you have been, you’re going to look like a hot ham.”
“With bad taste,” Stacy added.
“Not to mention cheap,” I laughed.
“Oh, so I should just let you two dress me? You, Grace, who had your boyfriend buy your dress for your first date? And you, Stacy, who haven’t worn a dress in your life that wasn’t a costume of some sort? Thanks but no thanks, I’m perfectly capable of picking out my own tux, thank you very much.”
Graham stood up to empty his tray and with his back turned, Stacy turned to me and lowered her voice. “I don’t care what he says or what he pays; he is not going to wear one of those tux-in-a-bag things that everyone else is going to be wearing. Good grief, he’ll probably even get a cummerbund that matches his bow tie.” She groaned as she formed a mental image in her head and I couldn’t help but picture it myself, giggling as I did so.
“Don’t laugh,” Stacy hissed. “You know I’m right. He’ll look good in the pictures from the neck up if I let him pick what he’s going to wear, but since I’m about a foot shorter than he is, everyone will be forced to look at…everything. Nope, it’s not going to happen. We’re taking the both of you shopping tomorrow.”
“Good luck convincing him of that,” I laughed, motioning to Graham as he returned.
“Are you two still talking about what I’m going to wear?” Graham returned, a grimace still plastered onto his face.
I nodded and Stacy frowned at him. “You’re coming with us tomorrow. If I have to take pictures with you, you’re going to at least look like you made an effort to compliment my dress.”
“You work fast, woman,” Graham muttered.
“Lark made it, if you want to know the truth.”
“Too bad she’s not here so she can make something for Grace, huh?”
“There’s no dress out there that can be made or bought that’ll make me look good enough for a prom,” I grumbled.
She waved off the comment and began to fidget with a droplet of water that had fallen onto the table. “Robert and Janice bought you dresses that looked great on you, so I’m fairly certain that with a little determination, I’ll be able to do the same. You’re only difficult to shop for because you’ve got this idea in your head that you’re not pretty enough to wear dresses, Grace. You should know by now that that simply isn’t true. If I have to, I’ll even get Robert to come with us.”
Graham thumped his fist against the table in agreement.
I stared at her, mortified. “Are you kidding? It’s one thing to have him buy something without me. It’s another thing entirely to have him pick out dresses for me to wear while I’m standing right there…for a prom he’s not taking me to!”
“Yeah, speaking of that, you said you’re going to keep your date with Salsa Boy, but what if Robert has other plans?”
Graham’s question was something that I hadn’t taken into consideration. Why would I? Robert had made it quite clear that he’d had no intention of asking me to prom—and in front of Graham and Stacy, no less—so him having any objections to my going to prom with Shawn was simply a non-issue.
“He won’t,” was all I would say.
THE WISHING WELL
Stacy’s plans for the next day didn’t materialize thanks to a doctor’s appointment she’d completely forgotten, so I went with Graham to his house to help him clean up. He had been doing a fairly decent job alone; the kitchen counters were now completely clear of liquor and beer bottles, but the carpet still smelled like it belonged in a bar.
As he was packing some of his things for his move to Florida, he came across an old photograph of our two families together at an open house when we were just six. “Isn’t it weird how things can look so completely different when you’re a kid than they do when you’re older?” he commented while staring at the picture.
“I mean, I know that when I was six, I thought that no one was happier than my mom and dad, but now that I think about it, they were always fighting. Usually it was about stupid stuff, like leaving the lights on or the toilet seat up, but sometimes they argued about Dad’s drinking, or Mom’s shopping sprees.
“I think I must have known, though, that something was wrong because once I wished that I had your parents instead of mine. Your mom was always hugging and kissing you, like you were the most perfect kid in the world. I always had to try extra hard at stuff, be the best just to get some kind of compliment. It was only when I won at something that it felt like I was doing good.”
It was strange, listening to him talk about the childhood he kept secret. I had always been the one to admire his life, his popularity, his assumed normalcy, and as he stared at our six year-old faces it was easy to see that normalcy was in the eye of the beholder.
“Even after your mom died, your dad always accepted you just the way you were. You never had to try to be something else, never had to try and impress him because you always did. He was happy with you. I was jealous of that. Weird, isn’t it?”
My head ticked up in acknowledgement, and I felt my face twitch as I thought about what it had been like for him, watching my dad and I laughing an
d playing while his parents were too busy fighting to notice just how much he wanted their approval.
“Graham, you know that my dad never thought of you as just the neighbor boy, right? I mean, aside from what happened last summer, you’ve pretty much been the son my dad never had.”
He shrugged before putting the photo into a book and shoving that into a box filled with other books. “Well, now he has a son, and if everything goes good between you and Robert, he might end up with two.”
“You’d like to think that,” I mumbled.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” I lied quickly.
“Hmm. Well, I think that’s it for the books and junk. The trophies are all in that box over there, and the clothes I won’t need are in the garage for donation. The only thing left in here is the furniture.” He looked at the bed and grinned. “I think when Lark gets back, I’ll start sleeping in my parents’ room.”
“Why?”
He winked at me. “I don’t think that’s something for virgin ears.”
A bubble of panic began to build inside of me as Ameila’s words filled my head.
Laws.
Forbidden.
Death.
“Graham, if you’re thinking of being having sex with Lark, there’s something you should know.”
“What? Does she have eleven toes or something?”
“If only it was that simple.”
We were sitting on Graham’s unmade bed, the sheets balled up in the corner for washing. I looked at his face and wanted to keep the amused expression there, but I knew that what I had to tell him would erase it, perhaps forever. And as he listened, I tried to gauge his reaction, hoping that understanding rather than anger and disappointment would reign over his emotions.
“Grace…I get what you’re trying to say, but I don’t care. I love Lark.”
“You don’t get it, Graham. Loving her isn’t enough. You have to turn, and that’s not something that you can just choose. It’s not like taking a vacation from being human. It’s forever.”
“But you were willing to do it before everything happened,” Graham reminded me. “Don’t you still want to?”
I traced the indentations in the mattress that the quilting had created, my fingers rounding the wide fleur pattern, knowing what my answer was, but unsure as to whether I could give it without having to explain my reasons why.
“Grace?”
“No. I thought it was the best choice for me but the truth is that it isn’t. Robert seems to think that if I were to turn I’d be safe, but he’s wrong. I know he is.”
Suspicion clouded Graham’s thoughts as he looked at me through hooded eyes. “What do you know, Grace?”
“Nothing that I can tell you. I wish I could, Graham, I really do, but there’s simply nothing that I can tell you without you learning about Robert’s call, and that’s not something you need to know. That’s not something you can know.”
“If it’s about you, then I need to know. I’m your best friend, Grace. I know you better than anyone—I don’t care if Robert can see every single damn memory you’ve ever had; he can’t live them and feel them the way that I do. If something is going to happen to you then you need to tell me.”
“It’s not like you tell me everything, Graham,” I scoffed. “You keep secrets, too; don’t deny it.”
Graham stiffened, his gaze turning cold before he stood up off of the bed and then knelt down and reached beneath the mattress, lifting it up and nearly toppling me off in the process. He pulled out something and then handed it to me.
“I don’t want your skin mags, Graham,” I told him in distaste.
“It’s not a skin mag, Grace. Look at it.”
I forced my eyes to look down and frowned when I saw that he had handed me an ordinary composition tablet, its cover worn and faded from both use and age, an oddly familiar scrawl forming the title that had been written in the only visible space available.
“The Wishing Well,” I read aloud, confused. “What is this?”
“Open it,” he answered, sitting back down on the bed and pulling his legs in, crossing them in front of him.
With slow fingers, I lifted the cover and exposed the first page, a whisper of shock coming out of me as I took in the extreme amount of writing that filled up the sheet of paper. The penmanship, though childlike, was often neat and organized, but there were occasions when exhaustion and fatigue would cause slipping of the steady lines and things would become almost illegible.
Each page was dated, the first one going back to the date of the accident that had killed my mother.
“Read it,” he said to me softly, leaning back to get comfortable.
With his avid gaze on me, I began to go through the words that had been written there, the seven year-old phrasing so simple yet they hit me with the force of a train.
“Grace was in a car crash. She is my best friend and I do not want her to die. I wish that Grace never has to die.”
I turned the page, the date at the top now several months later, the handwriting a bit smoother, clearer.
“Mom and dad are fighting again. I went to Grace’s house and watched movies all day. Grace said she did not want me to go home. I did not want to go home. I wish I could stay with Grace and her dad. I wish Grace was my family. I wish Grace and I was friends forever.”
Several more pages, months apart, were filled with the same, almost desperate need, and then the dates jumped by years. As I reached the middle of the book, Graham’s penmanship had grown almost frantic in his need to hurry and get his thoughts down before he was interrupted. It was freshman year, and he was just starting out with the football team.
“I had my braces taken off today. Grace was with me, holding my hand because those things hurt! I told Grace that she was an awesome friend and that I didn’t know what I would do without her. She told me that she wasn’t going to go anywhere, that we’d be friends forever. I wish that was true because she’s the only one cheering me on during practice. Everyone else calls me the shrimp. Even dad. But Grace always sticks up for me, even when she gets teased for it. I wish that one day people would stop teasing her because she’s a good person, no matter what anyone else says.”
I smiled at that, remembering that day when I had nearly been thrown off the bleachers for calling Gregory Capelli a jerk. The cheerleaders had instantly put me on their hate list, and from then on, only tolerated me because Graham proved that he had the chops to be on the team.
It was when I reached the page that had changed our friendship forever that I lost my smile. There were obvious tear stains that blurred the words written down with such haste, and the liquid fuzziness of my own tears did not help to clarify anything as I struggled to read what he had written after he had effectively broken my heart.
“I hurt Grace today. I didn’t want to do it, but I had to. She told me she was in love with me. I wanted to tell her that I loved her too but I couldn’t. Why didn’t she tell me sooner? Why do girls have to always wait until after a guy’s made his decision to say something?
“I wish I could take back what I said. I wish I could take back everything I’ve done these past few months, especially agreeing to go out with Erica. It’s not like we’ve got anything in common. She doesn’t make me laugh, she doesn’t get my jokes. Things would be so much better with Grace.
“But it’s better this way. She’ll learn to stand on her own two feet, finally see that she’s the stronger one out of the two of us. She never changed who she was to make someone else happy, even if it meant that they’d treat her better. I wish that she’ll forgive me one day for not being strong enough to tell her the truth, and for hurting her. I wish that one day she’ll find someone who doesn’t want her to change everything in her life just to make him happy. I wish that she’ll find someone who will love her just the way she is.”
I sat there speechless, unable to process what the short lines of text meant. Had he been able to have been honest with me
, had he told me how he felt, things would have been very different for us—drastically different.
There would be no Erica Hamilton. It would have been him and me standing there on the first day of school comparing class schedules, laughing while he stroked my hair. He would have been there to comfort me when I learned about dad and Janice. I would have been with him instead of on that road when Mr. Frey was driving home drunk—I might have been able to keep Mr. Frey from driving at all.
There would have been no despondent faces in homeroom, and I’d have felt no strange inclination to trust Stacy’s offer of friendship. She would have continued on through life and suffered alone when her cancer came back. Lark would have continued to find humans distasteful, her heart locked away, and Robert…
Instantly, my mind flashed to the vision I had had of an old Graham and myself, dying together on a bed surrounded by photographs of our lives together. We had been happy in each one. It was the future we would have shared. But then the vision grew pained as I remembered Robert coming into the room.
He had scribbled something onto a piece of paper that burst into flames, just moments before I watched him die. The image still had the same impact on my heart as it strained in my chest with spasms of fear and distress at the idea of him dying, of him not being there…with me.
I looked at Graham and I knew, without a single ounce of doubt in my body that by not telling me about how he had felt, Graham had saved my life. He had saved the both of us.
“Read the last one,” Graham spoke up then.
It wasn’t a request, and I turned the pages to find the last dated entry, unsure of what else he could possibly reveal.
This one was dated just a few days before Lark received her call. I looked at him, my eyes unsure, and then began to read.
“I wish there were more hours in a day, more time to spend with Lark, more minutes to talk to her and tell her things. She tells me that she wants me to talk to her. She doesn’t want to read my thoughts anymore, just hear my voice. We talk for hours about everything. It’s incredible.
