Along the three-quarter-mile curve, I sniff my armpits and slow to a bouncy walk. I need to be careful not to break the boundaries between sweat and wintry air, when my sweat glands open and seep salt through my shirt. Today, I parked my Jeep in the same lot as Aggi’s car, making it quite possible for me to bump into her when I—we—leave campus. Can’t be smelling of skunk, now, can I?
I won’t physically bump into Aggi. Not with a restraining order in full force. Although I’m not sure the court order applies to me, to Aggi, when we’re away from our common land, I’d rather not test Aggi’s father. He’s more frightening than any restraining order. Mr. Frank’s become a larger-than-life asteroid, aimed at the earth, ready to blow it apart with his anger. He has me head-checking when I leave the house, looking over my shoulder for a lurking shadow. And to make matters worse, Aggi’s mom has been wandering the campus more than usual, and even on a Saturday. Last week, she nearly saw me. I darted behind the brick wall of the library when she passed, wiping her eyes and mumbling to herself. She looked lost, and my heart broke for her. I wanted to jog beside her, put my arm around her, and say, Hey, Mrs. F., I miss our talks, your laughs at my terrible jokes, and your peach cobbler. My mom misses you, too. But that would have caused problems for everyone.
One last head-check to make sure nobody’s following me, and I head for the science building. A rock wall separates the library from Aggi’s building and provides the perfect place for fake pull-ups. Gawkers are nonexistent in college, or so it seems. Nobody gives a shit what you do. Everyone minds their own business, unlike in high school, where everyone talks to everyone else and spreads more rumor than fact. Once in a while a college girl walks by, but I don’t pay attention. I’m here for one reason: Aggi.
After my fourth pull-up, my biceps and shoulders burn. Last year, my grandmother called me string bean, and girls avoided me like bad breath. This year, since I started working out, the whole world notices. Well, that’s the lie I tell myself. When your brother’s best friend kills him in a car accident, small-town fame swirls around you like those whirlpool clouds Aggi used to obsess over.
I heave myself onto the retaining wall and hang. After a few seconds, someone moves past the window.
Oh, God. It’s her.
Wearing a gray-and-white gravity-defying ski cap on the back of her head, she turns, talking to someone. A student? Professor? I squint to study Aggi’s body language. Loose, relaxed. She’s talking with her hands. I hope not to a guy. An older, bigger-chested college guy. I drop to the cement, hunch over, and grip my knees. Hard to breathe when your girlfriend—ex-girlfriend—is talking to a college guy. He’s probably really into science and weather, too, and cracks college-guy jokes. Blessed with an epic beard and good humor. I can already hear him with his Why is sex like a thunderstorm? bit.
I rub the back of my neck as someone says, “Hey.” A guy in thick-framed glasses and a goddamned cape. College students. Doing their own shit their own way since forever. What I wouldn’t give to do that, instead of hanging on a retaining wall, scraping my elbows and knees, while the love of my life washes test tubes and listens to bad weather jokes.
But this is my life since Cal died. Since guilt killed Aggi’s sister.
Two deaths in less than one month. Grief took its toll on both families. Aggi’s parents visited the same hell mine did and still do. Aggi’s parents are mad, hurt, and I get it. They blame us. Isn’t that what people do when tragedy hits? Search for answers, even if it means pointing fingers? At least my family didn’t have to walk in on a loved one hanging lifeless in their bedroom. At least we didn’t have to hear the thud of Kate’s body hitting hardwood when Aggi’s dad cut his own belt from his daughter’s neck. My family has painful memories, too, but sometimes the good stomp away the bad.
When I think about the suffering Aggi’s family has endured, I get mad, too. I want to scream that it was a fucking accident. It wasn’t like Kate lost control of her car on purpose. They were both wearing seat belts. Neither drinking. Kate didn’t choose to take my brother’s life any more than she chose to take her own. A horrible accident followed by suffering.
But then the lawyers started visiting at dinnertime. My dad began acting shifty, quit making eye contact with me and my mom. He’d motion for a guy in a suit and tie and slick black cowboy boots to meet him in his truck; then they’d drive around the lake. Planning, plotting, him eating up whatever they were selling. They talked money. That’s what this is really about. All those whispers of wrongful death. Murmurings of pain and suffering and who’s responsible for hospital bills. I want to ask my dad what price his friendship has. Whether it’s worth losing his best friend. He’s already lost a son.
Now all that’s left is blame and a shit-ton of paperwork.
All I want is for life to go back to the way it once was. When our parents were best friends. When I had two families, not one. When my brother, Cal, sat on the porch plucking at his guitar, humming melodies and strumming chords with Kate. When I knew Aggi loved me and we didn’t have to pretend not to see each other when our parents were watching. And that’s what I’m the least certain of: if Aggi still feels the way she felt that afternoon on the lake when she shouted that she loved me so loud the entire woods stopped to listen. Does Aggi feel the same way about my family, about me, as her father does? And if so, would I blame her? My dad’s responsible for this mess. Isn’t he?
My brain buzzes with confusion. Scratches on my elbows will heal, but my heart, Aggi’s heart, might vaporize into nothing unless we fight to rebuild the broken pieces before it’s too late.
I throw myself at the retaining wall and grapple with the stone until my body hangs in a semicomfortable position.
Aggi. In the window. A figure steps beside her, and I recognize Dr. Nelson’s brushless-since-the-eighties hair. Aggi pulls her hat from her head and digs her hand into her curls, turns, and disappears into the lab.
“She’s there,” I say out loud, and shake my arms free of cramps.
When I turn around, a girl on a bench lifts her bushy eyebrow and nods.
I scowl, growl even, but not at the girl. It’s all this shit in my head. I want to talk to Aggi so bad it hurts. I want to wait for her outside the science building and ask if she still loves me. I want to tell her how I resisted the lawsuit, threatened to never speak to my father again if he went through with it. But most of all, I want to say I’m sorry.
I hike myself up onto the rock wall and plant my chin on the ledge. Aggi floats by the window, wiping fog from the glass. Her face pink, lips red and full. If I concentrate, close my eyes and focus, her lips brush against mine. A warm-sugar-cookie taste. Aggi stares in my direction, and for a split second I’m flooded with hope, wondering if she sees me hanging here, but then I freak. My arms weaken, feet scramble against the stone. A couple of feet above ground, and it feels like parkour training on the side of a skyscraper. All four limbs flail, and I drop, my chin dragging over the flagstone, my mouth tasting of metal.
“Fuck!” I shout as my ankle rolls and my ass hits the ground.
Aggi saw me. Now what do I do?
“You good?” the girl on the bench asks.
Twisting around, I brush the gravel stuck to my palms and knees and mumble, “No. Never.”
The girl walks toward me and extends a hand. “You sure you’re okay?”
My cheeks burn, chin stings. “Nope,” I say. “There is nothing okay about me.” I flip the hood of my sweatshirt over my head. If only I had that college guy’s cape, I would swing it in front of me for an unparalleled dramatic exit.
7
Aggi
MAX THINKS I DON’T KNOW he follows me to work and watches me from the library. “‘Stalks’ is more like it,” Umé said after I told her I saw Max at the college. Four times. “If you don’t like it, call him out on that shit,” she insisted. But my feelings for Max swing like a pendulum. One moment Max parades girls in front of my house and I’m confused why he feels the need t
o flaunt his grief recovery in that way, and the next he sits on his porch and stares at my window, or checks up on me at work. According to the thesaurus app on my phone, a stalker harasses someone with unwanted attention. I’m unsure what I want. A part of me believes Max still cares about us, about what was taken from us, but so much has happened since his brother’s funeral. Maybe Max and his feelings ride the same pendulum.
The first time I noticed Max following me to work was when I saw his Jeep in the parking lot. Max has no reason to visit the college campus, so my curiosity steered me alongside his Jeep. I hoped I’d see something on the seat or the dash that would hint at what Max was up to. What I did not expect to find was Max flat on his back, practically stuffed beneath the steering wheel, hair sticking straight up like a hedgehog. I sprinted across the lot before our eyes connected.
The next time I noticed Max darting around campus like a cartoon spy, he was jogging on the sidewalk, long arms dangling at his side, knees barely bending with each step. I mean, Max, jogging? The same boy who insisted he had the lungs of a thirty-year smoker every time I beat him in a race for the dock. Max cut across the sidewalk and hesitated, pivoted, then darted in the other direction. I wanted to shout, Max! I see you! I totally see you! but I froze. A part of me, the part I push away out of fear, wants Max to keep his distance. From afar, he’s safe. But the selfish part of me wants Max to watch me. At least then I know he still cares. That selfish part of who I am scares me. It’s the part that could get Max in trouble and me blamed even more than I already am. Dad blames Max and me for the accident. And most days, I suppose I do, too.
On weekend mornings, the campus snoozes except for a few students laughing as they pilgrimage to the library. As the minutes tick by, small pockets of college kids leave their dorms for breakfast in the dining hall. I stare out the window of the biology lab and smile to myself, imagining all the fun they’re having. They laugh, hold hands, as they march around campus. When I pass students on intersecting sidewalks, they always say hello, and I pretend to be a friendly person, too, like my life is full and rich and uncomplicated. Like I’m happy to be alive.
Kate would be a freshman this year. A double major in math and music. That was her plan.
I think a lot about Kate when I walk to Dr. Nelson’s lab and stare out over the campus courtyard. I imagine my sister racing toward me on a sidewalk, stopping to ruffle my hair, then bolting to the music room to practice piano before meeting friends for melon and eggs (her two favorite foods). All those shades of yellow and orange, she used to say, like someone scooped the sun and made freezer pops.
Saturday mornings, when I stroll by oak trees dipped in white and girls in oversized sweaters, my thoughts wrap around Kate. What her daily routine would be like. Would she return to the music room after breakfast in the commons, or would she swing home to do a load of laundry before hitting the books? I imagine her stopping by the house on a sleepy Sunday morning with an oversized bag full of dirty clothes hiked onto her back as she shoves the door open with her foot. Her long, dark hair spilling over one shoulder, sunglasses pushed high on her head.
Kate promised she wouldn’t forget me while she was away at school. All twenty-five miles away. Some people travel the country so they can attend college far from family, but not Kate. She said a small public institution in a neighboring city suited her just fine, but I know the tuition waiver my mom received as a benefit for working at the university was the real reason.
“You’re here early for a Saturday.” I make my way to the autoclave—the high-pressure steamer I use to sterilize glassware—and fumble with the buttons until the engine whirls.
Dr. Nelson squats in front of an aquarium rigged for bees. “Grace wanted to go out for breakfast, so we stopped here first. Had to check on my other children, too.” Dr. Nelson taps the glass with her fingertip and smiles.
Tanks containing flowers native to North Carolina line the lab walls, but two containers buzz with bees that belong in some Scandinavian country. The bees, just one of the many mysteries surrounding Dr. Nelson and her lab. I used to ask my mother how Helsinki bees ended up in a western North Carolina laboratory, but Mom whispered, “Dr. Nelson is strict with her don’t ask, don’t tell policy.” Every time one of her students inquires, Dr. Nelson lowers her voice and references Victor Frankenstein, Doctor Griffin, Lex Luthor.
Since working in the lab, I’ve learned to ask questions Dr. Nelson will answer, and I’ve learned a lot about these small, solitary bees with leaf-cutter relatives, known as Chelostoma florisomne. These little creatures used to make me squeamish, but after spending hours online reading Dr. Nelson’s publications on how weather impacts bee behavior, I’ve fallen in love with these damn insects, and with Dr. Nelson, too.
Weather patterns were once my specialty. Predicting them was what I was good at. Call me competitive, but I had to know what the sky planned to do to us before it had a chance to do it. Before the accident, I spent a lot of time learning to predict unpredictable weather.
“Is Gracie with you?” I crane my neck toward the door.
Dr. Nelson turns from the tank. “She’s in my office playing on the computer. Didn’t think you’d be here so early. Want to join us for breakfast?”
I imagine Max somewhere on campus and snatch a towel from its hook, rub the numbers off an Erlenmeyer flask. “Should probably stay here. The lab’s a wreck.”
Dr. Nelson’s eyes dart around the neat and tidy room, and her eyebrows lift.
“I’ll be here all day cleaning. Tomorrow, too, if you don’t mind me clocking Sunday hours.”
Dr. Nelson detects my reluctance to leave the lab. “Need more time out of the house, huh?”
Dr. Nelson, Mom’s boss-turned-confidante, knows my family better than I do. She is responsible for Mom going back to school to finish a degree she started decades ago. She’s seen my mother at her best, then witnessed her falling apart.
“Just thought, you know, I’m here Saturdays anyway. May as well make a weekend out of it.” I shut off the water.
Dr. Nelson clamps one hand to her hip; the other pushes at her conditioner-less locks. She’s poised to speak but only listens.
“Mom could really use the hours.” I’m pushing the desperation button, and I almost feel guilty as Dr. Nelson won’t be able to resist.
After Kate died, Mom cut her hours at the college, and I offered to step in and help. Mom, crumbling before us, tried to go to work, get out of the house and maintain some semblance of a routine, but several mornings she’d drive right past the campus and end up in a Target parking lot on the other side of town. She’d cut the engine and sit alone in the car for hours, shivering when I’d find her. Dr. Nelson called morning after morning worried, asking what time my mother left for work. Weeks of Mom’s late shows and absences turned to months. Dr. Nelson didn’t have the heart to report Mom missing work. Legally speaking, Dr. Nelson could get into trouble, but morally speaking, Dr. Nelson doesn’t have two shits to give. So Dr. Nelson clocks some of Mom’s meager hours as though Mom worked them, except I do. Dr. Nelson and I have an understanding, and we never talk about it. Don’t ask, don’t tell. I’m just happy to be out of the house, away from Dad, who is also crumbling before us.
“I suppose these guys could benefit from Sunday data readings,” Dr. Nelson says with a wink.
I dry my hands on a towel and walk toward the bees shooting around the tank. Their unpredictable movements remind me how order-less life is even though science says otherwise. A bee slams against the plastic, buzzing at high pitch, and I flinch.
“Maybe I should stick to cleaning. Neaten your desk. Sing to the plants.”
Dr. Nelson smiles. “These beauties are harmless. You know they won’t sting. But you have to know how to handle them.”
My eyes widen. “Handle them?”
Dr. Nelson chuckles. “I’m only kidding.” She pats my back. Her hand pauses, then moves to my shoulder and squeezes.
“Parents still fucki
ng with your brain?”
I nod, purse my lips, a signal that shit, also known as my life, is the same today as it was yesterday, but I’d rather not go into details.
Dr. Nelson’s head drops, as she recognizes the same-shit pattern when she sees it.
“Why don’t you start Sunday shifts tomorrow.”
I exhale. “Thank you. But what if Grace begs to come home?” I worry my little sister will be alone with Mom and Dad, and I won’t be there to protect her from hearing or seeing something anxiety-inducing.
Dr. Nelson shakes her head. “Oh, no. She’s not going to be there if you’re not. I’ll keep her with me.”
Grace skips through the door, shouting, “When are we going to eat? I’m starving!” When she sees me, she tilts her head, squeezes one eye shut, like she’s examining me, assessing if I’m okay. I flash a smile and wave, and her shoulders melt, air releasing from her tightly wound body. I open my arms, but she turns toward Dr. Nelson.
“Hang in there, kiddo.” Dr. Nelson pats my shoulder and leans in toward my ear. “Someday, your dad will realize his mistakes, blame himself, and beg the universe for forgiveness.”
I hope Dr. Nelson is right.
As I walk through the parking lot, I stare at my phone. Now that I’m aware Max lurks around campus, I don’t want him to see me seeing him. I wonder what Max is up to besides hiding in his car, climbing the retaining wall at the library, and sprinting down the sidewalk when he thinks I’ve spotted him.
If I hadn’t seen Max hanging on the library wall, I would have thought he showed up on campus to exercise, run laps, do something to occupy his time. I thought, for a hot minute, that running could be Max’s new hobby, a much-needed distraction, and I smiled thinking how alike the two of us are. How I stroll through campus remembering Kate. Maybe Max, too, visits the college to clear his head or connect with memories of his brother. But then I figured out running is Max’s excuse to spy on me.
Since We Last Spoke Page 4
