Blue

by L. E. DeLano

  Well, what do you know? Jules kept her mouth shut. Maybe she’s not such a bad friend after all.

  “No, not really. Maybe.” My eyes fill with tears. “I’m not sure where we’re at right now.”

  “That sucks.” She flexes her hand.

  “How’s it feeling?” I ask. “What did your mom say?”

  “I told her I missed a rebound and ended up going into the wall at basketball practice. She believed it.”

  “Does it still hurt?”

  “A little. It’s just stiff.” She flexes her fingers again. “Listen—about the other day—”

  I hold up a hand to head her off. “It’s okay,” I say.

  “Did I hurt your car?”

  “No. I guess your hand is softer.”

  “Guess it is.” She stretches her fingers one more time.

  “What did you need to talk to me about?”

  She looks around, but nobody’s listening in. There aren’t even any cars in the drive-thru right now.

  “Please don’t tell anyone what I told you,” she pleads.

  “I didn’t. I wouldn’t.” I look around, too, for some reason. “That was really personal and I know you didn’t mean to share it with me.”

  “Thanks.” She starts to get up.

  “Maya, I’ve been thinking. About your dad.”

  She eyes me warily and sits back down. “What?”

  “I know what he did—with the texts and all—I know that’s hard. Coming on top of losing him that had to be really, really hard.”

  “The last picture I have of us is from my birthday,” she tells me. “I see that picture and I think, ‘Look at that girl. Right now she has no idea her dad is a lying piece of shit whose selfishness is going to drop a bomb in her life and wreck her mother.’ But my right now and her right now are different. Her right now was great. She was happy. Her dad loved her and loved her mom and it was all good. I can’t have that in my right now.”

  That horrible, clawing guilt is shredding my insides again.

  “I have absolutely no right to tell you how to feel about any of that,” I admit. “But Maya, he’s still who he was to you. He’s still the father that you knew—and loved. He just made a mistake.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Her voice is soft, but she doesn’t sound pissed at me so I go on.

  “He didn’t do any of that to hurt you. He loved you, Maya. None of that’s changed. I don’t know how things were between him and your mother, but none of that had anything to do with his feelings for you. You should forgive him, if you can. He was human. And humans make mistakes.”

  She swallows hard. “I know.”

  “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry things are hard for you at home—knowing what you know. And with you helping your mother and sisters. You shouldn’t have to deal with all that. The worst thing you should have to deal with in high school is Austin Bradley.”

  She gives an awkward laugh. “He was a pretty miserable experience.”

  “The worst,” I agree.

  Now it’s her turn to look guilty. “Sorry I tried to use him to get at you.”

  I give her a dismissive wave. “You did me a favor.”

  She did. She really did. Even if Devon and I are through—the thought makes my throat close up—but even if we are, Austin was no good for me. Or for Maya, apparently.

  “You’re welcome,” she says.

  “Now if we can just get the stupid club figured out, maybe we can both have a better life.”

  Well, maybe one of us can, anyway.

  “We should do your idea,” she says. “The spa thing.”

  “You think?”

  “It’s easiest.” She pushes up to her feet.

  “Yeah, it is. I should get back inside. See ya.”

  “Later.”

  I stand up and stomp some feeling back into my feet. Then I pick up my phone and check my texts one more time before I go back inside.

  And even though Hank put me on fryers tonight, the heat and steam can’t seem to touch all the cold that’s inside me.

  27

  "So we've decided on the spa idea?” Mrs. Ramsey glances at the paper I hand her. “You both agree on this?”

  Maya nods. “It’s going to be more than beauty, though. We can talk about dealing with stress and relaxation techniques, too. You can probably help us with that.”

  “I’d be happy to assist,” Mrs. Ramsey says. “What else are you going to add in?”

  “My mom has some yoga DVDs that she doesn’t use anymore,” I suggest. ‘Fifteen Minute Yoga’ is actually one of them. It has a bunch of mini yoga sessions that might be good to try.”

  “You’d have to get permission to use the gym,” Mrs. Ramsey says. “You can’t do yoga on a hard floor, and you can’t assume every student will have their own yoga mat.”

  I make a face and catch Maya doing the same thing. All of this is so complicated. Everything we suggest comes with three other things we have to do to support it.

  “I can talk to Mrs. Fleenor,” Maya says, mentioning the gym teacher who’s also the basketball coach. “And we have some other ideas that we still need to bounce off of each other.”

  Mrs. Ramsey sits back at her desk and folds her arms, studying us. “Well, girls, I have to say, it does seem like you’re working together better. There hasn’t been a single raised voice or dirty look since you got here.”

  “We just want to get this done,” Maya says.

  “Yeah, we both have better places to be,” I agree.

  “And that’s something I can get behind,” Mrs. Ramsey says. “I can think of a dozen other things I could spend my afternoon doing, as well. So let’s get this club launched.”

  She gestures to us as we both murmur an agreement.

  Maya’s hand still looks pretty bruised, so I grab my chair and drag it over next to her.

  “I can do the writing,” I say.

  “Thanks,” she replies, and out of the corner of my eye I see Mrs. Ramsey smile. That’s probably the first time she’s ever heard that word while we’ve been meeting.

  I pull a notebook and pen out of my backpack and set them down on the desk in front of me. We start working through suggestions, beginning with yoga, adding in a spa day where we try out skincare or aromatherapy products, then we put in a section on healthy eating, battling insomnia, and stretches that can be done while sitting in a desk.

  We’ve actually got a pretty good-sized list going, and it’s not as hard as I thought to come up with things. Maya suggests we do an afternoon tea, featuring soothing teas like chamomile and green tea blends. Good God, have I got chamomile for her. Then again, her family owns a coffee shop. She may have more chamomile than I do. Either way, we are equipped for that and it sounds kind of fun. We are working together pretty well for the first half-hour, when Mrs. Ramsey clears her throat.

  “Girls, I need to run to the office for a few minutes,” she says, leafing through the stack of papers on her desk again and pulling out a couple of sheets. “You two keep on working, and when I get back we’ll go over some of the things you’ve written down, and discuss possible faculty sponsors.”

  As soon as the door closes behind her, I lean back in my seat.

  “Well, at least we have her approval,” I say. “This whole ordeal should be over with soon.”

  “Yeah,” Maya agrees. She points at the notebook. “It’s actually not a bad idea, you know. The kind of club I wouldn’t mind joining.”

  “I know, right?”

  “I mean, if I had the time.”

  “Yeah, who has the time?” I say. “Which is why we’re all so stressed.”

  “Truth.”

  I pick up my phone, check it, put it back.

  “He’s still not talking to you?” Maya asks.

  “He’
s been out sick,” I say defensively. “He’s got a lot going on.”

  “Don’t we all.” She glances over at the door, checking it. “Hey, what you said yesterday—about my dad. Thanks again. It helped.”

  “I’m glad. I know I’m the last person who should be giving you any kind of advice in this situation,” I say. “But I know how things are with me and my father. I feel like I barely know my dad. If you’re lucky enough to have a father who loved you, then that’s what you should remember.”

  Her eyes lock on mine. “So change it.”

  “What? My dad?”

  “You’ve still got him. He’s still here. If you feel like you barely know him, you should try to change that.”

  “He’s so busy,” I say. “And I don’t even know what we’d talk about, anyway.”

  “You should try, though,” she says. “If I still had my father—” her voice breaks. “I’m just saying, I would be talking to him. I would be trying to stay close. The longer you let things go on like this, I think the easier it’ll be for you to not connect—know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I do. It’s just—we’re all so busy.”

  “Make the time. Get them to make the time. You only get so much of it.”

  “I know. But my mom and dad—it’s hard to talk to them. First they were pissed at me about Jack, and now they’re pissed me about all this stuff going on between us—”

  She turns to face me. “Why are they pissed at you for Jack?” She demands. “Like any of that is your fault.”

  The irony of that remark doesn’t go by me, but I’m not going to bring that up right now.

  “They’re pissed because I haven’t gone to see him since he started serving his time. I just—I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know how to face him. I’m so angry at him.” I turn pleading eyes to her. “Maya, I don’t know if he really was at fault—he might’ve been. And if he was—how could he? How could he do that to you, to your family? To himself? And then all the stuff my parents had to go through.”

  “And everything you had to go through,” Maya says. “Facing me.”

  I nod. “It’s like a hurricane that just slammed through so many lives, all because of that night. I don’t know what really happened—and honestly, I’m not sure Jack knows, either.”

  She plays with the string on her hoodie, and takes a long moment before finding the words she needs.

  “Maybe we’ll never really know the truth,” she finally says. “We can all kind of write our own story based on everything that happened, but who knows? Who really knows?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say to her. I feel like I need to. Like I can’t say it enough.

  “None of this is easy for anybody,” Maya says. “But what you said about forgiveness—” She takes in a deep breath. “It goes for your brother, too.”

  My eyes go wide. “You forgive Jack?”

  “No,” she says quietly—and firmly. “I’m not there yet. I’m not sure if I ever will be. But I’m not his sister.”

  I look away, and force the words out of my very tight throat. “Yeah, I guess.” The irony grates on me again and this time I have to remark. “You’re telling me to forgive my brother but you were screaming at me a few weeks ago for hugging him in the courtroom.”

  “I know. I was pissed. Pissed is easier to manage than sad.”

  Tell me about it.

  Her hand reaches out, touches my arm. “Listen, you’re not the only one who’s been thinking about stuff. What would I do if that was one of my sisters? Someday they’re going to be driving, and going to parties. What if something like this happened to one of them? All it would take is one minute of bad judgment. What would I do? Defend them?”

  “It’s hard to defend.”

  “Yeah,” she agrees. “But I’d still want to help them. And if people were talking about them, I’d want them to shut up. My mom—and my dad—they’d do whatever they had to do to help them. If we had the money to hire the best lawyer, if we had other ways they could try to make it easier for them—they would do it. Just like yours did.”

  “I guess.”

  “They would. And I’d want them to.”

  I stay silent. I’m not going to point out that it would have been great if she’d tried that line of thinking before we got roped into starting a club.

  “I’m just saying—he’s your only brother. And just like your parents, the space between you is a choice. You should at least try. Because someday there might be space between you that’s permanent. And you’ll wish for every moment back so you could redo it.”

  Her eyes well with tears and so do mine. I reach in my backpack to pull out my packet of tissues.

  “There’s two left,” I say, handing one over to her. She dabs at her eyes, and laughs.

  “You need to get me one of these goodie bags,” she says. “Oh, and by the way, the party was terrific. My sister’s friends all loved their bags.”

  “I’m sorry again—about the business card.”

  She waves the tissue at me in dismissal. “They’re over it. My mom felt really guilty for yelling at them, so she took them on a shopping spree at the mall.”

  “I’m glad it worked out for them.”

  “You took a big chance by offering to help me,” she goes on. “Right now, let me help you. Talk to your family. Seriously.”

  “Maybe we should add family counseling into our club,” I say. “You’re pretty good at it.”

  “So are you,” Maya says. “And you think we’re the only ones with family trouble? Girl, I could write a book about some of the kids in this school.”

  “Truth. Some of them are a hot mess.”

  “They need more help than us.”

  “Right now,” I agree, “they need our club more than we do.”

  Mrs. Ramsey breezes back in, carrying three cans of Diet Coke. She sets a can in front of each of us.

  “How’s it going?” She asks. “Have you got everything figured out?”

  Maya and I have been staring at each other since Mrs. Ramsey walked in, as if we’re both stuck on the same idea.

  “I think we’ve got a few more things to add,” I say.

  28

  They take my driver’s license at the desk, checking my name against the list of pre-approved visitors. Then I follow my parents through the steel doors, after the guard buzzes us through.

  The hallway smells like sweat and disinfectant. There are two guys mopping at the end of the hall, but we turn before we reach them, into a large open room. A cafeteria, from the look of the tables. The room reeks of garlic.

  There are already a few dozen inmates scattered around the tables with their family members, or friends. Some are playing board games, and one guy looks like he’s opening presents. It must be his birthday.

  What a rotten place to spend a birthday.

  Jack’s birthday is coming up in two months, so that’s going to be him. Opening presents on a cafeteria table in a place that smells like disinfectant, sweat, and garlic.

  Finally, I see him. He’s wearing a gray cotton shirt and pants that look like the scrubs a doctor or nurse would wear. Which is kind of ironic, because Jack wants to study medicine when he goes to college. I wonder if he still does? Did the accident make him re-evaluate that? If he’s in a hospital emergency room, will it trigger bad memories?

  I never thought to wonder before, but it’s entirely possible he has some PTSD from this. Jules’s mom was in an accident a few years back that totaled her car and gave her a concussion and a broken arm. She’s still sort-of afraid to drive. Every time we’re in the car with her and she has to merge into traffic, she hyperventilates. Jules and I used to think it was funny.

  It’s not funny, really.

  Jack stands up as he sees us approaching. He’s not surprised to see me because he had to tell t
hem I was visiting so I could be on the list—but he does look glad. His smile is wide, and genuine. And right now, I’m smiling back just as wide. So wide, my face hurts.

  He hugs Mom first, and she smothers him with it, rocking him back and forth so long it’s got to be embarrassing for him. Dad hugs him next, and I wonder when Dad hugged him last, before all of this came down.

  Then Jack steps forward and his arms surround me, and I’m clinging to him.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “S’alright,” he mumbles, giving me a squeeze. He pulls back, and holds me at arm’s length. “I’m glad you came.”

  “I came for the garlic,” I tell him.

  “No vampires in this group,” Dad quips.

  “They made lasagna for lunch,” Jack says, scrunching up his face. “There’s like, a gallon of grease floating on the top of each pan.”

  Mom looks nauseated. “I hate that they feed you that kind of stuff,” she says. “We’ll just have to go out and bring some lunch back.”

  “Chinese?” Jack asks, hopefully.

  “We had Chinese last time,” Mom says.

  “I like Chinese,” he counters.

  “He likes Chinese,” Dad says. “And so do I.” He looks at me, and I nod. “And so does Blue.”

  Mom gives up, realizing she is outnumbered. Jack motions us over to one of the tables, and we take a seat, with Mom commandeering the spot next to Jack. Dad and I slide in on the opposite side, and for a moment we all sit staring at each other.

  “So, what’s new?” I ask, before it gets more awkward.

  Jack waves a hand over his shoulder. “Same old stuff. Nothing changes around here. They’re big on routine.”

  “Are you still doing laundry?” I ask.

  “Yeah, but they’re moving me to maintenance week-after-next.”

  “So you get to fix stuff?”

  “I get to change light bulbs. And paint.” He shrugs. “It could be worse.”

  Yes, it could be worse. It could all be a lot worse. This place isn’t any place I’d want to be, and it isn’t any place I want my brother to be. But it’s better than being in a federal prison on a manslaughter charge, and it’s better than dead. He’s got a little less than four months, and then he can return to his life, whatever that works out to be now.