by Cecelia Earl
"Oh. Not anymore."
"Sorry?"
"No, I'm not sorry."
"No, I'm sorry."
"Oh! Haha. It's complicated, but don't be."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Definitely not."
"Okay, so we're down another dead end conversational path, then."
"Music preference?" I ask, thinking that he didn't run with music at the Y and I was in disbelief. Run in silence? Shudder.
"Indie. We have great indie bands in Milwaukee. You?"
"The kind I can run to. Anything upbeat."
"Book preference?"
"Textbooks."
"Boooring. I like sci-fi and fantasy. Tell me you've read Harry Potter, Narnia, The Hobbit, something."
"I've seen the movies."
"Man."
"So, we have nothing in common, then?"
"Not a problem," he says.
"No?"
"My last girlfriend and I had everything in common. We performed in plays together, went to bands together, read the same books at the same time, ordered the same kind of pizza."
"So you always had a conversational path open."
"Not so much as you might think. It got dull. Always the same thing. Nothing new to try. We didn't challenge each other."
"Well, if it's a challenge you're looking for . . . ."
"That's not what I mean necessarily." He's laughing when he says it, though. "When we order a pizza, we'll probably have to order half and half. I bet there's no way you'd eat what I order."
"I already split mine half and half. We'd have to order in thirds if you want some of your flavor."
"I didn't know pizza came in flavors. What do you order, chocolate chip mint pizza?"
"You know what I mean."
"I rarely know what you mean."
Tell me about it. Is he insinuating I could be his next girlfriend? That he's considering dating me and ordering pizza together?
I detail my last pizza order, ticking each ingredient off on my fingers, "I order half with Canadian bacon, green pepper, and light cheese. Thin crust only. The other half I order pineapple and sun-dried tomatoes with basil."
"Explain."
"Food groups. Health factor. Fewer carbs in the bread."
"Hate to break it to you," he says, "but it's nearly impossible to make pizza healthy. There's grease and calories and cheese is cheese. Once again, I remind you that you live in Wisconsin. Birthplace of cheese."
"That is not the case."
"Okay, I know that, but seriously. Wisconsin. And cheese."
"Tell me you don't own a cheese head."
"Of course I do. I buy a new one every time I attend a game."
"Tell me you don't go often."
"Twice a year since I was eight."
"Oh my. Tell me you don't display them all in your bedroom, like in a trophy case or something."
"I donate them."
"Some foundation accepts used cheese heads?"
"To kids."
"Random kids?"
"My sister's friends. She has Down syndrome, so when she goes to group events I bring a few. Spread the Packer love. Sometimes I bring them to Children's Hospital. Before a game day."
I run my hand through my hair, stopping at the end of a long damp stand to twist it around my fingers. "You," I say.
"Me?"
"Are you for real?" This boy is like a saint. I look at my mom’s prayer card. Maybe he'll be on the back of one someday.
"I'm pretty sure."
"Does your sister go to games?"
"She's the biggest Packer fan there is."
"Does she bowl?"
"With the best of them."
"What pizza flavor do you order?"
"It's not a flavor, but whatever. I change it up every time. This last time I ordered one of everything."
"Stop," I say.
"I did."
"Maybe we should just order two separate pizzas."
"Fine, but we have to at least try each other’s," he says. I imagine his hand outstretched for me to shake and seal the deal.
I hesitate. "One nibble."
"A full bite. You need to get the full experience." I imagine him waving his hand, impatient for me to shake.
I sigh.
"Deal?" I imagine him grabbing my hand.
I'd shake. "Deal."
"When are you coming back?" he asks.
"As soon as possible. Now I'm starving." And wondering what it'd feel like to hold his hand. Again. Though the first time didn’t really count.
I fall asleep to the sound of his rumbling laughter and the sound of him saying my name.
"Sweet dreams, Laine."
23
my own flair
May comes over Sunday with a Crock-Pot, Starbucks coffee, and a bowl of fruit salad. She pulls out her sketch pad while I pore over my sociology text and post more to the online novel discussion. Trying to one-up Lucy Fox there is proving to be a losing battle.
And I hate losing battles.
"Calm down, Laine."
"Huh?"
"Your fight vein is bulging and you have a slight shake to your hands."
"Whatever." I release my pencil and wipe my hands on my thighs. Okay, so they might have an angry tremor. "I'm going to the bathroom."
I splash cold water on my face. Time for Round 2. Toweling off, I glance in the mirror. For a moment I'm spooked. It's like some stranger is staring back at me. My color is off, and the skin below my eyes is transparent and gray. I brush through my hair and tie it back into a ponytail, find some of Mom's concealer and dab it under my eyes. Then I pull a Scarlett O'Hara and pinch my cheeks. May as well, since I’m apparently so like her.
Jax. Jax is my fight song. I think his name, and I can't help but smile. If I can use the thought of his name to rev me up through all this studying, serving tonight, and school this week, then I'll make it without being at my dad's side for a couple of days.
I return to my work and May.
"So. You and Chase, huh?"
"He's gay," I say without looking up from my notes.
"No duh." I glance up. She's looking at me and sits back in her chair. "For a smart girl, sometimes you're kind of clueless."
I drop my head in my hands. "I never used to have this problem."
She reaches over and rubs my back. "Poor Laine."
"Are you being facetious or consoling?"
"A little of both." She's laughing. "You kissed him? Why would you do that?"
"That's what you're talking about?"
"What else?"
"He got me a job. How'd you know about the kiss?"
"Who doesn't know? You put it on display."
"That was ages ago," I say, confused.
"Weeks. Try weeks. You were gone all last week so you missed the fallout. It took a little for the whispers to grow louder, but when you were out, the word was loud and proud. Your intimidating presence was absent."
"Forgotten that quickly."
"Oh, this was the opposite of forgotten, believe me."
"Was that what all your tongue clicking was about?"
"Tongue clicking?" she asks, and I can't tell if she's playing innocent or is sincerely in the dark about her habit.
"Don't give me that. You know what I'm talking about. You're a closeted tongue clicker."
"You're crazy."
"I get that a lot, but you love me, remember?"
"Are you sure?"
"What's not to love?"
"Um, hello, the crazy?"
"I heard crazy looks cute on me."
"Oh, yeah? From who?"
I return my attention to my books.
"Why are your cheeks suddenly the color of spaghetti sauce?"
"Excuse me. I'm studying. And besides, you changed the subject."
"Well, it obviously wasn't Chase. I could hear him say something like that, but you wouldn't suddenly look like you'd been on spring break without sunscreen. I'm 98 percent sure Marc
isn't making you blush like that anymore, and he doesn't particularly like your crazy . . . . You haven't been in school, so that means . . . YOU MET SOMEBODY AT THE HOSPITAL!" She grabs my hands, pencil and all. "Dish."
"No dish." I pull away. "What do you mean he doesn't like my crazy?"
She gives me an exaggerated eyeball. "What with wanting your focus 300 percent on him and all. Your crazy takes the focus off him, puts your mind on a bazillion other things."
"I didn't realize he was that appalled by my crazy. And now I don't even like that word anymore."
"Feels less cute? More crazy?"
"Now you're being mean. If you hadn't brought food, I'd send you home."
She sticks her tongue out at me. "Speaking of. I'm eating."
I sigh. I work while she fills a plate, then I take a break and eat with her. She brought chili, and it's way better than any of the hospital food I've eaten, but not by much. Maybe my tongue is broken. By four I'm done with my work and ready for more at school tomorrow.
"Thanks for the study session, Laine. Good to see you."
We hug.
"Thanks for the nourishment," I say.
"Adios, crazy-cute girl."
"A bientot, adorable tongue clicker."
Serving is as busy as bartending, but much less smile requiring. I make decent tips. I think it's because I'm fast and efficient. No Marc equals less stress come the end of the evening. Then I take another bath and read Mom's prayer card again. I like the part about not being alone in my struggles. It'd be nice to believe that.
I missed a few texts from Jax. The emoji faces have nothing on his hand drawn ones. I draw a face on a kitchen napkin while I sip some milk. I put my own flair on it, take a picture with my phone and text it to him.
He calls within seconds.
"Hey," I say.
"Hey. How was Sunday?"
"Busy. Productive."
"The best kind, then."
"Yours?"
"Opposite," he says.
"How so?"
"Sunday is a day of rest. So, church, brunch, went for a nature hike with my sister. Sat with Dad for a little bit."
"Homework?"
"Did a little of that, yes."
"How's your dad?" I ask.
We haven't talked about our dads yet. The reason we met. I don't want him to think I'm prying, but I also don't want him to think I don't care. He's forward enough. If he doesn't want to talk about it, he'll say so, right?
"Not great. Yours?"
"It's hard being here, but Mom said there’s been no change. He's scheduled for some tests tomorrow. Hopefully he'll keep moving forward."
"What's he in for?"
"Kidney failure. It kind of ruined his whole body, took him down. But the tests are to make sure the rest of the body is healthy enough to get a new kidney. That all it will take is the kidney and everything else will go back to working normally."
"Waiting for a transplant, then."
"Yup." I'm afraid to ask about his dad. Even his voice darkens when he's talking about him. "What does your dad need?"
"Prayers. Lots and lots of prayers."
"What do you need? Can I help?"
"Hope. Can you give me hope?"
"I can pray."
"You pray?"
"Well, no. I've always been an atheist, but I found this prayer card. St. Jude. I can pray if it will help you."
He laughs a humorless laugh, but his voice is brighter nonetheless. "Perfect. He's the saint who prays for lost causes, for the hopeless."
"So you pray for the saint to pray for you?"
"Yup. Double duty. The saint prays with me."
"So the prayer can help you, then?"
"Yes. The prayer can help."
"Then I'll pray. For you and your dad."
"Thanks, Laine. Add your dad in there too."
I turn the prayer card over in my hand. "Okay."
"Tell me about the best part of your day," he says, his voice low like we're sharing secrets, sad like he's lost all prospect of happiness.
His voice is struggling to brighten so I spend the next half hour doing whatever it takes to tell him happy things, making it my goal in life to save this boy from despair.
24
focus
The Appleton West High School building stands tall, brown, and proud, like a mother hen surrounded by her chicks. Neighborhood houses are perched around it on all sides, leaving no room for parking. Student cars line the streets like chicken feed.
Standing under the shade of a tall oak, I look up at the windows, trying to remember how it felt the first time I walked under the stone entrance, up the steps, and inside.
Wonder. Possibilities. The excitement of taking on the challenge of surpassing all the goals I'd carefully mapped out in my You're A Winner journal. My dad had gotten it for me on my tenth birthday. I hadn't used it until I found it in a shoe box when I was fourteen and started writing mini goals and recording successes every day. Standing there, watching the other students, both strangers and familiar, mill about and be swallowed into the belly of high school, I'd felt what I'd always felt at the start of my middle school cross country meets: power. Knowing I had it in me to surmount any obstacle.
Now, we're in our final days, and this place that we've come to everyday for four years will be a place we never enter again. For some reason this makes me think of Marc and his family, how for two years they were people I saw often, spoke to and learned about, spent holidays with, and now they're only a distant memory.
So many moments that seem unforgettable in present tense, burst into flame almost instantly within seconds after passing. Most of high school won't be etched into my memory like I once thought. Freshman year, made up of 190 days and nights is now a blur with only a handful of memories I can pause and recall details of or bits of conversation from. Even my closet has changed noticeably in a short time. I may be able to recall what I wore to Homecoming, but not what I wore September 27 of sophomore year. And I probably put a fair amount of time into considering what to wear that day. As if it had mattered.
So much that seemed important at the time has faded, the anxiety over a test and the sleepless night over a dispute with May have dulled, and while living through it, I didn't think I'd be able to face morning light.
But I will not be forgotten. It’s unbelievable that after having been gone one short week, I'd been gossiped about, and Ms. Fulton and Lucy Fox could possibly think of replacing me.
And yet. May said that was the case.
Upon reentering the building, hallways loom every which way, walls towering, a central staircase fanning out and up, rising toward the promise of more. A silent announcement, ending years of preparation, is tacked on the wall at the foot of the stairs. On a poster. Its words are like a slap in the face.
The track I'd painstakingly laid out—a foolproof plan— somehow had holes poked into it. Water leaked in and drowned every A, every hour of service, all committee titles. Everything I've worked for is waterlogged, soaked through, lying at the bottom of a ravine.
As I move on, I find there are signs everywhere: VOTE FOR YOUR VALEDICTORIAN.
I've never heard of such a thing. What kind of school votes for valedictorian?
That was supposed to be me. I earned that role.
This is absurd!
"No," I tell one of the posters as I tear it down. I look left and right. Put the damn thing back up. "No."
Where is that tongue clicking . . . . I pull out my phone to text one May Gegan. I pace in front of this hideous poster, then make my way around the first floor of the school, the hallway a perfect square. "No way." There are more of them. Every twenty feet or so. "Vote Lucy Fox?" "Vote Lucas Boyer?" This cannot be happening.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Hands pull me back by my shoulders. Not rough but determined. "Slow down there. Breathe."
"Let me go." I turn. "Chase."
"I said to breathe." He lowers his face and stares into my eyes. "So breathe
."
I exhale in a huff and start to pull away.
"Inhale. It's the inhale part that's required here."
I try it. The air is stale and smells of betrayal. "Better?"
I try inhaling again. "Did you think that would help?"
He steps back. "Yeah, I did. Helps me." He shrugs.
I shake my head. "Have you seen M—" May races in and skids to a stop in front of us. "Never mind."
I click my tongue. Several times. "Ring a bell?"
"Okay, fine. This is why I was clicking my tongue. I'll admit it. I'm a tongue clicker." She shakes a finger at me. "But you—you're crazy." She throws her hands up over her head and ducks. "Don't hurt me."
"Shut up." I whack her hands down with mine. "What am I going to do?"
"Okay," Chase says, arms crossed, "so I get that you're a control freak with control problems, but is being valedictorian that big of a deal?"
My open mouth and May's you'd-better-watch-your-back eyes are a warning. Chase is a fast learner so he rushes to add, "You can fix this. Take back the title."
Yes, but. "It's only weeks away at this point. I spent years working toward it. What can I do in only a few weeks?"
"Weeks? Graduation is ages away, remember? Weeks equal ages. Plenty of time."
A lot can happen in a week.
"You're right." I shake my head, shake out the negative darkness clouding my judgment. "Of course." And yet, I can't see past these other people's posters. The anger at having lost all that I'd earned. There wasn't supposed to be a vote!
May grabs me and turns me sharply toward her. Ow. "Focus. This is still yours. It's always been yours. There's one final step in the long staircase you started climbing four years ago. Don't stumble and fall down now."
Chase grabs my chin and turns it toward him the way I've seen Marc's little brother do to his mom when he wants attention. It's annoying. "You've got this."
I nod. I do. I've got this.
"And, Laine," May says, not a speck of a smile on her face. "You're not really crazy. You know that, right? I’m sorry I used that word."
"I know. I'm determined."
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
We hug.
She whispers, "Except for the germ thing. It's okay I think that's a little crazy, right?"
