by Joy Preble
“I get it,” Ryan said then. “I really do. You went with your brother. That’s cool.”
The warning bell rang then, but we stood at my locker for a few more seconds, just looking at each other.
“I found a dress,” I told him, figuring this would be the subtle way to check if we were still on for Homecoming. “It’s a nice one.” Of course somehow I’d have to get to the mall to actually buy it, but he didn’t need to hear that part.
It worked: He told me he would wear his church suit and did I want one of those mums? Because he would get me one if I did.
“Doesn’t have to be big,” I told him.
He nodded, looking relieved.
We both knew we weren’t talking ordinary corsages. The whole mum thing was an underground-cheerleader-moms-with-hot-glue-gun-skills business here in Texas. (Mum is short for chrysanthemum, for those of you who aren’t local.) Even the grocery stores got in on it. The mums weren’t real: You bought a huge fake white flower, hot-glued it to a cardboard backing with a big old ribbon in the school colors and then added stuff. Candy and little charms and sometimes even stuffed animals and bulbs that lit up and occasionally cowbells, which I felt was sexist, but who would ask me?
Casey’s freshman year, I’d helped him make one for Lanie. We glued on a full size teddy bear with a sweater sporting his football number. The damn thing had been so heavy that Lanie had to carry it around on a hanger. But Casey said she loved it, which flummoxed me. I was not a girl who wanted a fake mum so huge that I had to drape it around my neck like a Homecoming noose.
Ryan agreed about mum size. The second warning bell rang. When we parted ways I was happy, as in really truly happy in a way I hadn’t been for a long time, for about three seconds—until I spotted Lanie Phelps in the Commons area, batting her eyelashes at Donny Sneed. Which even then I might have ignored, except my brother chose that moment to walk by. I still never quite knew when and if he’d show up for school. Often we’d arrive together, park, and then by the end of the day, I’d realize he’d gone off somewhere.
But here he was, front and center.
I knew that Lanie didn’t understand what was going on with Casey—how could she? The guy suddenly wanted to be a great forensic scientist but was repeating Teen Leadership. Who failed a class where the big project was taking a paper lunch sack, writing your name on it in marker, and filling it with things that represented your life goals? After which everybody was required to clap and give you Positive Affirmations and then celebrate by going to the ropes course and making a circle of trust? Of course it’s not like we could tell her that he was an angel now and high school diplomas weren’t exactly required.
More confusing from her perspective, Casey had broken up with her.
It’s true; I would never be a Lanie Phelps fan. But still. Maybe it was my romance-addled Hulk Smash Hand state. It was hard to watch.
I held my breath.
Lanie left Donny Sneed in mid-sentence. She trotted over to Casey. I couldn’t help but shake my head. Idiot.
“I thought about you last night,” Lanie told him. “That ‘Stay’ song was on the radio while a bunch of us were driving to Sonic.” Here she paused like she had imparted something earth-shattering. Across the Commons, Donny Sneed was frowning. I would frown, too.
“You eat a burger?” my brother asked, trying to smile.
Lanie goofy-grinned back at him. “ ’Course I did. Double cheese with bacon and fries. And—”
“And extra mustard and a hot fudge sundae and a Diet Coke,” my brother finished.
They both laughed.
“God, you can eat,” he added, sounding like this was the most wonderful thing ever.
“But it was a diet drink,” Lanie said, smiling more softly now.
“Of course,” my brother said.
You didn’t have to drop a house on me to make me understand that they were somehow talking in flirt-code. Would Ryan and I ever get to that point? Without the secretly dying and breaking up stuff? This is what I was pondering while Lanie and Casey googly-eyed each other and nattered on about double cheeseburgers. Even lunkheaded Donny Sneed (poor guy) must have seen that really they were saying, “I miss you. I love you. I want to watch you eat hot fudge and kiss it off your lips.”
“Take a picture,” said a deep voice beside me. “It’ll last longer.”
I whipped my head around and found myself standing next to Bo Shivers. Right: I had almost—only almost—forgotten. I was supposed to be going to world history. Yes, where he was now my teacher. I also realized that I wasn’t the only one staring at Casey and Lanie. A crowd had gathered.
“Why don’t you push her off the roof, Samuels?” someone hooted. “Then you can skydive after her.”
I cringed.
My brother’s face went stony. Lanie Phelps blushed. Her eyes wandered, maybe searching for Donny Sneed, but he was long gone.
Even if people didn’t exactly remember last year, they hadn’t exactly forgotten, either. Which in some ways surprised me since this was Texas. We regularly cornered the market on crazy. It was legal here to shoot feral hogs from helicopters. A little skydiving stunt shouldn’t get everyone out of whack. But that was high school for you, Texas or not.
Bo Shivers cleared his throat.
“Miss Samuels,” he said. “I believe we are both late for first period.”
I HAD TO hand it to Bo Shivers: he knew how to get a class’s attention.
Right off the bat, he started in about how fast food has given Americans a “throwaway mentality” because everything comes quick and wrapped in paper and inside Styrofoam. He informed us that this has devalued our sense of everything. He also wisecracked about how his own teaching philosophy might also be called “throwaway mentality,” at least as far as substandard student work. The entire room burst out laughing, except me. Mags was hanging on his every word, which just made me pissier.
“But seriously??” Maggie interjected when the cackling died down. She sat up straight in her challenge-the-teacher posture. “Just because I eat a Whataburger doesn’t mean I’m not environmentally aware.”
That got everyone buzzing. Lots of “yeahs” and “Do you hate Taco Bell, Mr. Shivers, because that’s just un-American” and “Are you like from New York or somewhere?” I was glad. Bo had no business here. At least my best friend could call him on it, since she had no idea who or what he was.
Bo just smiled. The classroom door opened, silencing the growing tide of questions. One of the cafeteria ladies trudged in wheeling a huge cart with plate after plate of green chili cheese burritos all individually wrapped in tinfoil, with just the tops showing so you could tell what it was.
Well, that got everyone buzzing again.
And what did Bo Shivers do? He picked up a burrito, unwrapped it, and scarfed it down.
Then he did it again.
Then he did it three more times until he’d eaten five. Five green chili cheese burritos. He didn’t even burp. He stood there, wiping his lips with a brown paper napkin, looking no worse for wear, all flat-abbed and angel-perfect. Except of course for those scars on his wrists which were mostly covered by his long-sleeve button-down. But I knew they were there.
“What the F!?” Maggie said. Like always, that’s exactly how she said it—just the letter F. But around us, I heard the full word. Including from my own mouth. It was all I could do not to march up there and sock Bo Shivers in his full-of-burritos stomach.
“So,” Bo said, giving his mouth one last blot, and ignoring the not-so-whispered f-bombs. “Get out a piece of paper. I want you to write about this.”
Here there were loud groans from the class.
“Do you value burritos more or less when you can get them by the dozen twenty-four hours a day? Does it influence your behavior? Does it have an effect on the economy? On our society? On civil discourse? And if you don’t know what that means, then look it up.”
The cafeteria lady wheeled the empty cart back into th
e hallway. Bo closed the door. Sat down in his teacher chair. Watched us. Everyone kept talking. I didn’t know what was flummoxing me more. That Bo Shivers had consumed five cafeteria burritos in under a minute and wasn’t doubled over in pain or that he actually expected everyone to do the writing assignment. Bo’s gaze shifted from some invisible point on the back wall to me.
He stood. Walked toward the door. Held my gaze, gesturing for me to follow.
I didn’t move.
He gestured again. “Miss Samuels,” he said, holding open the door.
“Jenna,” Mags whispered. “He means you.”
I wanted to hug her and punch her.
I knew I couldn’t refuse. I trudged after him. We stood in the hall, him watching the class through the little window on the door.
“If you’re trying to kill yourself with cafeteria food, go over to Ima Hogg. Those lunch ladies are pretty shifty-eyed. Death by burrito. Isn’t that beneath you? And by the way, no one is going to do your stupid assignment. Okay, Maggie will. But she’ll be sarcastic. Trust me.”
“Opinion duly noted,” Bo said.
“Why are you here? And don’t say to teach my history class.”
Bo’s dark eyes glittered in the buzzing glow of the non-environmentally friendly fluorescent fixtures above our heads. “I’m starting to think your brother and Amber need assistance,” he said after a few beats. “As we both know, you are quite the handful.”
With that, he opened the classrom door again and held it for me. When he didn’t say anything else, I took the cue. I sauntered in, looking casual and upbeat, flopped down at my desk, and pretended to write my essay.
Sometimes what people don’t say is louder than what they do.
Here is what was sinking in even if I didn’t want it to: My brother wasn’t lying. Casey had died saving me. Amber had helped save me, too. Bo had plucked me from the path of an oncoming car. Three angels had all kept me from biting the dust. Why was I cursed? What was up with that?
But mostly I thought: What in the world would they be saving me for?
Maybe I was only imagining that Bo meant something significant. If Casey hadn’t said anything the other night, I would have figured Bo was just talking out of his hind end because that’s what he liked to do. Chaos was his favorite pastime. He’d bragged so himself. (Then again, he was a liar, but that just proved my point.) He was stuck here, so dragging everyone else into his mess made him feel superior. He had saved me, but so what? He was an angel. He had to do good deeds. Just like Casey. Amber, too.
Best not to think about it. And for the rest of the day, I kind of pulled the not-thinking off.
Maggie’s dad drove me home from school since Casey had to go right to his shift at BJ’s. He promised that Wednesday—today—would be the day we’d finally get to the DMV. When we came back tonight for the Bonfire, I could take the wheel with him in the passenger seat. Finally!
Also, Maggie’s dad took us to the mall, and she and I bought our high-low dresses. There was a sale, so I had enough cash left on my gift card to snag a pair of sparkly silver stiletto heels. I practiced hobbling around the store in them—feeling like an idiot mostly—but they made my legs look long and maybe even sexy, although that was probably a stretch. As long as Ryan liked them.
After that, it was home and dinner and homework. Nothing strange or unusual. Talking on the phone to Ryan. Texting Mags. Listening to Casey listen to bad music too loudly from behind his closed door.
Bo and Amber did not come over. Mom seemed cheery and neither artificially calm or too upset, just right in the middle like a normal mom. Dad did not attempt to communicate, clearly thrilled to be back in Olivia-land. I could almost pretend.
And then it was today.
WE HAD A substitute in world history, and I decided to believe this was a good thing. Caught Casey in the hallway after first period and asked him about it, and he looked at me neutrally and said, “That’s Bo’s business, I guess.” I could tell he probably knew something, but before I could ask, he directed me to meet him in the student parking lot as soon as the last bell rang.
Only when I got there—after assuring Maggie that I had a ride home and a hasty detour because I’d left my Spanish book in my locker—Casey was nowhere in sight.
Had he left without me? No. The Merc was sitting pretty as you please. But my brother was MIA. My stomach knotted, just a little.
I texted him. No response. Called. Nothing. We needed to move the car. The band members were trickling out of the band hall getting ready to practice their moves in the student parking lot. If you didn’t move your car, you risked getting dinged by a sousaphone or something. Not that the Merc was such a beauty, but even so.
When I heard my brother’s voice coming from somewhere to my left, I was relieved. I whipped my head around but didn’t see him. He was shouting—I couldn’t make out what, but where the hell was he? Nothing over there but the practice field. The football practice field.
“Stay focused!” I heard him bellow. “Where’s the ball?”
My stomach sank. Goosebumps rose on my skin. The tiny stomach knot expanded to a boulder. Casey had looked totally calm during that whole thing with Lanie. Not happy, obviously, but calm.
I knew that was too damn good to be true.
I flew toward the field, pressing in Amber’s number. Straight to voice mail. I hung up. Maybe she was already on her way. If this (not that I knew for sure what “this” was) did not summon up that Spidey sense, nothing would. Casey was perched in the metal bleachers, about halfway up, sitting in the tangle of football-obsessed dads who came out for practices. “Don’t look at your damn feet,” he was hollering. “Keep your head up.” Then: “You’re running slow, Sneed. Get a move on.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
At least he wasn’t glowing. Or maybe that should worry me. Maybe he let himself glow to remind himself of what he was. He stomped down, his feet so heavy that the metal echoed, then hopped over the last row with an easy grace. He strode, almost casual, across the black cinder track and onto the grass. Right past Coach Collins, who stopped in mid-whistle-blow and grabbed my brother by the arm. On the field, practice continued. Donny Sneed kept running the ball. Only one player looked up: #76. Ryan. But only for a second.
Over on the far side, beyond the field, the cheerleaders were practicing, too. I saw Lanie Phelps stand stock-still, her pom-poms pressed against her chest.
“Casey,” Coach Collins said, and I knew it was bad when I heard him use my brother’s first name. “You need to leave. You are not part of this team. You’re just gonna get yourself in trouble.”
“Can’t get in trouble,” my brother told him, his voice too loud. “That’s the whole point, coach. Trust me. Ask my sister. Hell, ask the new world history teacher. Mr. Bosephus Shivers. He’ll tell you.”
My brother wrenched his arm away and trotted onto the field, muttering, “Bosephus,” which was not (as far as I knew) Bo’s full name. If he’d looked drunk like Amber the other night at Wild Horses, or high, maybe I could have excused it. Or at least that would have explained it. But I suspected he was just sad and lonely and stuck being a do-gooder for the rest of time, however long that was.
And worse, even acting like a jackass, Casey shone. Like Bo Shivers, every attempt to make himself less than what he was now ended up the opposite. My brother couldn’t destroy himself any more than Bo could.
Another coach, one I didn’t know, grabbed for Casey. But Casey ducked out of reach, flopping down on the grass. Then rolled onto his back, flapping his arms and legs.
It took me a second.
He was making a snowless equivalent of a snow angel.
I got it. This was what angry humor looked like. Bad and ugly and out of control. They all shared it: Bo and Amber, too. All the dead people in my life.
Casey rose then, another graceful movement, and maybe he would have stopped too. But Donny Sneed, football tucked under his arm, loped over. My brother’s hands tight
ened into fists.
“Son,” said Bo Shivers, striding onto the field out of nowhere, but maybe I just wasn’t paying attention. His voice, a full deep bass, silenced everyone else. He stood facing Casey and Donny. “I suggest you stand down and stop making a damn fool of yourself. And I suggest you do it now.” He didn’t say which one of them he meant, which I felt was decent of him.
I was still holding my cell, and now it vibrated along with the sound of Bo’s deep voice. Amber. “Bo’s here,” I said.
“I know,” she told me, without explaining.
I flicked my gaze to the field, trying to pick Ryan out of the pack of boys. My breath felt constricted. What kind of normal boy would keep things up with a girl dragging around so much A-word baggage that he could never understand?
Amber showed up before I could obsess too much. After that there was a bunch of hollering and a bunch of people shaking their heads—including Lanie Phelps, who to her credit, looked torn about what exactly was upsetting her most.
And then there we were, on the road, the Merc left behind. Me in Amber’s Camaro. Bo and Casey in Bo’s truck, caravanning down the freeway toward Houston and Bo’s loft.
Bo wanted a meeting. He wanted it at his place. And he wanted it now.
So much for my learner’s permit. (Again.) At this rate, I’d be in college before I could learn to drive. Maybe older. I pictured myself with a cane and white hair and dentures, taking the learner’s permit test.
“I need to be back for the Bonfire,” I grumbled. Amber gripped the wheel, breathing deeply through her nose.
I repeated myself. More than once. “Ryan expects me,” I added firmly.
