Candy Colored Sky

by Ginger Scott

  The bright lights below glow for fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, and when they shut off my eyes find it hard to adjust. The front of the Trombley house suddenly appears dark, buried under the heavy shadows of their enormous tree. I blink for several seconds to regain my focus on the wreath, waiting for the orange and yellow to return. By the time I can make out the door, Eleanor’s window is dark and her curtains drawn. The ghost of a girl has gone. To bed, I hope, though I doubt anyone in that house is sleeping tonight. For whatever reason, I don’t immediately abandon the uncomfortable perch of my desk. Something compels me to stay, to stare at the unmoving curtains a little while longer. I tell myself I’m merely watching over my friend, but that’s not true. We aren’t friends. We’re people who live on the same street who recognize each other. I’m being nosy. Also, a small part of me hopes Eleanor comes back and waves to me again, and just how selfish is that?

  Three

  The media circus tripled overnight. I awoke to the sound of trucks beeping while backing up to jockey for position in the makeshift parking lot police set up in our street. There’s a small path roped off with yellow tape and cones allowing the five houses closest to the Trombleys’ access to back in and out of driveways. Traffic is temporarily one-way only. I have nowhere to be, but Jake should be here in twenty minutes for geometry tutoring and, given what I know of his skills at navigating shapes, he’s bound to mess this up. This is his second go at this class, trying to earn something better than a D.

  I pause halfway down the stairs to finish firing off my text to him with directions to enter from the south instead of the north, but by the time I get to the last step I realize my message isn’t necessary at all.

  “Dude. You think I wasn’t showing up early to see the shit show outside?” Jake is a six-foot-four basketball star at our high school. He’s the most popular guy on campus, and the fact he’s my only friend makes zero sense. We’ve known each other since kindergarten, though, and for whatever reason, when it became clear he was destined for the jock route in life and I was more on track for the debate team, he still stuck by me. I have literally manhandled him through passing fifty percent of his classes, which is probably part of the reasoning.

  “Did you see the body?”

  Jake is also an idiot.

  Grandpa Hank grumbles and refolds his newspaper, blocking my friend from his view, but he shoots me a pointed glance over his reading glasses to let me know he’s biting his tongue.

  “God, Jake. There is no body. Addy is missing.”

  “Oh.” Jake’s mouth hangs in this awestruck open form for a few seconds, his brow pulled in. “I thought, you know, because on Twitter it said—”

  “What did I tell you about Twitter?” I interrupt.

  “Twitter does not make it fact,” my friend recites, as if it’s a tenet he had to memorize to earn a badge.

  I’ve had to drill a lot of life skills like this into Jake’s head. Of course, he’s the one who goes to parties on Friday and Saturday nights while I stay in and read or get ahead on my college essays.

  I guide my friend to the kitchen table and he pulls out his last test for us to review. He’s getting better. When we started working on geometry, he could barely pull off a D on his exams. The last two have been solid C’s, including this one.

  “Not bad,” I praise, holding up a palm. We high five.

  We spend the first several minutes retracing what he did wrong on the problems he missed. I write up a few samples for him to try on his own, and after working together for about forty minutes, I feel good that he’ll get at least two more right on his next try. Must be nice to be an athlete and get a second shot at basically everything academic.

  “You tell dumbass here about your birthday present?” Grandpa doesn’t mince words with Jake, and it’s a weird line where I can never tell whether he likes my friend or can’t stand him. Jake finds the trash talk endearing, so I guess that’s all that matters.

  “Bruh, I missed your birthday?” Jake pulls his oversized flat-brimmed ball cap from his head and runs his hand through his curly shoulder-length hair, wearing genuine regret on his face.

  “My birthday is still on November third. Like it always is.” I wait for Jake’s reaction with my crooked smile, but he just nods, as if relieved.

  “It’s in the garage,” Grandpa urges. I think he’s a little excited to show it off. All it does for me is twist my stomach in knots. Telling Jake about the Bronco makes it this real project I’m going to have to tackle. I finally fell asleep last night with the comfortable idea that I could string the project along through senior year and manage to leave for college without actually taking apart anything.

  “You got a car!” Jake’s jacked, and he speeds out of the kitchen to the garage before I can get out of my seat.

  “You better get in there with him before he starts touching shit. That kid is bound to break things,” Grandpa says, motioning in Jake’s direction with his coffee mug.

  He’s not wrong. Taking in a deep breath, I get to my feet and leave the books on the table, following my friend into the garage. Jake is already behind the wheel when I get to him, and I have to stop him from pressing the horn.

  “There are still a dozen news outlets on the other side of the garage. Please don’t make them all rush over here,” I say, reaching in through the driver’s side window and covering the center of the wheel to stop him from doing any damage.

  “Right. My bad. Seriously, though, Jonah, this is a sweet ride! Can we take it out?”

  I grab at the back of my neck and wince.

  “That’s the thing. It doesn’t exactly run. Yet.”

  Jake’s shoulders drop and his hands slide from the wheel.

  “Yeah, it was my dad’s. It was always his project car, but he did most of the work on it before I was old enough to remember. It ran great for a while, but that was years ago. My mom and Grandpa Hank registered it for me and my grandpa said he’ll pay for the parts. I just have to figure out where to start.” I slide my palm along the seam where the hood meets the side panel. I’m not even sure I could get the hood open again on my own.

  “Sweet. I’ll help,” Jake offers, cranking open the door and skipping to the front to stand by me.

  “You know cars?” I’m suspicious because we just spent ten minutes on how to prove something is a triangle.

  Jake shrugs.

  “A little. I mean, I can change the oil in my dad’s car, and I’ve replaced the battery in the Jeep, and I’ve changed tires a bunch of times. It’s all logical stuff. We can figure it out.”

  I can’t help the laugh that gurgles out of my mouth in response.

  “What?” He’s a bit offended. I can tell by the crease between his brows.

  “No, sorry. I’m just surprised. You don’t strike me as a mechanic. That’s all,” I say.

  “Yeah, well, you don’t strike me as a math geek but, well . . .” He paints his hand in the air, circling my frame.

  “I look exactly like a math geek,” I laugh out.

  He sighs with a tinge of sarcasm.

  “You do. But that’s not a bad thing,” he says.

  While he moves toward the garage door, I remain in place as I kick around the words he just said. I can’t help but feel that looking like a math geek might be a little bit of a bad thing. It might have something to do with my very slim dating history. I’ve kissed three girls—ever. And I don’t think I did it well.

  When Jake drags the step stool from the corner and parks it against the garage door, I snap out of my fog. He’s standing on it a second later, rubbing dirt from one of the window panes with his sweatshirt sleeve.

  “What are you doing?”

  He glances over his shoulder at me and shrugs.

  “Being nosy and shit.”

  I’m struck with a battle of conscience, straddling this line of not wanting to join the gawking neighbors pretending to be out for walks, and wanting to see what’s happening right this minute because suc
h is human nature. The Trombley house has been quiet today, for the most part. Nobody coming or going, not that there’s anywhere for them to go. My mom said someone showed up with food this morning and left it at their front door as she was leaving for work. They must feel so trapped. All of them. I saw the small red SUV in the driveway after my mom left. That’s how I know Morgan must be home from college. I keep having these fleeting thoughts about everything as it unravels. Like, I wonder if Morgan secretly wanted to stay away. Did she really need to be here? What kind of child would I be? That I entertain the notion of staying away makes me question my morals and family loyalty. I may be more emotionally broken than I thought.

  “It looks pretty chill out there. I think we can open the garage.” He looks back at me for approval, but all I feel is the same panic that seared down my spine last night when a reporter wanted to talk to me.

  Before I can get a real answer to come out of my mouth, Jake blows me off completely, hopping from the stool and slapping his palm on the garage door button. My legs lock instinctually and my eyes scan our driveway as it comes into view, but Jake seems to be right. Two media trucks are parked about twelve feet off the end of our driveway in such a way that the view of our garage is pretty well blocked from the others. It’s also lunch hour on a Sunday. I breathe out in relief.

  “I’ve got all afternoon. What do you say we open this baby up and see what we’re dealing with?” Sudden tension crawls back into my chest at my friend’s offer.

  “I don’t know. It’s Sunday, and I’ve got an essay to finish, and—”

  “Don’t pussy out on me. You know you finished that essay already. You’re just afraid.”

  He’s right. I don’t like things that I don’t automatically know how to do. I shirk off trying anything new. I won’t even stray on the menu at Tommy’s, sticking strictly to hot dogs and never once trying the Italian beef.

  “Fine, we can look under the hood or whatever,” I mutter like a petulant child, dragging my body forward to join my friend at the front of the Bronco—my Bronco. A gift from my dad’s grave, from my mom and grandfather’s hearts. All I can think about is how I wish it wasn’t mine.

  “You’re gonna need this.” My grandfather joins us in the garage, heading right toward me. He stops to press my dad’s notebook against my bicep.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking it in my palm.

  He winks at me when I glance up to meet his gaze.

  “Your dad was always meticulous about his tools, so I imagine everything you need is in those cabinets.” He nods toward the far wall of the garage, to the dusty metal doors that haven’t been opened in a year, at least.

  Jake walks over to crack the doors open, and I wonder if he somehow knows I can’t bring myself to do it. Those tools are one more part of my dad that I never got to know. He used them years before I was in the picture, and the times he broke them out while I was alive were few and far between, and usually to repair broken things around the house.

  “Wow. Talk about a labeling freak,” my friend says.

  Grandpa chuckles, seeming to know what Jake is referring to. Curious, I walk over and peer over his shoulder to find the familiar handwriting on strips of white tape lined across peg boards and various drawers of hardware. I’d bet that every size is exactly where it should be.

  “Yo, this reminds me of your chemistry labs. Nerds don’t fall far from the tree.” My friend gently pokes me with his elbow into my gut. I rub the spot and breathe out a laugh. He’s right. I did get my dad’s penchant for over-organization.

  I’m not sure what makes me turn—perhaps it’s my grandfather’s lack of response to Jake’s needling—but when I do, I see what has him tongue-tied.

  Eleanor looks like a ghost, her skin pale and eyes sunk deep in their wells. She reminds me of my mom in the days after my dad died, spent from crying and void of light. Eleanor leans against the frame of the garage entry like a lost dog desperate for food and shelter but terrified to trust any hand willing to feed it. My eyes blink wildly as I scan the scene behind her, expecting to see flashes from cameras and reporters scrambling to fire up their mics to get a sound bite from one of the Trombleys. Nobody seems to have seen her cross the street. Perhaps they don’t care, or are biding their time to make sure any interview they get with her really counts.

  “H- Uhm, hi.” I gulp. I’d probably react this way under any circumstance that brought Eleanor Trombley into my garage, but the experience over the last thirty-six hours has my grandfather temporarily lost for words too.

  “Hey.” Her voice is weak and raspy, that of a girl who probably hasn’t slept since she was up all night partying after homecoming two days ago.

  “Hi.” I repeat my initial response, a little clearer. It sounds as lame as it did the first time. I’m not sure whether I should smile or wear a somber expression. Should I give her condolences? Apologize, or offer to help out? Those are things people say in circumstances like this. Should I—

  “How are you doing, Elle?”

  Of course, Jake knows her better than I do. I sink back on my heels and dip my hands into the pockets of my jeans.

  She lifts the shoulder that isn’t leaning against the wall in a response to my friend as he steps closer, opening his arms to give her a hug. She moves from her sheltered space and wraps her arms around him in slow motion, as if her limbs are too heavy to lift. Her dead eyes lock on mine as they hug.

  Grandpa clears his throat, and I’m not sure whether it’s to jar me out of my trance or hide his own insecurities over not knowing what to do.

  “We’re all really sorry for your family,” Grandpa finally utters, managing to pull himself together. “You . . . you wanna come in, sweetheart?”

  His words are endearing, without the chauvinist tinge my mom always scolds him about. They’re flavored by his age and a sincere worry that weighs down his eyes. He pulls a folding chair from the stack we keep against the wall for his card games he sets up in the garage on Thursdays so him and his old army buddies can smoke without my mom losing her mind.

  “Oh, uhm . . .” Eleanor glances behind her toward her still house and the quiet media trucks. Some of the police tape has come loose from the cones the officers set up earlier today and it twists in the wind. She and I both stare at it for a few quiet seconds. I break first, moving my gaze to her. I’m suddenly overcome with a deep understanding of exactly how she feels.

  Out of place. Lost, and unsure.

  Like me, most of the time.

  “I got a car. Well, a truck. A Bronco. I’m not sure what you classify it as. A sport utility? It was my dad’s, and it doesn’t run yet. It used to. Sort of, but . . . well.” I nervously vomit out words.

  Both my friend’s and my grandpa’s eyes are on me, probably oozing pity while they mentally shout at me to shut the hell up. I keep my focus on Eleanor, though, her attention jerked from the chaos behind her the moment I speak. Her pouty lips hold open as she stares at me, and it’s hard to tell whether they want to smile or quiver with a bottled-up cry.

  This is the most I have ever said to her at once, and nothing about it was eloquent. Eleanor is not the kind of girl who makes fun of people on the fringes of high school social circles, though. And even if she were, now would not be the time. I’m a distraction. I have a job to do.

  “It was a birthday gift,” I continue. I glance to my left and am hit with my grandpa’s now encouraging eyes. He nods for me to go on while stepping closer to Eleanor, his palm outstretched to guide her to the green metal chair he set up against the wall.

  I look back to Eleanor and her head tilts to one side.

  “Is today . . . your birthday?” Her eyes wrinkle, as if my birthday is something she’s supposed to know, a date circled on her calendar.

  Her arm stretched out toward Grandpa Hank, she lets him play the part of gentleman and take her to her seat. The sight of it tickles me for some reason, and my mouth smiles on one side.

  “Happy birthday,” she says, and
I realize I never answered her.

  “Oh, thanks. I mean, it’s next weekend, but that counts, I guess.”

  “Pshhh, dumbass,” Jake mumbles, flicking the back of my head as he crosses the space behind me and moves to pop the hood. It’s not as if my friend and I sit around and talk about crushes, but it’s impossible to live where I do and not let my attraction to Eleanor Trombley slip out a time or two over the years. At one point during freshman year, Jake offered to make an introduction at a bonfire after a big football game. Instead of going to the party though, I decided to stay home and get ahead on my advanced English reading for the semester.

  My cheeks flame in embarrassment after Jake’s teasing, but when I glance back to Eleanor, she’s laughing at my expense, and I don’t really mind. It isn’t the kind of laugh that comes with sound, but her shoulders shake and her eyes slit with the fullness of her cheeks. It’s a brief reprieve from the ghost that showed up wearing her skin.

  Eleanor is bundled in black sweatpants several sizes too big for her frame and a Sherpa-lined camouflage coat that looks ready to head out for a seasonal hunting trip, probably borrowed from her father’s closet. Somehow, she still glows like an angel. The cold air has kissed her cheeks and brought pink to her freckled skin. Her eyes are a dull green that sometimes looks more brown in the dark. I’ve stared at them from across lab tables and in the cafeteria for four years. Under the bright fluorescents of my garage, they shine like emeralds. And the blonde hair, usually pulled high in a ponytail or curled into these perfect waves around her shoulders, is twisted into two knots at the base of her neck.

  “The boys were just getting started for the day. Young Jacob here has offered to help. You’re welcome to stay.” Thank God Grandpa Hank is able to find his way back to acting like a human.

  “Yeah, Jonah doesn’t know shit about cars.” Jake snarks out a jab at my expense.

  I wince, squeezing my eyes shut. This time, Eleanor’s laughter produces an airy sound. It makes his insult sting less.