by Ginger Scott
“This is my favorite mall in the entire world,” Eleanor says. “We came here last year for junior prom shopping. I mean the dress was all right, but this place has one of those arcade restaurants and we went there for lunch. That’s what I really remember.”
“Shippy’s,” I say with a nod. I’ve been there once with Jake. It was for his birthday, maybe his tenth, so it’s been awhile. I doubt the place has changed all that much. Skee-ball and pop-a-shot and dance-off games for tickets. “Wanna see if it’s open?”
Her eyes light up at the suggestion, and I thank Grandpa Hank silently for the extra cash in my pocket thanks to his poker skills and being owed a free auto part. He refused to take it back and told me to “have a good time.” I believe today qualifies.
Eleanor nods emphatically and I gesture toward the escalator, a little embarrassed by the way she’s skipping next to me like an excited child. I’d never say anything, though. My hermit status is worth risking for her happiness.
When we get on the escalator, our strides are totally in sync. The result is a tight space that brings our bodies side-by-side and touching on the shared step. I begin to utter “Oh, sorry,” but before the apology finishes leaving my mouth I freeze at the feel of her fingers reaching in between mine. It’s strange how my hand just knows where to go, how my thumb knows it belongs on top and her pinky belongs on the very bottom. Our digits thread together like puzzle pieces meant to fit. Again, like in the train, I fight the urge to stare at the place where we touch. Eleanor is holding my hand as if it’s completely normal and not at all new or strange or shocking. It’s very shocking to me.
I play along, though. I focus on making my hand feel natural, on willing my palm not to sweat, and on fending off the need to twitch with nerves. It lasts for the escalator ride, and our hands slip apart as she rushes off at the second floor, darting into Shippy’s ahead of me. I form a fist to capture the warmth and feel of what just happened, then join her at the hostess stand.
“Party of two?” The girl working up front is dressed like a nurse from World War II. It’s part of the theme here, and I’ve never understood the correlation. I dig it, though.
“Yes, we’re together,” Eleanor responds.
And I suppose for today, right now, we are.
Eleven
Sixty dollars on skee-ball feels like a bargain. I don’t even care that all I have to show for it is this wicked dragon temporary tattoo that, yeah, after Eleanor pointed it out, does look more like a pigeon. I gave most of my tickets to her so she could get the giant smiley face pillow. Maybe she slept better with it. I slept better knowing she had it.
We got home as the sun was setting, and I slipped in right before my mom got home so I was able to eat Sunday TV dinners on the couch with her and my grandpa while we watched an old episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. I’ve seen them all, some twice. Still feels like a necessary Sunday ritual.
I texted Eleanor after to make sure she wasn’t in trouble with Morgan, but I never heard back. I found myself checking my phone all day at school today too. Nothing. It has me worried and my head is taking things in all sorts of directions. Does she regret spending time with me? Holding my hand? Or was her family upset with her for running off? She never once texted anyone to let them know she was gone. From what I could tell, though, nobody called or texted her either.
My dad’s notebook was my distraction and excuse for not being social at school today, but I did manage to hold conversations with Jake and Gemma once they got back from lunch. Without giving them details—or giving Jake an excuse to give me shit for spending the entire day with Eleanor again—I learned enough to know Eleanor wasn’t in major trouble or hurting or upset. Not enough to tell Gemma anyhow. They spoke last night about cheer. She said Eleanor doesn’t want to quit, but she doesn’t think she has a choice.
For the entire rest of the day I contemplate how stuck she must feel, to the point that instead of heading straight home from school, I find myself here, at her front door—the one place that literally scares me to the point of quivering in my shoes.
“Ring the bell, Jonah. Man up! Come on.” I whisper what I think my grandpa would say to me in this situation. The words feel much more urgent when they come from him, but if I keep this up, someone in Eleanor’s house is bound to see me talking to myself. I’m already enough of a weirdo; don’t need to add more evidence in Morgan’s case to stop Eleanor from spending time with me.
I’m about to press my index finger into the glowing button when a pair of chilly hands reach around my face and cover my eyes.
“Guess who?”
It’s obviously Eleanor. Also, I am pretty sure I just yelped and it was not a manly yelp whatsoever.
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist,” she says as I turn around and swallow down the bile that shot up my throat like a rocket when she startled me.
“Noted. Paybacks though.” I grimace in jest and let her think that one day there’s a chance I may get her back. I couldn’t muster the courage to ring her doorbell. Pretty sure I won’t be able to spring out and yell boo.
“You just get home from school?” She tugs on the strap of my backpack.
“Oh, uh, yeah. Easy day. You start the online stuff yet?”
“Yeah, I basically finished the entire week’s worth of homework today. Not sure I’m going to be college ready with this method.” She scrunches her face and I think to myself how much Jake would love to trade academic situations with her.
“Is it a Bronco night?” Her hands are shoved in the back pockets of her jeans and she reminds me of . . . me. Maybe she’s nervous asking me that question, inviting herself into my garage. How do I tell her she is welcome to observe or interrupt my life at any point she wishes?
“I don’t know. Jake’s starting basketball workouts because their season starts in December, and it’s hard to do some of that stuff on my own. My Grandpa isn’t really able to slide underneath and stuff.” I’m not making an excuse, but I can’t invite her over to watch me fumble about the engine like a fool.
“I have two capable hands,” she says, holding out open palms that are probably a lot more qualified than mine at making that thing run.
I lift a shoulder as if to say “Why not?” and Eleanor loops her arm through mine, gently urging me to leave her front walkway and head toward my house. I notice the driveway is getting fuller, a minivan now tucked up into the last bit of space next to her aunt and uncle’s car.
“Full house?” I ask, pointing at the minivan as we slip between the line of cars on our way down the driveway.
“Too full. More like crowded,” she says, her mouth tight and pinched at the corners as she glances toward me. “My grandparents are here too. You’d think it was Christmas, but no, it’s just . . . something else.”
Her words trail off at the end. I gather she doesn’t want to make guesses at how that statement should end.
It’s just a mystery.
It’s just a kidnapping.
It’s just a possible homicide.
“Maybe it will be a miracle, so, sorta like Christmas.” I shrug, but she slows her pace, which slows mine too since we’re still linked at the arms. I kick myself internally for saying something so hopeful. It’s clear that’s not what she wants to hear or think. I understand. I didn’t want to hear empty promises after my dad died. People constantly told me “It gets easier,” and that phrase never quite fit. It only made me feel guilty for not falling to pieces. If anything, it’s gotten harder the more distance I have from losing him.
Stopped in the middle of our street, Eleanor steps to face me, her hand sliding to my elbow, where she clings to the sleeve of my flannel. “Jonah.” She stops after my name, and it’s obvious she planned on following it up with more. Her mouth hangs open for a few long seconds and her eyes dart from meeting my gaze to somewhere else entirely. She snaps her mouth shut again, forcing a closed-lip smile in its place instead and nods.
“You’re right. There are
a lot of maybes up in the air.” She nods again, almost as if she’s convincing herself of her words. I let that be the end of that, out of fear of saying something that will only make it worse.
Eleanor lets go of my arm when we reach my garage, and I think of how pathetic I will seem when I don’t wash this shirt for several days. And when I sleep in it. I can feel her anxious energy behind me while I punch in the sevens to open my garage and I get so rushed to busy ourselves with the Bronco that I end up spilling the contents of my backpack on the garage floor as I free my arms from the heavy burden.
“Why did I expect to see dozens of calculators come flying out of that thing?” Eleanor jokes as she bends down to help me corral everything back into the unzipped pouch. She pauses with my dad’s notebook in her hand and turns it over a few times as she studies it.
“Is this the magic notebook?” She lifts her gaze and the shot of her green eyes knocks me on my ass, literally. I fall ungracefully and make an actual harrumph noise as air gets knocked out of my body from the impact on my tailbone.
“I wouldn’t call it magic. Maybe . . . insightful?” I finish stacking papers and folders to slide back into my bag while she takes a seat on the ground across from me and flips through the pages. She comes across the photo and pinches it at the edges to get a closer look. Her smile spreads into something spectacular, and I’m as caught looking at her as she is looking at this odd little memento from my parents’ story.
“Your mom looks exactly the same. And is that your dad?”
I nod.
She glances up again.
I swallow.
“You look like him,” she says, her grin somehow pushing a rosy color into her cheeks.
“Maybe,” I say, taking it from her between my thumb and finger. I stare at the image for a few seconds, the first time I’ve really looked at it since I initially found it, and for some reason I pair it in my mind with the song on the playlist Eleanor made for me.
“That song you sent me, about the guy and his Bronco?” My mouth goes dry. I look at her and I know I’m doing a poor job of hiding my emotions. I decide in a breath that it’s better to just let the tears well up in my eyes than it is to actually reach up and wipe them away.
“I thought it might resonate,” she says, filling in my thoughts for me, as though she knows I won’t be able to fully voice them.
“It did,” I say through a breathy laugh as I look back down at the picture in my palm. I stare at it without saying a word, long enough that the quiet becomes obvious and heavy. I can’t seem to get myself unstuck.
“Hey, have you ever watched the sunset from your roof?”
I pull my brow in tight and smirk at her abrupt and out-of-left-field question. I look up and close one eye to show my confusion, which makes her laugh.
“I know. Random, right? But seriously, have you?” She’s so excited about the prospect I hate to tell her that I have. It’s been a while, though, and maybe going up there with Jake to throw water balloons into the street doesn’t count.
I shake my head no and commit a tiny lie.
“It’s settled. Come on,” she says, taking the photo back from me and tucking it safely inside the pages of the notebook. She slips that into my bag, secures the zipper then insists I follow her to the side of my house where the eave is at its lowest.
“We climb,” she says, and I stop hard and let out a punch of laughter.
“Oh, yeah. No. You climb. I get ladders,” I say, moving beyond her toward the side of my house where our tools are piled on top of each other in the shed.
“Suit yourself,” she says, jumping the few inches it takes to reach the eave. She pulls herself up easily and I watch in awe. I think she may actually be more athletic than my best friend, and I would harass him about that if not for the fact that I still intend on using a ladder.
It takes me a few minutes to fumble through the mess in the shed. I can’t complain because I’m the one who left it that way. I figured I wouldn’t have to see hedge trimmers or the mower again until spring. I wasn’t counting on a beautiful girl talking me into a trip up the roof.
By the time I get the ladder settled and scale my way to the top, Eleanor is already perched at the very highest peak of the house, her back resting against the brick chimney.
“It’s a little slick so watch your step,” she hollers.
I run my finger along one of the shingles and feel the dampness. It was pretty cloudy all day, which made things cold and moist. Still determined to join her, I crawl up on my knees, my weight balanced on either side of the pitch of the roof. I’m sure she walked to her spot like a gymnast on a balance beam, but I have to find my center before I can make any forward progress. My hands held out at my sides, I slowly work myself to a standing position but I keep my back hunched until I test the grit of the shingles under my shoes.
“Oh, my God, you’re never going to get here at that pace,” she laughs out, hopping to her feet again as if she’s on flat ground. She’s beside me in a matter of seconds, holding out her hand. I take it, and not because I don’t think I’ll find my footing but because somehow, holding Eleanor’s hand, I’m a whole lot more, well, everything.
We walk sideways along the ridge of the roof, stopping at the spot near the chimney, and we both sink down with our backs against the bricks and our legs stretched out before us. I shove my hands inside my sleeves for warmth and Eleanor does the same.
“The sun goes down so early in the winter. In California, they get an entire extra hour. It’s not fair,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest and adjusting her back against the bricks in a bit of a pout. It’s cute, and she catches me laughing at her.
“What? You don’t ever wish you could zap yourself to California for just a little while?”
I laugh a little harder at her follow-up question, which makes her shift to face me, head cocked to the side waiting for my answer.
“I mean, sure, I guess. But more for the beaches and ocean and schools like UCLA. And palm trees. Gah! How cool do palm trees seem?” I look out at my front yard and the bare-boned sticks left behind after our elm tree lost all its leaves. “Besides, we really have about the same amount of daylight hours as California. You just have to wake up earlier here to take advantage of the full spectrum.”
A few quiet seconds pass before I turn to meet her stare. Brow pinched and mouth open, she’s looking at me like I’m a green alien spouting off Lord Byron or something. I did use the term full spectrum. Probably not a very cool moment for me.
“What?” My voice comes out in a nervous chuckle. Thankfully, her puzzled expression morphs into a more amused one as she shakes her head.
“Of course you know the number of daylight hours in California.”
I swallow behind my tight smile and her lip ticks up as her eyes flinch. She’s read right through my bluff.
“Wait a second,” she says.
Oh, God.
“You know all of them, don’t you? You know every state’s sunrise and sunset times, don’t you? Jonah! Do it, tell me! What is the sunset time in Cali today?” She pokes my side with her elbow a few times in an attempt to egg me on, and I laugh off her suggestion, mostly because she’s right and I feel like an enormous loser somehow having this skill. It was a boring summer in fifth grade and I was really into climate studies, which then got me hooked on earth rotations, and well—
“Fine. Four-fifty-four, okay? That’s what time the sun sets in California today. Give or take.”
Eleanor practically cackles.
“Give or take. As if four-fifty-four could be a rough estimate. That’s rather exact, Jonah.”
I roll my eyes, and I’m only partly playing. I’m actually a little embarrassed. I really was guessing, but I know I’m close. It was probably fifty-five after at the start of the month, and surely the time has slid a minute by now.
I glance to my side and find Eleanor looking it up on her phone. I try to interrupt her search by pushing her screen a
way, but she stiff arms me then holds up a finger.
“Come on, I didn’t know you were going to make fun of me,” I say.
Eleanor snaps straight up at my plea, holding her phone against her chest while her face takes on a more serious expression.
“I’m not making fun of you. I think you’re amazing!”
I breathe out a laugh at her compliment, not fully bought in to its sincerity. I bring my knees up and prop my elbows on them, shielding my eyes with my hands from both the sun and Eleanor’s expectations.
“Two minutes off. Amazing,” she says.
I shrug. “Like I said, give or take.”
“And what’s our time?” I can tell she’s already looked it up by the way she cups her phone to hide the screen from me. I don’t need to cheat.
“Two minutes off, you said?” If I’m going to show off one of the many ways I’m like a robot, I might as well be good at it.
“Two minutes. It was fifty-six after,” she answers.
“Okay, so that makes it about four-thirty-seven or thirty-eight here.”
Eleanor punches my arm in her enthusiasm.
“Thirty-eight! Holy shit, you’re good at this. Do New York!” she begs.
My chest is tight, but my embarrassment fades a little. It helps that she seems to be enjoying this. I rummage through the logic I created when I first committed these things to memory, and I know that New York falls somewhere between home and the times on the West Coast, which seems weird but is true. I rub my temples while I calculate and Eleanor teases me that I’m doing it for show.
“I’d guess around forty-five after,” I relent.
“Exactly!” She punches my arm again and this time I rub it. It didn’t really hurt, but my action is enough to get her to stop quizzing me. I’m also aided in my effort by the chatter that comes from across the street, drawing our eyes toward Eleanor’s house.
