Candy Colored Sky

by Ginger Scott

  I flatten my palm on the side of my face to rub life back into my skin. Staring at my screen, I switch over to the camera mode so I can see what kind of hair situation I’m dealing with. All I can do is laugh when I see the absolute rooster hawk split in two on top of my head. I push it down only to watch it pop back up. I’m not telling her no. I knew that the moment she asked. I just need to buy myself a few minutes of time.

  ME: Give me 5 mins to shower.

  I don’t wait for her response. I rush to my bathroom with the cleanest pair of jeans on my floor and my Harvard hoodie. After the world’s fastest shower, water pounding my hair long enough to train it back where it’s supposed to go, I get myself semi-dry and toss on my clean-ish clothes before clamoring down the stairs.

  I haven’t looked at the time yet today, but I’m guessing by the way the light comes through the front window that it’s mid-afternoon. I speed up my trip down the steps when I hear my grandfather having a conversation with someone, knowing there’s really only one person that could be.

  “This here is my world-famous hangover cure—”

  “Oh, hey, I think she’s good,” I say, sliding into the kitchen in my socks in time for my grandfather to crack an egg in what I am pretty sure is half a mug of Pabst Blue Ribbon and honey.

  “You had a late night. You need some of this, too?” Grandpa holds the mug up and I take it from his hand happily while shaking my head on my way to the sink.

  “Oh, ya know? I think I’m okay,” I say, pouring the contents down the drain. I hit the disposal button and turn the water on to make sure it goes down, catching a whiff of cheap beer that confirms my initial suspicion.

  “Hey, that’s a sure-fire recipe! And a waste of a perfectly good beer,” he grumbles.

  “Yes, but that concoction only works on war veterans in their seventies,” I reply, leaving the cup in the sink and turning to face my grandfather’s scowl. My eyes move to Eleanor standing just beyond his shoulder, hugging herself in the shirt I gave her last night.

  I wasn’t going to drink that, she mouths silently, her eyebrows up to her hairline.

  No, I mouth back.

  “I can see you. And I can read lips, dumbass,” Grandpa jabs. He grunts his way around the kitchen a little longer, muttering about the beer a few more times before heading to the living room where he puts on the pre-game for the Blackhawks.

  I chuckle at his behavior because I know he’s over it already. My attention moves back to Eleanor, and I can see why Grandpa thought she might need a little boost this morning. Dark circles weigh under her eyes, the rest of her skin vampire pale. Her hair is pulled into double knots at the base of her neck on either side, and I think maybe she woke up with a hairstyle a lot like I did.

  “I just—”

  “Would you—”

  Our breathy laughs come out in sync as we talk over each other. I lean back into the counter and extend my hand.

  “You first,” I say, my eyes moving to the spot where she’s kneading her hands together. She’s probably embarrassed about last night, and I don’t want her to be. We all have low points. I am finding it hard to reconcile that version of her with the one in front of me, and the one I’ve spent time with over the last several days.

  “I brought your shirt back.” She perks up, pulling one arm halfway out of the sleeve.

  “You keep it,” I say, nodding toward her. It’s my favorite, and yet it was somehow really easy to give away.

  Her brow pinches, but her mouth ticks up with a tiny grin.

  “You sure?” She’s already pushed her arm back through the sleeve. She loves it.

  “It looks a lot better on you,” I say. That is not a lie.

  “Thanks,” she says, sucking in her bottom lip.

  We make eye contact once or twice while a healthy dose of awkward silence settles in. I wish I could let her off the hook, but I don’t know how to change subjects. Last night is clearly all the two of us are thinking about. Thankfully, Grandpa Hank breaks up the sound by yelling “bullshit” at the TV.

  We both look toward the back of his head and I ease her concern with a soft laugh.

  “He does that with hockey,” I reassure. “What’s funny is it’s still only pre-game. He’s probably reliving a bad call from two days ago.”

  I roll my eyes, and Eleanor gives me a courtesy laugh.

  “Hey, wanna come hang in the garage? I did a lot of work. I think Jake may win the bet at this rate,” I say, leaning my head toward the garage door.

  “Can we not tell him? I was really looking forward to him streaking,” she says.

  “Oh, absolutely. Good plan,” I agree.

  Our eyes hang on to one another for a breath and I break the tension, urging her to follow me to the garage. I left things a bit messy when I finished up this morning, so I grab a broom from the corner and sweep up the wire clippings. Before I can get the dustpan on my own, Eleanor kneels with it and waits for me to push the trash into it with my broom.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  Her eyes flit up and she gives me a tight-lipped smile that highlights blushing cheeks. She’s still embarrassed about last night. I have to make this easier for her.

  “So . . . how are you feeling?” I rub the back of my neck and wince at the uncomfortable entry into this topic. She pauses briefly on the way to the trash can.

  “I almost let your grandpa feed me honey-beer-egg soup, if that’s any indicator,” she says, glancing over her shoulder with a bashful smile. She continues to the trash, dumping the mess and leaving the dust pan in the corner.

  My hands slide into my back pockets and I inhale, breaking my breath up with a short laugh when Eleanor spins to face me and does the exact same thing.

  “Listen—” I begin.

  “No,” she interjects, shaking her head. She steps closer to me and when her palms run down my biceps and tug on the elbows of my sleeves, I give over complete control of my limbs to the most beautiful girl in the world. Even at her lowest, Eleanor Trombley is a wonder to behold.

  My hands fall from my pockets as she moves her hands along my forearms, eventually taking my wrists then my palms. She holds them in front of her, her eyes fixed on the act while I’m unable to look away from her face. I study the jerking motion of her lashes as she blinks rapidly, nerves and raw emotion picking up her breath.

  “Why do I feel like you’re about to tell me my dog died?” I joke in an attempt to lighten the mood.

  She laughs as a few tears slip out.

  “Oh, don’t cry. I don’t really have a dog. I mean, you probably would have seen it.”

  She laughs a little harder and I give her hands a squeeze for added strength and courage. A hard swallow moves her throat and she lets go of one of my hands to run her arm over her eyes. I leave my hand where she left it, and I’m relieved when she holds it again.

  Breathing out through whistle-ready lips, she brings her eyes to mine and shakes our hands as they stick together.

  “I’m so sorry about last night, Jonah. I never meant to put so much of my shit on you, and it isn’t fair.” She glances down to her feet, so I tug at her hands this time, coaxing her gaze back up.

  “Hey, I don’t do things I don’t want to do,” I respond.

  She grimaces.

  “No, it’s true. Peer pressure is useless on me.” I shake my head a little.

  Her eyes squint with skepticism.

  “So why did you go to the party last night? You hate them. It’s the one thing everyone knows about Jonah Wydner.” She levels me with a daring look, and it’s a tough call because she’s not wrong.

  “I do hate parties,” I admit. “But . . .”

  I lean back and open my mouth, cautioning her not to assume anything.

  “I would not have gone if I did not want to go. At least some part of me.” I hold the tight-lipped grin in place while she evaluates my answer to see if I’m bluffing. I’m not. Yes, I hate parties, but I went for her. I would swim through lava to k
eep her safe.

  Her head cocks to the side but her smile shifts into something lighter, maybe shedding a little of the guilt she brought over here this morning.

  “You know, it’s an excellent time to climb up on the roof and watch the sun go down.” Her fingers slip away as she makes the suggestion, and I find my hands frozen in place for a moment all on their own. I shove them back into my pockets.

  “Is it really that late?” I lift a brow.

  “It’s almost four.” She winces and I join her.

  “I don’t think I’ve slept this late since I had the flu sophomore year,” I admit.

  She laughs at my response, then hits the button for the garage door.

  “This used to be a regular Saturday morning occurrence for me,” she says.

  “I’m pretty sure you can’t call it morning,” I add.

  She spins on her heels as she moves out of the garage and points at me.

  “You are probably right.”

  We cross my driveway to the very dead grass in our side yard. Eleanor leaps up to grab the eave but her fingers slip at her first attempt. She crouches to jump again but stops, spinning to face me as she points over her shoulder with her thumb.

  “You been sunset watching without me?” she asks.

  The ladder is still out. I haven’t touched it since the last time we went up there.

  “That would sound a lot better than admitting I’m too lazy to put it away, but sadly, I’m a lazy ass.” I mush my lips together and shrug.

  “Well, my muscles are not feeling it today, so let’s just say you were planning ahead.” She marches to the ladder and scales it two rungs at a time. Even at her laziest, she’s got me beat.

  She waits at the roof’s edge for me this time, and I’m a little embarrassed because I climb ladders the same way my grandfather does—like one wrong move might break a hip. I crawl onto the shingles as she stands and holds a hand out for me.

  “I can’t run and leap over there like you do,” I say, waving my hand just out of reach. It’s like I’m about to shake on a deal and I want to make sure I know the terms.

  Eleanor leans her head back and the sound of real laughter pours out with the rasp that I’ve missed.

  “It’s fine. I’ll go slow,” she says, taking my hand and helping me to my feet.

  I sway a little, only half joking that I’m searching for my balance. I notice that she walks along the rooftop on her toes, almost like a ballerina making her way to center stage. I move with the grace of a Clydesdale.

  We settle in the ridge this time and I lower myself carefully, dividing my weight over both sides of the roof. Eleanor seems to collapse into a sitting position, her legs knotted together as she perches at the apex facing me. I breathe out a laugh at how different we are.

  “What?” she asks.

  “Just, you can tell you do things like gymnastics and stuff. It’s pretty clear I work out math equations.” I shrug.

  “You’d think that would make you more confident up here, being able to compute the exact angles and all that junk,” she argues.

  “Huh,” I say, taking her reasoning to heart. I glance to my left and then my right, but before I can fully take in the angle of the descent behind me I grip the roof’s surface beneath my thighs.

  “Nope. There’s no math logic for this,” I say.

  She giggles, an actual giggle. It’s the best sound, like a children’s birthday party with a petting zoo kind of glee. Jake made fun of me endlessly the last time I crawled up here with him. I was too shell-shocked to smack him with one of the water balloons.

  A few cars pass along our street, and we both give our full attention to them, watching them come to complete stops on either end. I notice her driveway is half empty, and wonder if she’s had a chance to talk with Morgan today. I hope my advice was taken to heart.

  “Family outing?” I ask, gesturing to her empty driveway below. Her parents’ car and Morgan’s SUV are missing.

  I expect a heavy sigh or for her to push my question off. But none of that happens.

  “My parents are attempting grocery shopping. And Morgan is getting a pedicure.” She blinks as her gaze shifts from her world below to me. “It’s a good step. Important, probably. I mean, Morgan’s feet are disgusting. Really, I don’t know how we’ve all managed to live in the same house with her like that.”

  Her teeth grip her bottom lip as she pauses, waiting for me to laugh. I give in, understanding her need to use humor to not be real right now. She laughs with me for a few seconds, until our efforts die down into quiet again. I’m so close to her that I can only focus on one eye at a time, and as hard as it is to not to blush under her stare, I endure it, reminding myself that she’s looking at me, too.

  “She said you talked,” she says finally, shifting her body to face the other direction, away from the setting sun.

  “I gave her some advice, not that I’m qualified or anything.”

  We both glance to our sides, meeting in the middle for a brief exchange.

  “You’re more than qualified, Jonah. I think it meant a lot to her. We—Morgan and I—talked a lot when I woke up. You know, about twenty minutes before I came over here?” She laughs through her words again.

  “Good,” I say through my smile.

  That I helped, even in the smallest way, settles the raging nerves in my chest. So many of my choices when it comes to Eleanor have me on edge. I never know if I’m helping or hurting. I only know that my intentions are always from the heart, and I guess that’s all that matters.

  “Speaking of trying things to feel normal . . .” She draws in a deep breath and I steady myself for whatever she has to say. It seems to be difficult.

  “I want to cheer. I miss it.” She nods and moves her focus to me.

  I push my smile into my cheeks, making sure to show enthusiasm and support.

  “You were meant to do it. And if you think you’re ready, then I think you should.” I can see the reservations play out on her face, her smile timid, tempered by gritted teeth. Before she can make an argument for the other side, I continue with all the reasons she should.

  “It will make your days feel normal, and you’re so good at it. I mean, not as good as me, but . . .” I let the quiet slip in, sensing that she doesn’t want any jokes. She wants the truth.

  “It’s what Addy wants,” I say, getting to the only thing that matters. It’s been three weeks, a timeline that feels too short to do something other than sit and hope and pray.

  “You mean would want,” she answers in a quiet voice that works hard not to break. Her eyes flit to mine then back to the sky behind me.

  “No, I meant what I said. No matter what, that’s what Addy wants.” My words are heavy with meaning, and they earn me a long stare into Eleanor’s eyes as she turns to understand me better. I swallow and shake my head, never once letting my eyes shift from hers. “You can’t think that way. Addy is. No matter what. And always.”

  I’m trying to both encourage hope but also edge it with hard truths, that this story—her family’s tragedy—might get worse before it gets better. Morgan wasn’t wrong last night. It’s been three weeks. Their one solid lead disappeared with few clues. The odds of finding Addy are growing grimmer by the hour. And finding her alive may no longer be the only mission. It doesn’t change the way Addy lives inside her sister’s heart, though; I’m learning that slowly. My dad is more alive inside my chest now than he was the year before he passed. It’s about knowing someone.

  “Will you come to the games? There are only two left, and then competition. So I have someone there for me, to see me? My family…they just can’t yet.” Her plea breaks my heart and I can’t help the way it pulls my eyes down with a tender sorrow.

  “It would be an honor.” A strange electricity builds between us during the silence this time, and I’m not sure whether it’s because of a real connection or because I want there to be one. Eleanor is the first to look away with a glance to the side, t
he sky’s colors reflecting in her golden lashes and off her soft skin. She’s orange and pink, like a work of art—God’s colors brushed on her face.

  “Oh, it’s show time,” she says, and I think partly to change the subject and break up the intensity blanketing us.

  I lean back on my elbows and turn my face to the sun just as it dives behind the rooftops and trees in the distance. Eleanor moves closer, her shoulder leaning against mine, but her body is turned to face behind me. I shake with a quiet laugh, assuming she’s joking, but the longer she sits backward, the more I realize she’s watching an entirely different wonder happen behind me.

  “You waiting on the moon or somethin’?” I joke.

  “I always watch the sunset from the other side. Sky looks like candy this way.” She grins and goes back to watching the magic happen as pinks dip into purple and oranges become red. I watch it all happen in her expression—in her eyes and in the way the light hits her face. I stare at her more than I look at the sun dropping before me, because of all the things she could have said, she found a very intimate line of poetry to reference.

  I hear you, Dad. And you are right. The sky does look like candy, and this girl is incredibly special.

  Sixteen

  I wasn’t sure she would actually go through with it. Sunday, when we hung out in the garage with Jake and Gemma, I got the sense that Eleanor was waffling on her decision to come back to school. Her car was still parked in front of her house when Jake picked me up Monday morning, and we were running late. Jake is always running late, which makes me always running late by default.

  But then it was our lunch hour, and I was getting ready to hide in my favorite window seat with my final reading for the semester—King Lear. Gemma approached me, her arm looped through Eleanor’s as if it were just another Monday and nothing had ever changed at all.

  I gave in and joined them for off-campus lunch. Like I told Eleanor, even things I hate doing I will do when there is some reason for me to want to. Monday’s car ride of death was a must for me because Eleanor was going. Not only did I want to protect her from Jake’s crash-and-burn style on the road, but I didn’t want anyone else letting her sit on their lap.