by Ginger Scott
“If they don’t get a trophy, I’m stealing one,” Morgan mutters next to me.
I shake with a laugh and tell her to get prepared because I may know a distraction is coming. She smiles, not getting my joke. But she will, soon enough.
“They don’t judge these things based on heart,” I add.
“Well, that’s too damn bad,” she responds.
Indeed, it is.
The drama from the Badgers’ performance caused quite a stir, and the judges are being kind, giving everyone a brief break so the other squads can come congratulate Eleanor too. She’s practically glowing, and I know she’s proud of herself. I’m not sure how many people in this building know her full story, but I am sure many do. There’s a reason this entire gym full of people clapped and cheered to encourage our team.
The crowd begins to break up and teams head back to their seats. I’m finally able to catch Eleanor’s attention, and I shove my phone in my back pocket to ready myself for the collision of her body into mine as she rushes toward me. I lift her up when we meet, but quickly let her slide into my hold, nuzzling my nose against hers. I can’t believe I get to be her boyfriend.
“How’d that feel?” I ask, whisking away the mix of tears falling along her cheeks.
“It felt—” She lifts a shoulder and smiles with a short stuttered cry. She’s happy, but she is also overwhelmed. For her, this is like the moment when I played the Bronco song and really listened. It’s a collision of feelings, a place where happiness and grief collide and work to soothe each other.
“She would have loved it,” I say, feeling Morgan squeeze in at my side. I step back so they can embrace as they agree with my sentiment. It’s a truly beautiful moment, and from the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of something that is about to dramatically shift the atmosphere.
I probably should have warned them, but in my defense, I didn’t think Jake would do it so soon after our school finished their routine. There are still something like six schools left to compete. But that doesn’t matter now. The judges finally settled the chaos, and it’s about to explode once again.
It starts with a single screech from the old woman at the side of the stage. I’m sure she’s a volunteer, but she did not sign up for this. Her squeal is what gets most people to turn and look. Eleanor pushes up on her toes to see what the fuss is about, but I cover my face with my palm then glance to the side of the stage to locate the pants I’m going to need to pick up in a few seconds.
“Is that—?” Morgan begins to ask. There’s no need for me to answer as my best friend rushes across the mat, completing his version of a cartwheel as he crosses the center, exposing everyone to way more than his pale-ass butt cheeks along the way.
Morgan is laughing so hard she can hardly breathe, meeting my deadpan stare when she realizes what I meant about a distraction. Putting it all together only makes her laugh harder.
Eleanor turns to face me, hands resting on her cheeks and mouth ajar. She looks positively stunned. I don’t really think she needed this extra boost Jake planned, but apparently he was hell bent on delivering it. Who knows? Maybe he was so amped up after Eleanor’s amazing stunt, he just had to top it with one of his own.
“I cannot believe he did that,” Eleanor says, her shoulders shaking with building laughter. Or maybe shuddering in revolt. Her teammates are all gathering around Gemma, who I am sure is mortified. If she stays with him after this, I’m stealing that trophy for her.
“He didn’t even lose the bet,” Eleanor says.
“Nope. He did not,” I add, glancing to his lonely pile of clothes off to the side of the stage. I turn my attention back to Eleanor and ask if she needs to see the trainer. I can tell, even standing, that her foot is swollen. I’m sure if we took her shoe off, we’d see colors.
“It’s just a sprain, but yeah. I’ll get it wrapped and get some ice,” she says.
The doors near the back of the gym smash open and light spills in from outside. I know without looking that it was Jake exiting. It took him a while to lose security, I’m guessing. He’s heading toward Apricot and Third now.
“Let me grab that idiot’s pants, then I’ll help you get to the trainer,” I say.
“Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, get his pants to him?”
I purse my lips with pretend care and thought as I glance down then back up to her.
“He’ll be all right.”
She laughs, but doesn’t argue with me. Through the chaos, I slip toward the stage and snag the track suit that Jake was wearing while commando. I shove it under my arm so I can support Eleanor on my other side, and together, we hobble our way toward the trainer’s area. He gives me one of the bags he uses for ice when I let him in on the secret that I’m carrying the streaker’s clothes. I drop them between my feet while I wait for Eleanor to get checked out and taped up for her ride home.
I’m tempted to wait through the awards ceremony too, but sitting through six more routines feels cruel. Besides, he has no way to call for help.
I have his phone, in the pocket of his pants. In a bag between my feet.
Eleanor is quiet. I think she’s anxious, or maybe coming down from the high of the competition. She’s been this way since I got back from dropping Jake off at home. I came back to see the last few teams compete and to watch our Badgers take home third. Eleanor seemed excited to hold the trophy, but her smile was always temporary, falling after every picture someone took.
Maybe this has all been too much.
“Do you want to play some music?” I offer her my phone so she can play something other than the four stations I can tune in on the Bronco. She shakes it off though with another temporary smile. She hasn’t even watched the video I filmed.
The sinking pit in my stomach lowers.
It’s probably all in my head, but everything about the sudden mood shift feels like . . . like a breakup. Only, I know it’s not. I reach toward her to take her hand and she gives it to me willingly, no attempt to let go. As I pull her hand up to kiss the inside of her wrist while we wait at the stoplight leading to our street, she slides closer to the center so she can hug my bicep when I’m done. She rests her head on me, and I don’t even scold her for abandoning the shoulder strap of her seat belt.
“Hey, you okay?” I ask. I kiss the top of her head as she gazes up at me through her lashes.
The pregnant pause before she answers is a warning.
“Yeah, just . . . tired probably,” she says. Again, the smile is temporary.
I’m sure she really is tired, so I can’t fairly accuse her of lying. But there is something else weighing on her mind, and I’m not sure whether I should pry harder or be glad she’s protecting me from whatever it is.
Turns out, I don’t get much of a choice in the matter. As we turn down our street and approach home, the reason for her gloom becomes quite clear in the form of a white post nailed at the edge of her lawn with a bright and glaring goodbye message hanging from it.
FOR SALE
I stop abruptly in the middle of the road, and it jerks Eleanor forward. Her hands slap the dashboard but she doesn’t complain. She freezes in that position and stares at the truth ahead. This is what she couldn’t say.
A car slows to a crawl behind me, honking and snapping me out of my daze, so I roll down my window and wave an apology then pull to the side of the road, right next to the offending sign in Eleanor’s yard.
“I thought maybe if I just reversed out of here I could pretend I didn’t see it.” It’s a dumb joke, and neither of us laugh.
There’s not much to say. I can’t be mad at her. It’s not her choice, and I know that. But it sucks. It really fucking sucks.
“Too many memories for my parents,” she finally utters.
“I get it,” I answer quickly. I don’t want her to think there is any blame. There’s not. There’s just . . . hurt. I hurt. This hurts!
“When I’m gone, it will only be the two of them, so . . .”
&nbs
p; “Yeah.” I nod slowly. I can’t seem to peel my eyes off that sign. It’s more than just what it is. It’s the added fact that there’s a sticker across it that reads SALE PENDING.
“Why even put up the sign?” Again, I joke. I manage a short, forced laugh. Eleanor remains silent. “If it’s already sold, I mean. Seems like a real waste of resources. Some guy had to come out here today and pound in that pole, and then there’s probably a sticker guy.”
“I think it’s the same guy,” she interjects. “Not one for poles and one for stickers.”
Our heads swivel and our gazes meet in the middle, a hint of humor in our eyes and on our lips. Even like this we can make each other laugh.
“Where will you go?”
I know the answer, which is why I can’t be upset at her.
“Texas. If they buy there, I can get residency, and in-state tuition,” she says.
“Makes sense.” Both of our stares drift back to the sign.
I hate that sign.
“It went up fast.” I blink at it. As much as I don’t blame her for anything, I can’t help but feel she’s known about this a little longer than since she exited the mat at the competition.
“I wanted to tell you.” She stifles a cry and I feel terrible because it’s my fault. I can’t seem to get myself to say it’s okay. I do reach for her hand and cup it between both of mine. We sit in the quiet of the Bronco, the motor gurgling through gallons of gas. I’m not moving, though. Not as long as she wants to sit here with me. If I have to push this thing back into the garage, I will.
“They signed to list it the day of the service. Someone made a cash offer that night. I guess the company likes to get backups though, so that’s why they went ahead with the sign,” she says.
I nod and look back at our house. For all the reasons the Trombleys want to leave, my mom is fighting to stay and keep making the mortgage payments. She likes the memories in our house. I do, too. At least, I did. I don’t know that I’ll be able to look out my window ever again.
“When do you move?” More questions I don’t want the answers to, but I need to know.
“Last day of the semester. We’ll be set up in Texas by Christmas.”
I break down a little at that thought. That’s in two weeks. I’m going to miss Christmas with her. I had so many grand ideas.
“But we can visit! And I’ll call and write,” she says, shifting in her seat to face me as she grabs on to my arm. She’s forcing the upbeat tone, and shame on me for killing it. I just can’t help it.
“Sure.” That’s the only response I give. Pathetic. Cruel.
She sinks back into her seat, and after a few more minutes she gathers her things at her feet and pushes on the handle of the door.
“I love you, Jonah. That’s still true.”
I roll my head to the side and force my mouth up as high as I can on the corners. It isn’t very far.
“I love you, too.”
She slips out of the cab and pushes the door shut, not even gratifying me with a slam so I can ease the pain and guilt. Gentle, loving and perfect, all the way to the bittersweet end. And that’s what this is—a really bittersweet end.
Twenty-Four
Moving day came fast. I think maybe because the last two weeks have been filled with packing and making donation runs to the thrift store in town. The Trombleys are leaving the scene of their nightmare, but they aren’t leaving Addy. Of the dozens of boxes I helped them take to the donation center, I think only one was filled with Addy’s things. They’ll have to work through this slowly, a process that will probably take years. My dad’s shirts still hang in my Mom’s closet. I think if she boxed them up and asked me to take them to town, I’d lie and hang them in mine just to keep them longer.
The Trombleys hit the road at five in the morning tomorrow. Elle and her mom will ride together in the big moving truck, and her dad is following behind with the family car. The Volkswagen was one of the first things to go in the donation binge. Apparently they made more off it as a write-off than what it was worth for sale. I regret not buying it.
I have literal hours left with Eleanor, but I can’t seem to get myself to sit with her in her emptying house. Besides, Gemma deserves a little time with her, too. I’m half-tempted to throw a wrench in the Bronco engine to give me something to work on again. It would beat sitting at the kitchen table picking at the crust on the peanut butter sandwich as I’ve been doing for the last hour and a half. I’m pretty sure it’s no longer edible.
Grandpa tosses the Sunday paper down in front of me to wake me up, and I sit back in my chair to feign looking alive.
“Hey, you bum. Why aren’t you over there squeezing out every last second of time with your girl?” He takes his regular seat and divvies up the sections of the paper. He slept in today, a rarity for him. I think perhaps the cigar stench in the garage and the empty case of Pabst has something to do with that. The boys were over late last night.
“I’m giving her space. That’s all,” I say.
“Horseshit. You’re sulking,” Grandpa says.
I shrug and take the insult because he’s probably right.
I pick through some of the sections of the paper, sliding the sports section to Gramps when I notice the Blackhawks photo on the front. He mumbles something about the coach getting sacked, but I’m not really listening. I spend about twenty minutes on a section of the paper that I don’t read. I just let my eyes lose their focus and try to form pictures with the words. It gives me a headache after a while, so I get up to track down some aspirin right as Jake pulls up in front of the house.
“What’s that idiot doing here?” Grandpa says, glaring out the front door from over his paper. I guess Grandpa Hank got an eyeful of Jake’s stunt at the cheer competition.
“He’s probably here for Gemma and to say his goodbyes,” I say, searching through the medicine cabinet for something to dull my everything.
“Then why’s he coming in the house? Hey! Pants required in this joint, numb nut!”
I shut the cabinet door to verify my grandpa’s observations. He’s right. I nod to my friend as I toss two aspirin into my mouth and tilt my head back, swallowing them dry. When I right my head again, Jake is glaring at me with disgust.
“How can you do that?” he asks.
“Uh, how can you run four blocks naked?” I throw back at him.
He twists his lips and appears to be mulling over a comeback, but comes up short.
“Fair point,” he says, poking me with his index finger.
“Why are you here?” I move to sit back down for more non-reading, but Jake swoops his hand under my arm and lifts me back up, proceeding to drag me out the front door.
“Bye, Mr. Wydner!” he shouts over his shoulder.
“Dumbass,” Grandpa mumbles.
The door bangs closed behind us and my feet grow heavy in an effort to slow us down as we near his car.
“Jake, I’m not in the mood,” I gripe.
“A bet’s a bet.” He stops short of his car and turns me to face him, folding his arms over his chest as though he’s some superhero ready to stop me from destroying the world. What a shitty villain I would make. I don’t even feel like destroying the world.
“I’m not streaking through the neighborhood,” I say.
“Har har,” he mocks.
It’s an irritating habit he’s picked up from some of his bros on the basketball team.
“That wasn’t our bet. Our bet was that the Bronco runs by Thanksgiving and you get your ass to prom.” He stares me down as if everything should be clear now. It’s not.
“I remember the bet. It’s December, Jake. Prom is not until April. Plus, I really don’t want to go alone and stand by the punch bowl like a legit loser.”
“Which is why,” he says before I can continue, “you are going to come with me right now and pick up a tux. I happen to know that your date is across the street, and she is being pampered by my very capable and talented girlfriend,
so you know she is going to be hawt! You cannot show up for your prom wearing— What are you wearing?”
He gestures up and down the length of my body, enjoying this power trip.
“They’re pajama pants,” I say through a grimace.
“Right, and this math club sweatshirt, very chic. But still, not the right aesthetic.” He’s playing this up as if we’re really going through with it. I back up a step and wave my hands.
“Wait, wait. Where are we supposed to have a prom, Jake? She leaves in hours.” My pulse is starting to race with this inflamed sense of urgency he’s triggered.
“Again, the where is in my girlfriend’s very capable hands. My only task is to get you a suit and make you look presentable. So, how about you give me a break and get your ass in the car?” He marches to the passenger side and holds the door open wide while wearing the sternest expression I’ve ever seen him make.
“Is that . . . is that your game face?” I ask, pointing to him but relenting and heading toward the open door.
“Yes. Yes, it is. Look at what you did. You made me go game face. Are you happy?” He starts snapping, urging me to pick up my pace, so I do. I’m playing along with his game, and while part of me tells myself I’m doing it just to mess around with my friend, a part of me is also a little excited by the whole idea. The romantic that I thought died in my soul is taking a breath and waking up a little.
For the next three hours, I basically become Jake’s personal Cinderella, and he’s my barely functioning hairy godfather.
December is a big month for suit rentals. The selection is slim, and the prices insane. Apparently, though, my mom has been in on this little plot too, so she hooked Jake up with some spare cash to make this happen.
“You really think I can pull off powder blue?” The suit is vintage. It was one of three in the price range, and the other two really felt like funeral attire. I could not show up in anything somber. Though in a strange way, I think I might be rocking this look.
