by Sasha Dawn
Chatham’s waiting on the front steps of the room-and-board when I pull up to the curb. Today she’s wearing cut-off shorts—black ones this time—and a vintage-looking T-shirt—white with a black-rimmed collar—that says Van Halen OU812 on it beneath a gray hoodie she hasn’t zipped, the sleeves of which she cut off at the cuffs. She’s wearing flip-flops and, on her left ankle, a black anklet that looks like it’s made of rubber.
Her hair is curlier than usual, and she might be wearing makeup. Maybe a little gloss on her lips, a little mascara on her lashes.
“Hey.” She’s sitting next to me now, pulling the seat belt across her body. Then a second later: “Is something wrong?”
I shrug a shoulder, and just as I tell myself to let it all go, tell myself to just leave it all behind us when I pull away from the curb, I start blurting it all out. It’s crazy. It’s not like it’s any big crisis. It’s nothing next to Savannah’s running away, or Rachel Bachton’s being missing for over a decade, or anything like that. Still . . .
“My mother told me she hated me. Four times.”
“She doesn’t really hate you.”
“You know, I never used to think so. But lately, I think she might.”
“She doesn’t.” Chatham touches me on the elbow. “Mothers just don’t always make the best decisions. I would know.”
“Yeah?” I glance at her.
The way she’s looking at me—as if the world beneath her feet is about to split and swallow us whole—tells me she really would know. But a beat later, she’s smiling this great smile and turning up the radio. “I love this song!”
It’s some old tune—Clapton, maybe—about things that happen late at night, when you’re ready to have some fun and throw your cares to the wind. I like it, too.
For the rest of the drive out to Northgate, we don’t speak. But we share the space the same as we shared the sunrise this morning. It’s a moment just for us.
And when we approach the lighthouse, there’s a small crowd on the lawn, which is cluttered with long, fold-out tables. It’s a bazaar, or something. A craft fair, with quilts and hand-blown glass and macramé.
“This is amazing.” She’s a few steps ahead of me, eager, like my sisters when we’re going out for ice cream.
I follow her lead. We snake through tables, and she touches the handmade wares. She’s delicate about it, appreciative of artistic processes and materials, and it’s clear she values the time, effort, and years of knowledge and practice that went into each piece.
“This is great, man!” Her backpack lands on the ground at her feet. She slips out of her hoodie and hands it to me, like it’s the most natural thing in the world—me, holding her discarded clothing—and shrugs into a knit cardigan she found on one of the artists’ tables.
It’s a sage-and-beige thing, made with that kind of yarn that’s dyed a different color every few inches, and it’s long and soft. She looks so happy wearing it, her eyes practically sparkle. This isn’t why we came here, but there’s something to be said about serendipity, about the universe laying things out in your path.
She buys it on the spot, with a wad of cash she pulls from the pocket in her shorts. This place is teeming with other people like her, people who find things made with hands more special than the things you consume in mass market.
We meander through the fair, manage to make it to the end without her purchasing anything else, and find ourselves standing at a weathered, but always present, memorial to Rachel Bachton. This is where it happened. Right here, by this lamppost, around which passersby have tied pink ribbons over the course of the twelve years that have passed since it happened. At the base of the post, the empathetic people of this world have placed now-ratty and rain-soaked and sun-dried teddy bears and withered flowers. Pictures of her frozen in time, some in frames on the ground, some bolted to the post, stare me in the face. Pleading for resolution. Praying for answers.
No one will ever throw any of this stuff away, I suspect, until she’s found. And maybe not even then. God, it’s been such a long time!
I don’t want to think about the things that might have happened to her.
We stand there, with the lake stretching out before us.
“Nothing’s familiar,” she says. “If I was ever here, I don’t remember it.”
I feel my eyes prick with tears. I wish I’d known Rachel Bachton. “I wish I’d been here that day,” I say.
“Why?” She tucks a wild curl behind her ear. “What could you have done?”
“Nothing.” I know it’s true. I was only four years old at the time. “But as crazy as it sounds, I wish I knew something. Something that could help save her. If not then, now.”
“Maybe that’s how Savannah feels, too.”
I don’t know if Chatham reaches for my hand, or if I grasp hers, but the moment my fingers close around hers, it doesn’t matter that I wasn’t here that day and couldn’t possibly make a difference, that I’m probably stuck in Sugar Creek until my bones disintegrate, that I’m maybe a guy his own mother hates.
She faces the breeze tumbling in off the lake. Whitecaps today.
“You know,” she says, “I don’t think I’ve ever been here before.”
And even though I’ve been here a million times, I know exactly how she feels.
Because I don’t know if I’ve ever felt the way I feel around her, and it makes this place feel completely new and unfamiliar.
S t a r t M e U p
Chatham. This girl is everywhere. It’s been five days since we went out to Northgate, and I’ve hardly seen her since, but she’s constantly with me. Even when I don’t see her, or hear from her, she’s there, in the back of my mind. A preoccupation, more than a distraction: thinking about her gives me purpose, rather than taking me away from whatever it is I should be doing. She’s the reason I haven’t cut English. She’s the reason I’ve been studying my ass off . . . because I want to prove to her that she can rely on me.
“Michaels.”
Although I suppose she’s stealing my focus now. I wipe sweat from my eyes.
Coach Baldecki is standing clear across the weight room, arms folded over his chest. He makes a show of turning to look at the clock.
Yeah, yeah. I’m late, but I’m hardly the last to arrive to early morning practice. “I had to drop off my sisters at school,” I say by way of explanation, although he doesn’t give a shit about the circumstances. Late is late.
It’s only half true, as excuses go. While I did have to drop Margaret and Caroline at their preschool this morning, Chatham Claiborne is partly to blame. I swung past Aiden’s place to pick up his artwork, because he may or may not come to school today. You never know. It’s Friday, and it’s Aiden.
Aiden: I’ve never made one of these declaring someone sixteen. What’s she going to do with it? Drive?
Me: Long story, dude.
Some of the guys—the guys on the D-line—are still running their warm-up laps, but they have different rules, different expectations. It’s like I have to prove myself a hundred times an hour if I want to keep the starting QB position.
“You warm up?” Coach asks.
“Ran three loops.” I’m dripping with sweat; he should know it’s true just by looking at me, and furthermore that I practically sprinted it to catch up. I drop to the floor to stretch out.
“You study your playbook?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ninety-two, Cougar, Spread.”
Please.
“I’m looking for a receiver, long,” I say.
This seems to satisfy him. He leans in a bit closer. “Listen to me. We have scouts from Northwestern coming tonight.”
At this, I do a double take. Scouts. Scholarships. A Big Ten school. Nothing like pressure.
“You need to connect. With as many seniors as possible. With Novak. With Girard.”
I squint through the glare of a fluorescent bar behind him. Does he mean to say he wants me to pause and think about who
I’m throwing to? And to make sure it’s a senior? Recipe for a sack.
“I want you to connect. Period.”
That’s his official position, but I heard him loud and clear. I know what he wants me to do. Think first.
Fuck that.
“I’ll connect, coach.”
Friday morning practices are more for team bonding than intense workouts. The coaches don’t want to exhaust us before the game. But I’ve been here less than fifteen minutes, and already I’m dog-tired.
I’m pretty sure Rosie went out to meet Damien last night. I heard her car start around three, and found a note on my bathroom mirror, telling me she had to go in early and asking me to drop the girls off.
But her note was gone and she was there at five, when I woke up, acting like nothing was amiss, as if she’d never left a note, as if she’d never left the house.
I’ll call her on it. Eventually.
But now is time for the team. I have to put Rosie’s lies in a box and store them on a shelf in my mind until a later time.
Most of us are just fucking around this morning.
We do some curls, eat some bagels and cream cheese, which the football moms—minus mine, of course—take turns dropping off. Play a game of catch.
Coach tells us to walk proud today.
All in all, it’s a pretty easy team meeting.
We head to the locker room, shower, pull our jerseys over our heads—we’re wearing them to promote unity, and to hype up the rest of the school so maybe they’ll come to the away game—and get ready to hit the halls.
“Hey. Fourteen.” Novak whips his dirty towel at me.
I know he’s calling me by number as a sort of insult, as if I don’t have a name worth remembering. So I do it, too. “’Sup, twenty-six?”
“You gonna look for me tonight, dickhead? I’ll be the one in the end zone.”
I keep it simple. “If you’re open.” I toss his towel back to him, even though the bin of dirty towels is closer to me than he is—I’m not his fucking laundry boy—and head out the door.
I detour to the art hallway, where Chatham is in open studio during what we call zero hour before school officially begins. It’s still about fifteen minutes before classes start, so I peek in. She’s leaning over a slab of clay, about twelve inches square, cutting into it with a small, thin blade and carving away some of the base. In other places, she’s built up the surface. It looks like she’s working on a topographical map.
I did look up what a clay relief is. It’s an artist’s medium: clay of any sort rolled to a thick slab, and embellished. Some of the slab is carved away into valleys, some is built up to bumps and shapes. She carves bays and gashes in the wake of her X-acto blade. And like a plastic surgeon, leaves something stunningly beautiful in its place.
A few seconds pass before she looks up and sees me.
I see it first in her eyes: a smile. A moment later, she’s wiping her hands on a towel and making her way toward me. “Hi.”
“So that’s clay relief.”
“Yeah.” She glances over her shoulder, back at her work. “It’s just a little . . .” And now’s she’s looking back at me. “You have dimples.”
“Oh.” I feel the warmth of embarrassment spread up the back of my neck. I must be smiling. Of course I’m smiling, considering who’s standing in front of me. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
She wipes a knuckle high on her cheekbone, leaves a smudge of clay there. “No, I just never noticed. Could it be you’ve never smiled in my company before? How is that possible?”
“I, uh . . .” I’m looking into her eyes, and for a split second, I forget what I’m here for. I start over. “As promised . . .” I reach into the back pocket of my jeans and pull out a genuine-Aiden, fake Illinois ID. And in case anyone’s listening, I add, “You must have left it at my house the other night.”
She looks it over, the same way I did when he first handed it to me. There’s something about seeing her name in print, let alone on a driver’s license, that gives me a jolt. It’s like suddenly, she’s permanent.
“What do I . . .” she raises a brow, but lowers her voice. “You know.”
“Oh. Nothing. On the house.”
“I couldn’t . . . You have no idea how much easier this makes things for me. I’ve been through every box—”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah. If you feel like it sometime, you could hook me up with a piece of cake at the Tiny Elvis.”
“Done.” She slides her identification into the pocket of her hoodie, then turns back toward the studio.
“So,” I say, when I really should’ve just shut up and walked away now that our business dealings are done.
Inside, I panic. Is that why we’ve been talking every day? Because I’m acting as middle-man to get her something she needs? And now there’s no reason to talk?
She looks over her shoulder, waiting.
Now I have to say something.
“Maybe after the game . . .”
“Smile,” she says.
“What?”
“I said smile. You should smile more often,” she says. “The dimples.”
I couldn’t stop myself if I tried now, but I back off, lower my gaze so she can’t see how absolutely transparent I am.
“I think, if I’m lucky, I’ll be working tonight,” she says. “But if you can, drop in after the game with the rest of your team. Bring your sisters.”
I shouldn’t have to bring Margaret and Caroline. Rosie won’t be working until way-late. But I say, “Okay.”
Every part of me hums as she returns to her relief, and I watch as she diligently digs into the slab of clay on her table.
It’s happening. I’m going to learn more about her. Maybe not tonight, but soon I’m going to be close to her, hold her hand again, feel her head on my shoulder again.
I can feel it now, if I concentrate.
Dessert First
Think about attending our open house. You’ve got good instincts out there.
The guy gave me his card. Every now and then, I slip a finger into the back pocket of my jeans just to feel the edge of it.
I’m sitting in a booth with a couple of other guys on my team, the overflow table. I know my place, and as there aren’t enough seats at the tables pushed together in the middle of the diner, some of us have to sit on the side.
Besides, I have to keep an eye on the time, and I have a perfect view of the clock. I have to be back by ten. I glance up at the clock, which is, of course, Elvis-themed. The seconds tick by with the sway of his hips. And oddly enough, his hips keep time with every song that comes on. Presently, it’s “Blue Suede Shoes.”
I still have forty-five minutes.
“And here you go.” Chatham slides an enormous piece of cake in front of me, as she’s passing me. Sort of nonchalant. “As promised.”
I didn’t order the cake. I haven’t even ordered a burger yet.
She glances at me over her shoulder and winks.
“Nice throw, dickweed.” Novak shoulders his way into our booth across from me and treats me to a hard stare. “You know how important this game was? You know what chances you fucking blew for me with that fucking throw?”
I shrug a shoulder. Keep cool. “Maybe you should’ve caught it.”
“Maybe I should’ve . . . what did you say?”
“I said, you should’ve caught it. You were open. I hit you in the numbers. I did my job.”
“I had no problem when it was Yates in the pocket.”
“Any receiver worth his salt,” I say, “would’ve caught that pass.”
“Are you saying I’m not worth my . . .” He raises his voice a few decibels. “Worth my what?”
“Hey, guys.” Jensen turns around in his seat. “We’re all on the same team. All share the same goals.” Always the mediator. That’s why he’s a good captain.
“I hit you in the numbers,” I say. “Can’t get more ac
curate than that. Listen, I can appreciate that you grew up playing catch with Yates, and you’re pissed he’s out, but—”
Novak’s on his feet now, his finger in my face. “You’ve got some fucking nerve, rookie.”
Jensen: “Guys!”
“Excuse me.” Suddenly, Chatham is there, working her way between us, armed with another plate of chocolate cake. “You’re getting a little loud, and there are a few families with kids here, so . . .” She offers Novak the plate. “Truce?”
Novak backs off a bit, but doesn’t break eye contact. His hands are balled into fists, and if he could manage it, steam would be coming out of his ears.
I lift my chin. Bring it. After all I’ve been through, I can handle whatever he throws at me.
“My treat,” Chatham says. “I’d appreciate it.”
At first, Novak doesn’t move. But a second later, he takes the cake, and looks away, but only for a breath. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“Any time.” I watch him walk back to his seat.
“Calm down,” I hear Jensen say to the bastard. “We won, all right? You had a decent game.”
I take a forkful of cake. Glance at the clock. Then I happen to see Damien’s truck parked at the curb across the street, where it was last week.
He isn’t in the truck this time, so I keep an eye out for him to return.
What the hell is he doing here?
Could be he’s bellied up to the bar at the Cannery, down the road, at the intersection at Suffolk—pretty likely, actually—but it’s weird that he would park here, then walk four blocks.
He probably knows I had a game tonight, and half the town knows the team congregates at the Tiny Elvis after we play. I wonder if he’s looking for me.
I have half a mind to investigate, to go right up to him and ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing stalking me, what the fuck he’s thinking worming his way back into my mother’s life, but that would be in violation of the order of protection. And if I leave the diner, it’ll look like I’m going because of what just happened with Novak, and I can’t let him think he affected me. Because he didn’t.
I eat my cake.
