Bright Before Sunrise

by Schmidt, Tiffany

  It’s mom-aged, sentimental, and thick with alcohol. Brighton’s eyes go wide and she stiffens, her arm drawing away from mine.

  “Auntie Joan just left. We were talking at dinner, and remember that Thanksgiving when you and your daddy decided to get up early and surprise everyone by putting the turkey in?”

  I should give her privacy. I take a step back, so I’m holding the phone as close to her and as far from me as possible, but I can still hear the message. Bright’s eyes are closed now; her expression looks hurt, nervous.

  “Only you put it in the pan upside down and forgot to take the giblets out before you put the stuffing in?” Her mother gives this sniffly laugh and blows her nose near the phone. “I miss him …”

  Finally Brighton snaps out of her embarrassment trance and grabs the phone from my hand, but it slips through her wet fingers and falls to the ground. I back away to go wait by a bench. She reaches for it and fumbles, hitting speakerphone instead.

  “Oh, baby girl—I wish you were home. Some of your tea and a chat would be so perfect right now … but Evy says you’re out—”

  Finally she presses the right key and shuts the damn thing off.

  I’m bracing for an awkward exchange, watching her take deep breaths and smooth her dress down with white-knuckled fists. Her face, when she finally lifts her chin, is blank. Even if she doesn’t look as giddy as she did three minutes ago, she looks serene. It’s got to be an act, but I’m not going to call her on it.

  “Where should we go now?” she asks.

  “What?” I’m still amazed she looks so calm. Maybe because she knows my parents are divorced too, it doesn’t bother her that I heard her mom blubber. “Didn’t you want to go home?”

  “We can’t get in your car like this.” She wrings a handful of water out of her dress and squelches her good foot against her flip-flop. “We’ve got to dry off at least a little. And I doubt we’re really supposed to be in the park after sunset. Is there anywhere good to go for a walk or sit and get some coffee?”

  My own sneakers spray water through the toes as I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “But what about—” I point to her phone, feeling like a jerk for bringing it up.

  “Oh, good point, I should text Amelia and tell her I’m all set. You’ll take me home, right? Eventually?”

  “Eventually,” I echo with a grin. If she can ignore the voice mail, then I’m sure as hell not going to worry about it. “Hamilton doesn’t do froufrou coffee houses—and even if they did, it’s after twelve. Nothing much is open. But no one is going to bother us about a park curfew. Jeff and I used to come here all the time when we were younger. That’s how I knew about the sprinklers.”

  Her people-pleaser smile melds into her real one as she looks up from her text and asks, “Did you really just refer to Bean Haven as froufrou?”

  “Maybe I did— Are you going to argue with me? I only went there once. It was so pink. I tried to order a small coffee and the worker said, ‘You mean a teensy.’”

  She’s laughing as I lead her to the path toward the playground. The playground Felix and Jeff had graffitied at twelve. I’d been too scared to even be their lookout. Their favorite curse words are still painted in runny letters on the bottom of the slide for all to see. It’s so rundown and beat-up compared to the eco-friendly, native-plant-landscaped parks of Cross Pointe. I wonder if Brighton’s noticing the cracks in the concrete, the weeds, or the broken swing.

  I’ve never noticed them before.

  Yet it was Cross Pointe that brought out my own graffiti artist—the first week after the move I’d gone so far as to buy the paint and everything. But when I’d stood outside the perfect shops on perfect Main Street with the can in my hand, I’d become as chicken as I’d been at twelve. Maybe if I could’ve painted something with social commentary, like Banksy does, but to just scrawl sloppy letters across the storefronts? I couldn’t even think of what to write. A swear, like an eleven-year-old showing off his cool factor? “I hate this town”?

  In the end I dropped the spray paint into one of the trash cans spread out in even intervals.

  “What are you thinking?” she asks. “You look so serious. Does this park have bad memories? Want to go somewhere else?”

  “No, the opposite. See that field over there? That’s where my Little League team played. I practically lived there. I learned to ride my bike on these paths—my blood’s probably still on some of these tree trunks. I wasn’t very good at turning or braking.”

  She laughs and follows my finger as I point out the landmarks of my childhood. “I’m sure you crashed just for the Band-Aids. I bet you were a tough guy even back then.”

  Suddenly, it’s easy talking to her. I want to tell her more, show her more of my town. Redeem Hamilton from the first impression it made. I lead the way to the swings and hold one for her as she sits before lowering myself onto the next one.

  “Before the divorce I used to live less than a block from here on Arroyo Court. Jeff, Sean, and I used to meet here to play catch. I kissed my first girlfriend—way before Carly—on the slide over there.”

  “So you were a stud? You dated a lot?” She leans her cheek against the chain and looks over at me.

  “Some. I don’t know about a lot. I had a few girlfriends before Carly.” She’s got this half-amused, half-preoccupied smile on her face, and it’s driving me crazy. I grip the chains tightly before asking, “What about you? Not that I’m keeping up with Cross Pointe’s gossip, but I haven’t heard about you and any boyfriends.”

  The half smile locks in place, frozen in a look that’s supposed to be lighthearted and natural. I can read her better now; I know it’s not. She examines her hands, seems startled to find her nails green, then hides them in her palms and pushes off with her good foot. Her words get carried away with her swinging motion. “Sorry to disappoint, but there’s not much to hear.”

  I stand up and grab the chains on both sides of her swing. Hold her hostage. “Oh, come on. Don’t give me that.” She has to know how guys look at her. Has to know she could have her pick of almost any guy in school. I refuse to believe she hasn’t played with that power.

  When she shakes the hair out of her eyes, I can see she’s not flirting, she’s serious. “I keep waiting for the day when I wake up and realize one of the boys I’ve known since kindergarten is suddenly breathtaking and makes my pulse race or something cliché like that.”

  “So there’s no guy at Cross Pointe who’s good looking enough for you?” I give her a gentle push and watch her arc away from me. Her hair trails like a live thing.

  “No! That’s not what I mean at all! There are plenty of guys who are hot, but I’ve known them so long. They’re the same boys who used to show off their burping and farting skills. Thinking about dating any of them feels … weird and slightly incestuous.”

  “Incestuous would be weird.”

  She finally laughs. “Stop teasing me! I’m serious. Amelia tells me I should just suck it up and pick a guy—otherwise I’ll go off to college ‘dangerously innocent’—her words, not mine. But if I know I’m not going to feel about a guy the way he feels about me, then I’m setting him up to be hurt. How can I do that to someone I like? Even if it’s not like-like.”

  I was going to make a crack about “like-like,” but her answer doesn’t seem funny anymore. “Good question. I don’t disagree.”

  “Plus, I think they’re all still secretly impressed with the noises and smells they can make.”

  “They are.” I laugh louder than the comment really deserves and almost prove her right about my gender’s immaturity by twisting her swing sideways. Instead, I put an extra step of space between us and look around for something distracting that isn’t her. She lets herself slow to a stop. She’s not looking at me either.

  If “awkward” had a flavor, it would taste like this moment. Like my mouth opening and closing as I try to think of something to say. Or sprinkler water and the one sip of beer I had toni
ght. Or the ghost of Carly’s lip gloss and the laughter that just fizzled.

  I rap my knuckles against the cold metal frame of the swings. A hollow sound reverberates down the pole, and I open my mouth again. I don’t know what ruined the moment, but I want it back.

  Maybe the moment was damned to fail. I mean, Brighton. In Hamilton. With me. It’s an equation that has no solution.

  I look away from her, across to the other side of the park, and suddenly I need to see it again. I’m already off the playground sand and on the sidewalk before I call, “There’s somewhere I have to go. It won’t take long. You can either come or stay here.”

  I’m not sure which I’d prefer.

  32

  Brighton

  12:25 A.M.

  12 HOURS, 35 MINUTES LEFT

  He’s leaving without me.

  It’s my fault too. He’d started opening up about his life, baseball, girls. So what do I do? Ruin it all. Could I sound more ridiculous? Oh, why don’t you date, Brighton? Well, you see, guys smell. Way to be eight. Does he think I include him in that category? Real smooth. He looked so embarrassed for me—though I’m more than embarrassed enough on my own.

  I really mentioned burping and farting. Like that phone call from Mom wasn’t bad enough. I knew she’d have a meltdown tonight. I knew it.

  He paces next to a trash can with his eyes fixed on something I can’t identify.

  Just this once, Evy can handle Mom. They’ll be fine.

  “Wait up! Please.”

  As soon as I reach him, he’s off again, like he’s afraid our destination will disappear before we reach it.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Wait and see, Bright,” he says. Then adds, “Sorry.” He’s staring at something across the street.

  “What? Why?” I look around for whatever’s inspiring his apology and come up with nothing.

  “Called you Bright again. Accident, I swear.”

  “I didn’t even notice.”

  For the first time since he started on this manic mission to wherever, Jonah looks at me. His brown eyes settle on mine and stay there; my cheeks react with a blush.

  “My dad used to call me that: his Rainbow Brite.”

  “Do you miss him?”

  “Every day.” It’s just a smidge more than twelve hours until his memorial. My stomach twists. My throat is constricting. I want to look away, but his eye contact is the only thing keeping me steady. “Tell me about your dad. Do you still see him a lot?”

  “No, never. I wish I could hate him. Then at least it would be mutual.”

  “Jonah, come on. You know your father doesn’t hate you.”

  He kicks at a rock on the sidewalk and answers in a tight voice. “Yeah. He does. He blames me.”

  “He couldn’t. He’s your dad.”

  “He blames me.” He’s stopped walking and is pacing the same three squares of sidewalk. The emotions spill out of his voice and into his stride: furious, fast steps that change direction without pattern.

  “Paul was my physical therapist. Mom met him because of me. Because I screwed up my right ankle sliding into home plate and couldn’t drive myself to appointments. Dad’s convinced I knew. He couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.”

  My chest feels tender from talking about Dad, and my heart aches for Jonah. Not wanted? By his own father?

  “He said I chose sides by not telling him—even though I had no clue. And that Mom and Paul were still a family, and a kid belonged with a family. He, on the other hand, was now a bachelor, and a teenager didn’t fit in his new lifestyle. I guess he doesn’t want me in the way while he bar hops. I doubt he’s out looking to find me a new mommy.”

  I hug myself because I know if I touch him, he’ll stop.

  “And then he sold the house without even telling me. Called me after he was in a hotel. I’m surprised he called at all. I guess I should be grateful. He coulda called from Florida and said, ‘By the way, I’ve moved.’”

  “Why?” I gasp the word and cringe at the unfairness of it all. No wonder Jonah’s bitter.

  “He and my mom agreed it’d be easier for me if I didn’t have to see the house packed up. They equated it to a body in a casket—it’s better I remember my home as a ‘happy place,’ not empty rooms full of boxes. Like I can forget their fights and only remember the good times.”

  He stops pacing and looks at me. His face is all naked emotion. His eyes scream of need. My instincts demand I look away. Run away. I don’t want to be needed. Not like this. Not in a way that requires me to share more than space and conversation—a way that requires me to share me.

  “Do you get this?” He swallows and drops eye contact, shoulders slumping. “Forget it. Your parents’ divorce was probably all ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and no hurt feelings.”

  I’m too stunned by Jonah’s story to sugarcoat my own. “My parents didn’t divorce. My dad died. Heart attack.”

  He freezes on the sidewalk and lifts a palm to cover his face. “Crap.”

  “Don’t—” I know what I should say: “It’s fine. I’m okay. You didn’t know.” Some variation of “Don’t worry, you’re off the hook” followed by a subject change.

  I tug on his sleeve until he lowers his hand and opens his eyes. He continues to look … tortured.

  I bite my lip and swallow. “I do know what you mean. I wasn’t allowed to go to the wake—no one would let me see him … after. For years—years, I convinced myself it wasn’t true. He was in another room. Or still at work. He’d gotten some extra-needy client who took all his time. And soon, really soon, he’d be home. Sitting next to me at family dinner—his lefty elbow bumping against my righty—or leaving sticky notes with we’ve-got-a-golf-date reminders or saw-your-math-test-I’m-proud-of-you messages on my bathroom mirror or in my lunch bag.”

  I feel naked, but there’s no way to cover up the parts I’ve just exposed, so I clench my fists instead. “I get your need for closure.”

  “It’s not the same, Brighton. It’s not the same at all. I had no idea. I’m sorry.”

  I’ve never seen pity on his face before. I don’t like it.

  “I’m sure it’s hard, but it’ll get better. It takes time.”

  Even the tone of his voice has changed.

  I step away from the hug he’s offering, hold my hands up toward him. “Stop. Just stop. Please.”

  Jonah’s arms drop to his sides and he’s a split second away from getting pissed. “I was just—”

  “Not you too. I’ve spent five years in school with people who know and treat me like a tragic character because of it. ‘That’s Brighton Waterford, her dad died—handle with care.’” I take a step toward him, starting to bridge the chasm that’s grown since I refused his hug. “Except you. Maybe that’s part of why I wouldn’t leave you alone—even when it was painfully obvious you wanted me to.”

  “Because I was an ass?”

  “Because you treated me as badly as you treated everyone else. You haven’t coddled me. I’d rather you be an ass than act like I’m breakable.” I hold my breath as I watch him think this through. He’s quiet for longer than I’d like. Studying me more intensely than I’d like.

  “Are ass and coddler my only options?” he asks.

  I laugh. “Shut up.”

  “When did he die?” It’s a question in his regular voice, and I realize the flip side of Jonah not being here when it happened. He might not baby me, but he also doesn’t know already.

  The smile slips from my face, and I swallow a few times before answering. “Five years ago. Exactly five years. There’s a memorial service tomorrow. I should be fine by now, right? I should be able to talk about him. Mom and Evy talk about him all the time.”

  “So, go ahead. Talk.”

  I can’t. I turn away from him to catch my breath.

  “So where are we headed?” I ask.

  “We’re here. This is my old house.” Jonah pauses to study it for a moment before he leads the
way up the driveway.

  He sits on the steps of a back deck, and I join him. He’s staring at something invisible, something that has significance to him and not me. All I can see is this backyard bleeding into his neighbors’, blending with the one beyond that. Is he thinking about his old life or his new one? About me?

  We’re sitting so close. My damp dress is cold in contrast to the heat that radiates off him. I’d like that hug now—if I could think of a way to ask for it without being lame. His face is unreadable. The faraway look of an in-class daydream. He looks unreachable, and sitting two inches away, I’m lonely.

  “How do you—” I jump when he speaks. He clears his throat and starts again, “How do you handle something like that? I can’t even handle a divorce at eighteen.”

  “My mom went to pieces”—I shiver thinking about her days and days in bed, leaving only to go to the bathroom or refill whatever was in her travel mug and throw TV dinners in the microwave for us. “Evy lashed out at everyone: cursing at Mr. Donnelly when he asked how she was; getting a speeding ticket in Dad’s car when she didn’t even have a permit. And that was after she ran over his golf bag, then dumped the whole thing into the lake at the club. I didn’t have a choice. I had to deal with it.

  “It was when Evy packed herself a can of beer for lunch instead of a soda that Mom finally snapped out of it and began parenting again.” Spilling confessions to a recently tarred driveway and the sandbox in the next yard is easier than to his face, but I have to see his reaction. I’ve never said any of this out loud before—not even to Amelia, though she was there to see some of it. I look at him and hold my breath while he shakes his head.

  “Crap,” Jonah says again. His hand touches my shoulder. Just briefly, lightly, but it keeps me from flying into a million pieces and chases the goosebumps off my arms—replacing them with a flash of heat. “What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. You were, what, twelve? What’d you do?”

  I shrug. “Nothing exciting. I turned behaving into a science.” I lean back, rest my head on the step behind me, and list an action on each star that’s visible through the cloudy sky: “I cleaned up and tried to get Mom to eat. I made straight A’s—I worked well with others. I was good enough at it that I convinced everyone I was okay.”