by Ginger Scott
“So, you were thinking about practicing tonight…when I walked in?” Owen finally says, cutting through the silence. I think I may have been drifting off to sleep with him in my fantasy.
“Oh, yeah. I was…sort of, ” I say, squeezing my eyes tightly, trying to force a little more awake time from them. “I can’t seem to figure out what to play. It probably doesn’t make sense to you. But, it’s just that I was sort of on this directive, had all of these goals, and they all centered around the things my father wanted me to play. And now that he’s out of the picture…”
“Those aren’t your goals anymore,” Owen finishes for me.
“I don’t think they ever really were,” I say. I know they weren’t, but admitting this out loud, saying it without someone on the other end protesting—it feels nice.
“Do you still like playing?” he asks.
“Yes, of course I do,” I say. “But not any of the things he would want me to play.” Saying that feels good too, and it makes me stretch and move my fingers in anticipation.
“So play for you. Tomorrow. Play for Kensington. I’d like to hear you. I mean…if that’s something you’re okay with. Someone listening to you play?” The nervous, fumbling Owen who’s unsure of his words seems rare, but he makes my heart race.
“I could do that. I mean, unless it’s not cool for Owen Harper to be hanging out with a band geek,” I joke, my palms actually sweating. I can’t tell if I’m excited at the thought of playing for Owen or terrified.
“I’ll make an exception,” he says, his laugh even raspier than before, and his voice saturated with sleepiness.
“Well look at that,” I say.
“What?” he asks.
“You’re finally tired,” I smile, satisfied, as if I actually did something to help Owen find sleep. His effect on me was just the opposite, and now all I want to do is tiptoe downstairs and play my piano.
“Yeah, I think you’re right. Hey, thanks,” he says.
“For what?” I ask.
“I’m not really sure. But I know I should say it anyway,” he says, one final yawn escaping his throat.
“Good night, Owen Harper,” I say, loving every syllable of his name on my tongue. Owen drifts off before he can say another word, and I leave my phone on for a few more minutes just to listen to him breathe.
He isn’t scary at all.
Chapter 10
Owen must have worked all day Sunday because I never saw him again. And I looked—constantly. My mom seems to have found a way to put on her performance face at work, but at home, she’s simply…manic. When I woke for school this morning, she had started ripping out pipes from under the sink, and all of the cabinet doors were down. She said something about finally getting her hands into something, making it her own.
If it keeps her from crying on the foot of the stairs, I guess tearing apart our house is a good alternative.
Willow’s horn blaring outside saves me from having to help with my mom’s latest plumbing emergency, so I yell that I’m leaving, grab my backpack, and rush out the door. Being in band means we always have to get to school early, and though the first few weeks had me grumbling from waking up before the sun, this morning, I’m practically skipping. I’m skipping because Owen’s truck is in the driveway, which means he’s probably going to school today.
“Wow, look who’s all happy this morning,” Willow says, snapping the gum in her mouth twice and chomping loudly while she analyzes me and my happiness.
“Had a good weekend,” I say, meaning it. True, Friday night was a nightmare, but my short-lived basketball career made up for the unwanted visit from my father and from Gaby the week before.
“Uh huh,” Willow says, pulling a thermos from her center console and loudly sipping on what smells like coffee. “So, Owen dropped you off for the game Friday night. You, uh…see him again?”
The blush that radiates all over my face is fast and unexpected, and I know I wouldn’t be able to lie now even if I wanted to.
“That’s a yes,” she says, and her smile is genuine, but there’s still a shade of disappointment there, too.
“You sure it’s okay, that it doesn’t bother you if I’m friends with Owen?” I ask, wondering if Willow was being totally honest about her feelings and being over him.
“Kens, I cross my heart. Just promise me you’ll be careful. I know it’s been three years since I hooked up with him, and he’s probably grown up a lot, but still…just be careful,” she says, repeating that word again.
I’m always careful; it’s why I did exactly as my father said for most of my life—played things carefully, classical…perfect. I hold up my hand in what I think is the scout’s honor sign and smile a promise to Willow, but I never say it. And as much as I probably should be careful, I kind of want to be reckless.
We pull into the school lot and park right next to Jess. There are no reserved spots, but everyone sort of has their place. We always park at the bottom of the hill, right by the exit. Jess is swinging his feet, clutching a paper in his hand while he sits on the trunk of his car. He looks like an actual kid in a candy store, his smile large and his cheeks red from the morning air. The vision has Willow and me giggling.
“Who wants Carolyn Potter’s famous apple pie?” Jess asks, waving the piece of paper over his head. Whatever is printed on it seems to have Willow in a state of thrill, joy, or frenzy. It’s hard to tell amid the dancing and jumping she’s doing as she takes the paper from Jess’s hands.
“Holy shit! It’s back!” she says, pounding on the hood of Elise’s car as she pulls into the lot next to our cars.
“What the hell, Will? Let me put it in park before you start going all morning-person on me,” Elise says, dragging her heavy backpack and flute case from the back seat and finally shutting the door behind her. “Okay, what’s got you all…this way?” Elise waves her hand in Willow’s direction, her face twisted with an annoyance I can truly appreciate. Willow is shot out of a cannon in the mornings, but Elise is more my speed—slow to wake, in need of caffeine, and not much for public happy-dancing at six in the morning.
“I think this will change your mind,” Willow says, handing the flyer to Elise. I watch her eyes graze over the words, and the more she reads, the more her lips curve until she’s smiling so big she’s actually showing teeth.
“No. Way!” she says, shoving the paper into my hands. “We’re going, right? We’re all totally going. Oh my god, this week cannot end fast enough!”
I straighten the heavy pack on my back and read over the flyer now in my possession.
WILSON ORCHARD APPLE FEST
“Is this that thing? That story you guys told me about?” I ask, my focus solely on the part of that story that had to do with Owen—and how this one event changed his life forever. This festival is like the moment he told me my dad was spending time with another woman, and I can’t imagine reliving that moment again—ever!
I wonder if Owen’s seen a flyer like this one?
“Yes! That’s it! Oh my god, Kens. You have to come with us,” Willow says, looping her arm in mine as we trek up the hill to the music room. She’s only focusing on the festive part, completely missing my point.
“I don’t know. I’m not really into carnival games and things like that,” I say, still thinking about Owen. I want to find him before he finds out, to take him away until the festival is over and done—so he can never know it came back again in the first place.
“It’s not just the games and the rides. Kens, oh my god, the freaking apple pies! You have to come, just for a little while. At least go and eat with us?” Willow is actually making a pouty face, her bottom lip jutted out, and her eyes practically watering with sadness.
“It is a lot of fun,” Elise adds, nudging me with her arm as we walk through the band-room door. She starts to walk backward to face me. “Ryan will want to go, so we’ll all be there. And he never likes to stay at things long, so we can totally take you home early if you want to le
ave. Come with us?”
Elise isn’t full-on begging; that’s not her style. But I can tell she really wants me to join them, and I get the sense this is a meaningful thing for my new group of friends—a part of their past they want to share with me. I need friends, good friends that don’t lie to me. So I nod yes, and Willow practically squeals in my ear with excitement.
Mr. Brody makes a few attempts to play through some of our songs, but band rehearsals are ultimately cut short, the entire class seemingly abuzz with news that the apple fest is back. And when Mr. Brody announces that the band will actually be playing in a mini parade down the orchard road to open the festival on Saturday morning, you would think we were invited to star in the half-time show for the Super Bowl. Everyone was so excited.
With the band performing, I no longer have an excuse to miss—at least not the opening of the festival—so I resolve myself to the fact that I’m going to at least get a really good slice of pie out of this deal, and then I hold my breath and wait for my next class. I pray somehow word of the festival hasn’t made it to him yet.
I’m not sure whether it’s good news or bad news that Owen missed our morning classes. I’m hoping it was because of work, or something else non-festival related. When I see him climb up to sit on top of one of the outside tables at lunch, I feel the weight rise from my chest.
I position myself so I can glance at him from my periphery out the window while we eat lunch, and my body flushes the few times I catch his gaze on me. Every time I look his direction, he seems to be smiling. I also notice that, unlike other days during the lunch hour, there doesn’t seem to be a girl in his arms, no one entertaining his lips, grinding on his lap, or kissing at his neck. And that makes me happy, too.
“Owen Harper alert,” Willow says, her eyebrows raised as she stares at me from the other side of the table. I turn to the side and realize Owen is no longer on his table outside, and his friends have all left as well. I somehow missed them leaving, but Willow has spotted him again—right behind me.
“Hey, Kens,” he says, his voice sounding calm and comfortable as he seduces me right here in front of my friends. I’ve become addicted to his voice, so much so that I even considered calling to listen to his voicemail once or twice—fear that he might pick up the only thing stopping me, as silly as that sounds. I swivel in my seat and peer up at him, and my response comes out more like a croak.
“Hey, Owen,” I squeak. My palms are sweating, and I’m pretty sure my arms and back are as well. In fact, everything about me feels like it’s on fire, never mind the gray skies and cold front threatening to bring a massive chill outside the window. Right now, in my body, it’s summer in the desert.
I glance around the table and notice all of my friends suddenly only interested in their trays and food, but their faces are all smirking, and it makes me blush even harder.
“Hey, O. What’s up, man?” Ryan says, the last to slide into his seat. Thank god for Ryan, the only one acting normal. “Conditioning starts next week. You coming?”
“You know it. I might miss a few; I’ve got work. But coach already knows,” Owen says, tapping his fist into Ryan’s as he sits down next to Elise.
“Good. Oh, hell man, what happened to your eye?” Ryan asks, pointing to the spot on his own face that mirrors the deep blue bruise left on Owen’s cheek. It’s the last remnant of his run-in with my father, and the very conversation playing out at our lunch table right now has my throat closing and my stomach threatening sickness.
“Oh, you know. Just messin’ around with House and the boys, pick up games and shit. Some guy didn’t like a call, elbowed me,” Owen says with a shrug. He never looks my direction, but as he sits in the seat across from me, I feel his foot slide up next to mine and tap it twice. He lied for me, just like he promised he would.
“Dude, some guys just can’t keep their cool on the court. I hate that shit. I don’t know why you play those pick-up games anyways,” Ryan says, leaning over and kissing Elise on the cheek. She looks up for a brief second, but she puts her head back down quickly, almost like the rest of my friends have some secret pact to give me pretend privacy when Owen comes to the table. Truthfully, it’s only making me feel weirder.
“So, Kens. Was wondering,” Owen starts, looking around the table at the tops of everyone’s heads. He shakes his and pinches his brow at how strange my friends are all being. I kind of want to die.
“I have to work Friday, but I thought maybe, if you’re not busy, I could repay you for that grilled cheese emergency this weekend? My mom’s going to be home, and she’d like to meet your mom, if she’s off Saturday night,” Owen says, his eyes focusing solely on his knuckles, which he’s cracking nervously, over and over. His foot under the table is now tapping quickly with nerves, and it’s starting to make the entire table shake a little.
“Uh, Saturday?” I repeat his question, my mind searching for a way to make Saturday happen twice—one version I can live through with Owen and his mom, and the other where I can go to the festival and perform with the band. I’m about to lie, about to pretend there is nothing else I have to do on Saturday so I can make Owen’s leg stop shaking and so I can spend Saturday night with him, meet his mom, when Jess decides now would be a good time to quit looking at his lap and insert himself back into my reality.
“You can’t, Kensi. We’ve got the apple fest,” Jess says, and everyone stops breathing simultaneously. He couldn’t say I had a thing, a band assignment, a performance, something…anything…with them—no, Jess had to go and be specific, painfully specific.
I flash my gaze back to Owen, and now he’s the one looking at the top of the table, his hands no longer wringing, his foot no longer jiggling. His face is just pure emptiness—as if he’s just had the wind knocked out of him—and the way his lip is hanging open and quivering with the struggle to breathe lets me know that this is the first he’s heard of the apple fest. It lets me know that Willow wasn’t exaggerating her story about Owen and that day. I know it because the look of absolute pain that’s fallen over him, taken over his body completely, isn’t one that could come from anything but tragic loss. And Owen’s experienced the deepest tragedy of all.
“I’m…I’m sorry. I just found out,” I say, reaching toward him, but not quickly enough. He’s shoved his hands in his pockets and is already standing and sliding away from me.
“Nah, it’s all right. Next time, maybe. Hey…I won’t be in class this afternoon, so maybe just hit me up with whatever I missed?” he says, his eyes still low—low and sad. So unbelievably sad.
“Yeah. Sure, I’ll just send you a text later,” I say, keeping my focus on his face, the voice inside me begging him to look up, begging him to be okay. I feel like I’m holding the paddles to his chest, shouting “clear!” and counting over and over while I watch his life drift away. With his back against the door, Owen finally lifts his chin, and that same ice and hardness that was there the first time he looked at me is back, and he doesn’t bother to smile as he turns to leave.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, standing with my full tray and rushing to the trash. I follow Owen’s footsteps to the doorway, but after I dump my food and step onto the walkway outside, I’m only there in time to see his truck speed around the corner of the lot, out onto the roadway, the motor revving like it does when he races—when he runs away.
“Kens, I’m so sorry,” Willow says, her hand on my back feels like a knife.
“Just…don’t,” I say, jerking away. It’s not her fault, and I know that. But I don’t want to hear empty apologies. They won’t make me feel better. “It’s okay. I just didn’t want him to find out…like that. I’m just worried about him, that’s all.”
I turn to her and shrug, taking in a deep breath and exhaling slowly, trying to keep the mist in my eyes from forming full tears.
“You just didn’t want him to find out at all,” she says. I close my eyes and nod slowly. “It’s a small town, Kens. By dinnertime, everyone is going
to know. That flyer I showed you this morning? There will be one on every tree in town, every business window, and probably everyone’s front door. He was bound to find out. And he’ll be okay.”
I let out a breathy laugh, my gaze falling to Willow’s feet first before shifting up to her eyes. “Owen is so far from okay, Willow,” I say, my chest crumbling with my admission, with hearing me talk aloud about Owen—the Owen I think I know—to someone else.
“You can’t hold him together,” she says, stepping an inch or two closer to me. She stops before she’s close enough to touch my hand. I think she can sense how fragile my spirit is right now—how volatile my emotions are—so she doesn’t say another word. Instead she goes back into the cafeteria to join our table of friends, where I’m sure they’ll analyze everything that just went down.
Ryan will stand up for Owen though. And I’m thankful for that.
As promised, Owen skipped classes for the rest of the day. He missed the following day as well. I texted him both nights, giving him the basic points he missed and due dates for assignments. But I didn’t hear back from him. And his house was dark both nights, his truck never once appearing in the driveway.
I never saw Andrew, but I’m sure Owen stopped in for his brother, somehow getting him to school and bringing him home. But I have no proof. The hoop has been silent out front too. In fact, I wouldn’t be shocked if Ryan told me that Owen packed up after our last conversation and skipped town. I think part of me was trying to convince myself of that lie. But now I’m confronted with an entirely different truth—the truth where Owen is back outside on the lunch tables with his friends, and another girl is sitting on his lap, his tongue on her ear.
“I told you he’d be okay,” Willow says, and even though she’s trying to couch it like she’s trying to make me feel better—what she’s really doing is saying “I told you so” about Owen being Owen and going back to his cruel and hurtful ways.
