by Donna Cooner
“Chicago,” he says.
“Okay,” I say, pulling the bread out of the toaster and joining him at the table. He hands me the knife off his plate, still coated with peanut butter, then reaches out to tuck a strand of my hair back behind one ear. It’s been so long since he’s done that. I look down at the plate in front of me to hide the sudden rush of emotion.
He frowns. “Are you okay? You look tired.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. Spreading the peanut butter on my toast becomes a very necessary task.
“Maybe you should see someone. A doctor or something. I know all this … change … is hard.”
I glance up at him. “What kind of doctor?”
“Someone you can talk to about everything.”
He’s serious. A shrink?
“But I have you to talk to,” I say, even though I can’t remember the last time we’ve spoken one-on-one like this. “By the way,” I add, knowing this change of subject will distract him, “can you take me to the DMV for my driver’s license test?” I say it all in a rush so he doesn’t have time to say no right away. “If I get a license, it’ll really help Mom to not have to drive me … everywhere.”
The truth is Mom hasn’t driven anywhere since Miranda’s death. We both know that. And she doesn’t want me driving, either. And as much as the idea of driving scares me now, I don’t want to keep relying on Raylene for the rest of high school.
Dad blinks at me from behind his glasses. “I don’t know,” he says, as if he’s actually thinking about it. “What does Mom say?”
“She said to talk to you.” She didn’t, actually, but I wasn’t getting anywhere with her on the subject. I take a big bite of the peanut-butter sandwich and chew.
“Let me mull it over,” he says finally.
The back door opens and Mom comes in with a basketful of tomatoes. Strands of windblown curls have escaped her ponytail.
“This may be the last of them,” she says, putting the basket down on the countertop. “Weatherman says cooler temperatures coming the end of next week. They’re calling it a Blue Northern. Funny name, don’t you think?”
A tomato rolls off the top of the pile and lands on the kitchen floor with a splash of color. Mom stops talking, frozen by the red stain rolling across the floor.
I jump up from the table, grabbing a couple of paper towels from the rack by the sink.
“It’s okay, Mom.” I scoop up the tomato and get on my hands and knees to wipe up the mess. Her feet don’t move from in front of me. I glance up. Her face is expressionless, her mouth slightly open, her eyes staring at the floor where the smashed tomato used to be.
“Really, it’s fine. Look. It’s all gone,” my dad says, getting up from the table. He puts his arms around her shoulders and tries to pull her stiff body in for a hug.
“It’s just such a waste,” she mumbles, still staring at where the red stain used to be.
Without saying anything, I leave the kitchen. I need to be alone.
In my bedroom, I immediately pull out my phone and look up the video. But I see that it’s been taken down. By the website? By Zoe? There are tons of comments, though — people saying I’m awful, people saying the video is awful. I can’t read them. I shut off my phone and close my eyes.
I know I should feel relieved the video is down, but I find myself thinking I desperately want to see it again. For Miranda. Even if we were fighting, she was still there. Talking and moving. I want to see her face, animated and angry. I want to hear her judgmental, opinionated voice.
I miss her.
That night, when I can’t sleep, I don’t even try to fight the urge. I need these things now more than ever. These are the objects that will guide me in my courtroom statement. Somehow they will lead me back to the Miranda I’ve forgotten and give me the words to say when the world is watching.
I throw back the sheet and slide out of bed. I make my way to the garage.
But tonight someone is already there before me. My dad is on his knees in front of an open cardboard box. He doesn’t even hear me come into the garage. I slide over into the corner behind the car, not wanting to watch, but not able to look away. In his hands is a catcher’s mitt. His fists are clenched in the leather, his face contorted with grief. His back heaves with each deep, guttural sob.
The tears rush down my face and I put my hand over my mouth to keep from making any noise. I can’t bear to watch. This is private.
It’s a long time before Dad puts the glove carefully back into the cardboard box. Stumbling back toward the house, he’s oblivious to me standing in the dark corner. I wait until I know he’s gone and then I go to the boxes. I pull out the glove and take it back to my room.
“If you don’t like a video, stop watching. Don’t spend hours bashing it.” —Torrey Grey, Beautystarz15
The football team is practicing on the field when I make it out to the track. I recognize Ross as he runs across the twenty-yard line toward the goal post, catching a football over one shoulder and not even breaking stride. I’m impressed. He turns and heads back toward the huddle at a slow trot, grinning widely and acknowledging the whoops of congratulations. He’s so focused on practice that he doesn’t even look my way.
I also see Raylene in the distance, tossing a spinning baton up in the air over and over again. She misses it three times before she finally catches one. Thank God she doesn’t see me as I slip in the side gate and hang out by the fence.
Ever, the green-eyed girl I met in the cafeteria on the first day of school, is sitting alone on the bottom step of the bleachers tying her running shoes. There’s no sign of her blond boyfriend with the strange name. She stands and walks down onto the track, lifting a hand in greeting.
“Hey, Torrey.”
For some reason I didn’t expect her to remember my name. Then I feel a flash of paranoia and wonder if she saw the video over the weekend. If she did, though, she gives no sign of it.
“I’m Ever. I met you in the lunchroom a couple of weeks ago?”
“I remember,” I say.
She places both hands on the retaining wall in front of her and leans forward. She bends one leg forward and pushes the other straight back, keeping the heel on the ground.
It looks like she knows what she’s doing, so I join her at the wall, stretching out my legs and waiting for Luis to show up.
“You’re a runner?” I ask.
She laughs. “Not really. I’m just not a walker anymore.”
“I guess we all have to start somewhere,” I say.
“What about you?” she asks.
“My first time. But you know what they say,” I answer. “Strong is the new skinny. Feature article in last month’s Glamour magazine.”
“I’ve heard that,” she says with a half smile. There’s a sudden strange expression on her face, but I don’t ask any questions. People have secrets. Of all people, I understand that.
“Well, I better get going if I’m going to finish in time for practice.”
“Band?” I ask.
“No, I sing,” she says. “See you later?”
I nod, and she starts off around the track at a slow jog. Then I turn to see Luis approaching.
“You changed your mind?” he asks, stopping at my side.
“Oh, hi.” I put a hand up to shield my eyes. “I forgot you said you’d be here now.”
“Right,” he says, and I know he doesn’t believe me. “Are you coming or not?”
“Just a minute,” I say, and go down on one knee to tie my shoelace. He stands, watching and waiting, as I pull the laces tight.
“I like your fingernail polish,” he says. “Cuban Rose?”
“How did you know?” I look up, surprised. I quickly tuck my ugly fingers into my palms, embarrassed that that’s the thing he notices about me.
“I watched a couple of vlogs from Beautystarz15. Interesting.” I can’t tell whether he’s making fun of me or not. “It’s actually pretty close to the color of a Cuban
rose.”
“Now you’re an expert on flowers?” I stand up and we face each other.
“I know a lot about flowers. Part of the job. Did you know that ancient Greeks introduced the idea of bringing flowers to a funeral to mask the smell?”
I make a face. “That’s disgusting.”
“Why? Funerals have been around a long time. There’s evidence ancient Romans actually hired mourners and arranged services to ease the grief of the families.”
“Are you going to run or talk?” I ask.
“Believe it or not, I can do both at the same time.” He grins. The light switch flips on — dazzling.
“Lucky me,” I say, feeling the heat rush into my face and trying to act nonchalant.
We start off at a trot and I can tell he’s totally holding back. At first there is only the sound of the graveled track beneath our feet and the calls of the players out on the field. Luis runs silently beside me and waits, as if he knows I have something on my mind.
“So, I was thinking,” I say after only a few steps. I’m breathing deeply out of my mouth, but I’m keeping up and I can still have a conversation without gasping for air.
“About?”
“You know how you said that people collect memory things …?” My voice trails off, but I force myself to keep going.
“Ofrendas?”
I nod. “What do they do with them?”
He gives me a quick sideways look, raising his eyebrows. “On el Día de los Muertos? Or just in general?”
“Let’s start with the Day of the Dead,” I answer. It seems easier to talk when my body is occupied.
“Well, the holiday isn’t one single day. It’s actually several days celebrated in Mexico and around the world.” He picks up the pace and I consciously have to make my legs move faster to keep up with him. “On the first night, people think the spirits of dead children, the angelitos, are allowed to come back and be with their families for twenty-four hours.”
The angelitos. It’s impossible not to think of Miranda.
We jog around the bend of the track. My breath is already shallow.
Luis talks easily beside me, no sign of sweat or exertion. “Families spend the night in the cemeteries and put the ofrendas out on the grave to welcome the spirits home the moment they are released from heaven.”
“You don’t believe spirits come back from the dead, do you?” I ask, brushing my hair out of my face with one hand.
“There was this doctor who weighed people right before and right after death. He found that people were lighter right after they died when their spirit left their body.” Luis looks over at me, serious. “He said it was proof of the existence of a soul.”
“Right,” I say cynically. “So exactly how much does a soul weigh?”
“Twenty-one grams, according to Dr. MacDougall.”
“And you believe that?”
He shrugs. We jog down the straight side of the track in silence, but I’m thinking.
I see Raylene out on the field, spinning around and around with the baton. She stops long enough to call out to me and wave wildly. I raise my hand in a halfhearted wave. I am eternally grateful she is occupied for the moment and that there is no sign of Blair and friends. We run halfway around the track again before Luis says anything else.
“How do you know Raylene?” he asks.
“She’s my cousin.”
He nods, and we jog on around the bend. My breath is coming in quick gasps.
“She’s crazy.” I manage to get it out between pants.
“Duh,” he says, and laughs. I like the sound of it and find myself laughing with him. Surprises me. I can still laugh.
“Yeah, me and Raylene are going to be best friends,” I say, and Luis’s smile fades at my sarcastic tone.
“You could do worse,” he says.
I change the subject. “How did Mr. Paulson’s viewing go the other week?”
“His daughter was surprised by the number of girlfriends. She had no idea her dad was so popular. But there wasn’t a big scene, so that was good.”
We come around the turn and Ross sprints across the football field again to make another gravity-defying catch.
“He’s good,” I say.
Now there’s no trace of a smile on Luis’s face. “Yeah. Lots of natural talent and lots of practice. He’s had a ball in his hands since he could walk.”
How do you know that? You don’t even speak to each other.
Luis’s face is hard, closed. I don’t ask any questions about Ross.
Instead I ask, “Are you going to take over the family business someday?”
“That’s the idea.” I glance over at him. His eyes are straight ahead, his expression still solemn. “My older brother already failed the mortuary sciences test twice. He’s never going to get his license and it’s really not for him.”
There’s a test?
“But you want to do it?” I ask.
“Yeah. I do,” he says. “I feel like it’s something that I’m … not good at, because nobody’s good at it … but it’s something I can handle. Does that make sense?”
“Not really.”
“The way I look at it, I can be strong when someone else can’t be. That’s pretty important, don’t you think?”
“I guess so.” Surprisingly, the way he describes it almost sounds cool. Almost. But I know the other side. I know how it feels to walk into a silent house every afternoon. About parents who are falling apart. And what it’s like to have dreams that leave you sweating and gasping for breath every night. None of that is cool.
“It seems unhealthy,” I say, then realize the irony of me calling him unhealthy when I’m the one gulping in air.
He doesn’t comment on that, but says, “It’s not the dead that get to me. It’s the people left behind. They have a look to them. A gone-missing look.” When I don’t respond right away, he adds, “They look like something really important has suddenly gone missing and they are searching everywhere for it. But no matter how hard they search, no matter where they look, they can’t find it.”
He’s watching me now and I glance quickly away, a knot in my throat. I know exactly what he’s talking about.
It’s my mom.
And I worry it’s me, too. I always expect Miranda to walk into a room in her softball uniform, to hear her laughing to her favorite cartoons in the other room, to just see her. Somewhere. Anywhere.
I’m quiet for a long time.
“She liked animals,” I say eventually. “She even adopted one from the zoo with her allowance. She said she was going to be a veterinarian and work at an animal sanctuary when she grew up.”
When she grew up.
Grow up, Miranda.
My steps get faster, and I ignore my cramping calves. Luis easily keeps up with me and, to my surprise, I keep talking. “Lately I’ve been collecting things of my sister’s. It helps me remember what she was like.”
“Ofrendas,” he says.
“Something like that.” I see him nod, and I don’t say anything else.
We come to a stop at the gate and I’m finally able to catch my breath. Luis stretches out his calves and I peer around to make sure there’s no sign of Blair or anyone else that matters.
“I like talking to you.” The words slip out before I can stop them and I instantly regret it. This isn’t the friendship I’m supposed to encourage. Luis isn’t in the plan. He could actually destroy my blueprint for a comeback. I don’t want that, do I?
Then the light switch of his smile flips on and I don’t regret anything anymore. How can I, when he’s smiling at me like that?
“I was thinking,” he says. “I have to work every night this week. Lots of people …”
“Died?”
“Yeah. Busy week.”
“And?” I stop, my hand on the gate.
“How about having lunch with me on Saturday?” he asks. “We can go to La Ventana. It’s on the square. What do you say?”
“Yes.” Again, I speak before I can even really think. I only know I want the conversation with Luis to continue.
“Great,” he says, and the smile stays on his face longer than usual.
I’m suddenly a little worried about meeting up with Luis right in town. Someone from school might see us there. But it’s okay, I tell myself. At least we’re not meeting over an embalming table. Or, worse, at the geek table in the cafeteria.
“I’ll meet you there,” I say. Hopefully I should have my driver’s license by then and won’t have to count on Raylene taking me.
“Okay,” he says.
I stand there a moment, the sun already starting to heat up my back, as he walks away.
I wonder what my subscribers would think of Luis Rivera. Yes, he’s hot, but he works in a funeral home and helps bury people. There is nothing fashionable or glamorous about that.
Then again, there’s nothing fashionable or glamorous about what’s happening to me, and in my home, right now. I think about the nightmares. About Mom and her tomatoes. What Luis said about the “gone-missing” look.
I watch as he turns the corner and disappears around the brick wall of the gym.
“Try filming in natural light. It’ll keep your videos from being too dark.” —Torrey Grey, Beautystarz 15
In the car the next morning, Raylene tells me that Mia’s mother is a warden at the women’s prison in town and that Blair gets her wardrobe from her aunt, who owns a fancy boutique in River Oaks. She swears she saw a tag tucked into one of the shirts Blair wore to school last week. Raylene’s big theory, which she discusses for at least five blocks, is that Blair returns the clothes after only wearing them once, and then her aunt sends her a new batch. Raylene also discusses, with herself, obviously, because I’m not saying anything, if she should wear a cat costume to her Halloween party.
Thank God I’m going to get my license on Friday.
By English, I’m dragging, and I know it’s showing on my face when I push down the aisle past Blair. She glances up and nods, but doesn’t say anything. No one has mentioned the video of me and Miranda and I’ve been too big a chicken to check the online gossip sites. The clip is etched into my mind so vividly, I never have to see it again.
