by Sarah Dessen
Now, in Lakeview, I looked back at the model, where Deb was busy adjusting a couple of buildings on the far corner, and realized that, like my mother with the quilt, I could see a history within it that someone else would miss. The sectors just left of center, a bit sloppy and uneven, that Jason, Tracey, Dave, and I had started on the day the councilwoman arrived all those weeks ago. The thickly settled neighborhoods I’d labored over endlessly, sticking one tiny house on at a time. Tracy’s old bank, next to the grocery store she’d been banned from, and that empty building, unmarked and unremarkable to anyone but me. And then, all around, the dragons, the parts not mapped, yet to be discovered.
If the quilt was my past, this model was my present. And looking at it, I saw not just myself in bits and pieces, but everyone and everything I’d come to know in the last few months. Mostly, though, I saw Dave.
He was in the rows of houses, so meticulous, in much straighter lines than the ones I’d done. In the buildings downtown he knew by heart, naming them easily without even having to look at the map. All over the complicated intersections he’d taken charge of, maintaining that only he, as a former maker of models, could handle such responsibility. He was on every piece he or I had added during our long afternoons together up here, talking and not talking, as we carefully assembled the world around us.
“So,” I said now to Deb, who’d moved over to the table, where she was sorting plastic bags of landscaping pieces, “the new deadline’s the second week of April. That’s, what? Four weeks or so?”
“Twenty-six days,” she replied. “Twenty-five and a half, if you count it to the minute.”
“But look how much you have done,” I said. “It’s almost finished.”
“I wish!” She sighed. “I mean, yes, most of the buildings are done, and we just have a couple of final sectors to do. But then there’s all the environmental and civic detail. Not to mention repair. Heather took out an entire apartment complex the other day with one of her boots.” She snapped her fingers. “It went down just like that.”
“So she really worked on this over break?” I said.
“Well, working is a broad term,” Deb replied. She thought for a second, then said, “Actually, I take that back. She’s very good with detail. She put in that entire forest line over there on the upper right-hand corner. It’s the bigger stuff she tends to mess up. Or, um, destroy.”
“I can late,” I said, more to myself than to her. Still, though, I felt her glance over, so I added, “Sorry. It’s been kind of a long week.”
“I know.” She picked up a bag of tiny plastic pieces, walking over to me. “Look, Mclean. About that whole Ume.com thing ...”
“Forget it,” I told her.
“I can’t,” she said softly. She looked up at me. “I just ... I want you to know I understand. I mean, why you might have done that. All the moves ... It couldn’t have been easy.”
“There were better ways I could have dealt with it,” I replied. “I get that now.”
She nodded, then tore open the bag. Looking closer, I saw that it was filled with tiny figures of people: walking, standing, running, sitting. Hundreds and hundreds of them, all jumbled up together. “So what’s the deal with those? Are we going to just put them anywhere, or is there a set system of arrangement?”
“Well, actually,” she said, taking out a handful and spreading them in her palm, “that’s been a big topic of discussion.”
“Really.”
“Yeah,” she said. “See, the manual doesn’t specify, I guess because the people are optional, really. Some towns chose to leave them off entirely and just have the buildings. Less cluttery.”
I looked back at the model. “I can see that. It would seem kind of empty, though.”
“Agreed. A town needs a population,” she said. “So I thought we should devise a sector system, like we did with the buildings, with a certain number of figures per area, and make sure they are diverse in their activities so there’s not repetition.”
“Activities? ”
“Well, you wouldn’t want all the bicyclists to be on one side, and all the people walking dogs on the other,” she told me. “I mean, that would be wrong.”
“Of course,” I agreed.
“Other people, however,” she continued, clearing her throat, “feel that by organizing the people, we are removing the life force from the entire endeavor. Instead, they think that we should just arrange the figures in a more random way, as that mirrors the way the world actually is, which is what the model is supposed to be all about.”
I raised my eyebrows. “So this is Riley saying this?”
“What?” she asked. “Oh, no. Riley was totally down with the people-sector thing. It’s Dave. He’s, like, adamant.”
“Really.”
“Oh, God, yes,” she replied. “To be honest, it’s been a bit of a conflict between us. But I have to respect his opinion, because this is a collaborative effort. So we’re working on a compromise.”
I bent down by the model, studying a cul-de-sac, until I felt her move away, turning her attention to something else. Compromise, I thought, remembering the one Dave had been working on with his parents, and mine with my mom. It was that give-and-take he’d talked about, the rules that were always changing. But what happened when you followed all the rules and still couldn’t get what you wante? It didn’t seem right.
“So,” Deb said now, bending down by the far left edge of the model, “about the restaurant closing. Does that mean ... you’re moving to Australia? That’s the rumor, according to the grapevine. That your dad got a job there.”
Typical restaurant gossip, distorted as always. “It’s Hawaii,” I told her. “And I’m not going with him.”
“Are you staying here?”
“No,” I said. “I can’t.”
She turned, padding back over to the other end, by the tree line Heather had done. She bit her lip as she bent down over it, adjusting a couple of trunks. Finally she said, “Well, honestly ... I think that sucks.”
“Whoa,” I said. For Deb, these were strong words. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I!” She looked up, her face flushed. “I mean, it’s bad enough that you’re going to go. But you didn’t even tell us it was in the works! Were you just going to take off and disappear, just like that?”
“No,” I said, although I wasn’t sure this was entirely true. “I just ... I didn’t know where I was going, and when. And then the whole Ume.com thing ...”
“I understand, it was crazy.” She took a step closer to me. “But seriously, Mclean. You have to promise me you won’t just leave. I’m not like you, okay? I don’t have a lot of friends. So you need to say goodbye, and you need to stay in touch, wherever you go. Okay?”
I nodded. She was so emotional, on the verge of tears. This was what I’d wanted to prevent with all those quick disappearances, the tangledness of farewells and all the baggage they brought with them. But now, looking at Deb, I realized what else I’d given up: knowing for sure that someone was going to miss me. What happened to goodbye, Michael in Westcott had written on my Ume.com page. I was pretty sure I knew, now. It had been packed away in a box of its own, trying to be forgotten, until I really needed it. Until now.
“Okay then,” Deb said, her voice tight. She drew in a breath, then let it out, letting her hands drop to her sides. “Now, if you don’t mind, I really think we should tackle these last two sectors before we go tonight.”
“Absolutely,” I replied, relieved to have something concrete to do. I followed her over to the other table, where the last group of assembled houses and other buildings were lined up, labeled and ready to be put on. Deb collected one set, I took the other, and we walked over to the far right top corner, the very end of the pinwheel. As I bent down, taking the adhesive off the bottom of a gas station, I said, “I’m glad there was something left to do. I was worried all this would be finished by the time I got back here.”
“Well, actually, it would
have been,” she said, pushing a house onto her sector. “But I saved these for you.”
I stopped what I was doing. “You did?”
“Yeah.” She put a house on, pressing it until it clicked, then looked at me. “I mean, you were here at the very beginning, when this all started, before I even was. It’s only right that you get to be a part of the ending, as well.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied. And then, side by side, and without saying another word, we finished the job together.
When I left the restaurant, it was a half hour into opening and my dad still hadn’t appeared. Neither had Opal.
“It’s just like a sinking ship,” Tracey, who was behind the bar, told me when I asked if she’d seen them. “The rats abandon first.”
“Opal’s not a rat,” I said, realizing a beat too late that by saying that I was basically admitting that my dad was. “She didn’t know anything about all this.”
“She didn’t fight for us either,” she replied, drying a glass with a towel. “She’s basically been AWOL since they announced the closing and the building sale. Polishing her résumé, most likely.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, I can’t say for sure,” she said, putting the glass down. “But the word on the street is she’s been having a lot of closed-door phone conversations that may or may not have included the words relocation and upper management.”
“You really think Opal would just leave like that? She loves this town.”
“Money talks,” she replied with a shrug. A couple of customers passed me, pulling out stools at the bar, and she put down menus in front of them, then said, “Welcome to Luna Blu. Would you like to hear our Death Throes Specials?”
I waved goodbye to her, distracted, then headed toward the kitchen and the back door. As I passed the office, I glanced in: the desk was neatly organized, the chair tucked under it, none of my dad’s signature clutter scattered around the many surfaces. By the looks of it, he, at least, was already gone.
Outside, I walked down the alley, turning onto my street. When my mom had dropped me off earlier, the house had been empty, but now as it came into view I saw some lights were on and the truck was in the driveway.
I was just stepping up onto the curb when I heard a bang. I looked over and there was Dave, coming out of his kitchen door, a cardboard box under one arm. He pulled a black knit hat over his head and started down the stairs, not seeing me. My first impulse was to just get inside, avoiding him and whatever confrontation or conversation would follow. But then I looked up at the sky and immediately spotted a bright triangle of stars, and thought of my mom, standing on the deck of that huge beach house. So much had changed, and yet she still knew those stars, had taken that part of her past, our past, with her. I couldn’t run anymore. I’d learned that. So even though it wasn’t easy, I stayed where I was.
“Dave.”
He turned, startled, and I saw the surprise on his face when he realized it was me. “Hey,” he said. He didn’t come closer, and neither did I: there was a good fifteen or twenty feet between us. “I didn’t know you were back.”
“I just got in a little while ago.”
“Oh.” He shifted the box to his other arm. “I was just, um, heading over to the model for a few minutes.”
I took a couple of steps toward him, hesitant. “So you got a furlough.”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
I looked down at my hands, taking a breath. “Look, about that night I called you ... I had no idea you got in trouble. God, I feel awful about that.”
“You shouldn’t,” he said.
I just looked at him. “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have been trying to sneak out.”
“Trying to—” he said.
“And you wouldn’t have been caught sneaking out,” I continued, “and then grounded, and your trip taken away, and basically your whole life wrecked.”
He was quiet for a moment. “You didn’t wreck my life. All you did was call a friend.”
“Maybe I can talk to your parents. Explain what was going on, and—”
“Mclean,” he said, stopping me. “No. It’s okay, really. I’m all right with it. There will be other road trips, and other summers.”
“Maybe. But it’s still not fair.”
He shrugged. “Life’s not fair. If it was, you wouldn’t be having to move again.”
“You heard about that, huh?”
“I heard Tasmania,” he said. “Which I have a feeling might be bad information.”
I smiled. “It’s Hawaii. But I’m not going. I’m moving back in with my mom, to finish out the year.”
“Oh,” he said. “Right. I guess that does make more sense.”
“As much as any of this does.” Another silence fell. He didn’t have much time, and I knew I should let him go. Instead, I said, “The model looks great. You guys have really been working hard.”
“Deb has,” he replied. “She’s like a madwoman. I’m just trying to stay out of her way.”
I smiled. “She told me about your debate over the people.”
“The people.” He groaned. “She cannot trust me to handle this myself. That’s why I’m sneaking over there with my supplies when I know she’s gone. Otherwise, she’ll stand over me, freaking out.”
“Supplies?” I said.
He stepped a little closer, holding out the open box so I could see it. “No cracks about model trains,” he said. “This is serious business.”
I peered inside. The box was lined with small jars of paint, all different colors, a stack of brushes standing in one side. There were also cotton balls, some swabs, turpentine, and several small tools, including a large set of tweezers, some scissors, and a magnifying glass.
“Whoa,” I said. “What are you planning to do, exactly?”
“Just add a little life to it,” he replied. I looked up at him, biting my lip. “Don’t worry, she approved it. Most of it anyway.”
I smiled. “I can’t believe the model’s actually almost finished. It feels like we just put down that first house, like, yesterday.”
“Time flies.” He looked at me. “So when do you leave?”
“I start moving stuff next weekend.”
“That soon?” I nodded. “Wow. You don’t mess around.”
“I just feel like if I have to go to another school ...” I sighed. “I might as well do it now.”
He nodded, not saying anything. Another car drove by.
“But I have to say,” I continued, “that it stinks that when it came down to it, there were only two choices. Go forward, to Hawaii, and start all over again, or backward, back to my old life, which doesn’t even really exist anymore.”
“You need a third option,” he said.
“Yeah. I guess I do.”
He nodded, absorbing this. “Well,” he said, “for what it’s worth, it’s been my experience that they don’t appear at first. You kind of have to look a little more closely.”
“And when does that happen?”
He shrugged. “When you’re ready to see them, I guess.”
I had a flash of those Rubbermaid bins, lined up in my mom’s garage at the beach behind Super Shitty. “That is frustratingly vague,” I told him.
“You’re welcome.”
I smiled then, and he smiled back. “You should go,” I said. “Before Deb decides to make an evening visit because she can’t sleep due to obsessing over the model.”
“You joke,” he said. “But it could happen. I’ll see you, Mclean.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “See you.”
He started to turn away, toward the road again. But just as he did, I moved forward, closing the space between us, and kissed him on the cheek. I could tell I surprised him, but he didn’t pull away. When I stepped back, I said, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being here,” I said.
He nodded, then walked past me, using his free hand to
squeeze my shoulder as he passed. I turned, watching him as he crossed the street and headed up the alley to the bright lights of Luna Blu. Then I turned back to my own house, took a breath, and went up to the door.
I was just reaching for the knob when two things became clear: my dad was definitely home, and he wasn’t alone. I could hear his voice, muffled, from inside, then a higher voice responding. But the lights that were on were dim, and as I stood there, I noticed that their conversation began to have short lags in it, little silences that became gradually longer and longer, peppered with only a few words or laughter in between.
Oh, God, I thought, slumping against the door and losing all momentum as I pictured him lip-locked with Lindsay and her big white teeth. Ugh.
I stood up straighter, then knocked on the door, hard, before pushing it open. What I saw before me literally stopped me in my tracks: my dad and Opal on the couch, his arm around her shoulders, her feet draped across his lap. They were both flushed pink, and the top button of her shirt was undone.
“Oh my God,” I said, my voice sounding incredibly loud in the small room.
Opal jumped up, reaching to do her button as she stumbled backward, bumping the wall behind her. On the couch, my dad cleared his throat and adjusted a throw pillow, like decorating was the most important thing at that moment. “Mclean,” he said. “When did you get back?”
“I thought ... I thought you were dating the councilwoman,” I said to him. Then I looked at Opal, who was tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, crazy flustered. “I thought you hated him.”
“Well,” my dad said.
“Hate is an awfully strong word,” Opal replied.
I looked at him, then at her, then at him again. “You can’t do this. It’s insane.”
“Well,” Opal said, clearing her throat. “That’s also a strong word.”
“You don’t want to do this,” I told her. “He’s leaving. You know that, right? For Hawaii.”
“Mclean,” my dad said.
“No,” I told him. “It was one thing when it was Lindsay, or Sherry in Petree, or Lisa in Montford Falls, or Emily in Westcott.” Opal raised her eyebrows, looking at my dad, who moved the pillow again. “But I like you, Opal. You’ve been nice to me. And you should know what’s going to happen. He’s just going to disappear, and you’ll be here, calling and wondering why he doesn’t call back, and—”
