Love Always, Mia

by Cecily Wolfe

  It looks stupid once it’s on the screen, cryptic and weird.

  Like a mistake.

  Or an ad for a mechanic.

  But Megan thinks it's okay, so I leave it there, hoping that as silly as it seems, it might work.

  I’d love to have something to prove Mr. Carl is a creep before anything happens to Krystal.

  In spite of her protests, I’m not so sure she wouldn’t respond to any attempts on his part to get physical with her.

  “Getting late, Mia. We’re the last ones here.”

  Zoe, who contributes artwork to the yearbook, shuffles up to me, her boots scuffing along the tile floor as if she’s doing it on purpose to get my attention.

  Maybe she’s been talking to me and I didn’t hear her.

  “You’re right. Thanks for letting me know.”

  She shifts her bright orange backpack and stretches her neck from side to side, and I smile at her, wondering why she’s not leaving.

  “I saw you walking away from school with Eli yesterday.”

  I shut down the computer and stand up.

  “Yes?”

  She takes a step back and shakes her head.

  “Bad news, Mia. We all know you’re a good girl, and you don’t need to get mixed up with him.”

  Her smile is small and quick, and she dashes out the door before I can respond.

  What did she think I was doing with Eli?

  Since when does taking a walk with someone equate with getting mixed up with them?

  The room is quiet for a few moments as I fish the key to it from my front jeans pocket, and after I turn the lights off and pull the door closed behind me, I push the key in the lock and turn.

  Just as a hand falls to my shoulder and I nearly scream in the darkened hall.

  Chapter Six

  The key clatters to the cold floor and I suck in a breath as I find Eli standing beside me.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I expect to find a smile on his face, but instead, only see concern.

  As I shake my head, forcing a smile on my own face to reassure him, he tilts his head towards the door.

  “Anything interesting going on in there lately?”

  I frown and start to walk away as a draft from somewhere in the ceiling hits me with a trail of icy air, wondering why he would want to know.

  Could he want to join?

  Does he like to write?

  I can’t imagine either scenario, so I figure he's just making conversation.

  Eli keeps up beside me, silent and waiting.

  I shrug, rubbing my arms to ward off the chill as I contemplate sharing a hint about the new development.

  The note.

  And decide not to. After all, it was just for the newspaper staff, and I don’t think Megan or Dante would be happy if word got out before we had a chance to get more information from whoever wrote it.

  More information so we can help.

  “The usual. Why?”

  He shifts, pushing his hands into his jeans pockets as he shrugs.

  “No reason. Do you want to walk home together again?”

  Will this be a regular thing now?

  Why?

  It’s my turn to shrug as we trade off with this gesture, because it doesn’t matter to me.

  Maybe it does, a little.

  Eli is intriguing, and I have to admit I’ve been thinking about him, wondering if he’d be offended if I got him a coat, or if I asked about his parents.

  “Okay, sure.”

  I might be imagining things, but he picks up his step, his pace increasing just enough for me to notice.

  When I get to my locker, he’s still with me, and I wonder why he doesn’t have a backpack of his own.

  But I don’t ask.

  If I question him about anything, will he end this?

  Whatever this is?

  My mother tells me to mind my own business and keep my mouth shut, but sometimes it’s hard to stick to those rules.

  “Did you get your homework done already?”

  As I shove a few books and notebooks into my backpack and slide my arms into my coat, Eli snickers, his lips curling up in a sarcastic smile.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I narrow my eyes at him, and his lips relax into a smile that seems more real.

  “Liar.”

  The word escapes my mouth before I can stop it, hardly above a whisper, and my own smile as he laughs makes me think I might be able to get away with a few more questions as we shuffle through the snow.

  “Hey, Mia!”

  Footsteps run towards us, and I turn to see a girl from my Earth Science class coming into view, breathless as she slips a bit on the floor.

  “I saw you drop this!”

  She holds up something small and shiny, the key to the newspaper room.

  How did I leave it behind, when I remember hearing it fall to the floor?

  “Thanks, Jackie.”

  I take it from her hand, her outstretched palm offering it to me as her focus slides to Eli.

  But she says nothing, staring at him as if he is a giant bug.

  “Be careful.”

  Her warning to me is quick, as is her wave before she heads back from wherever she came.

  I’m not sure what other clubs and groups are still here this late, or why she was watching me leave the newspaper room, and feel a little creeped out by our interaction.

  “Be careful, Mia. I might bite.”

  When I shake my head at Eli’s continued sarcasm, pulling my backpack over my shoulders and leaning towards the direction we need to go to leave the building, he follows my cue and stays in step beside me again, as if he doesn’t want to fall behind or get ahead of me.

  “Aren’t you cold?”

  We’re not even out of the school parking lot when unthinking, I blurt it out.

  “I mean, you could get a coat from the lost and found in the school office, or if there’s nothing there you could go to the thrift store.”

  When I start to babble, he cuts me off, kicking at a snowdrift with his Converse.

  His feet must be soaking wet.

  “Who says I don’t have a coat?”

  This isn’t the answer I’m expecting, although I’m not sure what I thought he would say.

  The sky ahead of us is full of clouds, but I can see a faint shimmer of tiny stars, and think of Kayla.

  I wonder if she can see me now, and what she would think of how I’m handling this conversation.

  "It’s freezing, and you’re wearing a jacket, so I’m guessing . . . I mean, why would you want to be cold out here if you don’t have to be?”

  He rubs his hands together before sliding them into his jacket pockets, and I watch them curl into fists.

  Is he angry?

  “I like the cold.”

  It’s a simple statement, with no feeling to indicate if he’s mad or annoyed, and I can’t think of anything else to say.

  “But I have to admit my feet feel like blocks of ice, and I wish I hadn’t busted the stitching on the new boots my mom bought me a few weeks ago.”

  His revelation shocks me, and I realize I’ve formed some ideas about his home life that must be inaccurate.

  And judgmental.

  “So how did you manage that?”

  I’m honestly curious, since I’ve never heard of anyone doing such a thing, and it’s something that won’t remind him I thought he didn’t have money to get a coat.

  He laughs and turns his face up to the sky.

  A flurry of tiny snowflakes trickles over his nose, and I smile.

  How did he end up with the reputation he has, when he seems like such an ordinary kid? He’s been the class bad boy since before I moved here in middle school, and I realize I’ve never been interested in him enough to ask anyone.

  Instead, I’ve just listened to the rumors and vaguely watched some of his antics like a spectator at a sports event.

  When I stop walking and ru
b my gloved hands over my arms, Eli steps in front of me.

  “What’s up?”

  I stare at the chunks of ice and packed snow on the ground, clumps thrown from the wheels of passing cars, and swallow hard against the simple fact I’ve only just realized.

  That’s what I’ve become, really, a spectator.

  Not just when it comes to Eli, but to everything in my life.

  It isn’t much of a life at all.

  When I force a smile and turn my face up to his, I don’t look into his eyes, knowing now he’s incredibly perceptive.

  And I’m not a great liar.

  Not like my sister was.

  “A chill. You know, the kind that hits you in your bones.”

  His face scrunches up and he shakes his head slowly, but doesn’t respond. Instead, he moves out of my way and starts to walk forward again.

  Definitely not convinced.

  I caught a chill, when we’re out in twenty degree weather?

  “My dad likes these really thick knit socks, and he keeps trying to get me to wear them, so I put a pair on and stuffed my feet into the boots.”

  He nods slowly, and a half smile grows until I can’t help but laugh.

  “You sound like you have a good time with your parents. Must be nice.”

  I wish I could take those last three words back, but he doesn’t comment on them.

  At least, not right away.

  “He’s in construction, and in Ohio, as you know, we only have one season. Construction season. So those socks are a must for him, but not really my speed. The boots were a casualty I regret now I’m swimming in icy sneakers.”

  That can’t be healthy, to walk around in soaking wet shoes, but he’s still smiling, his red cheeks like the rosy glow of a happy child.

  He’s like two different people, the one at school and the one now, here alone with me.

  Or is he?

  “What do you do with the newspaper?”

  His question surprises me, although the answer is easy, like my role at the paper.

  I hum to myself and kick a block of dirty ice out of my way with my chunky red boots.

  “Mostly move stuff around in templates, organize emails so they get to the right staff people, that kind of thing.”

  We’re nearing the corner where we parted ways before, and I want to keep walking by his side, not only to keep talking to him but to see where he lives.

  It’s none of my business, I know, but my curiosity about Eli keeps growing.

  Although I’m not sure why.

  “So you don’t write anything?”

  I stop, biting my lower lip as I consider how I should answer.

  My house is down this street, and he needs to keep going. I wonder what he would think if I followed him instead of turning away?

  Instead of speaking, I shake my head.

  He lifts his chin and glances around, as if he’s looking for someone, but there’s no one else around.

  “See you tomorrow, Mia.”

  Am I wrong, or is he disappointed?

  Was it because of my response, or because I stopped walking?

  Would he want me to follow him?

  This is too confusing, and I’m sure I’m reading too much into this simple interaction.

  Two kids walking home from school together.

  That’s all.

  He’s huddled over, his shoulders hunched with his back against a gust of frigid air as I move away from the icy blast and sigh, knowing I’m headed into another night of the same old, same old, except maybe, if my dad is home, he’ll be interested in hearing more about my work on the newspaper.

  Kayla used to say that one day, he’d be sorry he was too busy to spend more time with us, and then he would change. It might be once we were grown, when we had children of our own, when he would want to play grandpa with toddlers bouncing on his knee.

  She would laugh as she said it, though, and I understand she didn’t believe it any more then than I do now.

  Now, she won’t ever have children for him to have that chance.

  Not like he deserves it.

  As I’m hanging up my coat after stomping snow from my boots and tucking them into a plastic tray my mom has set up in the corner just inside the front door, a loud slap from behind me jolts me from my thoughts.

  When I jump and turn around, my mother is standing with one hand fisted at her hip, her other arm stretched out along the wall.

  At the end of it, clearly the object that made the sound as she smacked it against the ivory paint, is my journal.

  Chapter Seven

  “I’m shocked. Absolutely shocked. How could you write such things about me? How could you think such things?”

  My mother's face is scrunched up, her eyes narrowed, and I can see where she made a mistake with her green eyeliner this morning.

  It’s a tiny slip, but an imperfection I want so much to point out to her right now.

  But I don’t want the next slap to be her shaking hand on my face, so I keep my mouth shut, feeling my own face grow hot.

  I have no defense.

  She sighs loudly, and to my surprise, shoves my journal at me.

  “I have to finish dinner, but don’t think I’m done with you, young lady.”

  I frown at her back as she stomps away, muttering to herself incoherently, and I lean against the closet door, nearly falling into the closet itself since I hadn’t closed it yet.

  No one, not Krystal, Bethany, or even Josh, knew about the journal, about how I write to my sister, but now the last person in the world I would ever want to see it has read it.

  I lean over and put my hands on my knees, taking a few deep breaths as I try to figure out how to handle this.

  My journal is in one hand as I rest the inside of my wrist on my knee, and I stare at it, looking at the end of the spine to see if my mother has torn out any pages.

  If she meant to destroy it in any way, why would she give it back?

  A rush of relief courses through me, and I head upstairs to change out of my jeans, which are damp and sticky, into a clean, dry pair and wash up in the bathroom before standing in the middle of my bedroom and looking around, wondering where I could hide my journal now.

  She knows it exists, so she’ll search for it, just to be nosy and to give her something else to yell at me about.

  But I can’t stop writing to Kayla.

  I won’t.

  My phone buzzes from my bed, where I’ve tossed everything from my purse and the inside of my backpack, and I ignore it, staring at the space around me.

  Everything is so obvious.

  A desk drawer, closet shelf . . . and of course, between the mattress and box spring.

  Behind anything, inside anything.

  Placing the journal on my bed gently, as if it might fall apart if I’m not careful, I rummage through what's left inside my purse. I don’t have a lot of stuff in it, since I don’t wear makeup and I only need my wallet.

  It’s too small to stuff the journal into, so I turn back to my closet and unearth a box that holds items I no longer use, ones full of memories and I couldn’t bear to give away once I’d either outgrown them or my mother said she didn’t want to see them around.

  Because a lot of them are directly related to Kayla.

  I kneel on the floor and press my lips together as I lift up one item after another and set each aside, forcing myself to let go of them so I don’t end up a crying mess when I have to go down to dinner soon.

  A mug Kayla made with her friends at a birthday event years ago, a sweatshirt she bought for me when I started cheerleading when I was six . . .

  My sister loved big purses and bags, most of them red, of course, and always had whatever anyone needed inside of them.

  Band Aids, cough drops, paper clips, paper and pen; she was legendary for keeping everything and anything, neatly tucked away and ready for anyone who asked.

  But the purse I hold in my hands now is one she handed down to me,
in a pearly gold rose shade she used for church.

  We don’t go to church anymore.

  It’s a little larger than the purse I use now, on a gold chain that looks slightly dull now but is removable.

  I unfasten the chain from its clips on the bag and get up, heading back to my bed so I can see if the journal fits.

  It does, with some wiggle room, and I hold the purse with the journal inside against my chest, thankful I was able to find a quick solution to this enormous problem.

  I’ll keep it with me at school in my backpack, and during the rare times I go anywhere else, I’ll use the chains and take the purse with me, instead of the one I currently use.

  My mother can’t forbid me to use it, not without a good reason.

  That hasn’t stopped her before, though.

  I shake my head at myself, deciding this is the best plan for now, and figure I’ll deal with whatever comes up later.

  With my backpack emptied of books and notebooks, I tuck the purse inside and set it down by my desk, satisfied for the moment.

  My parents ignore me for the rest of the night, my father hiding behind his newspaper, the sounds of him chewing chunks of pot roast nauseating me as I worry over what my mother plans to say to me about my journal entries.

  But she says nothing, snatching a bowl of scalloped potatoes away from me after I take a single spoonful, although without her usual glare.

  My stomach growls but she focuses on her own plate, spearing green beans as if they’ve done something to offend her.

  When Josh texts me later, he asks why I didn’t call him back, and I realize I forgot about my phone buzzing while I was panicking earlier.

  Our phone conversation is short, as he quickly discerns I’m tired but doesn’t ask why.

  “I’m excited about tomorrow night. We haven’t had time alone together for so long, Mia.”

  We won’t actually be alone, not with Megan and Alex there, but I don’t mind.

  Except that if I manage to find a way to tell Josh I just want to be friends, it won’t be a private conversation, and I’ll have to deal with their reactions as well as Josh’s.

  “Yeah, me too. I’ll see you at school, okay?”

  After we hang up, I roll over on my bed and shove my head under my pillow, taking a few deep breaths to clear my mind.