"I'm sorry, you're right." She walked over to Grandpa and took his hand. "Papa, I have it all set up. Weekdays you'll go to the center and do some activities and get a hot lunch."
"Sounds good," he said. "I'll go lie down now." He turned and shuffled down the hallway, past Lena, who was balancing on her scooter on the hallway carpet, pretending to ride.
"Thanks, honey." Mom reached out and hugged me tightly. She smelled like her floral perfume and the slightest hint of something industrial from the dealership. "This is a big change for all of us."
"Yeah."
"Hey, babe," she said, releasing me and going over to hug Lena. "So, was it a good day at the park?"
"There were boys there staring at Holly," said Lena. "They looked at her like she was an alien."
I rolled my eyes. "Whatever."
Mom frowned. "Well, I was mostly asking about Grandpa. Holly?"
"He seems fine."
That seemed to satisfy her, and for a moment, the concern fell away from her face. "Okay," she said, peering inside the fridge. "Do we have any leftover pizza?"
"I was gonna make that spaghetti. Are you staying for dinner?"
"Yes, I found someone to take my shift at the store tonight."
"Really?"
Mom gave me a hard look. "I told you I was going to try."
Yeah, but trying and doing are two different things, I wanted to say. Instead I went to the sink and loaded the stack of plates and cups into the dishwasher and then rinsed my hands.
"Lena, put away your scooter, please," Mom said.
Whistling, my sister dutifully rolled her toy to our room down the hall. Mom took a seat at the kitchen table and sifted through a stack of mail that was likely all bills.
I could feel tension in the air, so I just started on the spaghetti. Cooking always relaxed me, gave me something to do that didn't involve talking or thinking about anything more than the task in front of me. I got out some frozen ground beef and pork sausage, which I stuck in the microwave to defrost.
"Sorry, honey. You want me to do something?" Mom asked, looking up from the mail.
"Chop?" I handed her a cutting board, a knife, and a big yellow onion.
While Mom started on that, I minced garlic and diced bell peppers over by the stove. When the oil in my pot was hot, I tossed in mom's onions and my veggies and let them start to cook. A few minutes later, when the microwave dinged, I took the meat out, put it in a big bowl, and mixed it with bread crumbs, eggs, and herbs and garlic for meatballs. I formed the little balls in my hands and laid them on a sheet pan one by one.
Mom brought the cutting boards to the sink. "When did you get to be such a good cook?"
"Years of practice." I washed the boards and then my hands. The vegetables were all breaking down, so I crushed dried oregano and rosemary in my hand to release the flavors and added them to the pot. Instantly the aroma perfumed the air. "Can you get the tomatoes, Mom?"
"Sure." She handed me two opened cans and I dumped them in, crushing the tomatoes with the back of my spoon.
"Something smells like tomato gravy." Grandpa Aldo appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, delight on his face.
"Holly's cooking dinner." My mom walked over to him and put a hand on his arm.
He reached out and touched her on the cheek. "Julia, it smells like heaven."
Mom's eyes lit up at the sound of her name. "Holly makes it like Mama showed her, with the baby meatballs simmering in the sauce."
Grandpa moved over to a chair, sitting so that he could see me at the stove. He stayed there until everything was ready, and Lena set the places at the table around him—a glass, a plate, a knife, a fork, a folded paper towel for the napkin.
There was something sweet about the smile on my grandfather's face as I set the bowl of pasta and meatballs on the table. It was the smile of recognition, or happiness or something. And it didn't leave him until after dinner was finished.
"That was delicious," he said, wiping his mouth.
"Yes, it was, huh?" said Mom. "I'm glad you're here, Papa."
The rest of the evening went pretty well. I mean, it actually seemed like everything was all right. Like Grandpa Aldo was going to be fine at our place. We could do this.
But then, when the apartment was dark and I was tucked into the lower bunk in the room I now shared with Lena, I heard crying. Next came Mom's footsteps and then her words of reassurance. "Papa, it's okay. You're at my house. It's me, Julia."
And then there was more weeping and, at last, peace and the shutting of a door. Then a new sound—my mother pacing in the kitchen. And I knew nothing was right.
Chapter Two
You like to drop in on the guys sometimes. You circle the group on Mark's deck that overlooks Lake Washington, settle in on one of the cedar-plank benches and listen to them discuss girls, parties, basketball, and the start of waterskiing in a few short months. It's comforting to be with them, to hear the rattle of empties, the crinkling of a bag of chips passed around. To see them checking their phones, pretending they don't care if the girls they're crushing on text them or not.
There are only two of them tonight. Jason, your very best friend on the planet, and Mark, who is a pretty good guy most of the time. You met them both on the first day of kindergarten when Mark tipped over your green tempera paint on purpose and, without a word, Jason tried to help you clean up the mess. You fight the flood of childhood memories that comes rushing into your head, taunting you with the fun times.
As Mark and Jason lean back into cushy deck chairs and share a light beer stolen from the fridge, they are on the subject of Holly. Your Holly. You instantly tune in.
"Tight little body," Mark says, taking another swig from the can. "But man, I never understood why Rob would want her for more than a hookup."
Jason doesn't say anything.
"Still," Mark continues, "Holly ... mmm ... nice tits."
Your blood, or what d ohwould be blood, rushes to your head. If you were there, you'd kick his ass, but you aren't. You are and you aren't. Okay, so how about making something move? You haven't tried it yet, but this would be the perfect place to let it rip. Let a cushion, a beer can, something, smack Mark in the face. Anything to give him the notion that this is not cool. But before you can try concentrating all your focus onto an object, Mark shuts up.
Glancing between the two guys, you notice that Jason has the exact expression on his face that you'd have if they could see you: he looks like he wants to hurt Mark.
"Don't talk shit about her."
Mark raises his head, a sheepish smile on his face. "Hey, I'm just kidding. What's your deal?"
Jason's glare is hot. "Holly's a nice girl."
"Yeah, real nice," Mark says, his mouth twisting into a smirk. "If it weren't for her, then Rob would be here."
"Right," Jason says.
"Just saying, man. If he hadn't been giving her a ride, then it never would have happened," Mark says, taking a big swig of beer.
"You don't know that." Jason closes his mouth, and it's a hard, firm line, like there's more he would say if Mark wasn't being such an ass.
"Right." Mark salutes him with the beer can. "If it wasn't for her, he would have walked home."
You wait for them to say more about what happened to you. You find yourself leaning in, as if that would make them reveal more details, more info that you wish you knew about that night, the end of which you can hardly remember except in flashes. Funny how you thought it would all come back to you once you crossed over. But you haven't crossed over yet, have you? If you had, you wouldn't be here listening to them talk crap about Holly.
"I gotta get going, man," Jason says, breaking eye contact with Mark. "Later."
"Yeah." Mark leans back in the chair, taking another slug from the beer.
You follow Jason out of the yard and down the block—four houses, to be exact. At the foot of his driveway, he looks up at the dark front windows of his house. His is the only car in the drivew
ay. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the keys to his Audi, as if he'd go somewhere. He jingles them in his hands, thinking.
"Let's go," you say, as if he could hear.
It wouldn't be your first ride in the Audi since you've been dead. From time to time, you'd ridden shotgun with your best friend, imagining the smell of the new car's leather seats, pretending to feel the rush of wind. Lately, Jason has been driving down from Lake Heights the long way, avoiding McCallister Road and instead cruising one of the side streets lined with flowering cherry trees about to lose all their rosy blossoms. You're sure it's not that he likes the shower of white and pink falliomad pink ng and whirling behind the car. He just can't deal with seeing the place your car went over the edge. And in some weird way, that makes you the tiniest bit happy.
Jason heads into the house.
"Boring," you say, watching as he grabs his laptop from his room and sets it up on the kitchen counter. This part of being dead is pretty lame. Watching people do their homework, brush their teeth, flip through channels on satellite TV. It makes you almost wish for something to happen.
As the Mac powers up, Jason rummages in the refrigerator, coming up with leftover Chinese that he starts eating right from the carton with a fork. He gets online and heads over to some social networking sites. If he's updating his status to say he's scarfing down sesame noodles in the dark, he must be really bored. More bored than you.
But he clicks through the updates, seeing what's what. He moves over to the Friends tab, pausing on your profile. Rob Dun-worthy. The profile that no one thought to take down. The one that had sent everyone birthday reminders from beyond a few months ago ... That was funny, in a sad way. But what was worse were the people posting happy birthday messages to you because they didn't know you were gone. Kids from your summer camp days. A girl you met on vacation in the Bahamas with your family a couple of years ago.
Jason slurps down another swirl of noodles, tapping his fork against the counter in an awkward, nonrhythmic way. And then he clicks the search tab and types the letters of her name slowly, deliberately. H-O-L-L-Y M-U-L-L-E-N.
"Okay, what the hell are you doing, Markham?" you mutter.
Jason scrolls through a bunch of Holly Mullens from across the country, not finding yours there—which you knew would happen, because Holly doesn't even own a freaking computer. If she even had a profile page, it would have been made at Marisa's house, and she'd hardly ever get a chance to update it.
"I don't get it, man."
Jason goes low-tech now, pulling an old yearbook from his bookshelf and laying it out on the counter. He flips through the clubs, stopping for a brief moment on the band pages, not finding Holly in any picture of any activity. He didn't know Holly at all. All he knew of your girlfriend was from when you were with her, when you were in a group. So, why now? Why would he zero in on the only girl who really loved you?
The smile on his face as he finally finds Holly in the junior class pictures says it all. And the realization jolts you like a defibrillator, the kind they'd used to try to restart your heart that night six months ago. But this jolt hits you hard. Wakes you up. Jason feels something for Holly. He wants her.
"No!" The power in your voice startles you, but nothing happens. No thundercloud erupts. The laptop's screen doesn't blip with electrical interference. And you've never felt more invisible than you do right now.
***
"Um, isnv> an">"Um't that weird?" My best friend, Marisa Butra, took a loud sip of her iced mocha. "I mean, now you have your gramps and Lena to deal with. How are you guys even fitting in your mom's place?"
"It's not that weird," I said, watching the Monday breakfast crowd clear out of the cafeteria. I hadn't had time to eat, with everything going on at home, so I'd settled for one of the stale-tasting bagels. They were only a buck, but like most things at North Seattle High, they were generic and bland.
Marisa lowered her long-lashed brown eyes at me. "I totally get the whole take-in-the-old-people thing. But sharing a room with a nine-year-old? The Disney Channel posters alone would make me retch."
I chewed a bite of bagel. "It's not that bad. And we don't have cable, anyway."
"Seriously, if I ever had to share a room with my sister, Nalini, I'd run away." Marisa pulled out her compact and checked her lip gloss. The pink shade was a perfect contrast against her dark skin. Even in gym class every day, Marisa managed to look glam. Not me. I'd half thought to put some makeup on besides my typical black eyeliner that morning, but I hadn't had time. And I didn't have a reason to spruce myself up for anyone.
"So ... did you hear that Dan Blake is having a party on Friday?" Marisa clicked the compact shut and smoothed her long black bangs behind her ears.
"Great. Sounds like a good-ol' time."
"I was thinking we should go." She watched me as I crumpled the paper bagel bag.
"What makes you think that I'd want to go to a party with those guys?"
"They used to be our friends," she said.
"You can totally go if you want to," I said. "It's fine. Don't hold yourself back if you want to hang out with them."
Marisa's stern look softened. "Hols, at some point, you get to be yourself again. You even get to have fun. Let's check it out."
"It's not a good idea," I said. "I can't imagine partying with them would be much fun for me."
"Sooner or later you're going to get over him, right?"
I didn't bother answering. I'd known Marisa since we were in the fourth grade. She was the one person I could turn to, the one person who'd stuck with me. After Rob's funeral, I cried in her arms. I broke down with her and no one else. But right now, I didn't think she got me at all.
Marisa rattled the ice in her cup, poking the straw deeper. "It might actually be fun."
"I don't think it'd work, anyway. I probably have to sit with Lena and Grandpa that night," I said quickly. A little too quickly, maybe.
She studied me for a moment and then said, "Wnewhen saiell, what if I went?" She gave the plastic coffee cup another shake.
"You'd really go without me?" I tried to keep the hurt from my voice. "I mean that's totally your right and all, but I guess I—"
"Listen, if you don't want me to go, then I won't go," said Marisa.
"No, no. Do whatever you want. Anyway, like I said, I've gotta stay home."
Her face brightened, and it was totally lame of me, but I felt kind of annoyed by that. I loved my best friend. I wanted her to come over to my house, watch crap TV with me, and then maybe go down to the mall. I wanted to go to her house and let her dig around in her infinite closet to find me a cool outfit to borrow. I wanted to sit with her at her family table and eat yummy basmati rice and curried spinach with homemade cheese called paneer that her mom made from scratch. I wanted to do what we always did, but most of all I didn't want her to want to hang with them.
She stood up and straightened her black T-shirt over the low waistband of her jeans, and then fluffed the turquoise scarf around her neck. "Ready?"
"Yeah. Let's go," I said. I dumped my trash and followed her out the cafeteria doors. As I saw her turn to go down the hall to her first period English class, I felt a little pang of something. Maybe I was jealous of her being happy or whatever.
"God. Suck it up already," I said under my breath.
I shouldered my messenger bag and schlepped down the hall to drop off some of my books. And then I saw Jason Markham hanging out near my locker.
I ducked around a corner, watching him lean against the wall near a poster for a blood drive. Dark hair falling over one eye. A charcoal gray V-neck sweater. Faded Levi's that nearly hid the tops of his black Converse Top-Siders. A few girls passed him, smiling, but he didn't pay them any attention. He just looked at his watch again and studied the flow of kids in the hall. Finally, the bell rang and he hustled off in the opposite direction. I stood there, in my hiding place near the end of the section of lockers, catching my breath.
"What do you wa
nt?"
Some girl passing me stopped. "Huh? Are you talking to me?"
"No. Sorry." I cruised down the hall to first period, pretending I wasn't wondering why Jason had been waiting for me. I didn't want anything to do with those people, not even Rob's best friend.
Chapter Three
Ms. Granger, a woman from senior services, was our dinner guest that Friday night. Everyone was on their best behavior, following Mom's example. Then again, Mom always acted nervous around official people. This lady appeared totally harmless, though. From her supercurly brown hair and little round glasses to her square-heeled shoes, she seemed pretty nice—like someone's favorite first grade teacher.
"How are you doing living with your daughter?" she asked Grandpa Aldo.
Grandpa didn't respond—he was busy digging into his mashed potatoes.
"You like it here, Papa?" Mom prompted, flashing a smile.
"Oh, yes," he said.
"That's wonderful to hear." Ms. Granger set down her fork and took a sip from her water glass. "Thank you very much for asking me to stay for dinner. It's delicious, Mrs. Mullen."
"Oh, no. That's my Holly's cooking. I work most nights."
It wasn't any big deal. I'd thrown some chicken thighs in the oven after school.
"It's very good, Holly." Ms. Granger lifted a forkful of potatoes to her mouth. "I haven't had a homemade supper in a long time."
"She learned a lot from my mother," Mom said, glancing over at my grandpa.
"I wish I had," Ms. Granger said, laughing. "Unfortunately our family was more of the microwave-dinner variety."
"What made you want to become a social worker?" I asked.
Ms. Granger wiped her mouth with her paper napkin and floated it back down over her generous lap. "I got into social work because I wanted to help people. I work with the elderly because I was close to my grandparents. I've been with the senior center now for about ten years."
"Interesting," I said, mashing a little lump of potato with the back of my fork.
Ms. Granger gave me a little wink. "Not very. But it's common for people to wonder why folks get into my profession." She paused, turning toward Mom. "So, let's talk about your family now. Once I met Aldo at the center this week, I really wanted to see how you all were getting along over here."
Wherever You Go Page 2
