by Susan Vaught
“How old is she?” Dr. Mote’s question shoots out too fast. She hardly ever does that. “The live girl, I mean.”
My teeth grind together, but no way will I say anything ugly to Dr. Mote, because really, she isn’t scum, even when I am. “My age, maybe more.”
“You know I can’t recommend this.”
“I didn’t ask you to. I’m not breaking any rules.” This time it’s me talking too fast. “There aren’t any rules about this, right? It’s her decision whether she wants to talk to me or not.”
“As long as you tell her. As long as she’s making an informed choice. And it’s still very, very risky.”
If Dr. Mote were my mother, she’d probably hit me with a you be very, very careful, Cane Delano Hartwick, but she doesn’t have to. Tense comes through like she’s screaming it with a bullhorn. It’s sweet that she worries about me, but it still kind of makes me mad.
“You will tell her, won’t you?” Dr. Mote’s blinking again, which she only does when she’s gearing up not to accept anything but a total, unconditional yes.
Barely controlling my shrug and sigh muscles, I manage, “If I ever even talk to her.”
Dr. Mote’s eyes get small as she studies me some more. “You need to get a life, Del. Branson’s right about that part. Some sort of normal, healthy, happy teenage life, even if it’s hard, so maybe this isn’t all bad. I’m thinking you’ll talk to her. Is she pretty?”
“She’s … she’s …”
What?
Beautiful doesn’t quite cut it.
I think she might be pretty in ways that don’t have anything to do with outside looks.
I think she might be like me, and I’ve never met anyone like me since the bad stuff happened.
I think she might … understand.
Just trying to describe her makes me breathe funny all over again. The girl who visits that grave in Rock Hill still reminds me of a fairy, with her long legs and arms, and the way her black hair hangs straight around her face. It flutters in the wind like her loose skirts and shirts, making her seem wispy and flyaway, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she did sprout wings and take off into the sky.
“She’s special.” That’s the best I can do.
Dr. Mote nods. After a long few seconds, maybe a whole minute, she says, “Talk to her. Then tell her about yourself and your situation. And don’t wait too long.”
I lean back on the saggy sofa and blow out a breath. “Could I find out her name first? Seriously, she’s never even noticed me.”
“She will.”
Psychic. Therapist. Sometimes it’s hard to figure out exactly what Dr. Mote should call herself.
So you’re waiting for it, right? I know you are.
Why am I seeing a therapist? What horrible problem do I have? What rank, lame, rotten thing did I do?
Shame on you.
What if I didn’t do anything at all?
Maybe I witnessed a vicious crime. No, wait. “Brutal.” When newspeople talk about murder, it’s always “brutal.” Brutalmurder should be a new word, since they always get said together, even though they’re kind of redundant.
Wait, wait. Maybe I got hit by a drunk driver and have to live in a wheelchair now. That happens to people. It could have happened to me. But I guess that’s a crummy thing to joke about, even though I’m not really joking about stuff like my life being wrecked and having no future.
Maybe I have a learning disability and I’m all frustrated by not being able to read, or sit still, or whatever.
Maybe I have real problems I didn’t even cause.
See? Now don’t you feel guilty?
Good.
Because God knows I do.
Three Years Ago: Dreams in Dreamland
“I like the way your lips taste.”
Crap. I wasn’t expecting that. My cheeks go hot, but I keep still on the quilt in the park, eyes closed tight so I don’t see the blue sky or the drifting clouds, or the way Cory’s probably smiling at me because I’m turning red.
She laughs. “You’re blushing.” She touches my lips with hers again, just a brush, like a whisper without any words. She’s right beside me, stretched out, her arm draped across my chest, her head on my shoulder when she’s not giving me fast little kisses.
I keep my eyes closed and wonder how exactly my lips do taste.
What did I eat for lunch?
Tacos? Brownies? I can’t remember. It’s been four hours and a baseball game. My stomach tightens, winding up to rumble, but I tense my muscles to keep it from making some obnoxious noise.
When I open my eyes, all I can think is, it’s summer and she’s pretty.
Our phones are turned down low, and we’re ignoring them if they don’t give our parents’ rings. A warm breeze blows against the dirt and mown grass of the infield we’re using. Cory’s blond hair looks ready to make a break from her ponytail. Her nose has a few freckles on top of her dark softball tan. I’d count them, but she’s looking at me with her blue eyes, the same color as the sky, and then she’s moving to lie down again.
“You always taste like cinnamon,” I tell her as she settles her head on my shoulder.
She lets out a breath, almost a sigh, but more I’m relaxing than I’m ticked about something. “It’s the gum.”
I like kissing her.
I mean, I’ve kissed three or four girls—but nobody like her. I can’t believe I didn’t notice how kick-ass she was until the end of eighth grade. Weird, how that happens, how you can know people for months or years and then suddenly see them different, like they just stepped off a bus and turned into someone else.
Watching Cory play softball did me in, I guess. She’s one wicked-mean underhand pitcher, and she can run like a track star, and she just—I don’t know. Shines in the sun or something.
We’re lying in a lot of it. Sun, I mean. My team, Home Hardware, is safely in the finals, so we’re getting a rest before tonight’s games. Cory and I are three fields over from the tournament, and the grass is deserted except for Cory and me. Jason and Randall are playing right now on the Backwater Restaurant team, against Tom and Raulston’s team, Perlman’s Law. On the girls’ field, Jenna and Lisa are playing for Sonic Drive-In Team I, and we left Dutch and Marvin running back and forth between the games, cheering everybody on.
Well, Marvin was eating a bunch of hot dogs, but he’ll cheer between bites, when he’s not burping.
“Are you scared about next month?” Cory murmurs, her lips close enough to my neck that I feel the puff of heat from her breath.
“No way.” I tighten my arm around her, because I know she’s nervous about it, and really, so am I, but I’m not admitting that to anybody, even her. “I’m ready for high school. We’re all ready. And we’re tall, so that’ll help.”
She gives my chest a little punch with the heel of her hand.
Everybody knows I’m superorganized, and everybody but Cory hates me for it. I’ve already got my schedule planned and the notebooks bought and labeled. Everything’s in its place for school to start, because I’m gonna kick ass with my grades to keep myself on whatever team I pick, and so I’ll have no trouble getting into premed or prelaw. I want all my options open. My parents might have invested their degrees in small-town life and small-town jobs to “be sure you get raised in a place where life is simple and real, Del,” but farming and settling for less—absolutely not my plan.
I have dozens of plans. If plan A doesn’t work, I’ll move to B. If B doesn’t work, there’s always C.
Who says teenagers don’t know what they want? Who says we’re not able to set goals and reach them?
Just watch.
“I think I’ll take chorus instead of drama, at least for the first year,” Cory says.
I keep her as close to me as I can. “You’ve got a great voice.”
She doesn’t say anything back. She just snuggles into me and lets me hold her and enjoy how it feels to have her next to me. She smells like cinnamon,
too. Cinnamon and vanilla. I think the vanilla comes from her shampoo or lotion.
My eyes float closed, but she rattles me awake a little bit later, answering her phone, then getting up.
“My folks will be at the park in a few,” she says as she punches off her phone and slides it back in her pocket, then dusts the wrinkles out of her Coldair Refrigeration uniform. That’s her team’s sponsor, and their colors are white and red. “We should get back.”
I don’t budge from the blanket. “What’s the big deal? We’re not doing anything.”
Her smile comes fast as she tucks her shirt back into her red pants. “Fine. I’ll just let you explain that to my dad.”
Um, yeah. Rather not.
For a second or two, with the way she’s looking at me, I’m nervous that Cory does want to do something more than kissing. But she doesn’t say anything. She just waits for me to get up, then waits for me to follow her.
When I do, I watch her walk.
She has a great walk, too.
I think maybe she will be the one.
Why shouldn’t she be? She’s the best girlfriend I’ve had, and the longest so far, four months and counting. I’ve known her for lots longer, of course, so some of that time should count toward the “knowing each other really well” part, right?
We’re both smart. We know what we want. We’ll use protection.
She sees her team getting ready to go warm up on a practice field, so she gives me a wave and runs off to join them. Just about the same moment, the bleachers empty as the afternoon crowd heads for the bathrooms, food, or walking tracks to take a break between games. By the time I turn toward the main field gate, it’s open, and Raulston’s heading right at me with Tom behind him, grinning like an idiot. Jason and Randall are heading for the concession stand, looking pissed, so I figure Backwater Restaurant is out of the tournament.
Raulston’s even taller than me, and his black hair and dark eyes make him think he’s ten kinds of handsome. He waggles his big thick eyebrows at Cory as she heads onto the practice field, then gets close enough to me to smack my shoulder.
“You two been gettin’ busy?” Raulston’s laughing as he asks the question, and he’s making obscene motions with his fingers. It’s a perpetual thing with him, the sex obsession. All Raulston thinks about is sex. All he talks about is sex. I don’t know how Dutch stands him, but then, she’s kind of the same way.
“No.” I say it too fast, but he bugs me sometimes, about Cory anyway. “Just resting up to kick your ass next game.”
“The man knows how to dream,” Tom says. He’s got red hair and tons of freckles, but Jenna likes him anyway. “Are the girls done?”
“I don’t think so.” I glance toward the girls’ field, but I can’t see the scoreboard from my angle. “Last time we checked, Sonic Team I was winning by eight.”
“Ouch,” Tom says, looking like he feels sorry for the other team. “I’m too broke for concessions. Let’s find Marvin.”
“Why?” I ask. “He won’t have any food left.”
But we’re moving in the direction of the girls’ field so Raulston can see Dutch and Tom can see Jenna. Jason’s with Lisa, and Randall and Marvin are still wishing. Randall used to be with Lisa, but he’s over that now. He likes some girl in Allenby.
Marvin—well, Marvin likes hot dogs. He’s into food—fast, slow, gourmet, or greasy—and it doesn’t matter how much he eats, because he still looks like a toothpick with big feet. He likes music, too—psycho level with that since his dad took off—and animals, but not as much as my parents. Nobody likes animals as much as my parents do (way past psycho level).
As for me, music kind of gets on my nerves. I like the popular stuff, but I’m not into in-depth studies of singers and songs and types of music like Marvin. I’d rather read about baseball, and I can’t read while I’m listening to music. I don’t have any pets—of my own, at least—and I don’t want any because I’m too busy with baseball and Cory and my friends and, soon, high school, too, even though this one bird my mom rescued from a hoarder is trying to make friends with me. It’s a parrot named Fred. Fred doesn’t talk like parrots are supposed to do. Mom says lots of parrots don’t talk. As for Fred, Mom says Fred hasn’t talked for us yet. Fred makes good smoke-detector-alert noises, though.
Not much fun when I’m trying to sleep late.
I see Cory’s parents coming through the far archway to watch the afternoon game. Her mom, who looks a lot like her, only older, spots me and smiles and waves—again, lots like Cory would do. Her dad gives me a nod. He’s got blond hair and blue eyes, too, but he’s not like Cory at all. He and Cory’s two older brothers look like stone-faced soldier guys, even though they’ve never been soldiers. Mr. Wentworth is a plumber.
I nod back to him as they move toward the practice field where Cory and her team are warming up, and I’m suddenly glad we came back to the main area when we did. We weren’t doing anything, not really, but it might be bad luck to piss off a plumber. That plumber, anyway. He’s already explained what he could do to me with a pipe wrench if I make him too unhappy. The creepy part was, he smiled while he was talking about it, and I’ve never seen Mr. Wentworth smile any other time. Ever.
Cory says he’s just being a badass for my benefit.
I’m not too sure.
“Marvin!” Raulston yells, and when I look, I see Marvin in the girls’ bleachers, wearing the same pair of faded jeans he always seems to wear, and a T-shirt from the refrigerator factory where his mom works. I try to get the boy to pay attention to how he looks, to go through my closet and at least try some of the sharp jeans I’ve collected, but he blows me off.
The game’s still going on, and Dutch is with Marvin. She’s got on a fridge factory T-shirt, too, but she looks way better in hers than Marvin does in his. For her, any T-shirt can be a fashion statement.
“I don’t see any hot dogs,” Tom says, like he seriously had hoped Marvin—hello, this is Marvin we’re talking about—would have leftovers.
We all jog toward Marvin and Dutch. When I run my tongue across my lower lip, a little bit of cinnamon tingles in my mouth, and I smile.
We’ll be playing until late tonight, and I wonder how long I’ll be able to taste Cory’s kisses, and whether or not I can sneak a few more to keep me going. Without running into the pipe wrench problem, or my folks after they get here, or any coaches who want to have an attitude about “fraternizing with the opposite sex.”
I’m thinking a few, maybe, if Cory wins her game and stays in a good mood.
And I’m still smiling.
Nothing’s Wrong with Me
(“The Only Living Boy in New York”—Simon and Garfunkel. I like old stuff, too. And new stuff, and hard stuff and soft stuff—if it’s music, I like.)
She comes back to the graveyard twice more the next week.
No, really, I’m not hiding behind an oak tree and staring at her like some kind of psycho. I was working nearby. I’m just … on a break. And stuff.
Fairy Girl isn’t the most gorgeous female on the planet, but she really is beautiful, and she seems thoughtful and smart, and she’s sad, and every time I see her crying, I think about …
Galloping up on a white stallion and asking her what dragon I should slay.
Breaking into a Broadway number to make her laugh.
Stepping into the afternoon sunlight like a gunslinger and tipping my hat.
Offering her a handkerchief. A clean handkerchief.
Or …
Saying hello would be a start.
Sometimes she sits by the grave she visits and reads. Other times, she has a little notebook with her, and she writes. This afternoon, I think she’s sketching.
She has long fingers.
And probably good-enough eyes to notice a dork lurking behind an oak tree.
When I get back to the grave I was working on, my brain is still buzzing. I’d walk it off, but I can’t, because my boss, Harper, is sitting on the pile of di
rt next to the opening, resting his elbow on the little travel cage where I keep Fred when I’m working. Harper’s got stringy gray hair, three days of gray stubble on his chin, a beer, and half a peanut butter sandwich. Fred’s crawling across the top of her cage, trying to get a bite of the sandwich or Harper’s elbow. When Fred’s on the attack, she’s not picky.
Harper sees me coming, and he points a hunk of bread crust at me and says, without swallowing, “Something’s definitely wrong with you.”
“You’re just figuring that out?” I hop down into the grave and pick up my shovel.
“Fred,” Fred announces brightly, as a way of saying hello to me.
I say hello to Fred, and Harper grumbles, “You’re spying on that girl over in Oak Section.”
“I’m not spying. I’m … studying.” I pitch a shovelful of dirt in Harper’s general direction. Talking about the girl definitely won’t help the brain buzz.
“Whatever you’re doing, knock it the hell off. I don’t want any trouble in my graveyard.” He chews up the rest of the sandwich, swallows it with a swig of beer, and squints in Fairy Girl’s direction. “She’s pretty, though. What’s her name?”
“No idea.”
“You haven’t talked to her?”
“No.”
Harper frowns at me, then shakes his head. “You and me, we should have a long talk about stuff like this, sometime when we ain’t got digging to do.”
I throw more dirt, barely missing him.
Fred whistles at me.
“My dad and I had that talk,” I tell Harper.
“Well, he must have done a piss-poor job.” Harper gets up, leaves his beer can next to Fred’s cage, and stalks off, muttering, “Ain’t even found out the girl’s name. Swear to God …”
The next day, I’m thinking about asking Fairy Girl her name, but I can’t stop seeing Cory’s face.
It’s been three years.
That’s a long time, but I remember Cory like no time ever passed, like nothing ever changed. I think about her a lot. Probably too much. Sometimes when I think about Cory, I feel things down deep inside—things like steam and tension and sweetness and aching. Things deeper than that, too. Stuff almost forgotten, like it’s lost to me forever.
