by Anne Dayton
“Ha,” I mumble. “I know you’re trying to mess with me. I’m not falling for it.” Dean stayed on the bed all night, and this system has worked out perfectly. No awkwardness, no close proximity. “I saved this team with my brilliant constitution writing skills.”
We went into this evening behind schedule, but now we’re all caught up and maybe even a little ahead. We worked out the kinks in our economic plan, which pegs our currency to the price of wheat. Then Dean hashed out a solid outline for our twenty-page paper and assigned different sections to each of us, and I drafted our constitution. As nervous as I was about this partnership, we’ve turned out to be a pretty good team.
My eyes feel glued shut, and I stay perfectly still, letting the exhaustion wash over me. Between band practice, doing this project, worrying about my parents, and plotting to get Ms. Moore back, I’ve been running myself ragged. I let my head roll to the side and open my right eye a little. The sax in the corner glints at me, so I shut it again.
“Why’d you give up the sax?” Maybe if we talk about something other than Zoeville for a minute, my brain will rest up. “Didn’t fit with your new image?”
Dean laughs. Every fall a few underclassmen drop the marching band as they face the inevitable fact that no A-lister ever wore a plumed hat.
“No. My brother played the sax.” He falls quiet, and I open my eyes to see why. He stares at a spot on the floor a few feet from us. “It was Fletch’s thing, with Dad.”
“He stopped too?”
“Died.” Dean swallows
“I didn’t know.” I fight the urge to say I’m sorry. Christine hates it when people say that when they realize her mom is dead. I guess when you lose a loved one, you hear “sorry” so often it starts to sound hollow. “You must miss him.” I slide across the floor into Dean’s shadow so I can make eye contact with him without squinting at the overhead light.
Dean collapses down on his hands and watches me. “Yeah.” He nods slowly. “It’s been almost three years, but I still miss him.” He dangles an arm over the side of his bed and pulls at a thread in the carpet, making it longer than the rest.
“I’m so sorry.” I shut my eyes and berate myself. Why did I say that? I told myself not to say that. “I mean—” A feeling, something tracing down my arm, stops the words in my mouth. I want to open my eyes and make sure it is what I think it is, but what if it stops? The feeling continues, so faintly that I’m not positive it’s happening, and then on the third stroke down my arm I make out the smooth, hard edge of a fingernail. When the heat from Dean’s hand meets the cool of my forearm, a chill shoots through me, like an electric current.
I should leave. I should stand up, grab my books, and go. They’re by the door in a stack. I can see them in my mind.
But . . . his brother is dead. Dean is opening up to me and talking about something so painful and raw. I can’t bolt on him now.
He opens his palm and cups my forearm as he gently runs his fingers down the soft fleshy part of my arm, all the way to my wrist. Each hair on my arm is alive. Neither one of us says anything as his fingers trace the small twin bones of my wrist and then flit over my outstretched palm, pausing there for a moment. I hold my breath. Is this happening? Will he? He links his fingers in mine.
I bolt to my feet. “I have to go.” In an instant, I’m across the room and stuffing my books in my backpack. “I’m really tired.” I stand up but keep my back to him. “No need to walk me out.”
“What about,” Dean gets up from the bed and I edge closer to the door, “the fair citizens of Zoeville?”
“Bye.” I scramble out of his bedroom, rush quickly down the stairs, and let myself out the front door silently, hoping not to disturb his mom. I run to a dark portion of the yard, under a big valley oak tree, and press my back to its rough, uneven trunk. I pull out my phone and call home, affect an airy tone, and ask to be picked up. Dreamy tells me Nick is on the way.
I cover my face with my hands and try to take deep breaths, listening intently for the sound of a door opening, but nothing happens. After a few minutes, my heart slows a little.
As I wait for Nick in the shadows on this chilly October night, I ask God again and again for just one thing. I need to take it all back.
17
“Ed.”
“Butterbean. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Happy Thanksgiving to you too.” I try to make my voice sound causal, like I just had an idea. “Hey, I was thinking, why don’t you come on over for dinner tonight?”
“Oh.” Ed sucks in his breath. “You know I would love to see you, honey. But I . . . I’m not so sure my coming over there is a good idea.”
“Sure it is.” I’m instigating a sneak attack. It’s Thanksgiving. They have to play nice today. “Dreamy’s got the Tofurky in the oven, and she’s making those sweet potatoes you love, and—”
“That’s sweet, Zo.” Ed clears his throat. “But I can’t come to the house. That wouldn’t be good.”
“But the horses—”
“Zoe. I’m afraid not.”
“Oh.” The air whooshes out of my lungs.
“But I would love to see you. Why don’t you stop by after the big feast?” His voice is a little too chipper, but I pretend I don’t notice.
“Okay. Sure. See you then.”
***
I carefully balance the overstuffed box in my left hand and turn the doorknob with my right. I get the door open, step inside, and lean back until it shuts.
“Zoe, is that you?” Dreamy calls from the kitchen.
I freeze where I am. She can’t see me from there. “Yeah?”
“We’re eating in ten minutes, okay?”
“Okay.” I sneak into the dining room and set the heavy box down. After Ed said no, I had to revise my plan a little, but even without him, I can still pull this family together. Dreamy has been cooking for a week while Nick has been programming or whatever it is he does in there all by himself. I don’t know what happened on the ranch, but it must have been pretty bad for him to prefer being alone all the time. This means it’s up to me to remind them what Thanksgiving really means. It’s about people with obvious differences brokering a day of peace and sharing a meal together.
But getting everything together took longer than I thought. There’s so much stuff in the garage it took me a long time to find what I needed. Now if I can keep Dreamy out of my hair a little longer, I’ll be able to make it all come together.
“Nick! Thanksgiving!” Dreamy yells. The smell of cinnamon and sugar is wafting through the air. I don’t have a lot of time.
I pat my back pocket and find the matches. I strike one and light a couple of Dreamy’s homemade beeswax candles, then lower the lights.
I blow out the match and walk back over the box, digging deep inside the dusty jumble, looking for the best album. It’s covered in a metallic green, gold, and white fabric, and the pictures inside are yellowed. I open the front cover to a picture of Dreamy, as big as a house, pregnant with Nick. Below her is a shot of Ed with a dog I don’t recognize. Ed has giant lamb-chop sideburns, and he’s wearing tight, cowboy-looking jeans. I run my fingers over the pictures, tracing their familiar faces gently. Nick thumps down the stairs behind me. I grab two more albums out of the box and scurry over to the table, putting them under my chair.
“It’s so fancy in here,” Nick says as he walks into the room. He takes his usual seat and grabs a dinner roll from the basket.
“Here’s the Tofurky.” Dreamy comes in, holding the loaf-like brown tofu that smells surprisingly good. She slides into her seat and takes a deep breath.
“Wow.” Dreamy looks around and takes in the elaborate place settings. “Thank you, Zoe.” She pulls a knife off the table and begins to carve the “turkey.” “Everything looks lovely.”
“Did you notice that it’s great grandma’s china?” I hold up my plate with the delicate silver rim. “You got that for your wedding, huh?”
Dreamy motions for me to hand her my pl
ate. “Yup.” She puts a few pieces of “meat” on it.
“And where is this tablecloth from again?” I blink my eyes and try to pull a confused expression onto my face.
“Ed gave it to me,” Dreamy mumbles and picks up the sweet potatoes. She dishes a huge glob onto her plate. “I’m not quite sure how these turned out. I’m using a new recipe this year.”
“For which anniversary?” I finger the handmade lace. I know the whole story backward and forward. Ed gave it to Dreamy for their first wedding anniversary. She admired it at a craft fair, and he sneaked away and bought it for her.
“Nick, sweet potatoes?” She hands the Pyrex dish to Nick and picks up the green beans.
I glance over at Nick and see his face stuffed with a vegan roll, oblivious to what I’m trying to do. His skull is impossibly thick.
“This is so,” Nick swallows a huge chunk of food in his mouth, “good. Thanks, Dreamy.” He grabs his fork and shovels another huge bite in his mouth, making me lose my appetite.
“I saw this article in Vegetarian Times last week, and I knew we had to try it.” Dreamy slips a small bite of her stupid potatoes in her mouth.
How can these two be so focused on the food? Can’t they see there is an entire chair just sitting empty at our table?!
“Why don’t we say grace?” I say through my teeth. Dreamy knits her brow at me. This was usually Ed’s job. He always said grace. I extend my hand to her, and she blots her mouth with her napkin.
“Of course.” She takes my hand. “That’s a wonderful idea.”
Nick raises an eyebrow and slowly holds out his hand toward me.
I bow my head and wait for a moment. I peek up to make sure they have lowered their heads and closed their eyes too. “Thank you, Lord, for this meal, and for the time we get to spend together as a family,” I say, adding a bit of emphasis to the last word. “And please bless Ed. Bring him home soon. Amen.”
Dreamy clears her throat and opens her mouth, but she doesn’t say anything. She quietly reaches for the cranberry relish—Ed’s favorite—and passes it to Nick.
He sets it down, scoops a little onto his plate, and continues to wolf down his food as if he’s just returned from wandering in the wilderness.
For a few minutes we eat in silence, and the sounds of knives and forks clinking against real china are the only noise.
“Well,” I say, looking for some kind of transition. I reach under my chair. “I was thinking it might be fun to go through the old albums today.”
“Oh, don’t worry.” Dreamy waves her hand in the air. “I’m going to organize them soon.”
I pull up the one from the first year of their marriage. “I don’t want to organize them.” I turn to a random page and see a picture of Dreamy and Ed dressed up as John Lennon and Yoko Ono. Ed is probably the world’s biggest Beatles fan. They’re both so young. In fact, they were younger than Nick is in these shots. “Look at these pictures. They’re amazing.”
“Where’s Marcus today?” Dreamy asks, her voice thin. She’s leaning her head in her hand, her elbow on the table.
“At his grandmother’s.” Marcus’s family goes to see his grandmother in Sacramento all the time.
“Well, that’s nice.” Dreamy lifts a forkful of food to her mouth but only takes a tiny bite. “You should call your grandmother.”
“Yeah.” I will not let Dreamy throw me off task. “Nick, there are some hilarious shots of you in here too. There’s this one where you’re wearing Ed’s boots, and they’re practically up to your thighs.”
“Really?” Nick finally stops chewing and raises his head from the plate. “Let me see.” My heart soars as he reaches for the album.
“There are some other good ones.” I grab another from under my chair. “There’s this one from the eighties where—”
“Enough!” Dreamy bangs her hand on the table. Nick and I stare at her, wide-eyed. She has dark circles under her eyes, and the laugh lines that used to show the fun she took from life now just make her look old and weary. “Please stop.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “You’ll ruin them . . . with the food.”
She reaches out her hand, and Nick gives her his album. I stash mine under my chair, feeling my cheeks burn.
We eat in silence for a few more minutes, Dreamy moving food around, Nick shoveling it in as fast as he can. Every breath seems to echo through the house. Dreamy takes a long drink of water, then clears her throat.
“This was,” she stands up and gives me a wobbly smile, “really fun. But I’ve got to get started on that kitchen.”
“Yeah.” Nick yawns and pats his belly. He stands up. “And I’ve got to finish this site by Monday.” He reaches for another biscuit.
My heart sinks as I watch the two of them retreat back to their private worlds, filling them up with nonsense and numbness.
I sit there for a while, staring at the empty chairs across from me, trying to hold back tears. The whole meal lasted less than half an hour.
Part of me knows they did the best they could. They have their own demons to fight, and they’re doing it the only way they know how. But when I look at Ed’s empty chair, I can’t help but think they didn’t even try.
18
I’m staring at the ceiling in my bedroom, going over all the ways I could have done things differently, when my phone trills to announce a new text message. Probably Marcus. I pull it out of my bag and push the button to bring it up. It’s . . . I stop. It’s from Dean.
My heart starts to beat faster, and my legs feel a little weak as I open it.
Happy Tofurky Day.
I stare at it for a while. Why would he send this to me? I scroll up and down, but there’s nothing more to the message.
I feel myself smiling. It’s kind of cool to know he was thinking about me. I guess it would be rude not to answer. I start typing.
Thanks. How’s your T-day?
I hit send before I can change my mind, then lie back down, holding the phone in my hand. I sneak a peek at it a few minutes later, and again, but there’s no reply.
I could have pushed the photos less. I could have talked about Ed more. Does Dreamy even know what’s going on with him? About the new handyman jobs he’s been doing to make ends meet? I could have . . .
I click the answer button almost before my phone rings.
“Please save me,” Christine moans into the phone. I try to hide my disappointment. After all who did I really think it could be? “They’re making me play games.”
I laugh. Christine can be so dramatic sometimes, and if I know her as well as I think I do, she’s really calling to make sure I’m okay on this important day.
“Candace is campaigning for charades, and Emma wants to play Cranium.” She pretends to retch. “I hate Cranium.” Emma is Christine’s stepsister.
“Wow. Sounds like a party. So this is the first official New Lee Family Thanksgiving?”
“Something like that.” She snorts. “Oh no, now they’re trying to make Tyler play Taboo. What is it with these people and their electric timers?”
“Tyler’s there?” I run my hand along the nylon thread stitched across my bedspread. I’ve had this thing forever.
“Yeah, he came over after dinner. Please come too. The more people I have, the less likely it is I’ll have to demonstrate the hula or something.” Christine went through a rough time when Candace and Emma moved in last year, but things seem to have calmed down since the wedding in May. I think Christine actually kind of likes Candace and Emma now, though she would never admit it.
“You should suggest Pictionary. You’d clean up.”
“So you’ll come?”
I sit up. Christine’s family is fun, if a little crazy. And it’s not like there’s anything going on here.
“Sure. Why not.”
“Oh, thank God. Please hurry. They just broke out the markers.”
***
“ZOE!” Emma, Christine’s sister, shrieks when she answers the door. “Com
e in!” She ushers me in and closes the door behind me. She hangs my coat and purse on the rack by the door, but I grab my phone out, just in case. “Christine, guess who’s here?”
“I don’t know,” Christine calls from the living room. “Could it be Zoe?”
“You’re just in time!” Emma leads me down the hall to the living room. She’s taller than last time I saw her, and her brown hair is longer now, more wavy and less curly. “We’re about to start playing Cranium. You can be on my team.” She’s still a spaz though. It’s good to know eighth grade hasn’t changed her that much.
“Zoe. So good to see you!” Candace gets up from the couch to give me a hug and ushers me into the living room. They all look quite comfortable tonight, sprawled out on the couches, laughing. Christine’s dad is hunched over, snapping batteries into the electric timer, and Tyler is leaning back on the love seat next to Christine, his feet up on the table. He looks totally comfortable here. I pull my phone out of my pocket and press a button to light up the screen. No response.
“Hey, Zoe.” He waves, and I sit down uncertainly on the couch.
“Hey.” He’s almost too comfortable, like he’s spent a lot of time here.
“Zoe’s on my team.” Emma flops down on the couch next to me.
“You’re ditching me?” Tyler pretends to stab himself in the heart. “I thought we were a team, Emma.” He twists the fake knife around.
“You snooze, you lose, bucko,” Emma says, shrugging. She turns to me. “What color do you want to be? Let’s be red. Red is the best anyways, and I’m always red.”
“Welcome to the funny farm,” Christine says, rolling her eyes at me, but she’s smiling. I try not to think about how quiet my own house is today. A year ago Christine would have done anything to avoid spending a holiday with Emma and Candace.
“Are Ana and Riley coming?”
I ignore Emma, chatting away in my ear. My phone buzzes, and I grab it quickly. Marcus. I’ll call him back later. I send him straight to voice mail.
