Quinn folded back the cover on his book, leaned against the wall behind him, and looked around from under his cap. I happened to be staring just as he glanced at me. He lifted his chin in my direction, a gesture I’m not immune to, apparently, judging by the heat rushing to my face. How do guys do that? They don’t even have to try. I pretended not to notice him, rested my cheek on my palms and stared at Thanet, whose eyes moved from me to Quinn and back.
“I’m worried about my UW application,” I said, steering the conversation back toward the actual world. “I signed on to volunteer with an artist in town and she hates me.”
“No one hates you. You’re impossible to hate.”
“No, really. I’m not even allowed in her house. She thinks I carry diseases.”
“This isn’t Jo Russell, is it?”
“What if it is?”
Thanet snorted in the way only Thanet could. “She’s beyond whacked. She hangs out at the bookstore sometimes and drives my mom crazy. Why her?”
“She’s…addled. She doesn’t have any family and her faculties are failing.”
“And you have experience with this?”
Obviously, Thanet hadn’t been around for the grittier moments when I’d taken care of my mom last year. I didn’t plan to tell him about that part of my life, either. “I have some experience with that, yes. I know it’s hard for her to be alone. It’s about my application, weirdo. I need nothing less than perfection. What if Henry….” I trailed off when I noticed Thanet had focused on something over my left shoulder.
Quinn eased down to sit on the floor next to me.
“Hey, man,” Thanet said. Even if he were suspicious of Quinn, he would be nice to the new kid, the brother of his crush.
“Hey.” Quinn looked like he was struggling to find something to say next. His mouth opened slightly and his eyes narrowed in thought. This was the same quiet, earnest way Wyatt had approached conversation. No rush. No worries. Up close, Quinn seemed less sure of himself and more like a little boy. And the ends of his dark hair curled up over his cap. Okay. That was pretty adorable.
He stuck his hand out to me.
“I’m Quinn. You’re in my English class, right?”
We shook hands like our parents would. He also shook Thanet’s hand, a gesture I respected, because Thanet’s hands are gnarled and sometimes people avoided touching him. Which killed me. Because, come on, grow up.
“Yeah, we have English together. I’m Meg and this is Thanet.”
“How come you two sit out here every day?”
“We were banished from our peer group,” Thanet said.
“That’s cool.” Quinn sat up, interested. “What’d you do?”
“Meg doesn’t play well with others.”
I glared at Thanet.
“Ah, me neither,” Quinn said. Every time he shifted the soft smell of clean laundry and shampoo swirled around me.
I needed to break the awkward silence. “Where’d you move from?”
“Charlestown, Rhode Island. You’ll probably want me to tell you about Joseph Stanton when you get to know me better.”
“Who?” Thanet said.
“Exactly,” Quinn said. “How about you?” He met my eyes making sure I knew he meant me.
“How do you know I moved here?”
“The jeans. First, they’re skinny. Second, they’re not blue.” He tilted his head down toward my legs and smiled a little. “No Future Farmers of America jacket.”
My face flamed again; he’d noticed what I wore.
“I’m from outside of Pittsburgh and Thanet’s from Chicago.”
“Your parents were drawn by the promised utopia of Wyoming, too?” Quinn said.
“Something like that.” I stretched my legs out and leaned against the wall.
“My mom actually used the term Brook Farm when she picked Chapin out on a map,” Thanet said. “I kept telling her Brook Farm and all the other transcendentalist communities were in Massachusetts, but she cared not.”
Quinn laughed and raised one eyebrow. “That’s even sweeter. What’s there to do here at Brook Farm? Besides shared labor. And egalitarian idea-swapping.” His eyes were on me and I fought hard for an answer but got nothing.
“We also have ‘waiting for Yellowstone to erupt,’” Thanet said. “And Meg works at my mom’s bookstore. And spends the rest of her time on Skype with her boyfriend.”
I elbowed Thanet and Quinn chuckled.
“Long-distance love, huh?” he said. “‘True love travels on a gravel road.’”
“Who said that? Did you write it?” I searched my mental poetry database for the source of those words.
“Me? No. Percy Sledge did. It’s a good song. Where’s this bookstore? I’ll bring my sister in to restock her supply. She likes cheap paperbacks.”
“It’s Wind River Books on—”
Thanet interrupted me before I could finish. “You should bring her in. Today. Definitely. We’ll be there.”
I turned and widened my eyes at him, trying to send him a mental message to slo-o-o-w down and be cool. You’re trying to meet Abby, not freak out her older brother. “I’m not scheduled to work today,” I said. “I’ll be at Jo’s house attempting to volunteer.”
“Oh, yeah,” Thanet said. “Meg will be failing at a volunteer job.”
“Maybe we’ll stop by anyway,” Quinn said, untangling his legs and standing up. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at us for a minute. I wasn’t sure what he expected.
“Okay, bye,” I said.
He laughed, the sound causing the few people walking down the hall to stare. They didn’t expect that warm and happy laugh on account of his dark and moody look.
“Kavanagh,” he said. “That’s your last name, right? It’s Irish. Means follower of Kevin.”
“Okay?” I said.
He laughed again and shook his head. “I was hoping to impress you with my knowledge of the old country.” He shrugged. “Guess I’ll see you in English.”
He nodded his head once at Thanet, then walked over to Abby who waited for him at the door to the cafeteria. He said something to her; she glanced at us over her shoulder and smiled. I think I heard Thanet choke on his tongue.
***
On my way to Jo Russell’s house, I passed by the bookstore and saw Quinn holding the door open for Abby. Hopefully, Thanet was downstairs when they got there because the spiral staircase in the store caused him a lot of grief. I’ve dealt with his physical injuries in the past, but I’d never seen him goofy over a girl before. A shot to Thanet’s heart would be too much for me.
I loved the long afternoon shadows leading up to sunset—half past six this time of year in Wyoming—but by four-thirty, when I parked in Jo’s driveway, the day already felt spent.
Most people hate the shorter days, but something about them gets to me: the way the lack of light makes people wrap up their work, turn inward, go home, and hug their kids. Wyatt was always in the mood for deep conversation on late afternoons like these.
Jo’s house stood dark and hooded. Her shades were drawn. The only light came from a small studio behind the house. She dipped past the glass, pausing to glance out.
“There you are,” I whispered. She didn’t look this way.
I stepped out of the Jeep and pushed the door closed with my hip. I had to walk through her yard to reach her, and I crunched through all the leaves. Somehow she still hadn’t heard me.
She was talking, so I ducked behind a tree. Her voice was low, but sure and steady. Not full of vinegar like it had been when I first met her. In fact, her tone rose and fell, almost lyrically. It would become a whisper and then grow again. I inched closer and peeked through the window.
She was talking to a young boy. Not a real one…a painting of one. He wasn’t posed formally. He’d been painted in a rush, the artist following his movement through a room, blurred except for his little face, which was in sharp focus. My mom would call it brilliant, that slice of
time. His crooked grin was all boy, but his eyes showed an old soul. He’d glanced up, right at the artist, with a look that said, “I’m happy.”
Deciding to leave her to her memories and try again tomorrow, I turned to leave. I moved too quickly and snapped a branch with my shoulder. I froze, held my breath, and prayed. The door creaked open and she grabbed my arm with a bony hand, turning me around to face her.
“Stop right there.” Her voice, which had been so soft, almost sweet, moments ago, was hard and bitter again. “You’re trespassing.”
“Ms. Russell, it’s me, Meg. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Gather yourself and get right back in your car.” Her voice left no room for argument, although her posture spoke to me, too. As she opened the door wider and stepped out, her slumping shoulders and sunken chest told me she was lost and confused. And defeated.
“Would you look at all these leaves?” I said. “Next time I come, I should rake them up for you.”
“I don’t think there’ll be a next time,” she said.
“Ms. Russell…is there something I can help you with tonight? Can I fix you some dinner?”
She jammed her hands in her pockets and glared.
I nodded toward her studio window. The little boy’s face was clear from this distance. “The painting—is that your son?”
She reached behind her and slammed the door shut, blocking my view from the window with her body. Shooing me with her arms and her feet, she gave me no choice. I turned and hurried to the Jeep.
Neighbors were now watching out of their windows, probably waiting for Jo to start shooting. Just before I reached the Jeep, she stepped close and pushed her palms into my back. She applied just enough force to make me stumble and sprawl across her gravel driveway, cutting my palms and ripping a hole in my jeans.
Wow. I’ve had some embarrassing moments in my life, but this, getting knocked down by an old woman in full view of her neighbors—who did nothing but close their curtains, by the way—felt like a circus act.
THREE
From: Henry Whitmire
To: Meg
Subject: Universal laws and love
There’s no law that says I can’t change my mind. I have. I’ve changed my mind. I want to come home to you.
I’m scared. Not because I’m in danger. I’m scared everyone I care about will finally see that I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m supposed to be fixing a roof and finishing a building, but I haven’t truly started either. I don’t even know how to get the right supplies here. Back home I’d have raised three barns by now and filled them with working equipment.
Remember the kid I told you about…Raf? Fifteen, former gang member. If I don’t keep my thumb right on him, he’s trouble. I screwed up today and lost my temper with him. He had it coming, but I’m sworn to protect and serve here, not to inflict brain injuries.
He and I…we’ve reached a bridge and we’ve got to cross it together or he’s going to tie a rope around my neck and push me off.
Kate’s been a little short with everyone lately. I keep reminding myself she’s six months pregnant and responsible for a whole bunch of other people’s kids. It helps me overlook her nagging. John said when she was pregnant with Whit down here, she nearly worked herself to death. He’s trying to keep her from doing that this time, but he’s not having much luck.
Why did you ask me about Jo Russell? She’s meaner than a cow with pasture bloat. She knew my grandmother, so I was around her some when I was little. She’s got quite a past.
Tonight, I’m lying on a bunk made for a much shorter person and listening to the rain beating down on the tin roof. Rain here sounds like a jackhammer and it’s superheated. It washes out all the roads and keeps us from going to town for groceries. Once it settles in, it rains for weeks. It’s a pain in the neck.
But it also reminds me of home. When I close my eyes, I pretend I’m back in my own room and all the work’s been done and you’re there with me.
I love you, Meg. I love your heart.
Yours,
Henry Whitmire
From: Meg Kavanagh
To: Henry
Subject: Mine, Henry Whitmire.
You’ve been there seventy-four days. I’ve missed you for seventy-five because I started a day early. It’s tedious.
Sometimes, when school’s out and I don’t have to work, I drive out to the old cabin on your land. I take Mercy with me and we sit at the window.
You know that big oak in front of the cabin? The one that’s all alone? Well, lately the meadowlarks have been sitting on its branches and their yellow feathers mix around in the red leaves. Here’s what I noticed yesterday. The birds are the tree’s only company. I’ve seen what happens when the birds fly away—the branches reach up after them.
My mom wants me to stretch my branches and help someone else. Jo was first on her list. I think Jo could be what will make me irresistible to the creative writing program. But it’s more than that. She needs someone.
I’m staring at my UW application. It has one glaring hole I need to fill. You know, the one that asks whether or not you recognize that there are other people in the world. It’s how they weed out narcissists.
I jotted down some thoughts about my “time” with Jo. So far, she’s only let me use a broom in her shed. Three hours of shed cleaning need to become 1. Concrete experience, 2. Reflective observation, 3. Abstract conceptualization, and 4. Active experimentation.
Know how many words I’ve written? Three. “Cleaning sheds sucks.”
I have less than one month to “live with impact.”
Here’s what I’m pretending tonight. The moon is low. We’re lying still in the soft grass next to the old cabin, waiting for a shooting star. You’re holding my hand and I can feel your thumb moving on my knuckles; it tickles. You smell like leather and hay and sun and horses.
I want you here, Henry, but what you’re doing right now is so much more important than what you’d be doing here. Don’t lose your focus on those kids because this time with them is special and fleeting. You were made to do this. When I think of you, I see your heart, all soft and tender for people.
Love,
Meg
FOUR
henry
I felt a firm nudge in the small of my back. Little feet, about a child’s size ten, pushed slowly into my mattress from the bunk below me. A soft giggle and rustling sheets told me my six-year-old nephew Whit was up to no good. Usually he bunked with me in the boys’ dorm so his parents could have some privacy in their room in the girls’ dorm.
“I know you’re awake because I hear you breaving, Uncle Henry.” Whit’s morning voice was little more than a scratchy whisper.
“Why don’t you run along to breakfast, Whitmire?”
“Mom told me to wake you up first,” he called. He took off like a tiny roadrunner in his little-man boxer briefs, headed for the bathroom. Seemed like he never had to go to the bathroom until he had to go. We usually got about thirty-eight seconds of warning before desperation hit and he had no chance of holding it.
My Skype account started ringing and I jumped up to answer before Meg gave up. Staring at the screen, I couldn’t stop smiling. She looked sleepy, her hair tangled and her cheeks creased from her pillow.
She giggled.
“Mornin’, Pittsburgh.” I ran a hand through my hair, making sure it didn’t look stupid. “What are you laughing at?”
“Your hair.”
“Yeah, well, yours, too.” I couldn’t look away as she rearranged her pillow and dug further under her quilt, covering her bare shoulders.
“Henry…your voice. Just talk to me so I can listen for a minute.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Say anything.”
“I love you, beautiful, but you’ve gotta wake up and talk to me. School starts in an hour, right?”
“I’m awake and I have news.”
“Lay it on me.” I leaned back and got c
omfortable.
She pulled her laptop so close I could only see her mouth. This was how she Skyped secrets.
“Thanet likes a girl,” she whispered.
“Who?” I whispered. Actually, I already knew, but I didn’t want to spoil her fun.
“Abby O’Neill.” She leaned back again and smiled at me.
I couldn’t help grinning right back at her. “Who’s that?”
“The new girl.”
I traced her mouth on the screen with my finger. She knew what I was doing because she puckered her lips. “Good for Thanet,” I said.
“Has Raf lost someone?” she said, doing a conversational one-eighty.
“I don’t think Raf’s got anyone left or he wouldn’t be here.”
She reached up and played with one of her eyebrows like she does when she’s upset. “Don’t you just want to cry when you think about that?”
I sighed. Meg had finally begun to patch the hole Wyatt had left in her life. I needed to be there with her. I leaned close to my screen and stared into the camera. Best I could do for now.
“Yes, Pittsburgh, it makes me want to cry. I’m going to try to help him out while I’m here.”
“I know you are.”
Her cell phone alarm beeped and she rolled to her side to turn it off.
“Go to school and be all excellent,” I said. “Te amo, querida.” I kissed two fingers and held them to the camera. She did the same.
“Te amo mucho, mi corazón,” she said.
I closed Skype and swallowed hard. After being here a few weeks, I’d learned that I couldn’t tell Meg everything about this place. She knew only what I wanted her to know.
I could tell her Raf was a turkey, but I couldn’t tell her he’d done something so bad he’d been kicked out of a gang. I could tell her I was having trouble finding supplies, but I couldn’t tell her that to get supplies I had to go into a city with one of the highest crime rates in the world.
And that was my plan for the day. I had nothing keeping me from trying to drum up materials and workers for the half-finished building that sat across from the dormitories. It was time to finish that building so Kate and John could use it for classrooms and dorm rooms if more kids come to live here. But if I screwed up dealing with permits and budgets, the consequences would be far-reaching and a little paralyzing—we could lose this place and these kids could be without a home.
Perfect Glass (A Young Adult Novel (sequel to Glass Girl)) Page 2
