“Did you know you’re more likely to die in a tornado than a plane crash? Though, there’s only been five tornadoes to hit Fremonton in the last fifty years, and there weren’t any deaths, so I’m not sure how accurate that statistic is for you and me. I’m more likely to die in a plane crash.”
Jimmy Hoffman chuckles. Not the kind of laugh that would mean he’s making fun of me, no mocking in his eyes. His eyes dance with laughter and lure. He’s amused by me. I think.
But so was Mitchell.
The corner of his mouth turns up, so charming. His head tilts further down, coming to my eye level. He has the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. “You’re cute. Kamry said you might say something like that.”
There’s too much saliva collecting in my mouth. I swallow and shrug. “I know a lot of unusual facts.”
“How about you tell me more unusual facts at Sweethearts?”
I didn’t run him off. How did I not run him off? “Oh, are you sure?”
He chuckles. “Yes, I’m sure.”
Wow. I try not to visibly sigh. “Oh, okay.”
“Cool. I better get to class. See ya.” He walks down the hallway in his khaki pants and blue polo, shoulders back, head held high. The crowd has dwindled, but people still move out of his way. The tardy bell rings. Crap, I’m going to be late for American History.
HERE WE GO AGAIN
Brett
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 3
Seconds roll into minutes, and minutes turn into hours, and hours become days, which morph into weeks, which make up months. Time passes by without a care in the world. I want the world to care. I want to go back in time, back to when life didn’t move so quickly. Back to when Amber and I were children playing on the swing set while Mom and Dad worked in the yard. Back to when my worries centered on ants attacking the bag of cookies I hid in the clubhouse. Tonight, my worries are larger than ants.
It’s a school night, almost midnight, and Amber isn’t home. She could be dead in a ditch somewhere or she could be warming someone’s bed. The latter is more likely.
What are my options? Call around and risk everyone knowing the Pratt siblings aren’t being responsible? I could call Cole, but he’s given us the leeway to be adults. He’s trusting us. No, I’m not ready to involve him. Yet.
I call Hope. She’s run the other way every time she’s spotted me at school since our snowboarding moment. It sucks and it’s weird, but I need to check with her. Maybe Amber’s there. I should have called an hour ago. I’m probably stressing over nothing.
“Hope? It’s Brett. Is Amber there?” I part the living room curtains and check the front yard as though she’ll magically appear.
“Here? No, it’s midnight. She’s not home?”
“I haven’t seen her since lunch. Do you know where she could be?” Or who she’s with?
“Sorry, I don’t. She was fine at school today. Did you guys have a fight?”
“No, I’ve laid off her about her crap lately. As long as she’s making it to school, I’ve been cool.” A set of lights cuts across the front yard. The knot of panic in my chest releases. “Hey, I think she’s home, I better hang up.” I throw the receiver onto the couch and rush upstairs.
Be nonchalant. Be cool.
The front door opens and closes. The steps squeak under her footsteps. I wait, feigning interest in my open history book and notes.
“Studying for a test?” Amber asks, stopping in my doorway, dress shoes dangling from her fingers.
I look up as though I’m surprised to find her there. And the Oscar goes to . . . Brett Pratt. “Hey. Did you have a date?”
She inspects her fingernails. “I was out.”
Out? She was out? Her blasé tone gets under my skin. “Amber—”
“Brett.”
Eyes roll, hers and mine, as I stand. I close the gap between us, taking note of her outfit. Club clothes—revealing top, short skirt, heavy make-up. Man, what is she doing? This is not my sister.
“We made a deal, Am.” Her eyes shift and I weave left, catching and holding them. “We promised Cole we would follow the rules Mom and Dad would set. We promised to put school first.”
“Ha.” She tosses her shoes down the hall. “You promised, not me.”
“Yeah, so we could stay here and graduate. What did you want to do, move to Florida with Gram? Spend senior year in a retirement community with water aerobics and bingo?”
“Gram doesn’t play bingo.”
“Really? That’s your answer for everything, isn’t it? Ignore the reality, make jokes. Look at you. You look like a groupie, and you smell like an ashtray.”
“And you sound like a parent. Newsflash, you are not Dad. Lighten up, B. I’m going to classes for you, what more do you want?”
“What more do I want?” My brain explodes. I pace the room and sit on the edge of my bed, pressing my palms to my eyes. Complete and total frustration floods me. “I want my sister back. I want to stop worrying about you, and I—”
“You want me back? Are you kidding me? Worrying about me? You’re so blind. You’re so consumed with living up to the memory of our parents that you can’t remember what it was like before they died. I haven’t changed, B. You have.” She shakes her head, a humorless smile on her lips. “I’m going to bed, because I have school in the morning. Good night.”
Her door slams closed.
What it was like before? I’ve changed? I punch my bed, releasing my anger. Evade and recast. Fighting With Amber 101. If she’s in trouble, she will evade the problem and change the subject. If that doesn’t work, she recasts the blame. “I haven’t changed, B. You have.” My jaw clenches. Tonight, she recast the blame on me.
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 4
I remove a shirt from the dryer. Why Mom insisted on teaching me how to iron I have no idea, the dryer de-wrinkles and warms. Perfect for chilly Pennsylvania days. Slipping my Henley over my head, I let my muscles absorb the heat. The house is cold this morning. I turned the heat down two degrees after the last month’s bill to save money. I hope the money saved is worth my frozen feet. I fish my jeans from the dryer and slide them on before leaving the laundry room. A mountain of dirty items has taken residence in the corner, dish and bath towels mostly. I might as well throw some in the wash while I’m here. I can’t count on Amber to do it. There’s a stack of mail on the lid of the washing machine. It wasn’t here yesterday morning. I mutter Amber’s name as I move the mail to the dryer and start a load of laundry.
Carrying the mail to the kitchen, I sort the stack. Bills, two cards from Gram, junk mail, and a colorful envelope I recognize instantly.
“Ohhh, what’s that?” Amber plucks Ruby’s letter and one of the red envelopes from Gram out of my hand.
“Excuse you. Those are mine, stingy.” Snatching the mail back, I peg her with the envelope addressed to her from Gram and toss the other mail on the kitchen table.
Her hands raise in surrender. “Testy this morning, are we?” Without another word, I exit the kitchen, not eager to test my patience with Amber. I want to yell at her after last night, but it’ll do no good. Her mutters fall away as I open Ruby’s letter and read.
Brett of Oz,
Unfortunately, ruby slippers are hard to come by these days. Dorothy is a bit greedy. But if I had them, I’d use them on you. You sound like you need them more than I do.
If we’re talking in points now, may I counter?
#1: I’m not sure how moral it would be for me to teach you a curse word in Polish. Mainly, for fear that you’ll use it on Amber, and it will come back to haunt me someday. BUT, my nana calls me aniołku, which means little angel. And sometimes she calls me żabko, which means little frog. Strange, I know. But it’s a Polish thing. Cross my heart. They have this thing with calling each other little animals as if it’s endearing. Rybko is another one, which means little fish. Don’t ask. I’m not Polish enough to know why.
#2: Bad boys. I suppose I get it. The danger. The mystery. Being the one t
o “tame” the bad boy. That’s definitely not me, though. I think the bad boys look at me and see a large, red X. I’m not alluring enough to catch their eye.
#3: Heads up. If you don’t mind me giving you one of those. Cali is something only people who aren’t from California say. And people from California hate it. And now that I’m done sounding like a snot-faced Californian...it doesn’t snow in Fremonton, but it does snow in other areas of CA. I have to travel a few hours. My mom is from Montana, or she was from Montana...so, we used to visit Lake Tahoe a few times during the winter to get her yearly dose of snow. But I’ve never been snowboarding, and I’m not good at skiing. I’m horrible, actually. I can dance circles around anyone, but try and get me on the slopes and I’ll either fall on my face or land in a split (and not on purpose, nor will it be graceful).
#4: Now that I have the image of you in a bowtie and Amber in a matching headband, I’m extremely disappointed you don’t match anymore. Maybe you should bring that back. Something tells me you two would be able to pull it off rather well.
#5: I’ve never watched 90210, but Kamry (my BFF) is obsessed with it. Maybe that’s blasphemous since I live in California. Hopefully Amber wouldn’t hold that against me.
~Ruby
P.S. My favorite subject is history. It’s so interesting to see how we’ve evolved over the years. I love it!
P.P.S. I’d be happy to visit the snow with you. Now, twenty questions time! I love this idea! This is probably an obvious question, but if you had to choose between the snow or the ocean, what would it be? You could only have one or the other. Beach. Hands down, for me.
‘I’d be happy to visit the snow with you’ What is it with her? Is she lonely? Bored? Why is she flirting with a stranger across the U.S.? I want to ask her these things; I want to know why she keeps writing me back. She thinks she’s unappealing to bad boys. Is this her way of telling me she isn’t attractive? Do I care? Why would I? We’re writing letters, nothing more.
It doesn’t matter what Ruby Kaminski wants; she keeps writing and making me laugh, so I’ll write her back. In a day or two.
MISSING YOU NOW
Ruby
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 5
To that bicyclist’s credit, Nana tends to drive like a maniac at times. While he was, in fact, a “dupa,” I’m surprised she hasn’t killed anyone yet. I asked her to take me dress shopping for Sweethearts since Dad would be absolutely no help in that department and end up buying me a floor-length, long-sleeved, turtleneck gown. She hasn’t stopped asking questions about Jimmy Hoffman and the dance for the last twenty minutes, which also means she isn’t paying attention to the road. At all.
“Nana!” A moped cruises across the intersection in front of us as she’s making a left turn.
“Kretyn! Where did he come from? He came out of nowhere.”
I exhale, my laughter bubbling out. She’s gonna kill me. It’s obvious I can never take my eyes off the road. We desperately need both sets if we want to survive.
“Anyway,” her tone lightens as though she didn’t almost kill that man, “do you have any idea what kind of dress you want?”
I shrug and look out the passenger’s side window to feel the sun on my face and let the warmth seep in, to feel the life in me once again. “I don’t know. Something simple, I guess.”
Mom is the only one that’s taken me dress shopping before. For every formal I attended with Mitchell, she was by my side, flipping through rack after rack, searching for the one. I count eight dances throughout the years. Sometimes Nana tagged along, but Mom was always there. She knew what would look good on me before I tried it on—the color, style, shape, everything. She knew how to pick the perfect dress.
“We’ll find something perfect,” Nana says, smiling.
Perfect. Only Mom knew how to do that.
Dress after dress, nothing feels right. Too many puffy sleeves. Too much velvet, and maroon, and forest green. Not enough variety. I want something different. With every dress I try on, I fight back tears. I keep thinking of what Mom would’ve picked out and what Jimmy Hoffman might like. It means comparing myself to Danica Baisler, and that is a lose-lose situation. Mom would’ve known exactly what to say about my fears. They wouldn’t have felt like words she had to say just because she was my mother. They’d make sense and ease my stress. If I relay my worries to Nana, she’ll only try to make me feel better. You’ll look beautiful no matter what! He’s a dupa if he doesn’t think you look gorgeous. I don’t want words of encouragement. I want words from Mom.
I stop taking into consideration what Jimmy Hoffman will think of me and finally settle on one. It’s an iridescent green, spaghetti strapped dress. It’s not my favorite color, but this one is pretty. The floor-length dress curves around my figure—feminine enough without seeming too girly. Not perfect, but good enough.
***
Dad and I are settling in to watch some TGIF when he asks, “Was the dress shopping successful? Would I approve?”
“We found a dress.” I tilt my head back over the armrest to look at him. “It’s not revealing, if that’s what you’re worried about. It has a higher neckline. Whether you’ll approve of it or not, I guess you’ll have to see it for yourself.”
“Well, are you going to model it for me?” He looks expectantly at me. It’s tradition, I know. But that was when Mom went shopping with me. That was when he got home from work and Mom would boast about the perfect dress and help me put it on. She’d stand at the bottom of the stairwell and announce my entrance, and I’d walk down with the bottom of my dress in hand, carefully minding each step.
“Right now?”
“Why not? We’ve still got ten minutes until Family Matters starts. Go put it on. Please?”
I sigh. I just put my pajamas on and I’m comfortable, but I want to make him happy, so I do as he asks.
I struggle into the dress, the zipper catching on the thin fabric as I breathe deeply. You can do this, Ruby. My palms smooth the creases of the skirt as I reach the stairs. I hover there on the top step, my free hand gripping the banister and my brain sending my body signals to move. It doesn’t comply. My foot refuses to take the first step, knowing she won’t be there. Maybe I should take off the dress and tell Dad he can see it later.
My stomach turns over, churning dinner, threatening to send it back up. Mom isn’t here to announce me. How will Dad know when to come look? How can I make that first step without her?
It’s obvious. I can’t.
A giant fist presses on my chest with all its might, deepening the ache in my heart. My knees give way and I begin to sag onto the top step. It’s just a little fashion show, Ruby. It’s doesn’t matter. She’s not here. She’ll never be here again.
Dad’s voice comes softly up the stairwell, a whisper in the darkness. “Presenting Ruby Kaminski.”
Wiping the one tear to escape, my fist slowly releases the pressure. I inhale tiny breaths and take hold of the banister, standing and taking the stairs one at a time.
When I round the corner, he’s there. “I know I butchered that. My voice was all wrong, and she’d say a bunch of other stuff . . .”
“You came just in time.” I smile, but can’t keep the tears from falling down my cheeks.
Tears well up in his eyes. Crossing his arms, he musters, “Have I ever told you how much you look like her?”
I nod. It’s why it took you five months before you could look at me again.
He rubs his hands across his eyes. “Looks beautiful, honey. I approve.” Dad walks back to the family room before I can say anything in return.
Brett,
There’s not some rule about only writing one letter a week, right? I mean...if there is, you already broke it, so I’m jumping on the bandwagon.
I don’t know how friendships after death have been for you, but mine haven’t been the easiest. No one knows what to say. No one knows how to act. And I think I’ve scared most of mine away.
Kamry set me up for our S
weethearts dance with this guy who is so out of my league it’s not even funny. It’s basically a pity date and I know I’ll end up spending the entire night spouting out every fact of every subject I’ve ever learned. And he’ll think I’m a freak, and I’ll be forever known as the weirdest date he’s ever had. Though, maybe I should be proud of that. At least I’ll make an impact.
I just got back from dress shopping with my nana and all I want to do is return the dress and tell Jimmy Hoffman I can’t go. Kamry thinks I’m “squandering” our senior year. I don’t think I’m squandering anything. I’m surviving. That’s all I can do.
Do you think it’s possible to ever go back to the person you were before you lost your parents? Sometimes I think I’m still the same, but other times I forget who I used to be. Before I became The Girl With The Dead Mother.
~Ruby
LIVIN’ ON THE EDGE
Brett
Saturday, February 5
“Welcome to Senior Night on The Blue!” The massive blue and white banner accosts me as I walk up to the ski lodge. The resort is decked out in Palmer High colors. White and silver balloons float above every empty surface the booster club found. Streamers and ribbons line the fence leading to the lifts, and signs point the way to the open slopes, refreshments, and rental booth. Blue Mountain hosts graduate night for Palmer seniors every year, but this year looks bigger than last. Maybe because this year it’s for me. For my class, my friends. Holy crap, I can’t believe this is my grad night at The Blue.
Paper Planes and Other Things We Lost Page 6
