Paper Planes and Other Things We Lost

by Michele G Miller

  “Hey!” I’m on my feet, rushing into the foyer. The loser has Amber pressed against the door, kissing and pawing at her in ways I prefer not to witness. My jaw clenches as fists form. I’m ready for a fight. Amber giggles. Her arms wrap around this guy, her leg curls around his. Well, okay then . . . apparently he’s not manhandling her. She’s enjoying every bit of his attention.

  “Amber!”

  “Brett!” Amber gasps, her hands knocking the loser away. “Why are you up? Are you seriously waiting up for me?”

  The loser snorts. My back teeth grind together so hard I hear them. “No, your classy entrance woke me up. Who’s this?” My eyes slide over the guy. Where did this dude come from? When Hope and I left Greg’s she was with Mike, how’d she pick up this rock band reject? His jeans are ripped and his tee shirt is dirty. Is he homeless?

  “No one.”

  “That’s not what you were saying an hour ago.” His skinny arms tug at Amber’s hip.

  “I’ll go throw up now. Get rid of him.” The shudder running up my spine isn’t fake. The dude is wicked sleazy. I turn to leave.

  “Who died and made you God?”

  Big mistake.

  . . . heavy bass guitar kicks into my headphones. I kick at the ground, speeding up with the tempo of my music. I leave the scene with Hope behind—popping an ollie, jumping a curb. Drums kick in. I bury Amber, and her loser, under the staccato vocals of Anthony Kiedis. I bury everything under rock music and the wind rushing over me. I needed this. I do a kickflip.

  Heck yeah, I was ready for spring.

  SUNDAY, APRIL 18

  Rain. What a drag. I kick the tail of my board up and prop it against the wall before I trip over it. No freedom today. Sitting at my desk, I rip a sheet of paper from a binder and write a letter.

  Ms. Kaminski,

  I think I broke my hand.

  By punching someone.

  Amber’s someone.

  Is that cause for detention??

  Ha. That’s my confession. Would you think less of me if I admit I don’t regret it? My swollen hand does, but only a little. Ruby, the guy was a kretyn. I’d call him worse, but I’m not crude, and you didn’t teach me any good Polish cuss words. I blame you for my lack of creativity in the insult department.

  Kretyn’s name is Bobby. Or Joe. Maybe it was Steve. I don’t know—I only know he brought my sister home at 2AM, pawed her in our doorway, and had the nerve to question who I was. His exact words were “Who died and made you God?” So, I was all, “You talkin’ to me?” Then I punched him. Amber’s pissed. Only a little, though. She wasn’t happy with the question, either. I mean, it’s not like the guy didn’t know our parents died last year. He was just a prick.

  Amber has a thing for pricks. There were a few weeks where she stuck around the house more. I thought maybe she’d outgrown the partying. I was wrong.

  Enough downer junk. Did I tell you ski season is over? I guess that’s not some big revelation since it’s mid-April and the snow is melted. Blue Mountain morphs from winter fun to a type of outdoor center during the remainder of the year. I don’t work there during non-skiing months, but we still hang there. It’s a cool place to go hiking and biking. The best part of spring is getting back on my skateboard. Yesterday I spent the entire day working on tricks and riding across town.

  By the way, I did some research of my own recently—does the idea turn you on? I have a second reason for why you should go to school in New York. It’s about four hours from yours truly. Do you even need a third reason? I think not.

  How about it? Have you given it any thought? I don’t want to be pushy, but you really should live for yourself.

  —Not Pushy Brett

  P.S. I have ideas about my tattoo. Move to New York and you can go with me to get it!

  P.P.S. Sorry for my dirty reference about research. Turnabout is fair play, you’ve heard that saying, right? It’s just I know how much you love doing it. Research, I mean.

  P.P.P.S. We’re making it a thing! This plane is for the dreams you lost and the ones you can still go after.

  ACHE

  Ruby

  SUNDAY, APRIL 18

  Brett,

  I needed to write you because I can’t really think straight and that’s never happened to me before. If my mom were here, I’d cry on her shoulder. She’d hug me and rock me from side to side. She’d tell me I did the right thing.

  I don’t have a diary, but I imagine if I did, this is something I would write about. I have to get it out of my head, Brett.

  Jimmy and I are over. It feels like we’re over before we really got a chance to begin. We went to a party the other night. The kind of party I don’t normally go to, but I thought, why not? Branch out for a night. Make Jimmy happy. Let’s see what this life is all about. Maybe I’ll enjoy myself.

  As soon as we walked in the door I knew it was a bad idea. In case it isn’t obvious, I’m not a partier, drinker, good time girl. That isn’t me. And I guess Jimmy expected that of me. We got into a big fight and he turned into a completely different person. He scared me, Brett. I never want to feel that way again.

  If it weren’t for Mitchell, who came banging on the bedroom door after he saw me go in with Jimmy alone, I’m not sure what would’ve happened. Mitchell knows I’m not the kind of girl to go into a bedroom with a boy at a party. If it hadn’t been for the beer splashed down the front of my shirt, I wouldn’t have.

  I got lucky. Mitchell calmed me down and took me home. But I can’t shake the feeling of what might’ve happened if he hadn’t coincidentally noticed me going into that bedroom . . .

  Let’s just say I’m going to stay far away from parties for a while. And I guess I’ll have to find a new prom date for the 1st.

  I hope your weekend was better than mine.

  ~Ruby

  P.S. I had a dance competition on Saturday. Nailed my solo and won first place. That was the bright side of my weekend.

  P.P.S. What do you do when you can’t shake a bad feeling? I used to talk it out with my mom and she knew exactly what to say. Without her, how will I get past this?

  MONDAY, APRIL 19

  I curl onto my side in bed and tuck my hands close to my chest. I feel so stupid for sending Brett my letter about Jimmy. While I’m worrying about some stupid idiot at a party, Brett’s been dealing with the recovery of his parents’ bodies. Or most likely what was left of them. He’s been worrying about me, about if I’ll be angry with him.

  “They aren’t on that deserted island, Ruby. I was kind of hoping your theory was right.”

  The tears won’t stop.

  I don’t want Mom to be found. I want to keep my vision of her dancing across the sky and soaking in the sun on that tranquil beach. If her remains are recovered it means she’s really gone.

  She can’t really be gone . . .

  HEY JEALOUSY

  Brett

  MONDAY, APRIL 19

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Hope’s restless knee bumps mine.

  Tap, tap, tap, tap.

  Her heels hit the bleachers over and over. Bounce, bounce. Does anyone else hear this?

  Tap, bounce, tap, bounce, tap.

  My palm clasps her knee, feigning affection when all I want to do is stop the annoying movements and sound. Her hand covers mine, squeezing my fingers. Bouncing stopped, mission accomplished.

  Ahhh, the joy of senior assembly.

  “Students must wear proper attire for graduation ceremonies. Men will wear button-up dress shirts and pants. Ladies, you will wear skirts or dresses. Dress pants will be acceptable as well. It’s all in the packet you will pick up on your way out.”

  Hope’s chest presses against my bicep as she leans in. “How will they know if I wear a dress under my robe or not?” Her breath teases my ear, the spicy scent of Big Red washing over me. How appropriate.

  “And what would you be wearing?” My hand slides up her thigh.

  “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.” He
r saucy reply elicits a full belly laugh from me, causing heads to turn. She giggles, pressing her hand over my mouth. “Shhh.”

  Released to our classes, I take Hope’s hand.

  “Hey, you guys are in, right?” Mike slams into my back.

  “In for what?” Hope tugs on me, looping her arm through mine to prevent me from pummeling Mike.

  Lisa and Ann appear out of nowhere. “Limo for prom, duh,” Lisa’s face contorts as though she can’t believe we had the nerve to ask for clarification.

  Hope defers to me for the answer. “Nope. We have our own plans.”

  “We do?” Her face brightens as our friends groan.

  “Dude, it’s senior prom. You can’t make other plans. We have to go together.”

  “Uh, yeah I can, and I did.”

  “Who’s riding in the limo?” Hope asks Lisa and Ann. Would she prefer riding with our friends? I second-guess all the trouble I’m going through setting up her cheesy romantic prom night.

  The girls pepper Hope with questions she can’t answer all the way down the hall. The three of them groan in frustration at their lack of information. My eyes slide to Mike who waggles his brows. Is he thirteen?

  “Come on, seniors, move it on to class. You’re not done with school yet. We can still hold you back.” A teacher calls out.

  “See you after school?” I unlink my arm from Hope’s and kiss her quickly before a teacher sees.

  “Nope, I’m babysitting. I’ll call you later.”

  Hope, Ann, and Lisa turn down the east hall, and Mike and I continue down south as a warning bell rings.

  “Travis and Amber are going with you guys in the limo, aren’t they?” Amber is maddeningly quiet about her prom plans. The fact that she told me who her date is after I sucker punched her loser rock creep is a miracle in itself. Travis is cool, a good friend who I think I can trust for one night with my sister. I’m shocked she said yes.

  “Yeah, Lisa and Derek, me and Ann, Travis and Amber, and you and Hope were supposed to be our fourth. Traitors.” I slow up. Mike backpedals. “Did you get a room? Is that why you’re dumping us?” His fist swings and I jump back in time to miss the hit. “You suck, Pratt.” He shouts, pointing at me and jogging backward.

  “I love you too, man.” I call after him. I chuckle all the way to my class where a dark head stands by my usual seat. Wonderful. I brace for whatever storm she’s brewing. “Hey, Carmen.”

  She stands taller. “Hey. How are you?” Okay, simple greeting.

  “Good. You?” If she misses the confusion in my tone she’s clueless.

  Her shoulders lift as she offers me a small smile. “Um, I heard about your parents on the news. I wanted to call . . . I should have called.”

  Stupid WKTV. They had to do a report about the local couple who were finally positively identified. Against our wishes, they dredged up all the details as though the people in our small town had already forgotten. Maybe they had. Maybe Amber and I, and Cole, are the only people in Pennsylvania who still care about Joseph and Caroline Pratt.

  “It’s okay. Thank you though.”

  Her smile widens. “I got into UMass,” she blurts out. The bell for class rings and students take their seats. “Amber told me you were both accepted to State.”

  “Yeah. I’m more than ready to get started.”

  Carmen giggles, lowering her voice as she slides into her chair. “Me too.”

  We share a smile. It’s friendly, not flirtatious or full of the underlying jealousy and anger I’ve seen on her face in the weeks since Hope and I became public. It’s nice to mend bridges, especially with only a few weeks left until graduation.

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 21

  “Amber, get the phone!”

  “I’m watching 90210. You get it. It’s probably Hope anyway.”

  Ridiculous show. Setting my school reading down, I search for the phone. I hear it ringing. It’s here somewhere. I toss clothes around and dig under a pile in my corner chair. Gotcha.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, man, it’s Cole.” He still introduces himself as if we don’t know his voice yet. He’s my half-brother. I know his voice. “What are you two up to?”

  “I’m finishing the last of my high school required reading while Amber is watching Dylan and Brenda argue for the hundredth time.”

  “Uh, Dylan and Brenda?”

  Maybe there’s a slight age gap. “She’s watching TV.”

  He chuckles into the line. The deep sound is hauntingly familiar. Dad’s laugh. My chest tightens. “What’s your last reading assignment?” Cole asks, and the knot in my chest disappears as quickly as it came.

  “Oh, it’s a riveting tale by one William Faulkner.”

  “Faulkner, eh? The Sound and the Fury?”

  “Wrong.” I mimic the sound of a buzzer. “The answer is, As I Lay Dying. Such an upbeat tale.”

  Dad’s laughter fills the line again. I close my eyes, envisioning his face as Cole provides the soundtrack. “Sorry, I can’t help you there. I was going to tell you to rent the movie if it was The Sound and the Fury.”

  “Wow,” I laugh with him this time. “If that’s the way you made it through school, remind me to never use you as my doctor.”

  “Don’t worry, I paid attention whenever it had to do with cutting things open.” We both laugh until Cole clears his throat. “So listen, I’m on a break and I need to get back to rounds, but I wanted to check in.” Checking in, of course. He never calls to call. He doesn’t visit us unless it’s family stuff. “And I wanted to see if you two can drive down to Allentown Saturday and stay the night at my place.”

  We’re an obligation to him . . . whoa, wait. “I’m sorry, what did you ask?”

  “I want you and Amber to come stay with me Saturday night. I’d like to show you around Allentown. I know you didn’t spend much time here. I thought I could give you a tour of where your dad worked. Show you a few of his favorite places.”

  Favorite places? How does Cole know where our dad’s favorite places are?

  “Yeah, yeah, that’d be cool.”

  “You gonna ask Amber?”

  “Nah, I’ll tell her she has to come.” Cole moves about on the other end of the receiver. A pager goes off.

  “Great. Hey, I’ve got a patient emergency. I’m on night shift Friday, so if you get here around noon Saturday, I should be rested enough.”

  I hang up and head downstairs to share the news with Amber. A full day and night with our brother. The brother who still calls our Dad my Dad. The brother who has only introduced Amber and I as his siblings a handful of times in public. The brother who is moving to New York in a little over a month, leaving Amber and I, leaving our parents’ house, our grandparents’ house . . . No. Man, I hate going down black holes of pity parties. We’ll go spend the weekend with Cole, see some of Dad’s old hot spots, and hopefully forge a small family bond.

  THURSDAY, APRIL 22

  My hand shakes as I finish reading Ruby’s letter. I try not to analyze the screaming deep within me. I’d feel this way about anyone who told me what she told me. I’d go ballistic if it were Amber. If it were Hope, I’d be angry. I picture Hope’s blonde hair and big blue eyes staring at Jimmy with fear, and my pulse speeds up. Her face morphs into Ruby’s and . . .

  Ruby,

  I know you’ve done the calculations—how long would it take me to drive from here to Fremonton so I can kick Jimmy’s head in? What a complete tool. First, I’m glad you’re okay, and I’m glad Mitchell was there when you needed him. Mitchell’s your ex, right?

  Second, I’m not kidding. I want to know how long to get to Jimmy’s house. How dare he scare you? How dare he try to force you into a situation where I’m sure he knew you wouldn’t want to be. Are you sure you’re okay?

  You asked how I shake a bad feeling. I skate, or snowboard; it depends on the season. I grab my walkman, my favorite rock tape, and my board, and I go. The wind rushing by helps clear my head.

  Third,
I didn’t break my hand the other day, so it’s fully capable of putting the hurt on Jimbo if you want it to.

  I’m so angry. I’m shaking mad. My mom used that phrase once when Amber and I didn’t come home until after dark. She said she was shaking because she was so scared and angry. I know the feeling now. Don’t go to another party. I can’t worry about Amber and you.

  I’m sorry, I have no right to ask that of you. As for prom, be careful—guys kind of suck.

  —B

  P.S. Congratulations on winning first place for your dance. Does this mean you’re coming to NYU in the fall?

  P.P.S. I’m a rock guy. Give me heavy drums and guitar riffs every day of the week. What kind of music do you prefer?

  I re-read the letter and for one moment I contemplate ripping it up. My feelings are so raw, she’ll see right through me. I have feelings for this girl. I’ve never met her or spoken to her. She’s on the other side of the US, and unless she comes to NYU in the fall, I can’t conceive a time when I will meet her—but I’m falling.

  Stupid. You’re stupid, Brett. It’s a strange crush with a girl who suffered the same loss as you and nothing more. I look at the picture of Hope she left lying next to my lamp on the bedside table. She deserves better than my fixation on Ruby.