by Cassie Mae
I should go. I got my privacy, and I guess I could give him his. My eyes do a quick scan at what he’s doing—placing a donut on top of the headstone he visits—before I fall back and close them altogether. Be a Man is playing on my playlist, and I mouth the words, fighting between the urge to leave and the urge to say something to him. What would I say? What’s a good opener? I could go with a really lame, “Thanks for the bird thing.” But I should make it wittier. Several bird jokes go through my brain, each more awful than the last.
Yeah, I should just go. Maybe visit Cayenne around sunset instead of sunrise from now on.
Then a little pressure is put on the big toe of my left foot, almost like when Mom used to find my toe when she bought me new shoes. I lean up on my elbows and gaze down at a bright yellow sticky note on my pink sneaker. Cemetery Guy is twisting the cap on his pen, studiously not looking at me. I sit up and pluck it off my foot.
Hi.
I turn it over. Nothing. Just “Hi.” That’s brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?
Biting back a smile, I take a deep breath and tap his shoe with mine. When I get him to look at me, I gesture for a pen. His body moves as if he’s laughing, but I can’t hear him since my music is so loud. He digs in his backpack for another pen and hands it over. Our fingers don’t touch, but I’m feeling tingles as if it was transferred through the ink.
Hi. :)
I cap my pen and stick the note on the bottom of his shoe. He hoists his ankle up on his knee, reads it, then grabs a new sticky, leaving our hellos on his foot. The second note gets pressed on my right shoe.
What’s your name?
Here’s a great opportunity to change my name, since I’m not fond of the one I have. Cemetery Guy could call me Emma or Sophie, something that a million other girls have because their parents don’t look at their spice rack and think, “That’s a good name.”
What’s yours?
I have to lean forward a bit to push it against the book in his hands. He peels it off and doesn’t hesitate on writing the answer and sending it back.
Oliver
It’s funny how people can look like someone, and then it completely changes when you find out their name. I never considered him to be an “Oliver,” but now I’m giving him a second look, up and down his clothes, his black hair, his dark eyebrows, his hazel eyes, the small freckles on his cheeks… and I totally see an “Oliver.”
I tap my pen against the sticky note, biting the inside of my cheek. I wonder if I look like my name. Do Gingers have bushy brown hair, man shoulders, and virtually no butt? Do all Gingers have giant Sharpies?
The sun pushes through the burger/Playstation cloud and shines across Cayenne’s name. She’s a spice too, but I’ve always loved her name. I bet she would’ve loved mine. We would’ve traded on days, driven Mom crazy. I smile and start scribbling on the sticky note.
Ginger
I hold my breath as he reads it. His eyebrows only jump slightly upward, but his grin widens. Not in a “That’s an awful name” sort of way, but a “Nice to meet you” way. Something happens to my heart then, like I’m about to jump off a cliff. I have to press my hands into the grass so he doesn’t see them shaking.
He starts a new sticky note then presses it to my shoe.
Sorry about crashing your cemetery time. Do you visit every morning?
It seems like a personal question, but I’m relieved he asks. Maybe we can work something out.
It’s okay. I don’t own the cemetery ;) I try to come often, but I haven’t seen you up until recently…?
Donut powder dusts his lips when I hand it back, and he licks it away as he grabs a new sticky.
Just moved back here. Spent ten years in Nebraska.
I tilt my head to the side and jot back.
Are you visiting someone or just hanging out at the local cemetery? ;)
He laughs, but it’s a short chuckle. He’s not smiling when he presses the note on my shoe.
Visiting.
Great, now I messed it up. I don’t know what to write back, because I think I unknowingly hit a nerve. Seems obvious in hindsight… don’t ask about someone’s dead relative—might be a sensitive subject. I internally smack my forehead.
Another sticky gets pushed on my foot, and I feel a slight—metaphorical—weight lift off my chest.
I tried not to listen, but I caught some of what you were saying when I walked up. Are you on the Crest Hills cross country team?
I smother my embarrassment at getting caught talking out loud, killing it before it makes my cheeks redden. He’s not making fun of me for chatting with my dead sister; I’m sure a lot of people do that at the cemetery. So I jot down a simple answer for him.
Yes. Then I go to hand it back, but pause, quickly writing my own question. Are you on a cross country team?
He laughs—like a bolting, jolting laugh that pushes through the music playing in my ears. He gives me a look and then pointedly gestures to his stomach. When my brows pull inward, he shakes his head and writes back.
I’m not much of a runner.
Okay, so maybe he’s got more of a wrestler or football player build. Like I have a right to pass judgment on that, though.
How old are you? I ask, bravery sneaking its way into our conversation. Maybe he’s not even in school anymore, and that’s why I haven’t seen him outside the cemetery.
He doesn’t hesitate on answering, pressing a new sticky on my foot.
18
Another one hits my foot.
You?
I take the second sticky and write 16 before pressing it against his pant leg. He laughs at my bold choice to push it against something other than his foot or his book. And I think he takes my boldness and uses it in his next question, because when I get the sticky note back, it feels out of nowhere.
You bring food when you visit, too?
Instead of writing my answer, I just nod at him. He puts his pen on the pad, rips it off, then leans forward, leaving the sticky part against his finger while I take it from him.
Did a bird steal it today? ;)
That dang mutant bird.
No, I’m early. Usually get the treats on the way here, but they weren’t ready yet.
So no food today?
Not today. I’ll bring double tomorrow or something.
He nods, rolling his pen cap across the bottom of his lip. I blink, watching the motion, surprised because I do that too when I’m unsure of how to phrase something.
Do you ever wonder what they do with it?
My brow furrows. What who do with what?
The cemetery staff with the food.
I let out a tiny laugh. I’ve often pictured Cayenne’s food being taken by a squirrel or a pack of ants or a bird. Never considered a staff member stumbling upon it, looking over their shoulders, then indulging. It makes my tiny laugh turn into a bigger one.
Maybe they rely on us for breakfast.
He silently chuckles. If they eat it, they must have a strong stomach.
Or a heck of an immune system.
His body moves in silent laughter again, and then he pulls out his phone, frowning at whoever is calling. He swipes left, ignoring the call, then writes on another sticky.
Gotta run. But it was nice to finally “talk” to you today.
He doesn’t wait for me to write something back, and I’m unsure of what to say anyway, so I just hand over his pen. But he waves at me like I can keep it. I’ve never been one of those people to treasure insignificant objects, but I imagine I’ll be smiling every time I use this sucker.
The song on my Disney track changes to Sugar Rush. Should I say bye? Ask if I’ll see him tomorrow? I open my mouth, but my voice stays caged in my throat, twisting the key, but unable to make it unlock. Something about using my voice now that we’ve had a full conversation via sticky note seems… wrong. So I watch him pack away his things, wondering if he even got any studying done, wondering if he’ll be back tomorrow, wondering if I sho
uld leave with him. But I stay put on the ground, mostly because—and I hate to admit it—he’s got me all twitterpated, and I’m unsure if I possess the ability to move at all.
He hikes up his pack on his shoulder and gives me a wave, which I return. His eyes drift to the one donut he has left in the package, and he takes a deep breath and holds it. My heart thumps heavy and hard as he closes the distance between us and crouches next to me. He smells like pine needles and dessert. And his shirt brushes the skin on my arm only slightly, but it steals the breath clean out of my lungs.
He settles his last donut on Cayenne’s grave. The package crinkles in his hand as he scrunches it up and shoves it into his pocket. I get another wave, but I’m too shocked, too out of breath, too… enamored to wave back this time.
I almost forget that I was in a bad mood when I got here.
9
Bread and Teddy Bears
Pump, pump, pump.
My legs know they can go faster, but I force them to take it easy. It’s only the start of the run. Wait a second, guys.
Pump, pump, pump.
I’m alone, running against no one because I was one of three people who didn’t beat their times. The first two went already. They passed today.
Pump, pump, pump.
I hear someone calling my name from the bleachers. “Ginger!” I don’t look over, just focus on the track, the wind, the sweat tumbling from my forehead.
“Ginger! Push! Push!”
It registers in my ears, my beating heart, and my legs pick up speed even though my brain says it’s still too early for them to do that.
My chest hurts. My back aches. I went with only one bra, very supportive, comfortable, locks them up tight… except when you run. Every slam of my foot on the track sends a 5.7 magnitude earthquake through my chest region.
“Five seconds!” Coach Fox yells. Five seconds is not enough. My legs know it, and they give up, right there on the last corner of the track.
“Silverman!” Drake calls from the sideline. “What are you doing?”
I let out a whoosh of air and plummet to the ground. My eyes prick, but I think I’ve run out of energy to even cry. Did I just give up? I’ve never done that. I’ve never felt like I had to, like it was hopeless.
“That’s it for practice today,” Coach Fox says. We’ve only been here for thirty minutes. The team doesn’t hesitate though. They trudge off the field, giving me worried glances over their shoulders. Drake takes the longest to leave.
“I’m sorry,” I say when Coach gets to me. She pulls in a long breath and plops down on the track by my hands. And then not a word, like she has no idea what to say to the pathetic, used-to-be-awesome runner who can’t run a few simple laps without dying.
“I was… trying to pace myself,” I mutter.
“I noticed.” A smile. “Are you even tired?”
My frizzy hair tickles my nose as I shake my head. Physically, I know I have more in me. So no, I’m not tired. Tired of failing, maybe.
“Let me go again,” I say, pushing on my knee. “My legs just gave out. I’m okay now.”
Coach reaches out like she wants to stop me, but abruptly changes directions, scratching her face instead. “The problem isn’t your legs, Ginger.”
I pause on my way to standing, which makes me wobble. My arm shoots out to catch myself before I topple over.
“Huh?”
She gives me a pointed look, still smiling that incredibly not-annoying smile. “I think the problem is a little higher than your legs.”
My eyeballs fall out of my head and roll along the track. It takes me a couple seconds to put them back in. “Um… I…” Does she notice all the bouncing? I bet no matter how loose my shirt is, the Sharpies are still incredibly obvious when I run. I cross my arms purposely over them, as if holding myself like this will suck them back in to wherever they came from.
“It’s all up here.” She presses a finger to her head, and I almost laugh with relief. “Don’t overthink this. You’re a runner. Trust your body’s natural instincts.”
Something that feels a lot like an anvil rests in the pit of my stomach. What would she say if I told her that the problem is north of my legs, but south of my head? Probably laugh, or get scared because of the whole teacher/student no talkie of the Sharpies, or think I’m being stupid.
Nope, if I can’t tell my best friend, I certainly am not gonna tell this brand new coach.
I plaster on a confident grin—or what I think a confident grin looks like.
“Okie dokie.”
She nods once, keeping that perma-sweet smile. “Try again tomorrow.”
We both get to our feet, and even though I’d normally jog back to the locker room, I take my sweet time.
“Trust my body?” I snort to myself when no one is within earshot. Probably sound advice, except my body and I aren’t getting along right now.
***
My house smells like bread again. Sweet, delectable, teasing bread. Must mean Aunt Heidi’s here.
“Ginger,” her voice says from the kitchen, and I jump because I thought I was being darn quiet. I turn the corner, and Aunt Heidi isn’t even looking at me, but a recipe book on the counter.
“What was that?” my mom asks, her head buried in the oven.
“Add a teaspoon of ginger,” she says, and I laugh, making her eyes drift up.
“I thought you were talking to me.” I skip over to the fridge, grabbing one of the cold waters and swigging half of it in record time. When I lower the bottle, Aunt Heidi’s grinning at me like she knows something I don’t. My eyes drift to Mom, and now that her head’s out of the oven, she gives me a similar grin as well before going to the boiling pot on the stove.
“What?” I say cautiously.
“There’s a boy in your room.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Huh?”
“A boy. In your room.” Aunt Heidi pops her gum inwardly, making the loudest crack to echo through the kitchen.
“Who?” It has to be someone significant because I have so many guy friends that it’s hardly an issue to have a boy over. A small, very illogical part of me pictures Oliver up there, but I shoo the thought away because if he was, that means he followed me home. And that is not cute. That is creeperific.
“I don’t know,” she sings, handing my mom the ginger. Mom’s suddenly too busy biting her lip over her cooking to show any interest in the conversation. That’s when I wise up to the “boy in my room” not being a big deal at all. Aunt Heidi must be on something.
I take the steps two at a time, hoping that whoever is in my room is quick with their business, because I have to pee, and I smell like a mound of sweaty armpits from the run home.
My door is closed, which is not normal—I like to keep air flow going through there so I don’t stink up the place with my sweaty running attire—so I’m a bit cautious turning the knob.
“Give me a sec!” Drake says, voice muffled into the carpet because he’s bent in half, butt totally stuck in the air. “Almost done!”
There are bears… everywhere.
I am not a stuffed animal girl. They give me the creeps. One time Nana sent me a giant stuffed fish after I finished first in a school-wide race back when I was eight. She thought I was a swimmer—Mom and I just let that one slide. I put it in the corner of my room up on a shelf, and I swear, the thing came to life the second I fell asleep, and tried to swim over to me. Three times I woke up, and every time it was closer and closer to me.
Shiver.
And now there are not one set of black glossy eyes looking at me, but over twenty. Maybe over fifty.
“Uh… did a teddy bear convention come to town? Or was the porridge just too hot, and they’re waiting for it to cool?”
Drake shoots upright, knocking his head on a shelf that he’d lined with bears of all sizes. They topple over, each pelting him on their way to the floor.
“Ah, shoot,” he curses, karate-chopping a purple bear as it falls. “The
y were supposed to keep you busy till I left.”
“Aunt Heidi has never been good at following directions, and I bet my mom wasn’t even listening.”
He grins. “She did seem pretty preoccupied with that cookbook.” Redness splashes his cheeks as he leans forward, grappling for a giant poster board on my bed. He holds it up, completely covering his ever-reddening face.
“I’d be beary honored if you’d go to the fall formal with me,” I read aloud. He refuses to come out of hiding.
“I’ll… uh… just let you think about it. Get back to me… you know…” He starts walking toward the door, keeping the sign up. I grab one of the freaky bears on the bed and chuck it at him.
“Whoa!”
“Don’t leave yet. I wanna talk.”
“I know it’s lame, but the guys said I needed to ask in a fun way.”
Or a creepy way. I shove all the bears off my bed and plop down on the mattress. He slowly starts to peek from behind the sign.
“I just want to make sure you’re serious. Isn’t there a girl you’re actually interested in that you want to take?”
Drake could have his pick, and well, he has, if you know what I mean. He’s got that dorky, confident act going, and he’s funny as all heck, and girls flock to him from every which way. But with me, it’s always felt like I was his bro. A school dance seems like the perfect opportunity to capitalize on a romantic situation with a romantic interest. Not the girl you have farting contests with.
He sits on the bed next to me, letting the poster flop against his leg. “Well, I am.”
“What now?”
“I am asking someone I’m interested in.”
I’m so shocked that I can’t even hide my skepticism and accompanying snort. And that’s when I catch that he’s totally not looking at me. He’s looking at them.
His eyes have drilled into my chest, staring at them with some kind of majestic glow that manifests their glory just hidden under the overlarge golf shirt I stole from my dad. I want to smack the look right off his doofy face, but my hand won’t move. I feel a prickly rise of water-like substance prod the back of my eyeballs, and I slam my arms across the Sharpies, turning away from him in all-out embarrassment.
