by Jenn Bishop
Life goals, she wrote back.
It was only the next morning as I headed out the door that I realized I’d forgotten to text Becca about Austin.
CHAPTER SIX
A complete labrum tear. That’s what the specialists said. Basically, Austin’s tendon wasn’t attached to the bone anymore and the only way they could reattach it was with surgery. They needed to wait a few weeks for the inflammation to calm down, plus there were the holidays, so the earliest they could get him in was December 27.
But the truth is, as nervous as I was about the surgery, it went fine. The weird part was how Austin acted when they brought him home from the hospital. He was like one of those zombies from The Walking Dead—not that I’ve actually seen the show. Too scary. Still, the zombie version of Austin talked all funny, slurring his words. And even weirder were his delayed reactions. How it took him longer to laugh at something funny. And how he couldn’t follow a conversation—he was always two steps behind.
Dad said it was because he was on some strong painkillers and that he’d be like that for only a few days, which was true, but still, it freaked me out. It was unsettling, seeing someone you know well act so out of character.
But by the time we returned to school after break, Austin mostly seemed like his old self. Sure, he couldn’t play with the basketball team, but he was still going to practice and games to cheer on his teammates. And Savannah was over all the time, helping him with assignments.
Maybe, if I could go back and find the first sign that something had changed, it was that first Tuesday in February. I don’t know what it is about February, but even though it has the fewest days of any month, somehow it always feels the longest.
Every day was cold and gray. Icy snow that refused to melt crusted the edges of the sidewalks in town. The sun was setting well before five, so by the time art club was over, it was too dark to walk back home alone. Dad had been covering for Shannon Malone, the early-morning meteorologist who was out on maternity leave, so he was home in the afternoon to pick me up from school.
That Tuesday as I hopped into his Audi, he asked if I wanted to go out for ice cream. “Do you have bad news or something?” I asked.
Dad chuckled.
“I’m serious. We’re not a random ‘going out for ice cream after school’ kind of family.”
Dad pouted. “Didn’t realize I needed a reason to grab a milkshake with my favorite girl. My mistake. Should we just head home, then?” he asked with a smile.
“No.” I laughed. “Now I’m hungry for a milkshake.”
“That’s my girl.”
After savoring our milkshakes—coffee for Dad, vanilla for me—we grabbed a chocolate one for Austin.
When we got home, Savannah’s car wasn’t parked in front of our house as usual, so I offered to bring up Austin’s milkshake. I wanted to tell him about the band showcase Kennedy invited me to, which was happening at her old school over February break, and how Lucy had a crush on one of the boys in this band called Strawberry Jammin’. Kennedy thought it was the dorkiest band name ever, but I thought it was kind of cute. I liked to picture a little strawberry behind a drum kit, and another with a bass guitar.
The only concert I’d ever been to was at Fenway Park. Mom had tickets to see Pearl Jam with Betsy from the store, but at the last minute Betsy couldn’t make it, so she took me. I couldn’t understand anything the singer guy was saying, but I guess Mom did.
The door to Austin’s room was closed. I stopped right outside, straining to hear if he was watching a movie on his iPad, which he’d been doing a lot lately. Had he fallen asleep?
“Austin?”
I heard a mumble from inside, so I pushed the door open a crack. It was weird, opening the door to Austin’s room, but it was still hard for him to get up and do it himself.
He was propped up in bed with his iPad on his lap, his cell phone next to him. The upper-left corner of the Modest Mouse poster had fallen down. It was the kind of thing Austin would’ve usually reached up and fixed right away—he loved that poster—but that would require two healthy arms. Scattered across his bed were schoolbooks and magazines—Rolling Stone and Sports Illustrated—plus two empty Pop-Tarts sleeves and a bag of tortilla chips.
“What?” he snapped. His eyes had dark circles under them and they looked runny.
“Are you okay?”
“Am I okay? Hmm, Emma. I can’t move my arm. I’m missing most of basketball season. We just dropped a game to Concord-Carlisle, which you know would never happen if I was playing, oh, and because things weren’t already crappy enough, Savannah just dumped me.”
I gasped. “She did?”
“Guess nobody gives a crap when I’m not the quarterback or the—”
“That’s not true, A. She’s a jerk. She’s a big—”
“Just stop, all right? You don’t know anything, Emma.” He reached with his left arm for the water bottle on his nightstand, but it toppled over, landing on the floor with a thunk before rolling out of reach. “Dammit.” He closed his eyes, slamming the back of his head against the headboard.
“Austin.”
“I can’t do anything for myself. Do you know how that feels?”
Now it was my eyes that were smarting as I grabbed the water bottle and held it out to him. Austin snatched it from my hand. His good arm was still plenty strong.
“Just go, Emma. I don’t… I just can’t. Not right now.”
So I did.
It wasn’t until I was back in my room that I realized I was still holding the milkshake we’d brought back for him.
I sat on the edge of my bed, sucking down that chocolate milkshake and thinking about all the things I did for Austin. All those basketball and football games. Those cold nights in the stands. The blowout games we could’ve left in the third quarter.
What did I get in return? No, really?
I didn’t tear his labrum. I didn’t break up with him. How come I was the one he was yelling at, then? Just because I was there? That wasn’t fair.
I sucked harder, slurping up the last of the milkshake, until all that was left was air.
You don’t know anything, Emma.
I aimed the empty cup for my trash can and watched as it rattled in there. A three-point shot. Better than Austin could do right now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Any other time, Austin would’ve been the one to drive me to the band showcase at Kennedy and Lucy’s former school the Friday night leading into February break. But with his shoulder not fully healed, he still couldn’t drive. And maybe, if I’m going to be totally honest, there were other reasons too.
Since the day Savannah broke up with him, when he blew up at me, I’d been avoiding him. Not entirely, of course. Most nights he still ate dinner with us. But after? When we’d both be upstairs in our rooms doing homework? He’d started closing the door to his bedroom more. Something he used to do only when Savannah was over.
Now that I was in the gym at Comey Valley Charter, watching Strawberry Jammin’ for myself, I could see why Kennedy didn’t think that was the right name for them. Strawberries made me think of summer, but there was nothing summery about their music. It was kind of dark. Moody, even.
Kennedy had dyed that one chunk of her hair an electric blue and woven in a few feathers. She was bopping her head to the beat.
“That’s him,” Lucy whispered in my ear. “Leo. The singer.”
His hair was curly, just long enough to tuck behind his ears, and he was wearing thick black plastic glasses. He leaned into the mic, shouting lyrics to some song I didn’t know yet but somehow already liked, and strumming on his electric guitar.
Behind the drums sat a boy wearing a black beanie and the kind of vintage band shirt my dad would sometimes wear on weekends. Though I couldn’t make out what band. I couldn’t stop watching him. The way his tongue would creep out the corner of his mouth the tiniest bit. Like he was concentrating so, so hard at keeping the rhythm even. The drummer holds everyt
hing together, doesn’t he? Like the glue of the band?
I think Austin said that before.
If I were making a shadow box for Strawberry Jammin’, what would go in it? After I told them to get a new name, I mean. I think the background could be a vintage T-shirt. Something threadbare from Goodwill. I could put some guitar picks inside it. Maybe a drumstick or two. And then maybe, maybe if I had the lyrics to their songs, I could cut them out, glue a few of them to the inside of the glass.
Yeah, that could work.
When their set ended, CVC’s music teacher stepped up to the mic. “Coming up next, in about fifteen minutes, the Lavenders!” Off in the shadows, a girl with a purple T-shirt knotted above her high-waisted jeans had an acoustic guitar slung over her back. She was talking to a few other girls, also wearing various shades of purple, including one who was twirling drumsticks. An all-girl band? We needed to stick around for them.
“Want to go grab a drink?” Kennedy asked.
I peeked back at the drummer as he got up from the drum set. He picked off his beanie, holding it in his teeth, and ran his fingers through his perfect, thick brown hair.
“Earth to Emma?”
“Sorry,” I said.
“No you’re not.” Kennedy laughed. “You have a crush.”
“What?” Even though it was kind of cold in the gym, I could feel my face flush. “No, I don’t.”
“Wow, you are a horrible liar. Like, really. Don’t ever try to work for the CIA, Emma.”
“On Noah?” Lucy asked. “Noah Sullivan? Little Noah Sullivan?” She played with the tiny orange woolen paws dangling from her fox hat.
“He’s not so little anymore,” Kennedy said. “A lot can happen in five months, huh? He looks more like his older brother.”
I couldn’t stop my eyes from darting back in his direction. He was dismantling his drum kit so the next band could set up. What was wrong with me? No, like, really. This had never happened with any boy back at my school. They were all so… I don’t know, familiar. And none of them had had growth spurts yet. They still looked like fifth graders.
“Let’s go get that drink,” I said. “I’m thirsty.”
“Yeah,” Kennedy said. “Thirsty for Noah Sullivan.”
“Ew. Stop.” I smacked her as we headed into the hallway.
Students were selling water, soda, and baked goods to raise money for a local animal shelter. We bought waters and an enormous M&M chocolate chip cookie to split between the three of us and found a quiet spot to sit against some lockers.
“You should go say hi to him, Emma.” Kennedy broke the cookie into thirds. Well, sort of thirds. More like a half and two quarters. Lucy lunged for the largest piece.
“Say hi to him? No way.” I took a bite of cookie.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Kennedy asked.
Spontaneous combustion.
“I don’t know…,” I said. “What would I even say next? After hi, I mean?”
Kennedy ran her tongue over her teeth to get at a piece of red M&M. “You could say that you liked his band. You could ask how long he’s played the drums. You could ask… anything, Em. He’s just a person.”
“A cute boy person,” I said. “That’s the difference.”
“What, and Austin’s never had any cute friends?” Kennedy asked.
“Ken’s right,” Lucy said. “You’ve one hundred percent definitely talked to a cute boy before. It would be humanly impossible not to unless you never left your house. And you do leave your house.”
“Em,” Kennedy said, nodding. “Em!”
“What?” Did I have chocolate stuck to my teeth too?
“He’s about to walk by us,” Kennedy said.
“Who?” I asked.
Kennedy rolled her eyes. “The Pope.”
The Pope?
“Noah, Em. Noah!” she whisper-yelled.
I jerked my head around and there he was. Along with the bassist from Strawberry Jammin’. The two of them were carrying the kick drum, Noah leading the way.
“Be brave, Emma,” Kennedy said, before shoving the last bite of cookie in her mouth.
My heart was in my throat. Or maybe, maybe that was just some cookie. I should’ve had more water. But if I took a sip now, I’d miss my chance. “Hey,” I said, surprised by the sound of my own voice. Was it always that high? “You guys were really good.”
His head pivoted toward me. He had the most beautiful hazel eyes, like something out of a painting in a museum. “Thanks,” he said, and then he did this funny thing with his mouth, halfway between a grimace and a smile. “I kinda botched that last song.”
“I couldn’t even tell.”
“That makes me feel better.”
“Let’s move it, Sully. However strong you think I am, I’m not,” his bandmate said.
“Got to go,” Noah said to me, and then they continued down the hall.
Kennedy grabbed my shoulders the second they were out of earshot. “I knew you could do it.”
“I didn’t barf or explode!”
“Were those things maybe going to happen?” Lucy laughed.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t talk to cute boys. I told you!”
“Well, that is certifiably false.” Kennedy wiped some crumbs off her shirt. “Because you just did.”
“Hey, I think the Lavenders are starting up.” Just as Lucy said it, I heard a guitar softly strumming. “Time to head back in?”
The Lavenders weren’t the kind of band you stood around for. Everyone was sitting in groups on the floor, and so we sat down, the three of us, twenty feet or so back from the stage. I stretched my legs out in front of me, knocking my feet together to the beat. Lucy was playing with the strings from her hat. Kennedy had taken out a Sharpie and was drawing little stars all over the back of her right hand.
Suddenly, I could picture it. Like a fast-forward of my life. Me and Kennedy and Lucy. I could see us together in high school, going to a party. I couldn’t imagine drinking or most of the other stuff that happens at those parties Austin goes to, but I could imagine us. Our trio. My… my herd.
* * *
The next morning, I stopped by Becca’s for my usual second breakfast. Becca’s Bubbe probably wondered why on earth my parents never seemed to feed me breakfast on Saturdays. Well, if she did, she never said anything. Anyway, it was pretty much her fault for making the most delicious challah French toast on the planet. Who could say no to that? Not my stomach.
Becca and her family were leaving for Paris later that afternoon for all of February vacation. It wasn’t like I actually wanted to swap families with Becca, but every time they went on fancy vacations, I couldn’t help but be a little jealous.
We O’Malleys hardly went anywhere. Mom never trusted leaving the store for too long, and even though he had to travel to cover big storms, my dad didn’t really like flying. We went down to the Cape every summer for a week or two, but that was about it.
“I wish I could go to Paris,” I said, sitting cross-legged on Becca’s bed.
Her suitcase was still open on the trunk by the window. Sweaters, shirts, and jeans neatly rolled, all ready for the trip.
She sat down on the other side, one leg tucked beneath her, the other dangling free. “I’m actually kind of nervous this time.”
“Nervous? Why?”
“You know… after last summer…”
There had been a terrorist attack in the summer, but it wasn’t in Paris; it was on the other side of France. “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” I said. “It’s Paris! The Eiffel Tower, the Louvre. It’ll be amazing. Oh!” I said, suddenly thinking of something else amazing. “I have to tell you about last night.”
“What happened last night?”
“I went to this band showcase over at Ken and Luce’s old school and there was this boy named Noah and…” I told her all of it. Or at least, I tried to. It was hard to put it into words, exactly, how it felt like this whole new chapter of my life
started last night. I hopped off the bed and reenacted everything.
“But you barely talked to him,” she said. “Do you think you’ll ever see him again?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe? Maybe not. But that isn’t even the point.”
“What is the point, then?” she asked plainly.
“That something was finally happening. For once, in my life. It felt like anything could happen. You know?”
“He’s just a boy, though. We have those at our school too.”
Ugh, she was being so logical. Too logical. Too Becca.
“Maybe it was one of those things where you just had to be there,” I said.
“Guess so.” The way she said it stung. And for the first time it occurred to me that maybe it bothered her, me hanging out with Kennedy and Lucy so much on the weekends. Even though Becca and I still walked to school together every day and I still came over for second breakfast every Saturday.
“It was just exciting, you know? I want my life to be more exciting.”
Just then something caught my eye in Becca’s suitcase. Sticking out of the corner was the familiar pale blue and pink of her kitty blanket. That old thing used to be thick and filled with cotton back when we were little, but now it was thin and worn, soft as an old T-shirt. I knew she still slept with it sometimes in fifth grade, but come on. We were middle schoolers now. “You’re bringing this to Paris?”
Becca pulled it out of my hands and stuffed it back into her suitcase, but not before rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. “So? You’re wearing your lucky sweatshirt.”
“That’s different.”
“How is it any different? When they’re on a winning streak, baseball players will go days without shaving or changing their socks or lucky underwear.”
“Becca, that’s totally different. They’re…”
“They’re what?”
Professional athletes, for one. Millionaires. Cooler than you or I will ever be. But I didn’t say any of that. “Becca, it’s a baby blanket.”
