A breeze ripples through my hair. “She wanted to marry him,” I say, rolling my eyes at the stupidity of it all. “Shannon was so smart, but she wanted to spend the rest of her life with this stupid, shallow guy. If only she’d listened to Mom.”
Gibs studies me closely, then the slightest of smiles creeps across his lips.
I drop my head and laugh. I’m as stunned as he is at what I’ve just said.
Thirty-Seven
“Excuse me …”
I hadn’t planned on stopping by Mr. Kibbits’ classroom. It’s registration day at school and I’ve come to the cafeteria to pick up my schedule. It was while I was standing in the N-Z line, smiling nonchalantly at familiar faces as they milled around the room, that I decided to pop my head into his room. I’m glad I haven’t thought it through. I have no idea what I’m going to say to him. I’m not even sure he’s here.
But he is.
“Summer!” he says brightly, looking up from his desk as he sees me hovering in the doorway. His gray hair looks freshly trimmed, framing his boyish face. His tie is loosened.
“Come in, come in!” he adds, glancing at the piece of paper I’m holding. “A problem with your schedule?”
I shake my head.
He smiles. “I didn’t think so. Come sit down.”
He nods toward a chair by his desk, then stands up and waves me toward it.
I sit down as he gathers the papers on his desk into a stack and moves them aside. He crosses his arms, leans back casually, and looks me in the eye.
“So. How are you doing?”
I tug a lock of hair. “Okay. I just wanted to say hi.”
He pauses, studying my face. “Have you finished Shannon’s journal?”
My eyes fall, and I stare at my fingers. “She didn’t finish it,” I say softly. “Life just … left her hanging, you know?”
He pauses, then nods. “I guess that’s what ultimately happens to everybody. We’re here one day, gone the next.” He clears his throat. “I didn’t mean to sound insensitive,” he qualifies.
“It’s okay,” I insist. “I know it’s a bummer she died so young, but I’m kinda getting that. We’re here one day, we’re gone the next, and life goes on.”
I steal a glance at him. “Did you know her boyfriend got her best friend pregnant?”
Mr. Kibbits blushes and looks at his lap. “There were rumors.”
“Did Jamie have the baby?”
He tugs at the knot in his tie. “No. She was in school that fall.”
“An abortion?”
He blushes again. “I don’t know, Summer. Maybe a miscarriage. I never knew Jamie very well, and I think she dropped out before she graduated. But she was in school most of the year, and she obviously wasn’t pregnant. For whatever reason, her pregnancy didn’t last long.”
“And Chris?” I persist. “Did she and Chris stay together?”
He shakes his head vigorously. “I don’t think they were ever together.”
Of course. She was just having his baby, that’s all. Jamie meant nothing to Chris. For the first time, I feel a stab of pity toward her.
I take a deep breath, then look into his eyes. “Do you think Shannon drove into that tree on purpose?”
I can tell that Mr. Kibbits wants to look away, but he forces himself to hold my gaze. I hear the ticking of his clock as a few seconds pass.
“No,” he finally says in a firm voice. “Shannon was a very smart, sensible girl. She had her whole life ahead of her.” He pauses. “She didn’t … imply anything like that in her journal, did she?”
I clutch my schedule tighter. “She found out right before she died that Jamie was pregnant. She was really upset.”
Mr. Kibbits’ eyebrows weave together.
“But a couple of days after she found out, she wrote about going to school to pick up her schedule … just like I’m doing now,” I continue. “I’m sure she was still upset, but the entry was … I don’t know … matter-of-fact.”
The clock ticks away more seconds.
“She wouldn’t have picked up her schedule, she wouldn’t have seemed so matter-of-fact, if she was planning to …” My voice drifts away.
Mr. Kibbits nods quickly, as if he’s convincing himself at the same time he’s trying to convince me. “Right. She was moving on.”
“That was her last journal entry,” I say. “The Wednesday of that week is when she found out about Jamie. She wrote, I want to kill myself. But then, two days later, she’s writing about picking up her schedule, what classes she’s taking, planning to carpool with Eve. Did you see her any of that week? The days before she died?”
“No,” he says quietly. “I wish I had. I didn’t know she was going through such a hard time. About all that, anyway. The rumors about Jamie didn’t get cranked up until school was back in session, so … I didn’t know. I wish I’d been able to help her.”
My eyes flicker toward his. “I know about my dad now.”
He studies my face for a second.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I finger my chin. “All her illusions evaporated that summer,” I say, more to myself than to him. “She found out about Dad’s affair, she realized Mom was all about appearances, she got her heart broken …”
Mr. Kibbits picks up a pencil and taps it against his desk, the rhythm jarringly dissonant with the ticking of the clock. “Life’s never that cut and dried,” he says. “Shannon had some problems, but she was working through them. If she’d lived longer, she would’ve had new problems, then worked through those. Like all of us do.” He lets the pencil drop from his grasp. “That’s life.”
He leans closer toward me. “I’m sorry you had to learn about the turmoil she was going through. I’m sorry she had some tough breaks before she died. But her life wasn’t about turmoil and tough breaks, Summer. I knew her. Trust me—she was happy.”
I hug my arms together. “As best as I can tell, her life never had many tough breaks before that summer. Maybe it was too much for her. Maybe she didn’t want to live unless her life could be perfect. Maybe she didn’t think she deserved to live if her life wasn’t perfect.”
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“You know what I think?” Mr. Kibbits says in a faraway voice, fingering his pencil again. “I think she was growing up that summer, getting wiser and stronger. I think she would have made a hell of a grown-up.”
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“I wish I could have helped her,” I say.
Mr. Kibbits smiles at me. “She would have wanted to help you.”
I swallow hard to tamp down the knot in my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut, and when they open, they fall on the schedule I’m holding in my lap …
1st period: Spanish II, rm. 108, Dawson
2nd period: English Composition, rm. 222, Brantley
3rd period: Sociology, rm. 206, Parkinson
4th period: Lunch
5th period: Anatomy, rm. 417, Raleigh
6th period: Gen. Statistics, rm. 303, Portman
7th period: Study Hall, rm. 136, Bell
I glance up at Mr. Kibbits.
“Here’s my schedule,” I say, handing it to him. “Wanna take a look and give me the inside scoop on my teachers?”
His face brightens. He takes my schedule and feigns a look of intense concern.
“My God, you’d be better off getting taught by monkeys.”
We laugh.
“Kidding,” he says. “Although Mrs. Parkinson is a little on the boring side. The word in the teachers’ lounge is that several students have actually lapsed into comas during her class. But you didn’t hear it from me.”
He hands me back my schedule and we smile.
“Sorry I can’t be in your English class,” I tell him. “AP classes are a little out of my league.”
He taps his pencil on the desk again. Now, it’s in synch with the ticking of the clock.
“I’m sorry, too. I don’t think you have a clue how much you’re capab
le of. But you’ll find out.”
I nod. “Thanks for talking to me,” I tell him.
He nods back, then holds up an index finger. “You know … a teacher’s recommendation is all it would take to transfer you from College-Prep English to AP Comp,” he says. “And if I happened to be the teacher to make the recommendation, then I could pretty much guarantee which AP Comp class you’d end up in.”
I blush and smile.
“Push yourself a little, Summer,” Mr. Kibbits says. “I think you’d do a great job in my class. What do you say?”
I shrug. “I think I’d love your class.”
He nods. “Then it’s a done deal. But rest up this weekend. I’ll work you pretty hard.”
I smile. “I think I’m up for it.”
He smiles back. “I think so, too.”
I whisk a lock of hair off my shoulder. “Thanks. Really.”
“You’re welcome. Really. I think you’re going to have a wonderful year.”
I smile and stand up. I reach out to shake his hand, then feel vaguely self-conscious. A handshake? When the hell did I start shaking people’s hands?
But Mr. Kibbits takes my hand and embraces it warmly.
“You’re going to have a great year,” he repeats.
And, just like that, I believe him.
Thirty-Eight
“I think I’ve found her.”
I pull the front door closed behind me and join Gibs on the front porch. My parents and I finished dinner an hour ago, but the scent of pork chops still drifts in the air.
“Found who?” I ask.
He motions with a nod, and I follow him to the porch steps. He sits on the top one, pulling a piece of paper out of his jeans pocket.
I peer at it. It’s a printout of a web page … a page full of addresses.
“A list of the Jamie Williamses within a hundred-mile radius,” Gibs explains.
“Oh,” I say. “Hey, guess what? I stopped by to see Mr. Kibbits today when I was picking up my school schedule. He said he could get me into his AP Comp class next year.”
Gibs looks confused, then smiles. “Good. That’s exactly where you should be. So anyway, I was surfing the Net for …”
“Unfortunately, I got Parkinson for sociology,” I continue. “But, man, I’m stoked about Mr. Kibbits’ class. A hell of a time for me to have honors aspirations, huh?”
Gibs’ head inches closer to mine as he gazes at me quizzically. “O-kay,” he say. “Anyway, Jamie Williams is a really common name, but I narrowed down …”
I hold up the palm of my hand.
“What?” Gibs asks, more confused than ever.
“What classes are you taking?” I ask him.
“What what? Classes? I dunno … the schedule’s in my car. I’ll show it to you later. Anyway, of the several dozen Jamie Williamses within a hundred-mile radius—you figure the Jamies of the world never venture too far from home—I found three who—”
My hand shoots up again.
Gibs squeezes his eyes shut for a second. “What?” he asks again, confusion tinged with irritation.
I gently pull a strand of hair away from his face. “Thank you,” I say sincerely. “Thank you for trying to track her down.”
His eyebrows arch. “But … ?”
“But I don’t think I want to find her.”
A squirrel scampers across the lime-green lawn, darting nimbly through Mom’s impatiens and climbing a tree. A red bird on a branch of the tree squawks disapprovingly, spreads its wings, and soars into the sky.
I take the paper from Gibs’ hands, fold it, and set it aside. “I don’t think I could take it if I tracked down Jamie and she reacted the same way Chris did, almost like, ‘Shannon who?’ ” I stare at my hands. “I don’t know what I was expecting. I mean, I know they were ‘just kids’ and all, but Shannon has always been larger than life to me, and to have her reduced to that dumb blank stare on Chris’ face … Besides, Jamie wasn’t a real friend. She was just a blip in Shannon’s life.”
Gibs rubs his chin. “But she’s the one who told Shannon she was pregnant. She could tell you things that …”
I fan another mosquito away from my face, then lean back against the porch on my elbows.
“I don’t think it makes sense to try to turn Shannon’s life into some deep, dark mystery,” I say, peering at the lightning bugs that have begun blinking through the evening breeze. Or maybe they’ve been in the air all along, and it’s only just now, when the dusk is descending like a curtain, that I’m able to see the flashes of light. “I know what I need to know. I think it’s time to move on.”
Gibs considers my words, then nods sharply. “Good plan.”
I smile as I study his face closer. “You know,” I say playfully, “I can’t help thinking that although Shannon totally outshone me in pretty much every area of life, I have infinitely better taste in boyfriends.”
He angles his face and brings it closer to mine. My face presses toward his and we kiss. My hands wrap around the back of his neck. Crickets chirp louder as we push closer and closer together.
Beep!
We glance up, startled. Aunt Nic has just pulled into the driveway. She waves at us heartily as she gets out of the car.
“Don’t stop on my account,” she calls, walking toward us.
Gibs jumps to his feet. “Hi …”
“Hi, Gibson,” Aunt Nic says. “Don’t get up. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d bring Summer her paycheck.” She winks at me and I drop my face into my hands.
“I was just leaving … ” Gibs stammers.
“You don’t have to.”
“No, really,” he insists. “I have to be getting home.” He gives me a formal little nod. “Summer. And Mrs. …”
“Call me Nicole, remember?” Aunt Nic tells him. “Or Nic. Nic is good.”
He swallows hard. “Alright then. Goodbye, Mrs. … Goodbye.”
Gibs drops his head and rushes down the steps. I giggle and wave as he gets into his car and drives off.
Aunt Nic looks at me and mouths, “Oh my God!” She joins me on the stoop. “You little sneak … you are a couple! Like, duh. I knew it.”
I laugh and twirl a piece of hair around my finger.
“He’s adorable, by the way,” Aunt Nic adds.
I wrinkle my nose. “You think?”
“Uh, totally. Have you told your mom yet that you two are an item?”
I roll my eyes. “Item,” I repeat mockingly, making Aunt Nic laugh. “Mom is on a need-to-know basis only. You’ll keep quiet under penalty of death.”
“Why?” she asks with an exaggerated pout. “Your mom would be thrilled. She’d be inviting Gibson over for dinner, and packing picnic lunches for the two of you, and taking his mother to lunch, and—”
“Yeah, that’s kinda why.”
“Well, you’d better stop smooching on the front porch, or the jig will definitely be up.”
We smile as a warm breeze gently buffets our hair.
“I finished her journal,” I say softly.
Aunt Nic lays her hand on my back. “Are you glad you read it?”
I nod. The lightning bugs are in full swing now, dancing through the air like neon confetti. “Did you know she’d broken up with Chris right before she died?”
“Mmmm,” Aunt Nic says. “Your mom told me. She didn’t have many details—she was just so happy Shannon had finally seen the light.”
“So you didn’t talk to Shannon about the breakup?” I ask cautiously.
Aunt Nic shakes her head. “I wish I had. Uncle Matt and I were at the beach the week before she died. We got home late that Sunday night, then, the next morning …”
I take a deep breath of honeysuckle-scented air. “It was nice to find out that Shannon wasn’t perfect. Makes me feel a little less hopelessly disappointing.”
Aunt Nic rubs my back. “Why would you think that?” she asks. “You’re the bravest person I know. That’s why I trusted you wit
h Shannon’s journal.”
I smile at her. “Thanks. I think I’ll trust Mom and Dad with it.”
She pauses, then nods, her eyes warm.
“They can read it if they like, or put it away … whatever,” I say. “But it should be their choice to make. I know some of it might freak them out, but … I think Shannon got the fundamental flaw in our family.”
“Yes?” Aunt Nic prods.
“That what we have here,” I say, in my best Cool Hand Luke imitation, sweeping my arm toward our house, “is a failure to communicate.”
Aunt Nic giggles.
I giggle, too, then rest my chin on my hand. “I don’t want to fail at communication any more,” I say.
Aunt Nic takes a deep breath. “Well,” she says, the crickets chirping in the background, “I think you and Shannon make a pretty good team.”
Thirty-Nine
I walk into the house, the garlic scent from the pork chops still lingering in the air. I pass Mom scrubbing pots in the kitchen and wave at her casually, then go into the den. The news is on TV and Dad is sitting at the computer.
“Hi, Dad,” I say.
“Hi, hon.”
I sit in the swivel chair and turn in his direction. Dad turns around and faces me.
“Can I ask you a question?” I say.
He smiles. “Shoot.”
I tilt my head a bit. “How did you and Mom deal with it when Shannon died?”
He looks a little startled, then runs his fingers through his hair. “Your mother kept me going. She kept us going. I couldn’t have gotten through it without her.”
I search his eyes.
“You’re like your mother,” he tells me. “Strong. And smart.”
A sudden whoosh of Shalimar fills the air. Dad and I glance toward the door and watch Mom walk in.
“Summer, I forgot to ask you during dinner—did you remember to pick up your schedule from school?”
I nod. “I’m all set. Ready to start senior year Monday.”
My eyes dart from one parent to the other to gauge their reactions. Dad looks wistful; Mom looks unflappable. She starts rifling through mail.
I steel myself and keep going. “I’m about to catch up with Shannon,” I say. “That’s the last thing she ever did. Start the first day of her senior year.”
Then I Met My Sister Page 18
