by Jolene Perry
One foot in front of the other, and my brain shuts down enough that I blink a few times and I’m home. This is why I don’t drive.
The parking lot at home is full, but I still push through the front doors and then stop when several pairs of eyes in gray, wrinkly faces are on me. Frowning. I glance down at my worn shoes, bare legs, and short, faded plaid skirt. Oops.
I walk quickly to the back office door and slip inside before I disrupt anything further.
Grabbing cookies, I wander into the house, which feels positively like an oven with the sun today.
Is Hartman sick?
Did something happen with him?
Why can’t Bree just give me a clean slate?
Instead of totally spiraling into something pathetic, I send Hartman a text. US gov’t isn’t the same without you. And you were right. Bree isn’t happy with me.
After a cool shower and a very quiet dinner with my parents, I finally get a text from Hartman. Sorry about Bree. Chat?
YES! Once I hit Send, I realize how pathetic I might have sounded.
When my phone rings, my hand shakes a little before I answer. All these raging nerves over one person. Is it even worth it?
“Hello?”
“Hey…” His voice sounds off.
I clutch the phone tighter. “I…”
I missed you.
You weren’t at school today.
Are you okay? Are we?
How did my friend start hating me so fast?
“It’s been weird at home,” he says slowly. “We’re packing to go back to Connecticut for a couple days. Long story, but the short version is that Mom wants to sort through a few things in storage there before we pay to ship the rest of our stuff. She also wants to say the good-byes she was too sad to say when we left the first time. And—”
But he just stops. Silences himself.
“How…um…how long will you be gone?”
“A few days. Maybe a week,” he says quietly.
Prom shouldn’t even matter or be on my radar, but that’s the first thing I think. We’ll probably miss prom. Tears pool at the corners of my eyes. All of this over one stupid night? One person? How does one person have the ability to make me feel so much? Bree makes sense. I’ve known her for years. Hartman I’ve known for a couple weeks. I have to snap out of this.
I can’t talk to Hartman about Bree, not when he sounds so strange, and Bree isn’t available for me to talk about Hartman…Aunt Liza would tell me a crazy story, Matthew would talk about some dead person, Mickey would get starry-eyed and tell me to do something over-the-top romantic. Parents are out because…just…no.
“Okay,” I say brightly. I even force myself to smile, which is stupid because he can’t see me. “Have a good time with your friends and stuff, and I guess I’ll see you when I see you.”
“Gabe,” he says softly. If he’s about to apologize, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to feel so attached.
“Thanks for calling to say you’d be out of town. We’ll talk later!” My voice is a strangled sort of cheery. All I really hope for is that he can’t read through the fakeness over the phone.
“I just…Yeah…It’s going to be busy there with stuff, but I’ll text you.”
“Oh, you know…” I swallow the lump in my throat so I can keep trying to sound normal. “Whatever. It’s cool. I guess I’ll see you when you get back.”
A few moments of silence pass between us before Hartman answers. “Okay.”
“Okay. Later.” And I hang up before I’m attacked by any more feelings or before he gives me more bad news, or tries to apologize, or tries to distance himself from me. Everything between us, if there’s still something between us, feels so completely breakable.
Chapter 19
Wednesday night I go to the bakery, order myself two doughnuts, and eat one on my way to the beach. It’s not the same without Bree. Actually, eating a doughnut by myself is just a smashing reminder of how alone I am.
I pause and consider asking Mickey to join me, but instead I head down the steps to the sand and ocean, my second doughnut at the ready. Maybe I’ll figure out what to do or what to say to make everything better after some sugar and sand.
I hope.
It’s Thursday. Thursday. Still total lockout from Bree, and nothing more than single-sentence texts from Hartman. I know he’s out of town and probably busy, but he hasn’t initiated talking once. It’s been four days. I’m so worried about him and about us that I can’t eat, or maybe I can’t eat because Bree still won’t talk to me. Won’t answer my texts. Won’t even look at me in our classes or the rare times when we pass in the hallway.
Trying to take three breaths to get rid of this aching sickness that’s spreading from my gut is a joke.
After school, I walk to Bree’s house instead of home. It’s a good mile and a half, but it’s not like I have anything to do. I need to talk to her. I need some answers, ideas…anything that’s not silence. My doughnut habit is going to force a change in my wardrobe soon.
Why is Bree still so mad about this one thing? It’s not like Bryce got suspended. So what if he was in trouble for a weekend? We’re supposed to be closer than arguments like this.
I turn onto Bree’s road just in time to see her run from her house toward Bryce’s car. Supershort cutoff jean shorts and those lame white tennis shoes half the senior class is wearing this spring. This is not her.
“Bree!” I call as I jog her way.
She pauses and then frowns.
“Just a sec?” I ask.
Glancing back at Bryce, she takes a few steps my way. “What do you want, Gabe?”
“Why are you so mad? I get that I screwed up, but…”
“I can’t handle anyone else disapproving of my life. Dad won’t…” She bites her lip and looks away for a moment. “I don’t have the energy to deal with your constant disapproval of Bryce.” Her gaze flashes back toward her grammy’s house. “Not right now.”
“I don’t…” I glance toward Bryce’s car and try not to think about him sitting there and maybe listening in. “I’ll try to…” Try to what?
Bree sighs. “We really need to get going. The group is waiting for us. I’ll see you later, Gabe.”
My shoulders fall. “Do you still need a ride to prom?”
“So you can hit my boyfriend again?” She jerks open the door.
“I won’t. I…” I didn’t even hurt him, so it’s annoying that this is even a thing.
Bree looks me up and down like she’s seeing who I am outside of us being friends. Her eyes travel from my dad’s worn shoes to my unstyled hair. I’m still staring at her generic T-shirt, which is completely not Bree-like. “We’ll talk at school tomorrow.”
They drive away. Leaving me on the sidewalk. Alone.
Tapping on my phone, I text Hartman even though I don’t expect a response.
You around?
I don’t wait for his answer because all week it’s taken him hours to write me back. At some point, I’ll need to give up. Slipping my phone in my pocket, I slowly walk back home.
I’m not in the mood to be the perfect worker-bee daughter or to tell my parents what’s going on with Hartman (they’d probably be relieved) or Bree (they’d be far too worried and might contact her parents).
Hartman still hasn’t written me when I make the last turn before home. The parking lot is nearly empty when the house is in view, and the relief almost makes my knees buckle.
Even the lobby is quiet when I get there. Dad steps out of the office and gives me a smile and a welcome home before slipping back inside. I walk to the coffin room and stand in the doorway.
“The place is unusually empty of deceased guests today,” Angel says as he stands next to me. “Normally they’re all talking so loud it’s hard to answer the phone. Today it’s just Ms. Foster who won’t go away. She had cats. Did you know that?”
Since he’s not looking at me, I let my eyes roll.
Angel pat
s my shoulder. “Gotta finish up invoices.”
“See ya,” I mumble because I feel like I should say something.
I feel just like all these empty coffins and urns. Waiting to be filled. Nothing inside worth…anything. I take back what I said about Hartman being polite. Barely talking to a girl after kissing her is not polite.
Stepping into the dark room, I crawl into my white coffin and cross my legs. My fingers start tapping on my phone as I unleash the millions of things going through my head in a text to Hartman.
I don’t get why we aren’t talking much. Maybe it has nothing to do with me. Maybe you really are super busy. Bree is barely speaking to me and only to say I don’t understand and that she doesn’t want to deal with me. I’m just sad. This is stupid. I shouldn’t be sending you this. I really shouldn’t…I just thought we were friends, but friends talk, right?
I hit Send and my stomach lurches. What did I just do?
I read over my ramblings again, thinking that I’ve just ruined any chance of anything between us ever because I sound really needy and whiny, and that’s not what I wanted. I mean, I’m not sure what I wanted. There has to be a way to take that message back, right? I open my web browser and start typing to try to figure out how to delete a sent message.
My phone vibrates in my hand. I jerk so hard that the phone leaps into the closed side of the coffin. Crap.
I lean forward and feel around the satin interior, but nothing. The vibration rattles against my legs, and the light from my phone has slightly illuminated the foot part of the coffin. I slide around until I’m on my stomach before reaching into the bottom of the casket and feeling around. I laugh as I think about what I’d look like from inside the room, legs flailing from the head of the casket and nothing else.
I finally find the phone.
I’m so sorry, he says. I’ll call soon, but I’d rather talk face-to-face when I get home.
And that’s it. How can that be it? This is so completely unfair!
I take back what I said about you being polite. My finger hovers, but I don’t push Send.
“Gabe?” Dad asks.
I wriggle backward until I can sit up. “I dropped my phone.”
Dad quirks a brow. “I have customers coming in ten minutes.”
“Got it.” I jump out of the casket and fluff the small pillow. “All good.”
Dad’s eyes are on me with an odd look as I walk past him, but it’s not like I’m going to talk to him about this. Whatever this even is.
“Your mom got tied up. Could you walk to the elementary to get your sister and take her to Liza’s?” he asks.
I pause. “Yeah. For sure.” Because it’ll give me something to do.
Dad’s head rests to the side as he looks at me. “All okay?”
My teeth clench together when I try to smile. “Fine.”
I stare at my phone. I’d rather talk face-to-face. What does that mean? Why can’t Hartman call now? Why aren’t we texting back and forth? Did I screw up our kiss that badly? Is there a way to tell him I’m just inept, but still wanna try again?
I so need Bree.
Mickey’s bouncing by the time we’re in front of Aunt Liza’s house.
“I really, really don’t want to do this,” I say.
“But prom is this weekend!” Mickey’s exasperation is strangely satisfying.
I even lean back a little just to see how much bigger her eyes might get.
The problem is that since I haven’t really talked to Hartman, I don’t know if he’ll be home on time, so I can only assume we’re not going. “Whatever. I have stuff.”
Mickey growls, which makes me snort.
“Go!” she demands as she starts pushing on my back with her small hands. “I want to see you try on dresses.”
I want to flop back in my coffin with some music. Trying on dresses is something I should be doing with Bree.
But we’re through the door, and Liza throws her hands in the air in excitement and ushers us both downstairs with chatter that doesn’t stick in my brain long enough for me to know what’s being said.
Liza lights a cigarette as she tugs open the door to the massive room that doubles as a walk-in closet for our family’s belongings. Dresses. Shoes. Mirrors…Stacks of hats are on a high shelf that surrounds the room. Two racks of hanging clothes rest in the middle. One wall is nothing but clothing, and the other side is shelves of old military uniforms, books, cameras, photo boxes…
This is the best part of Aunt Liza’s house.
“You really shouldn’t smoke in here,” I say as my gaze floats over the floor-length dresses.
“I know, I know…” She waves me away. “Just this once.” Like she always says.
Mickey is already hanging up possibilities in the corner, next to the three-way mirror.
I find it very amusing that Liza has a corner to try things on. But then again, she doesn’t work much anymore, so maybe this is how she passes her days. The windowless basement room filled with beautiful things suddenly feels very sad.
“…because you really shouldn’t wear black, like always,” Mickey continues.
As stupid as it is to be looking for a dress that I’m not sure I’ll wear, I start toward the wall of floor-length gowns. Bree nearly had an aneurysm when I first brought her here. Liza’s cigarette smoke filled up the room almost as thickly as her crazy stories. Bree and I stood between the long, silk dresses, letting the soft fabric slip on our bare arms. It felt like we could have buttoned those dresses up and become princesses.
This was supposed to be our prom. What’s Bree going to wear? Who will she shop with? My stomach rolls.
Aunt Liza’s cigarette is out, and she’s chattering away with Mickey.
“…kitten heels…Here’s a bag…”
A deep-purple dress is held up to me, and I stare down at the shiny taffeta.
Boat neck, tie shoulders, full knee-length skirt. This is…“Too poufy.”
“Just try it.” Aunt Liza pushes the dress against me. “Trust me.”
Bree would love it for me.
I stand in the corner, half behind one of the center racks of clothes, and quickly trade out my school dress for the purple one.
“That was my sister’s dress,” Liza says. “Your grandma. You both have the same blond hair and body shape. I thought it would work.”
I tug on the side zipper until the fitted dress squeezes my ribs. Not too tight, but tight enough to know there will be no hiding in this thing.
“Whoa!” Mickey screeches.
I stand in front of the three-way mirror, staring at someone who doesn’t look like me. Tiny waist. Curves. Lean arms. The purple actually gives my skin a nice tone—though that could be the soft basement lighting.
Four pairs of short heels are tossed toward my feet. I pick the lowest ones, but they’re too tight. On the third pair, I find some T-straps that fit and that I can maybe walk in. If I practice.
Mickey and Liza are still being all loud and weird. My heart is thundering. I feel pretty.
I press my fingertips into my palms and stare at myself. It’s just a dress. But now I really, really want to wear it. I need Hartman to see me in this. I need Bree to see me in this.
Mickey tucks a thick, black headband onto my head, pushing the hair off my face.
Swinging side to side in the mirror tugs my mouth into a smile. I might be able to pull this off. Might. If I still have a date to prom.
Chapter 20
My eyes are dry and scratchy from lack of sleep. This bites. I’m zombie tired. It feels like I’ve walked the hallways alone for days, and I’m not sure why that’s making it impossible to get good sleep.
With a huff, I toss my blankets off and grab my hoodie from the old desk chair. I’m sure Matthew will be here tonight, so that’s something.
I slide across the hardwood floors to the odd back door in the living room that’ll take me to the basement. I walk down the familiar curved steps, shivering a bit in the un
heated stairway.
The metal door in the basement is cool to the touch. Voices echo on the other side of the door. Matthew better not have a girl here. Dad really hates that.
Pushing open the door, I stop. A rush of cold washes from my head through my toes. The door to the embalming room is open. Matthew is working over another old guy, and standing next to him is Hartman.
“What?” I ask. “What?” I ask again. My mouth is about to make the same stupid word again, but my jaw drops instead. I’ve been carved out from the inside, and it does not feel good.
Hartman’s eyes widen, and Matthew gives me a smile like everything’s normal.
Everything is definitely not normal.
“Hi,” Hartman says, giving me a quick wave. “I just got back.”
“You’ve barely talked to me, you didn’t say when you were coming home, but you can come to my house in the middle of the night and hang out in my basement?” I ask. “With my cousin?”
My body trembles. I’ve been afraid. And worried. And feeling stupid. And terrified he likes me. Scared he doesn’t like me. And now he’s just here? Only not with me? This kind of rejection is one that burns and stings all over the surface of my body and begins to sink in.
Hartman cringes. “It’s not like that. It’s—”
“Whatever!” I yell. He didn’t tell me he was back, but he can come over to talk to my cousin. What else do I learn from that except that he doesn’t want to talk to me?
What is wrong with me?
“Gabe?” Matthew’s brows shoot up.
“You!” I point to Matthew. “This is not your conversation.”
“Listen, Gabriella,” Hartman starts. “It’s complicated.”
I snort, praying tears don’t slip down my cheeks. Pathetic answer. “It’s late.” I turn back to the door. This isn’t how tonight was supposed to go. I was supposed to come down here and chat with Matthew and take my mind off everyone and everything else.
“Gabe…” But that’s all Hartman offers. No explanations or apologies. My name.
I wasn’t supposed to be confronted by one of the two big reasons I came down in the first place. “You can’t just invite yourself to my house!”
