by Jolene Perry
Has to Be Love
Jolene Perry
Albert Whitman & Company
Chicago, Illinois
To Emma,
because I will never really understand
Poems are measured in meters, which are sort of like rhythms,
The way our tongues and lips come together
As we read someone’s carefully crafted words.
Our bodies and minds operate in rhythms too,
I think.
Shifting from one kind of beat to another,
There are times when I’m perfectly in sync with one person,
Or even with myself, and then …
I’m not.
1
My hair flies out behind me as I race on my four-wheeler toward the hardware store. The cool spring air bites my cheeks, but there’s actual warmth from the sun and the faintest hint of green at the tips of the tree branches. Any day the leaves will burst. Every spring in Alaska moves from snowy to green in about two weeks, and I can’t wait to get rid of this ugly brown in between.
The large log storefront and old metal warehouse of Motter Construction come into view through the thick trees along the river, and I hit the gas, making the lugged tires kick out mud behind me.
The lumberyard, hardware store, and construction office is my once-a-week job, or whenever my boyfriend’s mother calls and asks me for help, like today. I slide to a stop in the gravel parking lot just in time to see Elias toss a bundle of lumber over his shoulder.
I stand on the wheeler for a moment longer, watching him with the customer, all perfect smiles and strong shoulders. He jogs back into the warehouse from the lumberyard, and I head for the front door. My body and brain are still buzzing from the acceptance letter I got today. I’m not going to do anything about it yet, so there’s no point in saying anything.
Tapping my back pocket, I double-check for my small notebook. Nothing’s worse than knowing exactly what to write and having nothing to write it on. It’s there, like always.
“Clara Fielding.” Mrs. Motter sighs over her laptop. “Have you come to save me from inventory again?”
The relief on her face bubbles a short laugh up my throat. “Yep.”
Her gaze doesn’t even pause on my scars as she watches me walk toward her. She’s known me since long before the attack that marred the right side of my face just over five years ago.
I step around the store counter. “Let me see what we have going on here today.” I flip her laptop toward me and know immediately it has everything to do with technology and very little to do with actual inventory taking. “Why is all this red?”
“I don’t know.” She shakes her head as she sighs again. “I thought I was adding inventory, but—”
“You subtracted it.” I smile again, and this time she does glance at my face for just a moment too long. I tilt my head forward so my blond hair gives me some coverage. No matter how often I smooth my bangs down and keep my head forward, I’m still known as the girl with the scars. Or, more often, the girl who was attacked by a bear and survived.
“Now I’m worried I don’t have the numbers right.” Her shoulders fall. For Mrs. Motter, computers are still voodoo magic. Almost anywhere but in small-town Knik, Alaska, this would be a problem.
“Let me go in the back and get the drop-off receipts, okay?” In reality I’m looking for an excuse to see Elias and maybe sneak a kiss in the warehouse.
“Thank you, Clara.” She stares at the screen like she can somehow will all the numbers to do what she wants.
I jog through the doors into the back and slow to a walk, wondering how long it’ll take me to find him in the floor-to-ceiling maze of metal shelving.
“Saw your girl is here.” One of the guys laughs, but I can’t see anyone over the high racks of tubing, lumber, trim, and insulation.
“Her face, man … She must make it up to you in other ways, huh?” A different voice, but the twisting in my stomach is familiar.
“Don’t be a dick, Kev,” someone says. “Grow up.”
I’m used to this—I am. But it still takes my breath away. Elias mutters a few things I can’t understand, and I flatten myself against a row of doors.
Breathe, Clara. It’s not a big deal. You don’t even know the warehouse guys that well. They’re older … But I know that guy voiced what everyone probably thinks. He was just rude enough to say it out loud.
Pressing my hand over my heart, I close my eyes and take in a deep breath. I need to find a smile before I see Elias. I catch a glimpse of his faded red Motter Construction T-shirt between two rows. I sprint toward him and grab his belt loop.
His smile is wide as he spins around. “Hey, beautiful.”
I’ve always thought of Elias as a haiku—all simple, gorgeous perfection.
His hands slide around my waist and his fingertips tap my pocket. “Been writing?”
I kiss his cheek. “Always.” Maybe I’ll write even more now that I know it could actually get me somewhere.
“Do I get to see?” He kisses my cheek back.
“I could be persuaded.” I step back wanting him to follow, but he doesn’t. Elias never does. At least not here. He wants to seem professional to the crew and his dad, who has brought Elias into the company almost full time now.
I want a kiss. I always want a kiss. There’s something about connecting with someone that way that makes the rest of the world matter a little less.
He shakes his head with the teasing smile I love so much. “Not here, Clara.”
“Please?” I step closer.
He clears his throat as his gaze dances on everything but me. He forgets I know when he’s trying to hold in a smile. “So, when is Cecily back?” he asks. “You two withering away without each other yet?”
I stick my finger in his dimple. “She’s back a couple weeks before we graduate.” I lean closer. “You already know when my friend returns, and you’re ignoring what I want.”
“And is the trip to Seattle before or after that?”
“Before.” This time I kiss his dimple. “You already knew that too.”
His near-smile just makes his dimples deeper. “Incorrigible.”
“Irresistible?” I turn my head a little to the right. It’s automatic to always turn my scars away from people. Even him. Even after knowing him since long before my scars and dating him for close to two years.
He leans back and does a quick scan both ways. The look on his face as he steps closer says “all clear” so I move in for my kiss.
He rests his calloused hands on my shoulders and leans in, pressing his lips to mine and sending the fluttering tingles through me that seem to be fiercer every day. The comments from the warehouse guys start to slip away. I part my lips a little and am leaning forward when someone clears his throat behind me.
Elias and I jump, and his dad gives us a frown.
“Elias, we have another load.”
Elias’s jaw tightens slightly as he steps around me and takes the slip from his dad so he can collect the order. He gives me one quick look over his shoulder, tilting his head toward the back of the warehouse where the river is—meaning, I’ll meet you there in a few.
I hate it when Elias is right and we’re caught. He warns me every time, and every time I ignore him. If I’m being honest, we’re caught more often than not because once I start kissing Elias, I’m not good at stopping. He has the stopping part of kissing me down to an art.
“I’m getting the new inventory sheets,” I say to his dad, even though we both know I’m back here for Elias. His dad shares the same view as his son. Work is work. Dates are dates. No need to confuse the two. I want them all smashed together. All the time.
I quickly snatch the drop-off sheets from the
office and run back to the store so I can get this mess sorted out. The second I sit down, Elias is next to me, taking my hand and tugging me back to my feet. Unlike his dad, his mom gives us a smile as we walk for the door.
“Five minutes,” I tell her, but she waves us away.
Elias leads me out the door, and I follow him to the small bench near the river. The river runs brown and thick and muddy this time of year, matching the brownness of everything else.
When we were kids we made mud pies behind this warehouse. When my mom died and my scars were new, Elias built this bench for me. When I turned sixteen and my dad said I could date, Elias gave me my first kiss on this bench. Now we still come here sometimes to kiss.
I slip my arms around his neck, his hands touch my lower back, and I think we might end up in the middle of a very nice make-out session. It’s probably good that we’re out in the open like this because kissing Elias tends to turn off my moral compass and makes me want all of him.
Being raised with strict standards where boys are concerned—no dating until sixteen, no sex until marriage—should mean that I’m the cautious one with Elias. But it seems like I’m never the more careful one.
Elias breaks our kiss and taps my notebook in his hands. He won’t open it without my okay though. He never would.
I start to tell him my writing got me into Columbia, but then we’d be in the middle of a conversation about futures, which I’m not sure I’m ready to have. Columbia is my mother’s school. She’d be so fiercely proud of me. My chest feels like it both caves and swells, like most times when I think about Mom.
“Hey,” Elias whispers as he touches my cheek—the unscarred one. “You okay?”
“Mom moment.” I shake my head before plopping my arms around his neck again. A “mom moment” is a lot easier to explain than admission to a college he doesn’t know I applied to. “But I’m ready for my next kiss.”
He shifts just slightly away again. Just enough that I start to feel weird for being so forward. “I just have a minute.”
I lean toward him. His kiss is soft but closed mouth.
“I get off in an hour and a half,” he says, our lips still touching.
My shoulders sag. “I have a family dinner tonight.”
He sits back before holding my notebook out between us.
I fold my arms. “It’s okay.”
“You still start at the back, right?” he asks.
“It’s the only way to preserve my writing mojo,” I tease. The mojo that got me into freaking Columbia. But I’m not going this year, maybe not even next year. My plan with Cecily was to stay was to stay in Alaska for freshman year, at least until my face is fixed, and then figure out what to do for school. Besides, Cecily’s going to University of Alaska with me so we can share our freshman year—Anchorage or Fairbanks is something we’ll figure out later.
Elias opens my notebook carefully, and I bite my lip. I still can’t believe I got in. It was stupid to apply a year early, but curiosity got the better of me. I had to know if I was good enough.
I am.
His callused hands flip from the back to my most recent, and he reads aloud. His cheeks turn pink.
My body suddenly feels hot from bottom to top, because I remember exactly how I felt writing those words.
His low voice echoes my thoughts back to me:
“Fuzzy brains and stupid scars,
Trips to barns and backs of cars.
Lightning flashes, sight of blue
Coming back to haunt me. You …”
Before giving him a chance to react to the rest of the poem, I grab his face in my hands and kiss him. For real. Mouth open. Tongues moving together. I really wish he’d put his hands on me. Everywhere.
And then our kissing is just over. No fingers sliding under my shirt or bending me over backward on the small wooden bench or … any one of a million other things I might like to be doing but probably should stop myself from doing.
“You’re amazing.” He gives me another soft kiss. “Your words and your mouth.” His cheeks are pink again. Elias reaches around my lower back, but I know it’s just to slip my notebook back into my pocket. Kissing is done. “Have a good dinner.”
“Good luck with work,” I say. And the same weird feeling of wanting I felt while writing that poem comes back to me.
2
Not only is tonight a family dinner, but it’s a dinner with a stranger. I need to brace myself. The old plaid couch helps my body relax. Meeting new people isn’t one of my strong suits.
I know what it’s like to have people see my scars before they see me. Even in Knik, where pretty much everyone knows me, it happens. In New York? Probably a million times worse. I shouldn’t have applied so early.
Tucking Mom’s book onto my knees, I begin to read. Again.
She never finished her degree at Columbia, but she did manage to write a book of short stories. And every time I open Alaskan Paths, a tiny part of me hopes that my name will be on a cover one day too. It’s a fragile dream, but I never feel more connected to Mom than when I find myself wanting the same things as her.
Dad pauses at the edge of the living room. “We’ll need to get started cooking soon,” he says in his gravelly voice.
I tap my finger across the cover of Mom’s book—a cheesy mountain picture that looks painted. Small Alaskan press, but still a thrill.
“Clara?” Dad calls again.
“Coming!”
Dad’s already set the massive table, and my heart skips again because I don’t want to meet the guy who is subbing for Ms. Bellings for a couple months.
“I’ve opened a standing invitation for Rhodes Kennedy to eat with us,” Dad says as he starts browning the meat, holding the spatula out to me before he burns it or something.
“Why?” The word comes out a bit snottier than I mean for it to. It’s that English is my subject and having a sub for the end of senior year feels cruel. I take the spatula and dump in some tomato sauce and the onions he’s chopped up. The smell of marinara sauce begins to fill the kitchen, and some of the tension dissipates.
Dad turns toward the fridge. “Because he’s a guy who has never been here before, and I think a young college student might appreciate a couple home-cooked meals a week. Especially considering he’s going to be student teaching for the first time.”
His voice is so methodical and matter-of-fact that I really can’t argue. It’s exactly the kind of thing he’d do anyway—welcoming the new face into our little town.
And we’re definitely a little town—probably microscopic for someone coming from college. The grocery store is mostly canned and frozen stuff, and the produce is an hour away, along with the Walmart.
I go to the private Christian school in Knik because Dad and the principal of the high school have some feud over … I think it’s that the principal’s husband is the only other accountant in town and is a “money-grubbing crook.” Apparently I should not be in a school that is run by the wife of a crook. Never mind the fact that both schools only have a couple hundred students total, and that we all hang out and know each other outside of school.
“Where’s he from?” I ask. I’m sure he’s said before, but Dad’s chatter about the school board generally floats in one ear and out the other.
“New York.”
My heart gives a few thumps. “Which school?”
Dad pauses and scratches his chin. “Columbia? I think that’s the one. You applied there, right? Like your mom?”
I take a hard swallow. I could go. I mean, not this fall. Too soon. Not enough time to get my face fixed. But Columbia. J. D. Salinger went to Columbia. So did Federico García Lorca, Hunter S. Thompson, Eudora Welty, Jack Kerouac, Langston Hughes … Allen freaking Ginsberg. My hands shake a little at the thought of how something so far out of reach feels oddly closer now that someone from there is here. And now that my acceptance letter is in my drawer. Like Columbia used to be a foreign country and now … isn’t.
&n
bsp; “Good school.”
I think about the acceptance I have stashed away. What it means. How we’d even pay for it if I did decide to go. Well … when I decide to go. Or maybe they won’t have room for me in a year, and that decision won’t need to be made.
There’s a beat of silence where Dad stares at me because he’s way, way too good at reading me.
“What’s on your mind?” he asks.
I widen my eyes and give him a smile as I stir the sauce. “Dinner.”
Dad shakes his head and watches me for a moment longer. “How are you feeling about going to Seattle?” he asks.
“Good.” I shrug like it’s just another trip, but I’ve been thinking about it at least as much as Columbia. The trip to Seattle is going to change my life. That’s when the plastic surgeon will work on my scars. Then the world will open up.
“We could put it off just a little longer if you want. Sometime over the summer or next winter or …”
I stop stirring and face Dad. “We have our tickets. The appointment is in two weeks. How can you even ask that?” New York isn’t an option this fall, but if I don’t get my face fixed, it won’t be an option for next fall either.
He scratches his thinning hair, leaving pieces of it up in wisps. “We were always told that there might not be a fix for your scars. I pray there is for your sake. I just don’t want you to be disappoi—”
“And times change,” I insist as my neck heats up, spreading embarrassment and anger far too quickly for me to hide my reaction. Even Elias’s kiss couldn’t totally dissolve the comments I heard today. “And that’s not what we were told. We were told we needed to wait until I was older and the scars were fully healed.”
Dad and I have looked over the website of the plastic surgeon a million times. It’s amazing what he’s done for scarring on other people. And then I wouldn’t have to leave for college until my face looked … normal. That has always been part of my plan.
Right now I’m an ugly mess.
My eyebrow is half gone. I’m missing a bit off the corner of my upper lip. Four welted lines mark from the corner of my eye, the edge of my nostril, the top part of my lip and chin. The angry purply-red scars almost touch my eye and have messed up part of my hairline. Only doctors have ever asked me if the scars feel funny, but they do. Both to my fingers and to my face.
