by Gwen Cole
“I’m sorry, but I have to go,” I say. “See you around, Harper.”
I walk away before I don’t have the strength to. Being around Harper is like … something I forgot. Something I haven’t felt in a long time.
Someone I forgot.
7.
Harper
When I come home, Uncle Jasper is sitting on the back steps with a cup of coffee next to him, his paper folded to the crossword page. He moves his mug over so I can sit down. My shorts are still wet, and I can feel water dripping from my hair.
I can’t stop thinking about Kale and what he said last night, about the promise I made to never ask where he goes. And then at the river just now, when something triggered inside him when I mentioned change.
It’s because he hasn’t.
“He still leaves, doesn’t he?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
Uncle Jasper stares into the woods behind the house where I saw Kale moments earlier, his eyes soft. “He never stopped,” he says.
“But why?”
“That’s not for me to answer, you know that.”
And it wasn’t for me to ask. Because of the promise I made him, I can never ask Kale about where he goes, as long as he comes back.
“I know it isn’t.” A sigh escapes and I admit, “It’s strange being back—I thought things would be different.” Then I remember who I’m talking to and wish I hadn’t said it. “That’s not what I mean—”
“I know what you mean,” he says. “But I think more has changed than you think. You’ve just got to look closer.”
Three days pass, and I don’t see Kale.
I can’t stop thinking about what happened down at the river. I should’ve been more careful about what I said. Sometimes my mouth speaks before my brain thinks of the outcome.
Besides trying to keep Kale off my mind, I play my video games in the afternoon and get texts from Grace about the demolition derby Miles entered that’s coming up in a week. I text Libby, wishing she would bring up Kale without me mentioning him first. It never works. Giving hints over text messaging is harder than it seems. But maybe it goes both ways because she keeps bringing up her mom and wanting to come home. I make a mental note to ask Kale about it.
Sometime after lunch, Uncle Jasper comes home and sits with me in the living room, watching the twelve o’clock news and working on another crossword. His fingers are stained with car grease, and they’ll probably be that way forever. I can’t remember his hands ever being clean.
We both flinch a little when the phone rings. Uncle Jasper doesn’t take his eyes off the television and answers it, his hand searching blindly for a moment until he finds it. He’s probably the only person I know who doesn’t have a cell phone yet.
“Hello?” Someone talks on the other end, and I know something isn’t right. It’s a long while when the other person finally stops talking and Uncle Jasper’s eyes tighten with worry. “When did he take it down there?” Another pause and Uncle Jasper clenches his jaw. “No, I understand, don’t worry about it. Thanks, Bryce.”
He hangs up.
“Is something wrong?”
Uncle Jasper puts his crossword puzzle on the table near his chair. “Peter told Kale that the next time he leaves, he would sell his car.”
“And he did … didn’t he?” That’s why Kale hasn’t been around for the last two days. It’s because he’s not here. “He left again.”
“He’s been gone since last night,” he says. “Peter just dropped his car down at the dealer.”
“But can he do that?” I ask. “Isn’t that Kale’s car?”
“Technically, it’s not. His dad bought it for him when he got his license, and the title is still in his name.” Then he corrects himself, “Was in his name.”
Uncle Jasper grabs his keys from the table and smirks at me. “Feel like taking a ride?”
I give him my best you’re up to something look. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m gonna buy it back.” As he pulls on his Royals cap, I catch a glimpse of a side of Uncle Jasper I haven’t seen since I got here—just a quick spark in his eyes, and a quirk in his smile.
It’s enough for me to smile back and slip on my shoes. “I would love to come with you,” I say pleasantly. “Besides, you need someone to drive it back.”
“Kale’s usually picky about who drives his car,” he says, smiling again. “But in this case, I don’t think he would mind.”
“Well, technically, it’s no longer his car,” I point out.
He tilts his head slightly. “Touché.”
I follow him out to his old truck, watching the horizon where dark clouds are looming over the green fields. It’s heading away from us, going south toward the city. Inside, the truck smells like stale Doritos, and I know if I look under the seat, I would find the evidence. It makes me smile again.
After pulling onto the main road, Uncle Jasper says something unexpected. “We haven’t really spoken about your mom since you got here.” I keep my gaze out the window. “I want you to know that you can tell me anything,” he says. “I know that sounds really awkward saying out loud but I have to, because I need you to know that. I need you to know that I’ll always be here for you.”
Uncle Jasper catches my eye but keeps his attention on the road.
I look away, unable to look at him while I tell him the truth. “I guess it’s because it hasn’t hit me that I’m really here. For good. Even though I want to be,” I add. “Mom and I haven’t been close for a long time now, but it still feels weird being away from her. Does that make sense?”
Probably not. I very rarely make sense.
“She’s your mom, of course you’re going to miss her, and that’s okay. I’m proud of you for making the decision to move out here—it couldn’t have been easy. You need to do what’s right for you, and if you need me, I’ll be here.”
Uncle Jasper shoots me a smile, reminding me of the dad I barely knew, and making me grateful I have him as an uncle.
I lean against the hood of Kale’s Mustang and watch Uncle Jasper talk with the dealer inside the lobby. He looks like a wild man through the glass; he keeps tipping his hat back and scratching his head, his hands gesturing to no end. They’re two fish in a glass bowl, muted things that I can only watch. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was playing with the guy, and I smile at the thought, because that’s the Uncle Jasper I know.
A few minutes later, Uncle Jasper walks out with a set of keys in his hand. The guy stares at him through the window, looking unsure about what just happened. Like waking up from a dream.
I stand up and cross my arms. “Why do I get the feeling we’re stealing this?”
“You don’t want me to answer that,” he says. Then asks, “Is he still staring at me?”
I glance over his shoulder. “Yes.”
He smiles to himself. “Peter dropped this off about two hours ago, and he hasn’t had the chance to look under the hood.” He grins. I haven’t seen him smile so much all summer.
“And since it looks like a piece of scrap metal on the outside,” I say, catching on, “They think it must be a piece of junk.”
“Exactly. Little does he know how many hours that kid put into this car. It might look like shit on the outside, but it runs better than anything I’ve seen come into my garage in a long time.” A strange sense of pride rises up when I hear that. But it makes me realize more that this is a Kale I don’t know. “Anyway,” Uncle Jasper continues, “he couldn’t decline instant cash for more than he paid for it.”
I think about it and squint up. “Isn’t that a little dishonest? We’re practically ripping these people off.”
“They actually made money today,” he says, probably trying not to feel bad. “Peter wanted to get rid of it, and he didn’t care how much he got for it.”
“So they’re making money, and Kale gets his car back.” I shrug. “Sounds fair enough to me.”
Uncle Jasper tosses me
the keys. “Meet you back at the house.” He opens his mouth to say something else but stops himself.
“What?”
“I was going to say be careful not to scratch it,” he says, “but I think that’s irrelevant.” He leaves me standing in the parking lot with Kale’s keys in my hand, and I watch his truck disappear before getting behind the wheel.
I take the long way home.
Being in Kale’s car stirs my stomach. The steering wheel is smooth where his hands grip it. The seats are worn with small rips along the edges, where white fluff peeks through the material. And it smells like him. Kale’s smell is like standing in an open field with a rain storm coming. It’s one thing that hasn’t changed about him.
I wish I could say Kale hasn’t been on my mind for the last few days, but that would be lying. I can’t stop thinking about his missing smile or his tired eyes, which used to be so bright—something that has really been bothering me.
And I can’t stop thinking about the dog tags I saw around his neck.
They didn’t look like the cheap dog tags you can get in the store, or the kind you get engraved for someone. They aren’t even the real dog tags that the Army uses. They were … old, and worn.
Just like Kale and everything about him, there’s something I’m missing.
I pull over on the side of the road and get out, looking over a soybean field. The darkening clouds overhead let the sun shine through in bright rays, lighting up a world that was dark a moment before.
It makes me think things can be good again, even after moving here away from everything I knew. Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way, like there’s a chance for me to heal after being left behind by my own mother. Even if it was my decision to leave her in the end.
It’s something I can’t forget about and move on from in a day.
But maybe this can be my fresh start.
8.
Kale
We’ve been in this same chunk of woods for two days. A small time compared to how long we’ve been in this same area. It’s got to be months by now.
Eating hard bread and sleeping in frozen holes in the ground.
They tell us we’re advancing today, and I ran out of cigarettes last night. I don’t like the taste of them, but I don’t think I can go another day without one.
With my feet cold and my stomach empty, I find the nearest fire where a few guys try to warm up. Most of them are in high spirits usually, telling jokes and stories to keep their minds off things here. They hold their hands over the flames, their white fingers turning pink. It’s easy for them to smile, because a part of them yearns to.
Stiles nods to me, keeping his hands over the fire. “Hey, Jackson. I heard about Adams this morning,” he says. “It’s a damn shame.”
“We lost Campbell this morning, too,” Bingo mutters, taking a long drag and blowing the smoke through his nose. “Heard the replacements are already on their way.”
I feel my hands shaking again, hidden away deep in the pockets of my jacket. I don’t like thinking about Adams and how—if I’d done something differently—he would still be alive. But that’s the funny thing about time-traveling; the past has already played out, even though I’m living it now.
It cannot be changed. A fact that haunts me every day.
Everyone mumbles about the damn replacements, all wondering if any of them will last the week. The guys around me talk more about girls and the war. And if anyone would’ve asked me, I couldn’t have told them anything they said.
My body is here, but my mind isn’t.
It’s at home, wondering if Dad will take me seriously if I try to tell him the truth again. Wondering if I can somehow make things right between us. Libby and Bryce, he doesn’t have a problem with. They go to school. Get good grades. Have summer jobs because they can.
I’m the one who makes things harder.
Just me.
The messed-up kid he probably wishes he never had.
Stiles nudges me in the arm, offering a cigarette. “You look like you could use one.”
I take it wordlessly, trying to smile.
A few guys laugh and joke about me finally breaking down a month back while Stiles lights it. They know I tried to hold off smoking at first. And they also know it’s nearly an impossible feat.
Our cigarettes stand out white in this gray and brown world.
My hands are so cold, I can barely hold it to my lips, but it’s already calming me. We’ll be attacking soon, probably less than thirty minutes from now. I need it more than I can admit.
Voices murmur around me:
“Lieutenant.”
“Lieutenant.”
“Boys,” a voice greets behind me.
I turn and nod to Lieutenant Gates. “Lieutenant.”
“And how are we this afternoon?”
Stiles answers, “Ready to kill some krauts, sir.”
He takes a look at our small group, noticing the holes left by the men who are now gone. “I think we all are.” Then he turns to me. “Jackson, Captain Price is asking for you. He’s at the north end of the line.”
“Yes, sir.” I don’t ask questions, despite my curiosity.
I grab my M1 and start back through the camp. I keep my head clear of everything except staying alive. Keeping warm and making sure I eat, and finding more cigarettes. Right now, I could use them more than food.
Then somehow, out of nowhere, I think of Harper.
Seeing her down near the river. And then in the water, when her eyes reflected the sky. Just a glimpse. But then that makes me think of home and I almost get the feeling I could leave now if I wanted to.
I don’t.
A couple guys from the 82nd division stare as I stand there, waiting for that moment to pass.
I turn away from them and continue on, not stopping until I see Captain Price—his back is to me, facing the tree line. He’s with another captain who joined us in the night, but I don’t remember his name. I try to stand tall and keep my hands from shaking. They’re fine right now. They usually are when my mind is on the present—wherever I happen to be.
It’s what keeps me focused and alive.
“Private Jackson.” Captain Price nods and motions to the man next to him. “This is Captain Donavan from the 82nd.”
Donavan looks me up and down, seeming a little confused. “You’re the one they call Ace?” he asks.
I resist the temptation to shift my weight. “Yes, sir.”
“That’s quite a name to be given,” he says.
“And he lives up to it,” Captain Price adds. “He’s the best shot we have.”
Donavan turns to me. “What’s your range with an M1D?”
“Never used one, sir.”
“Just an M1?”
“Yes, sir.”
He looks at me funny. “Scope?”
“No, sir,” I answer. “Someone offered me one a month back, but I would rather use the eyes I was born with.”
Donavan laughs, unsure but still finding it funny. “What’s your range then? No scope, if you’ll have it that way.”
“Almost three hundred yards.”
He nods, and I don’t know if he believes me.
I was seven-years-old when I first fired Dad’s hunting rifle.
He took me into the woods behind our house, the rifle wedged into his shoulder with one hand holding it, the barrel pointed at the ground. And his other hand holding mine. I remember them being so much bigger than my own. They felt safe and strong.
I don’t remember a lot about that day except that.
And something he said before I took my first shot.
His arms were around me, his hands guiding mine. Then he whispered in my ear, “Aim small, miss small.”
Until recently, a year never went by without me going hunting or shooting with Dad.
Then he stopped asking.
So when I got here and they put a rifle in my hands and told me to shoot, nothing could come easier.
Whi
le Donavan and Price talk, my thoughts go numb. I don’t want to think about the time Dad and I spent together, because it makes me miss it more.
If I think of nothing, the pain goes away.
Novocain for my heart.
Everything is cold, and a war ranges around me. But I feel nothing when I let myself.
Sometimes it’s the best thing I can do.
9.
Kale
They’re waiting for me.
Waiting for me to take the shot and start a day of bloodshed. Every time I pull the trigger, I remind myself I’m doing it to survive. If I don’t kill them, I am dead. If I don’t shoot, my friends are dead. It doesn’t make it any easier.
My helmet sits near my elbow. The wind cuts through my hair. I look down the gun’s sight at the man I have to kill. They gave me a new gun with a scope today because they’re low on sharpshooters, and now I look at the man who they want me to kill. I try not to stare at his face so I won’t remember him later. So he won’t haunt my dreams.
It wasn’t always like this.
I used to like going back in time.
Different places, different people. Reliving history like nobody has before. I could’ve told Mr. Williams things no teacher has ever known if they hadn’t expelled me.
Things not important enough to make history books, or maybe too horrifying to.
I miss the days of unpredictability. Not months of the same war, coming back like I never left, time and time again.
I’m here for reasons I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter to me when I’ll be finished.
The truth is, sometimes I would rather be here than home. Even though I’m in the middle of a war, watching friends die every day, and not knowing if I’ll be alive to see the sunrise, it’s better than being with a dad who thinks I would rather tell him lies than the truth.
I miss Dad. The one I used to know. The father who hugged me when I got home and told me he was proud. Who used to take me out into the field to play catch or into the forest to hunt.
But I’m not there anymore, so I swallow down my anger and focus on what I need to do.
