Aspen

by Rebekah Crane

  “We’ve run the figures and spoken with the Ryans. Together, we think we’ve found an appropriate estimate on compensation for your pain and suffering,” he said. My head hurt just hearing him speak.

  “Are you talking about money?” I asked. In response, he rattled off some numbers. His voice was so businesslike and flat. I could hear other people in the room with him; I imagined him sitting at a desk with cat photos and a lame framed picture of him and his girlfriend on a Carnival cruise, posing in their bathing suits with bad raccoon burns from sunglasses. And all around his desk were other insurance workers calling people from similar desks. Occasionally, I would hear a phone ring and someone speaking in Spanish. Halfway through his mumblings, I hung up. I just couldn’t take it anymore.

  Ninny convinced me to at least let them cover the damage to the car and our medical bills. I told her she could do whatever she wanted as long as I didn’t have to hear that guy’s voice ever again.

  Bob pulls my Rabbit up in front of the body shop. I run my hand over the smooth white hood of the car, not a dent or broken light left. Even the VW sign on the grill is shiny. It looks the way it did the first day I got it. Like the accident never happened.

  Sliding into the front seat, my cast heavy on my leg, I pull the seatbelt over my chest. The pinch creeps back up in my sternum, and I try to rub it away. The bruise that was there faded only a few weeks ago.

  “Be careful, kid.” Bob pats my shoulder through the rolled-down window. I muster a one-cheek smile, even though the space right between my eyes aches with an oncoming headache. “Oh, and I almost forgot. Found this in your car.” Bob pulls a phone from the pocket of his shirt. The sight of it makes my stomach fall to the floor.

  “Did you look at it?” I ask too forcefully, grabbing it out of his hand.

  Bob lets out a nervous laugh, probably because I just treated him like a terrorist. “No. I know better. My kids would kill me if I looked at their phones. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure it’s broken.” Bob shoves his hands in the pockets of his greased-up coveralls. “I thought you might want it, though.”

  “Thanks,” I say through gritted teeth. I squeeze my eyes closed, clearing my blurred vision, and put the phone down on the passenger seat. I haven’t seen it since the night of the accident. The truth is, I hoped I’d never see it again.

  “Take it easy.” Bob waves.

  I train my eyes on the road as I pull out of Boulder Bump Shop. Because of my cast, I have to press the gas pedal with my left foot. I get angry with Ninny, furious that she’s making me pick up the car alone, like it’s no big deal.

  But she doesn’t know any better.

  Flipping on the radio, I turn up the music. Sunlight pours through my windshield, and the pounding in my head gets worse, like a heavy drumbeat. I rub my temples and push away the memory of that night. I pray to make it home before Katelyn gets to me, but it’s hopeless.

  My heart rate spikes as I try not to look at the passenger seat, but Katelyn always demanded attention. She’d walk into chemistry, her long hair swishing behind her, and everyone would stare.

  “I told you that I’m sorry.” My voice is tight. She doesn’t move, the gold in her soccer uniform glinting in the sunlight. She places her hand on top of the phone ever so casually. Even in my delusion, her fingernails are manicured and clean—as opposed to mine, which make me look like a chimney sweep.

  “I know why you’re doing this, but what’s the point?” I say to Katelyn, my voice frantic. “I can’t change anything.”

  Even as I say the words, I know I’m lying. I had my chances to tell the truth. Two, to be exact.

  My foot taps so fast in my cast that my toes go numb.

  Is there anything you can tell us? Anything we should know?

  “I don’t remember anything,” I lied to Officer Hubert at the hospital, my eyes unable to move off his gun.

  When he came back the next day, dressed the same way, and asked the same question, I had another moment in which I could have come clean.

  I sat on my hands and didn’t move. Officer Hubert had on a beat-up, stained Rockies baseball cap that looked about ten years old. It was oddly out of place with the polished badge on his chest and his starched uniform shirt.

  “I don’t remember anything,” I lied for the second time.

  “Well, based on our investigation, it would seem the driver of the other vehicle was to blame.” Officer Hubert took off his hat and rubbed the layer of buzz-cut hair on his head. “It was a horrible accident.” He touched my leg. “A goddamn shame, really.”

  I didn’t realize police officers could be so nice. I cursed Ninny for playing all her hippie music. How many times can someone listen to Buffalo Springfield before they start fighting the government and burning bras?

  Is there anything you can tell us? Anything we should know?

  Katelyn’s hand doesn’t move from the phone. Turning up the radio to blasting levels, I sing along to the Lumineers at the top of my lungs, drowning out my memories. When the light turns green, I grab the phone and throw it out the car window.

  It shatters on the road, broken to pieces. When I glance back at the passenger seat, Katelyn is gone.

  “This is delicious, baby. What’s it called again?” Toaster asks, licking his lips.

  I stare at his teeth, all gnarly and crooked. Little pieces of spinach are stuck up by his gums. He looks homeless, dressed in a wrinkled button-down shirt and baggy brown corduroy pants with holes by the back pockets. He smells homeless, too, like greasy scalp.

  “I take it you didn’t have braces as a kid,” I say.

  Toaster looks at me from across the table and brushes his dark brown hair out of his face. His eyes are extra bloodshot. How does he afford his weed on his bucket drumming salary?

  “Spinach risotto. Aspen made it,” Ninny says, walking into the dining room with three bowls of ice cream. She elbows me in the back.

  “Ouch! What the hell, Ninny?”

  She ignores me and sits down next to Toaster, taking his hand. “And mint chocolate chip ice cream for dessert. I made the ice cream.”

  “Did you scrape it out of the back of the van?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. My head hurts, and watching Ninny and Toaster carry out their disgusting mating ritual is making it worse.

  “You look tired, baby,” Ninny says.

  I shove another spoonful of the risotto I made in my mouth, squishing the spinach up into my teeth and smile. “No. I want to hear more about Salvador’s conspiracy theory. What were you saying about gold and silver?”

  Toaster opens his mouth to respond, but Ninny shovels a spoonful of ice cream in it before he can. “Delicious,” he says through a mouthful of food.

  “I’m gonna be sick.”

  “Maybe you should go lie down.” Ninny’s eyes bug out of her head as she motions toward the door.

  I can take a hint. I push my chair under the table, leaving behind my untouched ice cream.

  “It was great to see you, Uncle Toaster. By the way, I can see your balls.” I point to a hole in the crotch of his pants, where pink flesh is poking out. “Drink more coffee; you’ll shrink those right up.”

  “Aspen!” Ninny barks.

  I stomp up every step to my bedroom. As I close the door, silverware and bowls crash to the dining room floor, followed by laughing, and the sound of unzipping pants. Not that Ninny needs to unzip anything. She could just shove her hand right through Toaster’s crotch hole.

  I grab my iPod off my desk and plug my ears with headphones. Spinning through the list of artists, I stop on Credence Clearwater Revival. “Fortunate Son” should drown out the sound of Ninny and Toaster doing it on our dining room table. I’m never eating there again.

  I press play and stand in front of my sketches in the Grove. All the good moments, frozen in time and plastered to my wall. All the things I want to remember. I let them wash over me, calm my nerves. Toaster will never be good enough to hang in the Grove. And he’ll fad
e soon enough. They always do.

  I pull a sketch of Kim and Cass free and examine it more closely. They’re lying on my bed, heads touching, and smiling. I managed to catch the exact light coming in the window, shading Kim’s black hair to pick up the sunshine. I think back to the day I drew it last year. Even that is starting to become dull in my memory. Turning the sketch over, I read the definition I wrote on the back.

  Unity (noun): the state of being joined as a whole.

  Smiling, I put the drawing back and pull my dictionary out of my desk. When I was eight, Ninny found it at a yard sale and gave it to me for Christmas. It’s old and smells like book mildew, but I love it. It’s worn and broken-in like everything in our house. Everything that is Ninny and I. When most kids were reading Harry Potter, I was reading the L section. Eventually, I made my way through the whole book. I don’t remember the definitions of most words, but I like that I can easily find them out. I guess some people look for meaning in the Bible. I look for it in the dictionary.

  Flipping through the A section, I find the word I’ve spent weeks staring at.

  Accident (noun): an unfortunate incident that happens unexpectedly and unintentionally

  I’ve read the definition a thousand times since that night.

  When my headache starts to creep back into my temples, I crank up the music and shove my dictionary back in the drawer. Then I text Kim on my new phone. My fingers shake a bit as I press the letters, but I ignore it.

  Me: Ninny and Toaster r doing it on the dining room table.

  Kim: Burn ur house down.

  I laugh. That should satisfy my best friend for the night.

  I fall asleep, my ears still plugged with music, and wake up when it stops. Pulling my door open, I check for sex-like noises. The TV is on, the glow from the screen illuminating the downstairs. Then I hear bubbling, followed by something burning, followed by an exhalation. The pungent smell of pot wafts up toward my room.

  I shut the door, tearing off my tie-dye shirt, and tossing it in the garbage can. At least Ninny and Toaster are done for the night.

  When I go downstairs the next morning, Ninny is feeding Toaster toast in between make out sessions against the kitchen counter. Annoyed, I walk over to the vase of dead daisies and drop the entire thing into the garbage. It shatters into tiny pieces of glass and dead petals.

  “What was that for?” Ninny asks.

  “The dining room table.” I gag myself with my finger as I say it.

  “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” Ninny grabs her keys off the counter and turns to Toaster. “You better hit it, baby. Aspen’s got her period.”

  “Have you checked to make sure you’ve had yours? I’d hate for a drummer baby to be born under a tree,” I say through a mouthful of last night’s leftovers, and flash Toaster a spinach-filled grin.

  “My, aren’t we a ball of hormones this morning?” Ninny looks at me with her eyebrows raised.

  “I’m a ball of hormones? Who can’t keep her pants zipped long enough for her daughter to actually make it upstairs?” I yank open the fridge, grab the orange juice, and slam it on the counter.

  “I’m out of here. Too much estrogen for one man to handle.” Toaster opens the back door, the sunlight pouring into the kitchen.

  “I’ll call you later, baby.” Ninny kisses him again, with tongue, and places a piece of toast between his teeth. I take a glass and bang it on the counter.

  “What is your problem today?” Ninny shuts the door behind Toaster.

  “I’m surprised he even knows the word ‘estrogen.’”

  “Don’t be mad at me.” She wraps her arms around my waist and squeezes me to her.

  I push back. “Don’t. I can practically smell sex on you.”

  But Ninny doesn’t let go. She rocks back and forth, putting her mouth to my ear, and says, “I’m gonna do it, so you better prepare yourself.”

  “Don’t.” I squirm in her arms.

  “You know you can’t resist. Don’t even try to fight it.”

  I stomp my foot and grit my teeth. “I can resist you. Your charms only work on homeless men who fancy themselves drummers.”

  “Shhh,” she whispers into my ear, her hand rubbing the center of my back just like she did when I was little and got upset. Ninny knows my sweet spot, right between my shoulder blades. Her hand warms my skin as it moves in a circle, her energy traveling down my back and legs until my whole body feels lighter. Then she sings, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray.” Her sweet voice echoes in the kitchen, and for a second, I forget that she fornicated on the table last night. Ninny nudges me with her hip. “You finish it.”

  I don’t want to. I want to stay mad, to keep my mind focused on the terrible things she did. I shouldn’t have to put up with a mom who acts like a college girl. But as her cheek presses against mine, the tension in my shoulders starts to melt, and I sink into my mom like a toddler looking to be soothed. She’s too good.

  “Please, don’t take my sunshine away,” I whisper.

  “That’s my Aspen-tree.” Ninny runs her hand over my hair, pulling on a few loose curls and wrapping them around her finger. “You’re so beautiful, baby. I knew it the moment I saw you in the yellow sunlight. An angel.”

  I smile, nuzzling into her chest and holding her tightly around the waist. Sometimes I wish it were still acceptable to curl up in her lap and just lie there.

  “Now get your ass to school. And don’t forget about Dr. Brenda this afternoon.” Ninny taps my butt, unhooking my arms, and walks out the back door. The warmth I felt a moment earlier is gone.

  I wash my glass along with the rest of the dishes in the sink and set them to dry in the rack. Wiping the crumbs from Ninny’s toast off the counter, I make sure everything is in its proper place. I debate cleaning the dining room table with bleach, but I’m not sure what that would do to the wood. Maybe Kim had it right: I should burn the place down.

  On a positive note, Ninny seems to be getting some use out of the toaster Uncle Toaster gave her.

  CHAPTER 4

  Our principal, Mr. James, calls me down to his office halfway through the day. He sits behind his desk, leaning forward on his elbows. I’ve never seen his face this close up before. He has acne scars on his cheeks, and his salt and pepper hair has more salt in it than pepper.

  “How are you adjusting?”

  “Adjusting?” I ask.

  “Death is hard, but the death of a young person is even harder. I just want you to know that as a school we’re here to support you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Anything you need, you come and see me.”

  I don’t respond. Instead, I change the conversation and point to the picture behind his desk, “Are those your kids?”

  Mr. James smiles, falling into my trap, and proceeds to tell me about his kids for the next ten minutes.

  Mrs. Sapporo, the office attendant who always wears a bun on top of her head and a seasonal puff-painted shirt, writes me a pass back to class. She gives me a half smile and says, “How are you, dear?” She even tilts her head to the side. Today, her shirt is covered in different-colored fall leaves and a scarecrow.

  “To every season, turn, turn, turn,” I say, grabbing a mint off her desk and popping it in my mouth.

  “Pardon?” she says.

  “Your sweatshirt.” I give her an exaggerated smile.

  Mrs. Sapporo doesn’t say anything else. I take a handful of mints, clearing out her dish, and stuff them in my pocket. The white and red ones are the best, like little circle candy canes.

  I stop in the bathroom on my way to class just to take up more time before I have to go back to the stares and whispers. I enter a stall and stand there, reading stuff people have written on the door. Jack and Maggie 4ever. FUCK U.

  As I’m about to leave, two girls walk in. I stop still in the stall, holding my breath so they don’t hear me, and wait for them to leave.

  “D
o you have that pink lip gloss?” one voice asks. There’s the noise of a girl rummaging around in a purse. “Oh my God, did I ever tell you about the time Katelyn let me borrow her mascara?”

  “Oh, my God. No.” The other girl sounds disappointed.

  “It was so sweet. Last year, I was crying over Cam, that asshole, before gym class. Katelyn saw and gave me her mascara, so I didn’t have to look like shit the rest of the day.”

  “She was so nice. You know she lived down the street from me, right?” the other girl says.

  “Oh, my God, that’s right.”

  “I used to see her and Ben all the time. Like, all the time. They were inseparable.”

  “They were so in love.”

  “Totally.” One of the girls turns on the faucet. “Holy shit. Do you think she died a virgin?”

  The faucet turns off. “No fucking way. She and Ben were totally doing it.”

  “And poor Aspen. I feel terrible for her.”

  Shoes click on the ground and the girls’ voices fade as they leave the bathroom. When I know they’re completely gone, I creep out of the stall and stand in front of the mirror. Bending over, I splash a handful of water on my face.

  When I open my eyes, Katelyn is behind me, writing something on the stall door. I jump, my heart rate picking up. But when I turn to see what she’s written, she’s gone.

  “Look at the person sitting next to you. This is your lab partner for the year. Learn to like them. Memorize their smell. Do they use deodorant? An annoying cologne? Get used to it, because I’m not changing your seat,” Mr. Salmon says, slamming his physics book down on the desk, his glasses halfway down his nose.

  “I guess we’re stuck together,” Ben says in my direction. “It’s a good thing you have nice breath.”

  “I cleared out Mrs. Sapporo’s mint dish.” I pass one over to him. “Sorry for being short yesterday.”