Where I Want to Be

by Adele Griffin

  I never liked the saying Life goes on. There’s something heartless about the second, implied half of that expression. Life goes on, even if your life doesn’t. But looking at all these kids, the truth of it hits me hard.

  The Tuzzolinos have my dream kitchen. It spans a full half of their downstairs and is the beating heart of the house. The back is a lounge area furnished with plump, plaid chairs and couches plus a brick pizza oven. Tonight, the eat-in table is fully loaded with chips, dips, cookies, and soft drinks. Kids mill around it, picking and grazing, while others lounge out in front of the television.

  “Lily!” Marianne Lombardo, from my class, is the first to grab me. Soon I’m hugging all the girls, while the guys hang back, acknowledging me with half waves and raised cups. It’s an unexpected thrill to be surrounded by old friends, but at the same time I’m acutely aware of how separate I’ve been from them this summer. Thankfully, Georgia is quick to hustle me off to the buffet.

  As we dig into a bowl of orange-dusted cheese chips, she nudges me. “J and D at your six o’clock. Don’t look now.”

  I turn anyway, and see Jonesy and Danielle sharing a chair in the lounge area.

  “Hi, kids!” Danielle squeals. I catch Jonesy’s crawly eye, and know in a second that Danielle’s tattled what I said about him earlier. His pug face tightens and he sucks in his bottom lip. Jonesy’s not a big one for subtlety.

  Danielle exchanges some private words with him, then slides off his lap and hops over to us.

  “Poor Jonesy. It’s a total kindergarten scene for him, but so what for an hour or two, right?” Now Danielle signals him over. He stands up, reluctant. “Anyway, I wanted to say bye to everyone. Hasn’t this been the funnest summer ever?” This time, she doesn’t realize what she’s said. No widened eyes, no apologetic look thrown in my direction.

  It takes Jonesy a while to cross the room on account of his ridiculous, extra-pointy-tipped cowboy boots.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t my flavey-fave strawberry shortcakes.” Jonesy delivers this line with the smile of someone who thinks he’s said something witty. I risk a smile back and hope it looks halfway genuine.

  Danielle starts talking to Georgia about some shop in the Wakefield Mall that is selling the exact same tweed-pattern hoodie jacket Georgia has been craving, and how cute Georgia would look in it, and how maybe they should stop over tomorrow.

  “Keg’s outside,” Jonesy mentions. “Getcha drink?”

  “I’m fine.” Quickly, I turn and pour myself a paper cup of grape soda from an open bottle on the table. Best to take a pass on any act of kindness from Jonesy, or he’ll take it as romantic potential. After a few minutes of halfhearted listening in on Danielle and Georgia’s conversation, I realize that Jonesy and I are going to have to start our own chat.

  “So Jonesy,” I say, “how’ve you been?”

  “How’ve you been?” Jonesy re-asks.

  “Okay.”

  “How are your folks?”

  “On vacation. Visiting my mom’s sister.”

  “Uh-huh.” Jonesy dips his fingers into his back pocket and fishes out his ever-handy tin of Skol. I watch as he pops the top and prepares a plug. Then he reaches past me for a Dixie cup. His arm brushes against my boobs. Ew, how predictable. I nudge Georgia to let her know I’m finished playing nice.

  “Your sister, you know. Even though she worked for me last year…?” Jonesy pauses to settle his chew into the back of one cheek. “I can’t say I knew her too great.”

  “Mm-hmm.” I watch his tongue work the tobacco into position.

  “She always showed up, though.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Was this Jonesy’s idea of a eulogy? What was he not getting about my lack of desire to contribute to this topic?

  “One of those chicks who kept to herself.” Jonesy’s forehead furrows as if in memory. “Like, not much to say to anyone.”

  “Mmm.”

  “But it was an accident, right? Isn’t that the, ah, story?”

  “What?” I can’t believe Jonesy just said what I think he did. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about how your sister died. If it was an accident.”

  I swallow hard. Is it my paranoia, or is it getting quieter in here? “Of course it was.”

  He is waiting. He wants me to tell him. He is daring me to tell him.

  “She was walking across the street on Bay Avenue, in town,” I recite flatly. “On the corner of Bay and Castlemark, she stepped off the curb as the light changed, and she was hit by a car. It was coming really fast, and it happened instantly, on impact. Anything else you want to know for your personal archives?” There. I’m almost proud of myself, especially that part at the end. My gaze is holding its lock on Jonesy’s face, and there wasn’t a single quiver in my voice to make me sound pitiful.

  But then I realize it doesn’t matter, because everyone who has tuned us in is watching me with sympathetic eyes anyway. Chatter continues at the edges of the kitchen, but in my immediate vicinity, nobody is even pretending not to be listening.

  Jonesy raises his eyebrows. Then spits, squirting a shot of brown tobacco juice into his cup. So gross that it’s sort of hypnotizing. “Huh. ’Cause what I also heard is it might have been, let’s just say, not exactly an accident. The lady driving the car made a statement to the newspaper that your sister stepped off the curb and walked right in front of her car on purpose.”

  Suddenly I feel horribly overconscious of myself. My skin feels warm, like it’s melting, as my body moisturizer turns liquid. And then the sound of my voice, thin and girly. “There’d be obvious legal reasons for her to say that,” I tell him. “But if you want details about our lawsuit, sorry. I can’t give out that information.”

  Jonesy licks his lips as if he’s enjoying the anxiety of this moment.

  The hush in the kitchen has gathered into full-blown silence. “Besides,” I add, “why would my sister do that?”

  “The million-dollar question,” Jonesy drawls. “Let’s just say, she wasn’t any Little Miss Sunshine.”

  How I’d love to slap the smirk off his face. “You didn’t even know Jane,” I say. “Where do you come off telling me who she was or wasn’t?”

  “Easy, babe.” Jonesy wags his head. “Let’s just say—”

  “Let’s not. Let’s not just say. Okay?” Honest to God, I want to hurt him, but my only real weapon is my cup of soda, and I have to resist an impulse to toss it in his face. Too dramatic. But without letting go of him with my eyes, I drop my arm and splash grape soda all over Jonesy’s boots.

  “What the…!” It takes him a second or so to react. Then he jumps back, scowling and furious. “What the hell’d you do that for? These are anaconda skin!”

  “Oops.” I replace the empty cup on the counter.

  “That was an extremely dumb move.” Jonesy’s face is splotching with rage. “You don’t even have a clue how expensive these are. But don’t worry, hon. I’ll be taking the bill out of your next paycheck.”

  “Then I guess I better quit.”

  “You can’t quit, babe, if you’re already fired.” But Jonesy’s bluster is getting the better of him. When he spits on the floor in front of me, some kids start snickering.

  “Spittin’ mad,” someone says. “Watch your back.” More laughter.

  It’s Danielle who breaks into motion first, reaching out to pull Jonesy by the arm. “Okay, let’s, uh…c’mon.”

  And now I feel the shadow of a presence beside me, the quiet touch that I instinctively, gratefully, know is Caleb.

  “Air,” he whispers. “Breathe.” His fingers belt the sides of my waist and step me backward like we’re moving in a waltz, and then we turn, out of the hot light and the bright eyes of the kitchen, past the lounge and through the sliding screen doors and onto the back steps of the patio.

  Outside, we collapse to sit side by side. For some reason, I’m laughing, loopy with adrenaline. “Guess I shouldn’t have gone out tonight.�
�� I touch my hands to my face. My cheeks burn. “There was a warning sign, even.” My breath comes in punches of air from my diaphragm. “A wise, old strawberry told me not to come here.”

  “Let’s get you some water.” Caleb stands. “Here’s George. She’ll sit with you.” He motions to her and then vanishes back into the kitchen, as Georgia plops down next to me and bumps her knee against mine.

  “So, okay, the small talk situation didn’t work out exactly how I thought,” she says. “Small talk, ha ha, get it? Pun.”

  “Is that what everyone thinks?” I ask. “That Jane killed herself?”

  In the gap before she answers, I know at least what Georgia thinks. It’s no big shock. It’s not as if my parents and I haven’t been grappling with it all summer. But Georgia takes care with her words as she doles them out. “Most times whenever I saw Jane in school, and this goes as far back as kindergarten, I’d think, That’s a girl who just doesn’t want to be here.” She speaks gently, careful not to hurt. “But then last summer, when she took the job at Small Farms? I thought it might be different. Only she was exactly the same. No joking around, no stories. Jane just wasn’t interested. She’d get her work done, but every day I was a little surprised she’d shown up at all. So who knows how much she wanted to be anywhere? Maybe your sister wasn’t even making a choice, you know? I mean, not all decisions are like the SATs, where you get one exactly right answer and four exactly wrong ones.”

  I nod. We are quiet together, watching the volleyball game. It’s getting rowdy. Way too many people are in the pool. Zack MacFarlane, Kyle O’Hara, Chuckie Giovese, Brian Giovese, Adrianne Dillon, Rachel Rosen, Tamara Kerry. A few Tuzzolinos, too; Brad, Tim, and Renee. Bodies sleek as pistons rise and sink as the ball sails back and forth like a bouncing moon.

  Like Georgia, I’ve known most of these kids since preschool. I’ve been to their homes and their birthday parties, stood next to them in fire drills and lunch lines. This is the first night I’ve ever felt apart from them. This, I realize, is probably how my sister always felt.

  Then Alex appears, bounding toward us from around the side of the house. “Aha!” She stops in front of me and looks me up and down, hands on her hips. “You okay? I just heard what happened in the kitchen with Jonesy.”

  “It was stupid.” I shrug. “It was nothing.”

  “Usually I can keep out most of the midlife crisis crowd. But some of those geezers get past the ropes.”

  “It was kind of a bizarre experience to quit my job in front of half the senior class,” I admit. “That was a first.”

  “Speaking of jobs,” Alex ventures, “what’s your boy Caleb doing, job-wise, next year? He should give guitar lessons. He’s amazing.”

  “I know,” I say. “He’s seriously talented. And he’s a great teacher.”

  “I’ll be modest and pretend I didn’t hear that.” Over my shoulder, Caleb hands me a cup of water.

  “So what is the plan, guy?” Alex asks Caleb the one question I’ve shied away from all summer. Funny how it sounds so innocent, coming from her.

  “Dunno.” Caleb reseats himself on my other side and cracks his knuckles. “I’m a work in progress.”

  “Hello? From the kid who’s had an after-school job ever since seventh grade?” Georgia wags her head. “You’re like the king of self-reliance.”

  Alex nods in agreement. “Yeah, I always think of you as someone who could live anywhere and do anything. Travel around from place to place, spreading the good word. Like Gandhi, or Moses.”

  “Or Mr. Thoreau,” adds Georgia.

  Embarrassed, Caleb laughs and rubs the back of his head where his scar is.

  When he glances at me, the lantern light reflects in his eyes, and I can see the concern that shines in them. Concern for me. Because Alex is right, I realize. And Caleb knows it. He’s not hanging around Peace Dale because he doesn’t know what to do with his life. He’s here because I don’t know what I’d do without him. I’m the one holding him back.

  How could I not have perceived for so long what must be so obvious to everybody else?

  When Caleb sees my expression change, he looks away.

  Alex seems to pick up on something. “Come search out Kevin with me?” she asks Georgia. “Bet you anything he went off to read his book on the toilet. He does that when he can’t find me.”

  “That is called knowing someone way too well. You guys are such an old married couple!” Georgia jumps up. “But I can’t resist. Let’s sneak up on him.” Laughing, they race off.

  Once they’re gone, I still can’t get myself to ask Caleb. The words stick in my throat. Am I the reason you’re still here? It’s my million-dollar question, but I’m scared that saying anything, one single thing, will set the changes in motion. Maybe that’s why I haven’t spoken up before.

  Then Caleb surprises me by speaking up first.

  “I drove out to your grandparents’ house today.”

  “For real?” I stare at him, confused. “How? Why’d you do that?”

  “How, because you once told me where they lived. Third left off Shaw Road. Why, I don’t know. You’d always said it was the place Jane loved best. And I guess I’d been curious.”

  “They’re going to be tearing it down,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, I saw the construction signs plastered outside.”

  This twists my heart a little, imagining that great big wrecking ball smashing into the side of Orchard Way and taking with it my best memories of my sister. I’m glad Jane will never have to see that. “What was it like?” I ask. “When you were there?”

  Abruptly, Caleb slides off the step. There’s an urgent pressure in his hands as he tugs me up to stand next to him. As if he’s just made up his mind about something. “How about I show you instead?”

  17 — SAY IT

  Jane

  Jane left the house. Outside, the stars were a scatter of broken crystal tipped across the sky. It was beginning again. She would walk. She would become frightened, and she would start to run back. She would call for Augusta and Granpa. Pound on their door until it opened. They’d be waiting for her. She would sleep, and she would wake up into her perfect day all over again. She would eat cantaloupe and sit by the pool in the sun. Her grandmother would prepare dinner. Jane would make a pitcher of lemonade, and the sun would set, and her day would end, and her grandparents would leave, and the house would change. She would be alone with Gambler. She would leave the house. She would walk. She would become frightened and hungry and turn back, yelling, and be rescued again.

  Rescued into another perfect day.

  Around again around, but underneath Jane could feel pinpricks of change. The thunderstorm. Caleb’s visit. Not warning signs, no, but they made her restless.

  Summer grass scratched at the bottoms of her feet. She remembered how Billy Leonard, in his frayed shorts and backward cap, used to sit on Granpa’s tractor and mow the lawn during that summer he worked here. He’d let her ride with him on the tractor a few times. Billy had also taught her how to hold the mini-saw to cut away dead tree branches. How to thin, weed, and calcify Granpa’s vegetable patch so that it would bear the sweetest tomatoes and chunkiest zucchinis. Billy had loved Orchard Way. Working beside him in the sun, Jane had pretended they were New England pioneers, preparing for the winter.

  At school, Billy had been different. Shy. School rules banned caps, and Billy’s fizz of black hair hid the top half of his face. But whenever he’d caught sight of Jane, he’d stretch his lips into a neat line that floated somewhere close to a smile.

  Yes, we have a connection, his lips had seemed to say to her.

  After Augusta died, Jane wondered if someone had told Billy. Every time she saw him, she almost did. She’d imagine his lips pressing downward as he took in the news. Other times, she’d imagine Billy’s lips pressed against hers. Warm as summer. She didn’t know when she’d begun doodling Billy Leonard’s name on her notebooks. She didn’t know when she’d started thinking abo
ut Billy-and-Jane.

  She’d even brought him up with Lily, knocking on her bedroom door to ask, “Do you think Billy Leonard is ugly or what?”

  “Why, you got a thing for him?” Lily’s eyes had danced.

  “Shut up.” She’d closed the door. And that was that.

  But then another time, in visual arts class, Jane had sketched a portrait in charcoals that she’d had to rip up when it turned out to look too much like Billy Leonard’s wild hair and black eyes. The charcoal had stayed smudged on her fingers all day, like evidence. She imagined Billy Leonard coming over to her house. She imagined him slouched next to her as they watched TV, while Lily and Caleb had to sit on the floor because Lily was younger and it was only fair.

  It had taken her a long time to approach the real Billy Leonard. Then one afternoon, she was ready. Ready for real. She had walked up to his locker, number 373. Waited. She’d never started a conversation with Billy Leonard before, and when she watched him strolling down the hall, getting closer and closer, she felt sick with the burden of it. The words she had practiced so hard in her head began to fade.

  “Yeah?” Billy asked as he came within speaking distance.

  “My grandmother died,” Jane had said in a rush. “Back in September. I didn’t know if you’d heard. It’s why she never called you. Not because she’d hired someone else to do the lawn.”

  Billy’s eyes had blinked rapidly. It sent a doubtful, quivery feeling through her. Up close, his face was too alive and unreadable. Not like in her imagination, or even her charcoal sketch. “Sorry to hear it,” he muttered. “’Scuse me. I gotta run to class.”

  “Okay.” Trembling, Jane had stepped away from him. Stupid, how stupid she’d sounded! There was no such thing as Jane-and-Billy. They had not been for real pioneers. They had not been for real anything.