“But I don’t know how to fly!”
“Yes, you do. You just don’t know that you do. You’re doing great.”
“Oh my god … hold everything! This is ridiculous. I do not know how to fly!”
“Yes, you do. You just don’t know that you do.”
“You just said that. But I don’t! Please … don’t say it again.”
“Trust yourself, Anne. You know more than you think you do.”
But I’m so freaked out that I decide the only thing to do is to fly the plane really low. The closer I am to the ground, the safer I feel. But this isn’t working. I keep flying through tree limbs and bumping into buildings.
“You have to fly higher,” Mom says.
“No! I have to be able to see the ground.”
“Then you’ll crash. Look at what you’re doing; even though you’re still in the air—barely—you’re hitting everything in sight. What’s safe about this?”
“It’s safer than being too high! I’m scared of being too high.”
“It doesn’t work that way, honey. You were meant to fly higher than this. Being cautious is just going to cause you to crash.”
“I don’t care! I’m scared! I’m scared of going higher.”
“Suit yourself. But this—this crazy ride—is the alternative to not increasing your altitude. This is the ride you have in store if you insist on holding back. You’ve got to let go, Anne. You have to rise to your potential.”
“I’m too scared! What should I do, Mom? What should I do?”
“You should trust yourself.”
I glimpse her from the corner of my eye, sitting in the co-pilot’s seat. “Hey … Mom! You’re here! I see you now!”
But when I turn for a better look, she’s gone.
“Too late!” I say, crying and laughing at the same time. “I saw you! And surprise, I didn’t freak out! I told you I could handle it. Oh, Mom … I saw you … ”
My lashes flutter, then start to focus on my bedroom, illuminated by silky moonlight seeping through the blinds.
My heart is racing, but a smile is on my face.
I saw my mom … just for an instant, but I saw her. It felt so real. That plane ride was crazy, but even amid the chaos, her words were as clear as a bell:
You should trust yourself.
Fifteen
“And he told me if I ever made him sit in Santa’s lap again, he’d kick him in the shins!”
Blake’s family and I laugh at his mother’s story, our silverware clinking against her good china.
“That’s our Blake,” his mother says cheerfully. “Even when he was three, he had a mind of his own.” She glances at me, then adds, “But always such a good boy.”
Blake exaggerates an aw shucks grin, and we laugh some more. He looks so cute, so boyish eating his mom’s roast beef and listening to her stories. Most guys would cringe in a situation like this, but Blake seems to love it. He and his mom practically ooze adoration for each other. Garrett and his dad are clearly bit players in the dynamic. Garrett seems a little churlish, but his dad chuckles along gamely while occasionally adding a good-natured dig.
Blake really is light years more mature than most guys his age, winking at his mother rather than scowling at her, keeping the stories going rather than nipping them in the bud. I think this is why people sometimes react oddly to him. He’s just so much more together than they expect him to be.
Right?
I impatiently shake Uncle Mark’s words from my head: almost too smooth.
“What is it, dear?” Blake’s mother asks me, and I feel my neck grow warm.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You looked preoccupied.”
“Oh … no … just enjoying the story … ”
His dad clears his throat. “Well, we’ve been regaled with Blake stories for an hour straight. Tell us about you, Anne.”
“Well, I—”
“She’s very smart,” his wife tells him. “Brilliant, even, right, Anne?”
“Gosh, no … ”
“Oh, she’s just being modest,” she tells her husband and sons, dismissing my denial with a wave of her hand. “Blake says she’ll probably be the class valedictorian. And she’s a reader, just like—”
She sucks in her breath abruptly and all eyes fall on her.
“It’s okay to talk about her,” Blake says softly. He turns toward me and squeezes my hand. “Cara was a big reader too.”
“Oh … ”
His mother looks at me intently. “I think the reason Blake cares so much for you is that you understand what he’s going through. Your parents’ accident—that’s just so terrible, dear; I’m so sorry you have that cross to bear. But it gives depth and sensitivity that not many people your age can relate to. You know, even before Cara’s accident, Blake was wise beyond his years. I’m guessing you were too. Add that to the fact that you’ve experienced tragedies so young in your life, and it just puts you on a whole different plane. I mean, how many other teenagers could possibly—”
“Any dessert, Mom?”
She casts Garrett an irritated glance. “I was talking,” she tells him through gritted teeth.
“Sorry. I thought you were finished.”
“I was in mid-sentence.”
“Sue me,” he mutters, eliciting an icy glare.
It occurs to me that Garrett acts a lot like Jamie does around Blake. And, duh … it makes a lot of sense. Blake’s charisma tends to overshadow everything in the room, everybody in the room. Sexual tension? Ridiculous. His own brother acts that way around him. People are just jealous of him, that’s all. It’s Occam’s razor writ large: the simplest explanation is usually the right one. Overanalyze much, Sawbones?
Then again, Sawyer had a point: the only reason he had questions and suspicions is because I planted them. Being with Blake around his family has given me a lot of clarity. I’m the one who overthinks everything. I breathe a sigh of relief as I glean that Blake’s and my relationship might actually be a lot less complicated than I feared, creepy anonymous notes notwithstanding. Even the notes are starting to seem less ominous. True, Blake overreacted, but once we got that tension out of the way, talking with the guys about the notes kind of demystified them. Worries aren’t nearly as unsettling when you expose them to the light of day. I’m glad Melanie ignored my advice and went with her gut.
I’m feeling lighter on my feet by the minute.
“And it was after he blew out his knee that we started playing golf together.”
I dry a dish as Blake’s dad hands it to me, enjoying this alone-time with him to get a father’s perspective of a son who, according to his mother, is virtually perfection personified. His dad’s stories are more prosaic, more understated—anecdotes indicating pride in his son in a measured, modest way.
I love seeing Blake through both sets of eyes. It was kind of the opposite for me: Mom kept me down to earth while Dad practically shouted my fabulosity from the rooftops. Mom was like a coach who saw my potential, Dad like a cheerleader who saw absolutely no room for improvement.
God, I miss them. Seeing the dynamic play out as a mirror image in another home—a home where I’m greeted with open arms, welcomed into the fold—is like being wrapped in a warm blanket. I could stand here at the sink with Blake’s dad all day.
“Sorry that Blake’s mom tends to go a little overboard,” he tells me, handing me another plate. “Her protectiveness went into overdrive when he was diagnosed with cancer.” He glances at me. “You’d heard about that, right?”
I nod. “Yes … ”
“Everything’s fine now—well, mostly fine—but when she thought she might lose him, she became a real mother bear. What can I say? He’s a little spoiled.”
I shake my head. “No, no, I don’t think so. I just think he knows
how loved he is. That’s a great thing.”
Blake’s dad offers a cryptic mmmmmmm, but then his face brightens. “I’ll say one thing for him,” he tells me. “He’s got excellent taste in women.”
I smile, drying the last dish as his dad drains the sink.
“Did you like Cara?” I ask him.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “Very sweet girl. The accident was … devastating. She and Blake were very close—too close, really, for teenagers. Too close emotionally, I mean. I always thought they should be dating other people, not be exclusive at such a young age.”
“I just think Blake’s not into superficial relationships,” I say. His dad nods but averts his eyes.
“Kids have all the time in the world for a committed relationship,” he says, and I wonder if the irony strikes him. Cara didn’t have all the time in the world. My parents didn’t have all the time in the world. Nobody has all the time in the world. The clock’s ticking for all of us, sometimes faster than we realize. Maybe it was a blessing for Cara to have so much love and commitment so early in life. Maybe it was a blessing for Blake, too, even though it intensified his grief. He’s coping, right? He’s moving on, even while honoring her memory. Bringing flowers to her mother every Sunday—what a touching gesture. I wonder when he does it. Maybe he’ll take them to her after he drops me off today. Speaking of which …
“Gee, I didn’t realize it was so late,” I say, glancing at the clock on the kitchen wall. “I’ve got a paper to finish. Better get going.”
His dad offers a gallant bow from the waist, then takes my hand and kisses it. “It’s been a pleasure, madam.”
“Aaaaahhh, the pleasure has been all mine, kind sir,” I say with a little curtsy.
I dry my hands on the dish towel, then walk down the hall into the great room.
“—told you, I will not let you be alone with—”
Garrett spots me in the doorway and blushes. Whatever he was telling Blake in a hushed tone when I walked in, I clearly wasn’t meant to overhear.
“Anne … ” he says.
Blake jumps up from the couch and walks over to my side. “We have a couple of bathrooms that need cleaning if you’re still in the mood for chores,” he says, kissing my cheek.
“The least I could do was help wash the dishes,” I tell him, trying to match his breezy tone but still rattled by whatever Garrett was telling him when I walked in.
Garrett stares at the carpet.
“Um, I really should be going,” I say. “I’ve got a paper due tomorrow, so … ”
“Sure, sure,” Blake says. “Ready, Garrett?”
I peer quizzically at Garrett. He’s coming too?
“Yeah,” he says, getting up from the recliner.
“I have to drop Garrett off at a friend’s house after I take you home,” Blake says.
Okay. Nothing weird about that, right? It’s just that Garrett was in the car when Blake picked me up earlier, too. Of course, I thought nothing of it at the time. But his words … the words I interrupted when I walked into the room … are echoing in my head: I will not let you be alone with—
With who? Me? This is Blake’s younger brother we’re talking about. Why would that be his call?
And why the hell would he care?
Sixteen
“Did you finish your paper?”
I nod, taking the sandwich from the baggie in my brown paper bag. “I was up till midnight, but I cranked it out.”
Blake and I are having lunch at a picnic table outside the cafeteria. I’d suggested privacy for a couple of reasons: Things seem to have smoothed over since I pissed off Lauren last week about the note, but I’m still wary of invading her space. Here I come, not only barging into her and Melanie’s friendship but making a habit of arranging double dates with Mel, right on the heels of Lauren’s breakup. I can only imagine how threatened she must feel. How would I have felt if some interloper had suddenly insinuated herself into my friendship with Sawbones, particularly if I’d been especially vulnerable at the time?
I get it, so I’m trying to back off a bit and give Lauren and Melanie a little space. I think everything’s cool, but I don’t want to screw anything up. Lauren and Melanie are the only girlfriends I have on Hollis Island. Maybe it’s my imagination, but my other classmates seem to be keeping their distance. Is it because I’ve gotten so close to Blake so quickly? Do people resent it, like Natalie does? Do they think I’m a flake, or worse, an insensitive jerk? A full-of-myself diva? Do they mistrust me? Do they mistrust Blake?
Speaking of whom …
I’d hoped Blake would volunteer information at lunch today about the conversation I interrupted at his house. I still can’t shake Garrett’s intensity about insisting he won’t leave Blake alone with … with whom? It has to be me. Who else could he have been talking about? But there has to be some easy explanation—the brothers were pretty much talking in shorthand, like there was some deal, some arrangement, that they’d both agreed to well before the conversation took place, like the way some siblings agree to take turns riding shotgun in the car or whatever. It’s a brother thing, right? So why wouldn’t Blake just tell me what they were talking about? He’s got to know I’m curious.
But all Blake is doing is making small talk, munching an apple while I eat my sandwich in the warm muggy breeze. I can smell the salt in the air. How crazy that I used to count the days until our next beach visit. Now that I live here, I haven’t been to the beach a single time. It’s just a couple of blocks over, and yet it seems almost sacrilegious to go there without my parents. Maybe one day soon, I’ll allow myself to revisit the girl I was before they died. Or maybe that girl died that day too. Maybe that’s why I’ve gotten so close to Blake so fast; he’s my express-train ticket to my new life.
“ … Mr. Loring’s class?”
I squint at Blake. “Sorry; what did you say?”
“I was asking about your test in Mr. Loring’s class,” Blake says, his tone a little peevish. “You seem awfully distracted.”
I shake my head. “No, no … sorry. My brain’s still a little fried from staying up late to finish my paper.”
His expression clouds over. “And that’s my fault?”
“What?” I peer at him closer. “What do you mean?”
“I mean if I hadn’t invited you to dinner yesterday, you could have been home working on your precious paper. So sue me, for god’s sake.”
“No. No! That’s not what I meant at all. I’m sorry, I had a great time at your house. Really. I was so happy to meet your parents. Please don’t think that’s what I meant … ”
He sets his jaw and glowers into space.
Oh god. Can I do anything right these days?
“Blake, please don’t be mad at me.”
But he’s still glaring straight ahead. I lean in and peck him on the cheek. “You’re a total goofball if you think I’d rather do homework than hang out with you,” I say in his ear.
He holds his pose for a moment, then his face softens. “You’re sure?” he asks me.
“Uh, duh,” I say, lightly squeezing a knuckle into his dimple, desperate to inject some levity into such a strange, fraught moment. How did things go south so quickly? How totally tone-deaf am I becoming to my interactions with other people? Have I turned into a self-absorbed twit since my parents died?
“Prove it,” Blake says, but his voice is playful. “Go for a drive with me after school today.”
I consider his words for a moment. A drive … just the two of us? That would be a first. It actually sounds pretty awesome …
I pop the side of my head with my hand. “Can’t.”
Uh-oh. The sullen expression is settling back into his face.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s kind of annoying, but my aunt decided I should see a therapist for
a few sessions, you know, to help deal with my parents’ death. I just remembered I have an appointment after school.”
I study his face to gauge his reaction, but for a long moment his expression is inscrutable.
“I’m really sorry,” I say.
He finally shrugs. “It’s okay. Really. I think it’s a good idea you’re seeing a therapist. People have told me I should do that too, but, I dunno, I just feel like I should be strong enough to deal with things myself. Plus, I just remembered, I’m volunteering at the children’s hospital after school today.”
I nod. “Maybe that’s something we can do together after my counseling sessions are over. I’d love that.”
He tosses his apple core into a trash can.
“Don’t be mad?” I cajole.
He’s silent for a moment, then sticks his tongue out at me. I laugh at him.
“I can never stay mad at you,” he tells me, then kisses me on the lips. “Gotta go. I’ve got my own test to study for.”
As he walks away, I wave to him and call, “Good luck at the children’s hospital.”
It’s after Blake is out of earshot that I hear a voice behind me say, “Please.”
I turn toward the voice and see a guy at the next picnic table over. He looks familiar from a couple of my classes, but I don’t know his name.
I look at him quizzically, not sure if he’s talking to me.
“What did you say?” I ask him.
“The children’s hospital ?” the guys says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Blake volunteers there,” I say.
“Right. Whatever you say.”
My brow furrows. “What are you insinuating?”
The guy presents his palms as peace offerings. “Nothing, nothing. I’m sure that’s exactly how Blake spends his time. I’m guessing a story will be circulating by next week that he’s donated a kidney to one of the tots.”
My jaw drops subtly as I try to wrap my head around his words.
“Are you saying he’s lying?”
“Nah,” the guy insists disingenuously. “Lying would be a flaw. No chance of that.” He gets up from the bench, grabs his backpack, and brushes past me. “Helluva guy, that Blake,” he murmurs. “A legend in his own mind.”
Tragedy Girl Page 9
