Willa looks at me shrewdly and very deliberately pokes my shoulder where she pushed me. I wince and slap her hand away.
“Why are you so tender?”
“I bruise easily, okay? Quit poking me.”
Willa pulls my cuff back a few inches, enough to expose the bruises that I’ve managed to keep hidden from Mom and Elise. She glares at me and asks if I walked into a pole.
“Several, actually,” I answer stiffly. It’s none of her business.
Willa shakes her head and turns back to her book. I roll my sleeve back down, tugging it so far that it almost covers my hand completely.
Willa hands me a mint.
“It was just a small mosh pit, and I was only on the edge.”
She snorts like my explanation is funny. “Totally not what I was thinking.”
“What were you thinking?”
“Rough sex,” she quips. “Either that or a fight with a five-year-old.” It takes a few seconds for me to realize that she insulted me with that last part, because I’m hung up on the idea of Willa thinking of me having sex. I thought she thought I was a complete write-off—some sort of closet case or asexual.
Well, she pictured you naked and didn’t gag. Good sign?
She was probably joking, you idiot.
It doesn’t matter if she was—you can’t deliver, remember?
I knew that stunt with Ava was going to come back to haunt me. I feel my face go hot with the residual shame of Sunday morning. Why the hell did I say yes to her when I knew better?
“You’ve got a dirty mind, Kirk.”
“It makes life interesting,” she answers simply, like we’re talking about the merits of powdered versus liquid dish soap.
“You find my sex life interesting?”
“Do you have one?”
I hate it when she wins.
After class Mrs. Hudson calls Willa and I up to her desk. She has the latest component of our term project in her hands, and I don’t think she intends to compliment it.
“I think you two have gotten off track a little bit,” she says. “This is a very good project you’ve designed, but it’s starting to look like a science experiment.”
“Uh…yeah.” Should we make art out of soil contamination?
“This is supposed to be a Social Studies project. You should be taking your chosen issue and relating it to the concerns of the community—to people. Stating the facts isn’t enough. What I expect for your paper and presentation is an opinion about the issue and a possible solution to the problem.”
I take the assignment back with a sigh. “We’ll rework it.”
“Can we change topics?” Willa interjects. How nice of her to speak for both of us. I have no interest in changing topics after we’ve done part of the work on this one.
Mrs. Hudson hesitates. “What did you have in mind?”
“Give us until tomorrow to submit an alternate proposal. If it’s no good, we'll revamp the pollution project.” She’d better not expect me to do any more work than I have already if she’s determined to go back to square one.
*
Willa comes over after dinner with a small stack of typed pages in her hand. It’s our revamped project proposal. I grab my backpack and suggest that we take our work up to the library. It isn’t until we’re sitting across from each other at the worktable that I see Willa’s new proposal. The title makes me choke: The Effects of Critical Illness on Individuals and Families.
“No.”
“It’s the only subject we both know inside out.”
“Absolutely not.”
“We have easy access to interview subjects.”
“Did you not hear me?”
Willa gives me a snarky look. “What’s your problem?”
“My problem is that I don’t need the whole class to know my business.”
“They stare because they’re curious. Take that way, and they’ll just be assholes who gawk,” Willa says levelly.
“We’re not doing this.”
“We both know that I’ll be doing most of the work, and this is a topic I’d like to pursue.”
I tear her proposal in half. She can just print another one, but ripping the project sends an appropriate message.
Willa leans forward on her elbows and speaks with a condescending smile. “You know Harper, you aren’t the center of the universe. Neither are you the only one who has personal experience that might come in handy for this project. Get over it. It sucks, but if we can exploit the shit things we’ve gone through for this stupid project, it means we can stop mucking about with soil samples.”
She isn’t going to back down on this. I almost suggest that we do separate projects, but that would mean a lot more work and a failing grade for me. I pick up the torn title page instead and amend the topic: The Effects of Critical Illness on Individuals and Families.
“We’re just focusing on you.”
“What about your family?”
“I’d rather not include them.”
“Give them the option, at least.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s painful.”
Willa just shakes her head and collects the pieces of the proposal. “I’ll redraft the outline. See you at school tomorrow.” She grabs her backpack and head for the door. I don’t go after her. I don’t want to fight about this.
Willa: April 23 to 28
Tuesday
I’m going to miss moments like this when I graduate high school. Paige is putting her plan to make Chris jealous into action by flirting with Joe right in front of him at lunch. Moore is embarrassingly happy with the attention, but Chris takes it in stride. He turns to me and starts a game of hot hands.
I suck at this game, but it’s probably karma’s way of getting me back for encouraging Paige in the first place. Chris goes easy on me, flirting just a little to put it back in Paige’s face. All of this is a wasted effort. They’ll be back to making out in the halls again by the final bell.
It’s around the time that Joe begins to tell Paige the specs of his new guitar amp that Paige seems to realize this was a bad idea. Chris whacks the back of my hands again, but he holds on this time, laughing at my ineptitude. I never realized what small hands he has. He has fingers like a hobbit.
Chris rubs his thumbs along the backs of my hands. Touchy. Feely. Completely gross.
“Got a job lined up for the summer yet?” he asks.
“Not yet.”
“My parents are hiring for the summer soon. You should apply.” Chris’s parents own a bed and breakfast on the outskirts of town. It’s popular for outdoor weddings because they have a large, well-maintained Victorian garden. Working with Chris doesn’t entirely appeal to me, but it’s better than flipping burgers.
“Okay.” My willingness makes Chris smile. “I’ll stop by and drop off an application.”
*
We’re watching a movie today in Social Studies about the juvenile justice system. I zone out and doodle on the sole of my shoe. The movie limits the amount of in-class conversation that Mrs. Hudson is willing to tolerate. A paper plane note flies past the screen every two minutes.
Jem sends a plane twelve inches to the right, directly into my hair. It says: You know Elwood’s going to rape you in the guest room.
It is absolutely none of his business where I work. Jem has been petty and snippy about Elwood before, sometimes with good reason, but this is a new low.
I write back, You can’t rape the willing, and slide the paper his way. Jem glares at the note for a good long time before crushing it in his fist. Part of me fears for Chris’s tires.
As we get ready to leave at the end of the hour, Jem slips a second note into my sweater pocket. I read it before the start of my next class, but almost wish I hadn’t.
I made a dinner reservation. Saturday, 7 pm. I’ll pick you up.
That bastard even drew a smiley face underneath. And under that: P.S. Elwood’s a tool. Mature a
s ever, I see.
Wednesday
Mrs. Hudson returns the new project proposal. She’s green-lighted it, so now all we have to do is play catch-up with our research, not that it will be hard. Jem refuses to speak to me for the rest of the lesson.
Thursday
I consider telling Jem that Mrs. Elwood called me back the same day I submitted an application and offered me a part-time job (probably with Chris’s influence). But I know it would bother him so I don’t say anything. Of course, I didn’t count on Chris cheerfully informing me over lunch that he’ll be training me at my first shift on Monday. Jem doesn’t say anything, but he looks pretty annoyed.
“The front desk is pretty simple,” Chris says. “The hard work is maintenance and cleaning.” He starts to tell me about the reception bookings they have this summer, but I’m only half-listening. My attention is divided between Chris and the thoughtful, troubled way Jem runs his fingers across the side of his jaw. I’d bet my car he’s working on something snarky to say.
Chris notices my preoccupation and beats Jem to the punch.
“Miss a spot shaving?”
Jem and I both pause and Hannah chokes on her orange juice. Jem upends Chris’s lunch tray all over his lap, pushes his chair back, and walks away. I consider leaving with him, but he probably wants to be alone.
“Crap, that’s going to stain,” Chris complains.
“You’ll survive.”
*
Jem doesn’t show up to Social Studies. That doesn’t entirely surprise me. I don’t see him for the rest of the day, and he doesn’t call for music before bed. I send a short Goodnight text that goes unanswered.
Chris’s remark must have put quite a dent in Jem’s ego. I’m hardly innocent of the same crime—I called him Uncle Fester when I barely knew him, but at least I was provoked. Chris had no reason to say anything to Jem.
I start to count backwards on my fingers, adding up the time I’ve known Jem against the forty-nine days he had officially been in remission when I asked. It took Tessa nearly six weeks to start regrowing actual hair after her last round of chemo. It was thin and fell out easily and had the texture of newborn hair. I would never ask Jem, of course, because he’s so sensitive about his hair, but I do wonder how much longer until he ditches the hats altogether.
I pick up my phone and text Jem again, even though he didn’t reply to my last.
You still awake?
It takes Jem five minutes to answer: Maybe.
Elwood’s a tool.
I’m awake.
I call him and he answers with a droll, “Did I miss anything in Soc?”
“Not really. I don’t want to talk about school.”
“Okay…?”
“Did you shave your head before chemo?”
I can hear him lick his lips on the other end of the line. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
“I still have the razor I shaved my sister’s head with.”
“Oh.”
“I cut her hair off with the kitchen scissors and then shaved the rest. I was so worried I was going to cut her by accident.”
“Did you?”
“No. I went slow. It took me more than an hour to do the job.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I loved it. I loved her for letting me do it, and she was so beautiful and confident…gorgeous even without her hair.”
“Willa…”
“Elwood is an idiot. Don’t listen to him. Don’t let him make you feel inferior.”
Jem doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches on, so I make it easy and let him off the hook.
“Goodnight, Jem.”
“G’night.”
Friday
I open my locker at lunchtime and a note falls out at me. It’s from Jem.
Meet me at the picnic tables.
I swing by the cafeteria to buy food and then head out to the picnic tables. Jem is already there when I arrive, sitting on the tabletop with his feet resting on the bench. I toss him a carton of milk and climb up beside him.
“You’re not hiding out here, are you?”
“No.” Jem shakes his head and folds open the milk spout. “I just wanted you all to myself, is all.”
I give him a sideways look and he stares right back, completely unapologetic. “Are we still on for tomorrow?”
Ugh, I had almost blocked out all knowledge of his dinner plans. “I told you I don’t do dinner dates.”
“And that prohibits you from going out to grab a bite with a friend?” I mull that one over and he nudges my shoulder with his. “Come on, Kirk. I think we both need a night out of Smiths Falls.”
“Out of Smiths Falls?”
“The place I had in mind is in Ottawa.”
“That far?”
“It’s only an hour away, as long as traffic isn’t bad.”
“I still don’t think—”
Jem lays a finger over my lips, cutting me off. “Please don’t make me kidnap you.”
“Can’t we do something else?”
“What if I said I was really excited to try this restaurant?”
“I’d say you’re a liar.”
Jem laughs. “We’re still going.” My protest has been overruled. He takes his iPod out of his jacket pocket and hands me an earphone. He chooses “Love of the Loveless” by the Eels. These uncomplicated moments with Jem are rare, just sitting on the table with music and food and no real need for conversation. We coast through a few songs before “Electro-Shock Blues” comes on. Jem and I share a sideways look, and he changes the track to “P.S. You Rock My World.”
I’m starting to like these wordless conversations.
*
I swing by the stationary store after school to pick up a poster board and supplies for Jem and I to make AV crap for the Soc project. I call Jem to ask if we need anything else before I leave the store.
“What color poster did you get?”
“White.”
“Did you get anything to decorate it?”
“Black Sharpies.”
“This is going to be the most boring poster ever.”
“I know.”
“I like it. It denotes a suitable lack of effort.”
“Fantastic.” I hang up on him and head to the checkout counter. On my way I pass the office equipment aisle and an open bin catches my eye. It’s full of rubber finger caps, the kind that make page flipping easier and prevent paper cuts. I pick one up and try it on. It gives me an idea.
*
Jem hears my shoddy muffler and appears in the front door as soon as I exit my car. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”
“I can’t stay.” I mount the front steps and hand him the poster board and Sharpies. “The Crappiest Poster Ever is your job, okay?” This is the kind of contribution Jem can stand; one that doesn’t make him confront any of his demons.
“I’ll put the bare minimum amount of effort into it,” he promises.
“I got these for you, too.” I take the plastic bag of finger caps from my pocket and hand it over. “For music.” I head back to my car before he can open the bag and make things uncomfortable. “G’night, Harper.”
*
I get a phone call at eleven o’clock at night, long past the time when Jem usually calls. I’m tempted to just let it ring and fall back to sleep, but he’d give me a hard time about it in the morning.
“Hello?” My eyes refuse to stay open.
“Hey.”
“It’s late.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why’d you call?”
“Just listen, okay?”
There’s a rustle as Jem moves the phone, and after a few seconds I hear the opening strains of a classical nocturne. He’s playing. The melody is slow and mournful, but I feel warm listening to it, because it means he has his cello back. He can play his music without pain.
After a few minutes the song is interrupted by Ivy’s gentle voice. “It’s late, ho
ney. Why don’t you finish practicing tomorrow and get some sleep?”
“I will,” he promises, and there’s silence until his bedroom door closes. Jem picks up the phone. “You still there?”
“Still here.”
“Sorry. Mom wants me to shut up and go to bed.”
“Tomorrow’s another day,” I agree. It was nice to hear Jem play, but I’m eager to get back to sleep.
“I’m rusty, but…” I can hear him smiling. This is good for him. A musician needs music.
“It was beautiful, Jem.”
“Thanks for the rubber caps.”
“You’re welcome. Now go to bed, it’s late.”
“Good night, Willa.”
Saturday
I make supper for Frank at five o’clock, but I don’t eat anything. I don’t want to spoil my appetite, and the reservation Jem made is at seven. I tell Frank about my plans to go out with a friend so he won’t assume I’m up to no good.
“Aren’t you gonna eat first?”
“We’ll grab a bite while we’re out.”
I leave Frank to devour his tacos and go upstairs to get ready for an evening out. Unfortunately that means shedding my weekend getup of torn jeans and old plaid shirts. I strip out of my comfy clothes and open my closet. I’m lost.
What the hell does one wear on a non-date? I have a feeling that jeans and a tee won’t cut it, but the thought of having to get dressed up creeps me out. Skirts are quickly ruled out. The chenille sweater I wear on special occasions like Christmas is too good. Plain tees and band shirts aren’t good enough. My button-front blouse is linty. Eventually I compromise: dark jeans on the bottom, and a black sweater on top; the perfect balance of ‘I’m going out’ and ‘I don’t care.’ I don’t usually wear makeup, and since this really isn’t a date, I decide not to bother now. I leave my hair down and pass on any form of jewelry. I grab my plainest pair of grey gloves. I do one better than runners, though: black flats, both understated and good enough to go with the sweater.
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