by Nina LaCour
I’m lying on the edge of the bed, watching her. I want to take her hand like she did for me earlier. I reach out, but she pulls back, only slightly, but enough for me to know that she doesn’t want to be consoled.
I sit up. “Tell me three things about him.”
She looks at me, surprised, but knows exactly how to answer.
“He loved chasing pigeons. Whenever he recited the alphabet, he switched the B and the D. He’d say, ‘A-D-C-B-E-F-G.’ ”
I smile and wait. When a minute passes, I say, “One more.”
“He had the strongest little arms,” Dylan says. “He used to hug me around the neck so hard it hurt.”
It’s getting dark fast. Dylan tips her head up to my ceiling. Her face glows blue.
“I know how you feel,” she says. “Believe me. But you are not the only one hurting over Ingrid.”
She sits there for a minute longer and I think she’s going to say more, but she doesn’t. Instead, she climbs onto my bed and hugs me, tight and awkward, her arms squeezed around mine so I can’t hug back. It takes me by surprise. It knocks the wind out of me. She lets go and walks down the stairs and out the front door.
I sit still for a long time. I can still feel the pressure of her arms around me. Down the hall my parents are talking, brushing teeth, opening drawers. I unzip my backpack and take out Ingrid’s journal. I lay it, exposed, on my desk. When I know my parents are asleep, I cross the room to my window. I look down at my car. Out at the sky.
An idea comes. I wait for morning.
18
Hope starts over. At 8 A.M., I’m out the sliding-glass door and onto the patio, note left for my parents next to the espresso machine explaining everything I’m about to do, bag heavy with all the things I’ll need for today. I pass the last stack of wood, the planter boxes of yellow flowers, my parents’ tomatoes reddening on their vines.
When I slide into my car, the fake fur of the driver’s seat feels soft against my legs. I’m wearing a skirt I haven’t worn for a year—green and yellow checkered, short enough to show my pale, sharp knees. I start the ignition, remembering Taylor’s fingertips running down my thighs. Deep in my stomach, something tightens. In a good way.
I shift to first gear, and pull quietly out the driveway. I don’t want to wake my parents on the only morning they sleep in.
Even though I love Davey’s tape, I feel like listening to something new, so at all the red lights on the way to the freeway I search for good songs on the radio. Static crackles through the speakers, followed by talk radio, a sappy love song, a preacher with a voice like gravel, then a song that I love—a perfect morning song. I roll my windows down, turn the volume up, sing along loud as I roll past all the sleepy streets.
I turn left onto the on-ramp to the freeway, build up speed, then shift into fifth gear. At first, the freeway is practically empty, but as I get farther from the suburbs, more cars appear. I glance into their windows and try to guess where they’re going.
Asian man in a Lexus—into the office on a Saturday? I imagine his daughter saying, Dad, you work too hard. I steal another glance at his face; he looks perfectly content, so I figure he enjoys his work. Old woman hunched over her steering wheel—off to breakfast with her knitting group, thinking, Today, I’ll finish the first sleeve on my husband’s sweater.
As the tollbooth approaches, I grip the steering wheel harder, and try to fend off all traces of panic. I’m about to drive over the bridge for the first time, and right now it feels a little like diving off a cliff. The guy at the tollbooth is listening to headphones and dancing. I give him a ten and he hands back my change, and from there I’m on my own. I have to merge with about a million cars on each side and I let out a yelp of sheer terror, but miraculously, I survive it. What comes next is terrifying, but might also be the most exhilarating moment of my life.
I’ve been on the bridge so many times, but it’s never felt like this. The land drops out beneath me. On each side is water and a few boats, so distant they look like toys bobbing along the surface of the bay. Above me are thick, strong cables, holding the bridge up. Above them: sky. A gust of wind comes and I hold hard to the steering wheel to stay steady. Treasure Island approaches, and I’m driving over land again, and then Treasure Island is only a speck in my rearview mirror, and I’m back over water, the city stretching in front of me, dense with possibility.
I exit onto Duboce Street, turn left, and pull out the directions I printed this morning. I navigate down streets that are new to me. The directions have me take a different route from the one Dylan and I walked that afternoon a couple months ago, but I follow them carefully, and soon I find a parking spot and turn off the car.
I drop a few quarters in the meter and walk through the door of Copy Cat.
Maddy sees me first and calls to me from behind the counter. I grin, relieved—I hadn’t known for sure that she’d be working. She finishes ringing up a customer, and I wait for her in the corner of the store because I’m not sure if she’s allowed to have friends visit. I don’t want to get her in trouble with her boss. But as soon as she’s finished, she prances toward me in her apron and gives me a hug.
“What are you doing here?” She cocks her head in curiosity.
“I need to make some copies,” I say, like it’s obvious.
Maddy laughs. “There aren’t any copy stores in Los Cerros?”
I reach into my bag, pull out Ingrid’s journal.
“Copies of this.”
Maddy takes the journal from me. I don’t know if Dylan’s told her about it, if it will mean anything to her. But she holds it in one hand, puts her other hand on my arm, says, “Oh, of course.”
She looks pensive for a moment. “I can ask my manager if you can use the back room. We work on the big orders there and it’s a lot more private.”
Out here, light streams through the windows, faint music plays, a woman with tattoos covering both arms uses one copier, a gray- haired man with rings on all his fingers has papers spread out over a worktable. Between them, an unused copy machine and table wait against a wall of windows.
“Thanks,” I say. “But I’m actually fine here.”
“Okay,” Maddy chirps. “Let’s get you set up.”
She guides me to a display of paper.
“Why don’t you use this,” she says, reaching for a stack near the top. “It’s really nice quality. Here, feel it.”
It’s slightly textured and thicker than normal paper.
“It’s kinda expensive,” she whispers, “but you can use my discount.”
I glance around for a manager, but all the people working seem young and nice.
“Yeah, okay,” I whisper back.
At the machine, I breathe in the smell of ink and paper.
She shows me how to get the settings right, and once I’ve gotten the hang of it, she goes back behind the counter.
Out the window, people are strolling by, pushing strollers, walking dogs, sipping coffee. A few couples wait, relaxed, outside a restaurant. I open to Ingrid’s first page and wonder how many hours I’ve spent staring down at it, alone, looking for answers or comfort.
I place it down on the lighted glass, close the lid, press START.
A second later, a perfect copy spits out of the machine. I pick it up and hold it. There is her crooked smile, her yellow hair.
I press start again.
19
An hour later, I’m finished. I carry my thick stack of copies to the counter and Maddy rings me up.
She reaches under the counter, pulls out a piece of thick, brown paper, and folds it around my copies. “So Dylan told you about Danny. That’s huge. She never talks about Danny.”
She pauses, but her face looks thoughtful, so I wait for her to say more.
“She doesn’t let too many people get close to her. She’s very guarded. But she really cares about you, and she knows how it feels to go through something like this.”
She unfolds a bag and rests
my copies inside.
I don’t want to take it. I don’t want to leave the store. Everything feels perfect—the sunshine, the music, the woman and her tattoos still working away on some never-ending project, Maddy smiling kindly from across the counter—then it hits me.
This is how it feels to have friends.
It isn’t something fleeting. It won’t end when I walk out the door.
I take the bag, reach in, and find a copy of a drawing Ingrid did of a girl’s skirt and legs. At the bottom it says, Brave.
“I want you to have this.”
Maddy lifts it to eye level, grasping it gently on both sides.
“Tell me about it,” she asks, without looking away.
I lean over the counter so I can get a better look. “It’s from the middle of her journal, where she seems really confused in most of the entries. But it seemed like she still had some hope then.” I shrug. “I don’t really know anything else about it.”
I think of driving earlier, the man on his way to work, the old woman and her sweater. “We could make it up,” I suggest.
“So, let’s see,” Maddy says. “She was sitting outside somewhere in your town.”
“On the steps by the Starbucks.”
“Waiting for you.”
“My mom was gonna drop me off to meet her.”
“So she was just watching people, wasting time till you got there.”
“And she saw a girl.”
“An eleven-year-old.”
“And she thought she was cute.”
“But didn’t want the girl to see her staring.”
“So she only sketched the bottom half of her.”
“And then . . .” Maddy says. “Your mom pulled up and you hopped out of the car.”
“And she shut her journal ’cause she was always really private about it.”
“But later that night she opened it again, and thought the picture was missing something.”
“So she thought about it,” I say, and as I invent the next part of the story, I really picture Ingrid, sitting at her colored-pencil and watercolor-covered desk. “And she remembered what it was like to be an eleven-year-old girl, either scrawny and flat-chested . . .”
“Or chubby and too embarrassed to tell your mom you need a bigger training bra.”
“And she thought that it was hard.”
“It was really hard . . .”
“To be eleven, and be a girl.”
“So she got out her black pen . . .” I say.
“And she wrote the word brave.”
Maddy lowers the picture and smiles. I smile back.
“See you soon?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll see you soon.”
20
In the car, I open my notebook to the second page of directions—from Copy Cat to Davey and Amanda’s apartment in Hayes Valley. By now, lots of people are on the road, and I creep through city traffic for about twenty minutes before I get to their street. This time, finding parking is harder, and when I finally spot someone leaving, I have to block the lane while I wait with my turn signal on. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” I say to all the cars that swerve around me. It takes me at least ten tries before I’m parallel-parked, and by the time I’ve climbed out of the car, the traffic has quieted down a little. I walk a couple blocks, past a café with stylish people inside, past a skinny man smoking a cigarette, past a million Victorian apartments rising on either side of me. A homeless guy in a worn gray sweater asks me for a quarter, and I reach into my bag and fish out a dollar.
“God bless you,” he says, walking away. A few steps later he adds, “You’re a sweetheart.” When he’s reached the end of the block, he shouts, “Be good! Listen to your parents! Stay in school!”
I find their apartment—a light blue Victorian with gold trim. I look up at the top floor, but I can’t see anything through the windows. I don’t ring the doorbell yet. Instead, I imagine what would happen if everyone turned their regrets into wishes, went around shouting them. Signal lights would change at intersections, and as the people on opposite sides of the street stepped off the curbs, they would call to one another—Finish college! Exercise at least three times a week! Never start smoking! Tell your mother you love her! Wear a condom! Make peace with your brother! Don’t sign anything before you’ve met with a lawyer! Take your dog to the park! Keep in touch with your friends!
I ring Davey’s doorbell and wait for footsteps down the stairs, for the lock to turn.
Nothing.
I ring again, just in case.
After another minute, I sit on their front steps and find the pages I want to give them—her first entry, the one to the hall monitor, because I know it will remind them of how much energy Ingrid used to have; a couple pages of mushy Jayson dreaming, because I’m pretty sure that they never got to know that side of her; and one of the last entries, even though I feel a little mean, like I’m dropping a bomb on all the good memories. But, at the same time, I’m doing this to share her, and that means all of her—the energetic, hopeful Ingrid, the sad Ingrid, the violent Ingrid, the Ingrid who hated me sometimes.
After I get their pages together, I tear out a sheet from my notebook and I write them a note. Then, I paper-clip everything together, and leave their package in the mailbox.
Dear Davey and Amanda,
I know I said I’d stop by a while ago. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long. Here is something I wanted you to have. If you’re sad, make sure to talk about it!
Love,
Caitlin
It’s already noon and I’m hungry, so I go back to that café I passed earlier, and order a sandwich and a latte and sit at a table, surrounded by older people wearing black and talking about important things.
A girl in a vintage cocktail dress calls me from behind the counter, so I weave between the other tables to get my food. I look through the copies as I eat, deciding which ones I’ll give to my parents. I take a sip of the latte, and decide I’ll give them one of everything. I take another sip. Then another. Even after the foam is gone, the drink still tastes good, kind of milky, not too strong. And maybe I’m overreacting, but it makes me so happy—I’ve been searching this whole year to find a coffee drink that’s right for me, and now I’ve found it.
20
It is 2 P.M. I’m back in Los Cerros.
A man answers the door at Jayson’s house, wearing sweats and an Oakland A’s T-shirt. He’s tall like Jayson, but not as athletic-looking. Behind him is a small living room with a worn-in couch and a recliner. A television is playing commercials.
“Mr. Michaels?” I ask.
“That’s me,” he says.
“I’m Caitlin. I’m a friend of Jayson’s . . .”
He opens the door wider. “Come in,” he says. “Jayson and I are watching the game.”
“Jay-son!” Mr. Michaels calls as I walk in.
Jayson emerges from what I imagine is the kitchen, carrying a huge bowl of popcorn and wearing a backward A’s hat. I crack up.
“Big fans?” I ask them, and they laugh, nod their heads as if to say I’ve found them out.
I share their popcorn and Mr. Michaels has me sit in his recliner, an honor, he tells me, which is reserved for only very special guests. Jayson rolls his eyes.
By the middle of the third inning, I’m starting to get nervous. I have so much more to do today, but I can’t figure out how to give Jayson his entries without making a big scene in front of his dad. I try to catch his eye, and when I finally do, I point my head toward the door. I do it subtly, too subtly I guess, ’cause Jayson just looks confused and asks, “You want more popcorn?”
“Okay,” I say helplessly and he hands me the bowl.
Another inning passes and I’m getting desperate, so I just hope that Jayson was taught to walk his guests to the door, and tell them I have to get going.
“I’ll walk you,” Jayson says, and I want to hug him.
Once we’re out the door, Ja
yson tells me, “My dad’s totally gonna grill me when I get back inside, you know.”
“Sorry,” I say, knowing how weird it seems that I just showed up out of nowhere and watched half a game with them.
“No, it’s cool,” Jayson assures me. “We’re friends, you can come by anytime. But my dad’s gonna think you want to date me. He’ll be bummed when I tell him it’s not like that. Plenty of girls have come over before, but he’s never offered one of them his recliner.”
“Yeah, right.”
“No, I’m serious. He totally likes you.”
“Oh no!” I laugh. “I’m sorry to disappoint your dad. He’s so nice.”
Jayson waits while I unlock my car door and set my heavy bag down on the seat.
“What do you have in there?” he asks.
“Too much,” I say. “But some of it’s for you.”
“Oh yeah?”
I pull out his pages and place them in his hands.
“They’re copies I made from one of Ingrid’s journals.”
Jayson slides into my car and turns the light on inside. I sit up on my trunk, and give him time to look.
I’ve been trying to be honest about what I give people, but after thinking a lot about it, I decided to give Jayson only the good parts. I don’t think that the rest is something he would want to know, and I’m pretty sure Ingrid wouldn’t have wanted him to know, either.
I wait for what feels like an hour, and then I go back to where he’s sitting.
He’s hunched over the steering wheel with his head in his hands.
“Jayson,” I say.
He doesn’t move.
I feel a sudden burst of regret, like this was the worst thing I could have done.
“Jayson?”
I put my hand on his shoulder, searching for some way to make this right. I thought it would be good. I keep thinking about what he said on her birthday—I felt like telling everyone that it was different for me, but I knew that was stupid. I didn’t deserve it, I wasn’t even close. I really thought it would be good, but I realize I was wrong. This was too much for him to take. It’s true—he didn’t even know her that well. So they sat next to each other in bio, and once he said he liked her hat, but really, that was it. And now I’ve bombarded him with this.
