Six Goodbyes We Never Said

by Candace Ganger

  I suddenly choke up. “When the hell was that?”

  “Last summer. Before he left.”

  “Last summer…”

  Last summer. Last summer. Last summer. Last summer. Last summer. Last summer.

  My fists clench, and it’s suddenly too hot, or maybe too cold. My skin is chilled with sweated-covered bumps and I realize I’m panting. The air flew out of me at the mere mention of Dad, or last summer when I lost all my shit after he said he was leaving—again—and I ended up on suicide watch in the psych ward. Last summer was the worst of my life. Last summer was the end of all things as I knew them. Screw last summer.

  “We’d better be on our way,” JJ says, resting a hand on my leg.

  My eyes are searching, filling to the brim with tears, as I recollect every conversation I avoided, every call I ignored, every voicemail I saved that may have been about this very scenario.

  “I’m running behind as well,” he mutters, placing the cap back on his head. “Something I’m supposed to be working on.”

  “Okay, sweetheart,” JJ says. As she begins to pull away he chases the front bumper with urgency; it’s as if he lost his air, too, and is on the cusp of finding it. “I forgot to ask—do you like strawberries?” he shouts with a strained voice.

  I don’t answer, can’t answer, don’t want to answer.

  “For the fruit or against?”

  I shrug. “Who the hell cares?”

  He smiles. There’s a deep-set dimple on the right side. Catches me off guard but I try not to let it. “I care. Very much so. Indifference is a lack of enthusiasm, so I’ll take that as being on the cusp of for. Does that sound right?”

  “Okay!”

  “Okay.” He seems pleased. “Noted. Maybe you could use a little good fortune.”

  “Whoa, dude. You know nothing about me. Not about last summer or my dad or whether or not I’m indifferent or what I could or couldn’t use, so take about three thousand steps back.”

  “Apologies. It feels like I’ve known you since last summer because I heard so much about you. I realize it may not feel the same for you.” He steps back two giant steps and I wonder why not three? Or four?

  Or six? It should always be six.

  “Makes me wonder why I haven’t heard of you.” Now the passion ignites throughout the tone. I can’t help it. I feel like I’ve been set on fire.

  JJ cuts in, razor sharp. “You’d have had to actually answer calls, or read your dad’s letters, to know the answer to that.”

  Burn.

  “And if you’ll remember, you weren’t here but a few days.”

  I cower in my seat, raise the proverbial white flag.

  “I didn’t mean to cause a problem,” he says.

  “You’re no problem here,” JJ says. “We’d better be on our way, though.”

  He lays his hat back on his head, a slower, more deliberate sadness with the movement. I did that, I caused whatever he’s thinking about or feeling now. And though I don’t know the dewd, I’m having a hard time accepting that he knows me.

  “Have a good day,” he shouts as we back out of the drive.

  “Tell Stella to come take some of this apple butter off my hands for her stand.”

  He bows again, waves us off. “Will do,” he says before JJ’s window goes all the way up.

  I giggle under my breath. My brain forces it out of me before I explode into splatters. “Will do, DEW.”

  “Naima…,” JJ says. “That’s enough.” Is it, though?

  I pull out my phone to make a note, hoping to break the pressure of wanting to speak it aloud again. My fingers punch the keys frantically, six times.

  Will do Dew Will do Dew Will do Dew Will do Dew Will do Dew Will do Dew

  It only feels slightly better because the words are still hanging on my tongue. I bite the tip until it bleeds, letting one quiet will do Dew slip. I’m relieved once it’s out of me, but JJ’s noticeably more agitated. This is how summers here go. Just as with Hiccup, it takes time for us to find our footing, whether Dad’s here or not. Because with JJ and Kam, there’s no hiding in my head. They see me—like really see every layer.

  Usually, by the time I’m ready to leave this old house, to start a crappy new school year with Nell and Christian and Dad if he’s not overseas, we’ll have found some kind of “normal.” I’m only just feeling it: This is it; the only normal I’ll have.

  (Will do, Dew)

  As we pull away, this boy stands in one spot watching us fade and I feel this tugging. Not in my stomach, like when I think of missing Dad, but in my heart.

  “That boy’s had it rough,” JJ says, rounding the corner of another patriotically decorated road. All the reds, whites, and blues aligned on every light post.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, reluctant.

  She angles her glare toward me with a smirk. “Never mind. The Naima I know won’t want that mess up in her head.”

  She’s right. I don’t.

  And so I decide here and now I won’t.

  Apply another layer of Dragon Girl red, and another.

  Scrunch my toes between passing objects

  Stop thinking of the first day at my new school.

  Others said I was odd; outcast to fend for

  Myself

  At a time

  I felt

  All alone.

  So I tell myself maybe I’ll give him a chance.

  Besides.

  A girl reserves the right

  To change her mind.

  JJ taught me that.

  Dad

  cell

  October 31 at 11:55 PM

  Transcription Beta

  “Did you dress up for Halloween? We had a small party here but nothing like the ones Nell throws. Did you at least try to talk to people or did you hide in your room and count hexagons while talking to PS? I know the answer because I already spoke with Nell. If you don’t at least try to work through these things, they’ll always control you. Eh, what do I know? For the record, I love who you are. So don’t change. But also, change a little. For your sake, and mine. Oh, and I’m sorry Christian dressed as that clown from It. I told Nell not to let him, but I guess that didn’t matter.”

  Email Draft (Unsent)

  To

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  Subject

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  I legit almost killed Christian

  When he snuck into my room

  With that damn Pennywise mask

  But Nell followed

  To trade all my candy for

  Crap homemade granola

  Which turned

  My priorities

  Faster than she could say

  “But it’s for your health.”

  Later on Dew’s News: Ridic City is not an actual location but a state of mind (because life is ridiculous at times).

  “You’re sure about this?” Stella asks on her way out the door.

  I adjust my hat. “Positive.”

  “Okay,” she says, one foot still inside. “And I can’t give you a ride?”

  “I’d rather walk. Gives me time to go over my plan.”

  Her eyes dissect me. I stand taller. “Come on, Faith,” she shouts.

  Faith barrels out of her room wearing a fall pleather jacket—one of Stella’s old fringe items—that’s been covered in multicolored craft feathers. “Ready.”

  Stella’s eyes nearly boing from their sockets. “What’s … this?”

  Faith flips her high ponytail back behind her shoulder. “I’m reinventing the Rick Flair style. You can call me Nature Chick.”

  “But—” Stella’s eyes narrow, but I stop her with one flick of the hand.

  I lean down to Faith’s level, where the glitter blots over her lids. “How do you feel about it, Nature Chick?”

  “Pretty damn good.” She’s beaming. And though Stella may bite her tongue until it bleeds, she manages a smile and urges Fait
h out the door. “All right, then. Let’s go.”

  “Woo.”

  Before the door closes Stella turns with a desperate whisper. “Nature Chick?”

  “Dripping with misogyny, I know. But she likes it, so we must support her.”

  “Must we?”

  “We must.”

  “You’re too good for this world,” she says, closing the door behind her.

  When I see the car pull out, I begin my walk to Baked & Caffeinated, avoiding the buzz of the farmers’ market crowd. August Moon and the Paper Hearts serenade my every step. Images of Dad thumping his bass guitar alongside August and Mom sharing the mic flash before me. Except, it never happened. The duo, aptly named Phil & Al, who were mere openers for no-names, aren’t on my playlist. Everything vanished when they died; long before their lyrical jazz and funk-rock beats could make it to a record, cassette, disc, or SoundCloud. They never made it to a recording studio after leaving August Moon, so all that’s left are memories of what Phil & Al longed to become, but never did. They were an almost—an unanswered calling. I fear that is all I’ll be as well.

  The metal bell rings when I step inside, but there is no space to maneuver through. My heart thumps.

  “Excuse me,” I say, pushing past the line of customers. “Sorry, excuse me.”

  My stomach bunches when I turn back to see the maze I’ve created swiftly disappearing behind me. I close my eyes near the register to take a full breath, a count of ten, to ward off the little pulses starting in my hands. Once they pulse, my whole body shakes, and that’s when my version of Earth is launched into space, smashing me into the oxygen-free atmosphere.

  “It’s okay,” I tell myself aloud. “You’re okay.”

  “Who’s okay?” Violet asks. Her lips shine a glossed shade of magenta I find oddly calming.

  “I am.”

  “Yes, you are,” she says with a smile. She brushes up next to me with her patchouli scent. I freeze, still focused on the faces as she hands a customer change. Instant regret takes over. I should’ve stayed home, where it’s safe. Away from the bodies that multiply on top of me.

  “What’s up?” she asks. “You’re not on the schedule, are you?”

  “No. I need advice.”

  “Ooh, sounds serious.”

  I follow her to the espresso machine, where she brews multiple shots without so much as blinking. Her hands move like a seasoned ballerina’s feet.

  “I want to do something for a girl, and—”

  “WHAT—A GIRLFRIEND AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME?” She lets go of the shot, knocking a row of them over. She grabs my hands, and guides me into a dual jumping situation with her ear-piercing squeal.

  I pull her hands down, forcing the vertical movements to end. “Not a girlfriend—friend. She’s going through a rough time and I want to do something nice.”

  Customers become noticeably agitated, as we’ve boxed ourselves into this quiet moment alone.

  “You should totally get your palms read together,” she says. “It’s so romantic. Well, except that time me and Navian Raj went and the psychic said one of us would die, but she couldn’t tell us who, so he spent our entire sophomore year avoiding me in case I ‘brought him down’ with me, but I didn’t die, and he’s still alive, so—”

  “Violet,” I interrupt. “Did you drink coffee?”

  She points to the cubby where three cans of Red Bull stand. “Not supposed to have them but life is short and OMG, the psychic was right.”

  “Can I order?” a customer interjects.

  “So sorry, sir,” she says. I stand next to her as she cashes the man out, then remakes the string of shots she dumped. She cups her hand around her mouth and musters all the voice between her chords. “Big Foot, I need youuuuuu!” It comes out grumbly, somewhat monstrous, with a gurgle at the end. I’m guessing that’s the Red Bull working.

  He emerges from the back with his hair looking as if he’d been laying down in a pile of garbage, leaving me to wonder what he actually does on those “breaks.” With tired, squinted eyes, he waves. “Hey, man. You’re not on.”

  “Just came in to say hi.”

  “It’s Ridic City in here. Want a shift?”

  The faces blur into a blobby mess. “Can’t. On my way to something.”

  “No probs.”

  “Sorry, Dew,” Violet says. “Maybe you can text me how I can help later. When we’re less busy.”

  “I … don’t have your number.” It’s the first time I’ve muttered those words to anyone, let alone a girl.

  She rushes over for a pen, grabs my hand, and writes her number on my palm. “If you decide to get these sweaty things read, erase my number so she doesn’t connect us.”

  “Okay?”

  “Seriously.” She points with a stern face.

  “Later,” Big Foot says with his fingers shaped into a peace sign.

  “Text me,” Violet repeats the exact instant one of the blurred faces I pass becomes crystal clear: Dodge. He’s not smiling. I try to move faster, but the bodies hold me still, at his chest level, where I see the threads of his tee have come loose. He peers down, his warm breath blowing in puffs.

  “Hey,” I say as cool as possible.

  Someone backs up, shoves me into him before I catch my feet. He pushes back and I knock into the crowd, falling to the floor. An older woman helps me up.

  “Are you okay, hun?” she asks. Everyone stops to look at me. The showstopper.

  I remove my hat and smooth my curls. “Fine, thanks.”

  “You okay, Dew?” Violet shouts from beyond. I manage a shaky thumbs-up.

  I turn to Dodge, shivers slithering through me. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

  He looks away, pretends I’m nothing but a ghost. Perhaps I am. Maybe that’s what I’ve been all this time. As soon as a path to the door opens, I leave as fast as I can.

  Mom used to say, “Kindness can manifest in the most unorthodox of ways; like with the layers of a person, you have to peel back the outer blanket to get to the good stuff.”

  Dodge Teagarden offered some form of kindness whether he meant to or not. He could have hit me. He didn’t. I look through the window, my reflection mirroring his, and we catch eyes as he moves to the register to order his mocha latte.

  Maybe he’s in need of a friend, too.

  THE GOOD FORTUNE OF STRAWBERRY CAKE

  When Andrew Brickman was an infant, the neighbors’ door, directly to the left of Phillip and Alejandra Diaz’s studio apartment, always smelled of strawberries. Alejandra—who dropped out of high school at fifteen so she and Phillip could care for her ailing madre by day, while sneaking into twenty-and-over clubs to play music at night—smelled the sweet aroma twirling through the hallway, up, and into her nose as she fed baby Andrew. She always connected the smell with happiness and good fortune, because the neighbors always appeared happy, seemed a little better off, and smelled of strawberries. Alejandra decided if she could make strawberry cake, her family, too, would have good fortune.

  On the afternoon of Andrew’s third-to-final day with his parents, Alejandra, and her sidekick Andrew, finally perfected the strawberry cake. And though Andrew should be angered at the mere mention of strawberries after that fateful day, he chooses to embrace the good fortune that came along with them: He wasn’t in the car when they passed. A strawberry cake, to him, is the epitome of luck; a serendipitous taste of being alive.

  NAIMA

  The radio streams through the ride into town. I can’t say if I prefer the silence with Nell or gospel and NPR with JJ. With Nell, I can think of new ways to annoy her, but with JJ my choices are learn or pray. Neither will do right now. We zigzag across the small, pear-shaped town, and, at the flags that line every last house my stare drifts out of focus. I don’t know where his voice comes from, Dad, but it pierces through my mind so clear, it’s like he’s right here on the console between JJ and me, nestled over the spare change and gum wrappers. My fingers find my throat, cla
wing at the skin to break free from the sound of him. I count to rid myself, to forget.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

  I can’t run from it. The memory of the day we got the news.

  “What kind of cake did she get?” Caroline—boring-ass Christian’s loud-ass girlfriend—said from the kitchen. I overheard everyone gathering in my honor, but couldn’t remove myself from counting the hexagons. I hadn’t heard from Dad, and hadn’t received my balloons. I knew—I knew—something had happened.

  And it happened because of me.

  “White on white,” Christian replied. My face scrunched up at the audacity. Why would he think “white on white” is a thing people say? I stood from the bed and thought about stomping out and correcting, but Nell raised him and that’s why he is the way he is. I could already hear their responses. Caroline—the six-foot private-schooled art major with bad bangs—would be like “Whaaatt?” like some cliché trope, and Christian, another walking cliché, with his dumb haircut and too-skinny skinny jeans, would follow with “Dude, chill; not everything is racist,” after I schooled him on sensitivity and being a person of color in this world.

  He forgot, often, I’m only partly white, and that foul-tasting jokes ignite my inner Hulk. That’s exactly how the conversation would go, I decided, because they’ve never been anything but 2-D characters to me, and that’s the way I prefer it. Everything is racist when you’re a little darker than your white family. If I can’t escape microaggressions about my hair, my body, my anything, they shouldn’t be able to escape their own unclaimed privilege.

  Would you rather invite boring-ass Christian and loud-ass Caroline over for a white-on-white and vanilla discussion or pull all your teeth out with pliers?

  “Happy birthday, Naima!” Caroline shouted, poking her head in my room. Her hair swung into her mouth. My gum lost its flavor, but I waited to add it to the gum wall until she left.

  “Thanks, lady,” I muttered just as Nell might. That word echoed—lady lady lady lady lady lady lady.