I turned to him and smiled. “I’m naming her Penelope-Smellope.”
He chuckled. “I don’t think Nell would appreciate you naming a fly-eating death trap after her.”
“I don’t appreciate being the fly she wants to eat.” The instant I said it, I knew why I couldn’t move their bodies—because she (Nell) wanted me to. Dad cleaned up the flies and sat the plant, which I renamed PS for code, on a perch next to the window where the sunlight hugged her leaves. He didn’t leave, even when Nell griped about the plant and tried prying him from my room. He counted the hexagons and made me forget about the Skittle incident, or how that rich bitch Emily Green shoved me into my locker “by accident,” and at lunch, Emily’s BFF, Casey, tripped me on my way to the trash can, and how days after this, he’d be gone.
But now I don’t remember Emily or Casey (other than what royal pains they were). Or all the things Nell would yell in the days to come as I let the flies accumulate. I only remember the way Dad looked inside the doorframe after proving, even when I felt like the most invisible thing in any room, he saw me.
Until his image disintegrated into nothing.
No New Voicemail
Boy saves local girl from humiliation, humiliates himself for the cause.
As I dress to meet Violet at the old-movie-theater-turned-rent-a-space where Faith’s tryouts are, I replay our electric kiss—Go Magic!—in a foggy daze. It’s unlike anything I’ve felt before. I find myself tracing my lips, pretending to feel hers pressed against them again, and maybe the feeling will fade, but maybe it won’t. I work to straighten my bow tie, which refuses to straighten, when there’s a light tap on my door.
“Come in,” I say.
I gasp when I see Naima. “What are you doing here?”
Her hands are nestled in her pockets. “Your mom, uh, Stella, let me in. I met Faith. Total badass. Bet she’ll kick all them wrestlers’ asses.”
I feel the need to rip my bow tie from the collar. To pull the comforter up over the place where my head lies at night. To stand in a way that doesn’t reveal my giddiness over Violet. Her eyes wander, studying the where and why of every item placed.
I stand tall, hands folded in front of me, but the passing time shouts at me. “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know if it’s wrong, but I thought a lot about our conversation. I think I have an answer that might help.”
“You need a reliable sounding board?”
“No—I need help.” Her voice shrinks at the mention of such a weighted word.
“What help could I possibly offer you?”
She fidgets with my bed comforter along the same hem I do. “Not exactly sure yet. But something pushed me out of the house and over here.”
She stands before me, delicate with the heart she’s pulled from her chest. “I’ll help however I can.”
Her eyes are mournful. “Cool, cool. Is now good, or…?”
I clear my throat, which is suddenly dry. “Violet’s meeting me at the tryout.”
Her eyes expand, a smile forced through. “Good for you. That’s, um, that’s awesome.” She rushes toward the door.
“Wait—you don’t have to go yet.” I look at the clock, the lie eating at me.
She can tell. Dad always said I’m not a good liar.
“This was a mistake,” she says.
“Come with us to Faith’s wrestling tryout.”
She watches the time pass, before pulling the door open. “I … I have somewhere to be. Have fun on your date.” The door slams behind her, the sound of a picture falling to the living room floor.
“Wasn’t me this time,” Faith yells.
I linger, dissecting what happened, but Stella calls for us to go, so with one last glance in the mirror—and a crooked bow tie—I go.
* * *
Violet is seated in the stands when we breeze in. The auditorium smells vividly of sweat and nacho cheese. She’s avidly cheering for whoever is on the mat, waving a small pompom that reads Clifton H.S.
“So you’re the Violet we’ve heard all about,” Stella says after checking Faith in on the floor. “I remember seeing you at the carry-in for the Paxtons.”
“Nice to meet you. Your auras are electric,” Violet says, grabbing one each of Stella’s and Thomas’s hands. “And would you LOOK at these lifelines?”
They exchange confused glances before retracting. “Thank you?” Stella says. They sit behind us and promise not to be a bother, but I can feel their attention pouring over our every interaction. I turn once and Stella’s grinning. I turn to the other side to see Thomas smirk.
I decide to ignore their loud whispering about “how cute we are” even if she’s “a little too old” for me, and focus on Faith, who paces behind a rickety metal chair beyond the mat. She’s wearing all of her gear, but as she’s only just noticed, no one else is dressed this way. She lays her boa on the chair, removes her sunglasses and jacket.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Violet.
“I’ll be here.”
One glance at Stella, who’s still grinning, and I swerve through the row toward the space Faith has claimed.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Helping you.”
“I want to go home. This isn’t the wrestling I thought it’d be.”
I lean to her level so only she can hear. “I never thought I’d utter this question, but what would Rick Flair do?”
She shrugs, her arms and legs stitched together as if to hide even further.
“You know he’d go out there in his fancy clothes, saying all sorts of ridiculous things no matter what anyone else thought. He owned it. You should, too.”
“But everyone’s looking at me. I want to puke.”
“They’re jealous they didn’t think of it. You’re an icon.”
She’s still hesitant. I have to do the big, brave thing if she’s to believe me. I reach for her things, put her sunglasses on my face, drape her jacket and boa around my shoulders, raise my arms in the air, and yell, “Woo!” Everyone stops to stare, Violet included, and even though I’m screaming inside, I hold my pose. For her, my sister.
Violet stands, the only person applauding. Stella and Thomas join her, the three of them our own little section of hope. Faith’s light beams through the entire auditorium, her fire reignited. Shoulders square, she pulls her things from my body and situates them back onto hers. Within minutes, she transforms from Faith to the Conniption right before my eyes.
I turn away but then she tugs at me, spinning me around and falling into me. Her small but powerful hands wrap around my waist, and I feel her final layer fall to the floor. “You’re a great brother, Dew.”
I hold back tears and squeeze her back until she releases me and says to “go away” so she can “concentrate.”
“That was seriously too cute,” Violet says when I return. I ignore all the other staring eyes. “Her aura changed the second you started talking to her. You two must be really close.”
Thomas pats my shoulder. “That was great.”
“There’s hope for us yet.” Stella sighs with relief.
As they call the Conniption to the mat—this once frightened, angry shell of a girl who didn’t speak to any of us our first week together—I don’t only see my sister. I see me. We’re both hanging on the best we can, hoping it’ll amount to something: A family who loves us for who we are, despite what we’ve been through. People who stop looking at us as broken or damaged, to just ourselves, blemished but true.
The ref spouts off—tells her to remove her accessories, per the non-WWE rule book—before giving Faith and her partner a start. Though disappointed at first, she abides, using those feelings to do the double-leg takedown and half nelson Thomas taught. Violet grabs my hand. The crowd erupts in cheers, and only after Faith is accepted onto the team do I realize they’re not cheering for me and Violet. Fire.
NAIMA
A few days later, I only know it’s morning by the quick start
of the washing machine. JJ is shoving wadded-up balls of fabric into the abyss. She looks over her shoulder between each until our eyes meet.
“Good morning, sunshine,” she says. “I should say good almost-afternoon. And forget I mentioned sunshine.”
I grunt, or something. My eyes don’t spring open. Instead, they’re glued to the lashes, interlocked and clinging not to part. I catch a glimpse of the clock.
Eleven-thirteen A.M. EST.
My body pings upright. Sleeping this late means breakfast has passed, which means I’ve lost half a day, which means I won’t feel right until I start again tomorrow. I manage a nod to JJ because she’s staring kind of hard. She’s wearing a silk floral head wrap and big, dangling hoop earrings that rival the bangles clanging on her wrists.
“What’d you do last night? You got home so late, I kept tracking the phone to make sure you weren’t in a ditch somewhere.”
“I’m not a convict.”
“I need to know you’re safe.”
“I texted in my mind.”
“Not good enough, girl, and you know it. We have rules here.”
I don’t want to tell her where I’ve been going—the river to wish on planes—because it’s between Dad and me, our secret spot now, not Dew’s.
I grunt again, this time louder. “I need to get ready.”
“Where you going?”
“Nowhere.” I don’t want to tell her this, either: that ever since I dropped by his house, Dew’s been helping me overcome small fears so I can work up to big ones. I’m not dense; I know it won’t “fix” me, or whatever, but it feels like the right time to test myself. To do something; anything.
“No secrets.”
I slump over, defeated. “I’m meeting Dew.”
Her face lights up and I feel instantly sick.
“When did this happen?”
“We aren’t a this. We’re friends. Actually, he’s seeing the girl he works with.”
Her arms cross. “How do you feel about that?”
“I’m not interested in him like that but I guess he’s a decent human. We’re on a trial basis while I see how this friendship thing goes.”
She’s cautiously happy, trying to conceal her smirk. “I’d expect nothing less from you.”
“We’re going to try some things Dad would’ve wanted me to do. Nothing major. I’ve been thinking a lot about everything he wrote and all the chances I missed to, you know, live. I want to make up for it. I just hope it’s not too late.”
She looks down at the scattered letters. “As long as you’re still breathing, it’s never too late.” She squeezes my hand. “Just don’t think it’s a magic fix. You still need your medication, and we’ll find you a solid therapist here, too. Maybe who Dew sees. But I’m happy you’re feeling lighter. What’s the first thing on your list?”
“The Ferris wheel. I have to start small, like I’m being reborn or something.”
She pulls back. “You hate heights.”
“I know. It’s time I understand why.”
Her face shifts from glee to something resembling pride. “Ray would be proud.”
I smile, and a few minutes later, she retreats upstairs to let me prepare for this incredibly weird day with a boy I didn’t care to know a few days ago. Once I’ve coated my lips in Dragon Girl red, my bandana is tight, and my EQUALITY MEOW shirt is smoothed, I run up the stairs. Hiccup chases me as soon as I step onto the landing, and instead of carefully moving over the divots, I run. I run, and I trip. I trip, and I fall. Into the kitchen chair.
And I forget.
I forget.
I forget.
I forget.
I forget.
I forget …
About Dad’s urn.
I see it fall like a flip-book. I reach, but the urn doesn’t freeze in midair like it might in the movies. Instead, it hits the floor with such force, I swear the tiles shift beneath my feet. By the time everyone runs in, Dad’s ashes are spread all over the newly remodeled floor. The dust blows up into my nose and mouth and I’m inhaling Dad and standing in him and the image isn’t connected to my brain. JJ’s jaw drops. Kam lifts Hiccup out of the war zone.
My feet dig into the floor but my heart races and races and races and races and races and races. I feel a slight graze against my arm and jerk back only to see JJ’s face. No one says a word but the grief has spilled from this container and we’re collectively searching for the remaining oxygen, only there isn’t any and we’re going to drown.
Amid the silence, Hiccup howls in a way that resembles what I did inside the church, and I don’t know if it’s the look in his eyes or the mess I’ve made, or knowing Dad’s body is all around me and not here in the same breath, but I push through everyone and run down the stairs to the pile of sheets strewn about. I find my quilt and gather it into my hands so I can feel the threads as I’m cocooned both literally and figuratively on the floor. I count. Ninety hexagons. There are ninety and as long as there are ninety, I will be fine. Things are fine. Everything’s fine. FINE.
Not some full sixty seconds later, there’s a knock on the front door. I hear muffled voices and the scatter of feet, and steps moving down this way. So I take a breath and five more.
“Are you ready?” Dew asks.
I shove the quilt away from me and spring upright and pretend what just happened, didn’t. “Is Violet going?”
“Jealous much?” He smirks. Gross.
“Just wondering if I’m about to be a third wheel or if we’re a bicycle type of duo.” I get up from the floor and try to get us back up the stairs and out of the house before the incident catches up to me.
“She’s working, covering my shift. So, a bicycling duo, I suppose.”
“You did that for me?”
“We’re friends. That’s what you do.”
Would you rather have a friend who does nothing for you or no friends at all?
Without letting him see how full that makes me feel, I pull at him. “Let’s get out of here. Like, now.”
He’s drawn into the kitchen by the dust. “What happened?” he asks JJ, who’s scooping the ashes into a dustpan.
“Naima tripped and fell into Ray, so I’m putting him back where he belongs. You know, the usual.”
“Utterly fascinating.”
JJ offers a sympathetic smile. “Go on. I’ll get Ray back into his urn. It’s fine.”
I can’t move.
“Go, Ima. It’s really fine. You have more important things to do.”
At the nod of her head, my eyes meet Dew’s. “Let’s go.”
Somehow, it was like Dad was there, saying goodbye, and good luck, too.
No New Voicemail
Coming up at 10: Fair turns nauseating for two local teens.
There is a crowd all around us. A big one. The kind that swallows you right up until you no longer exist. I do my best to guide Naima through, though my chest tightens and tingles, too. There comes a point, between the shimmering metallic corn dog trailer and the claustrophobic ride section, we tangle inside the swell of the crowd. Waves of people swish past and through and around us in blurs of faces. I offer her my hand through an opening in the air. She takes it long enough to pull us into a strip of dead grass, then lets it drop.
“I’m not ready yet,” she says. “I changed my mind.” Her shoes dig into the dirt, twisting spirals in her small square footage of land. We’re directly in front of the pink and teal elephant-ear trailer that smells of hot oil and cinnamon. And gluten. A lot of gluten.
“Can I help you?” a woman asks.
“He’s allergic,” Naima says.
“One, please.” I slap down a few crisp dollar bills.
“What are you doing?” she asks. “You can’t.”
“It’s not for me. Perhaps eating something delightful will help you relax.”
“Oh. Thanks.” She seems surprised. “Not gonna turn down free food.”
I ask the employee to hand her the ear directly
as not to come in contact with it. Naima tears off steaming bites, cinnamon sprinkling to the ground. Her mood changes almost instantly. She meticulously spaces out the bites, lines them up, and chooses which to eat next by way of an intricate internal system. We find a spot to sit on the curb behind the trailer, approximately three feet apart. The afternoon sun is harsh, striking straight through to the skin. I take off my hat to feel some nonexistent breeze and find no relief.
“So this is an official friend date,” I say.
She stops chewing. “Don’t call it that.”
“A date, then.”
“No, that’s what you and Violet did. This is a hang.”
“What’s the difference?”
Her face sours. “Didn’t we already have this conversation?”
“I’m joking.”
I sit with my knees up to my chest, hands tied around them until she finishes her fried dough. When she stands, she procrastinates further still. I hold out a hand to guide her, which she takes. “Don’t get used to this or anything.”
“Of course not.” We move through the fair like a couple who’ve been together a lifetime, knowing which foot to step forward first, so in perfect unison. I realize now, I don’t know as much about her as I thought. Not in the way one should to call it love. Through her father’s colorful stories, and Joelle’s musings, I lost myself inside of a dream, forgetting she’s a living, breathing girl with her own thoughts and opinions not swayed by what I, or anyone else, thinks. As her hand slides against mine, there’s a vague pang inside my heart.
We make our way to a game of throwing Ping-Pong balls into small goldfish bowls. Little exhausted fish move about inside their confines.
“Would you like one?” I ask.
“One what?”
“A fish.”
Six Goodbyes We Never Said Page 23
