Authors: Katie Klein
I can almost hear his thoughts.
It’s okay to cry.
I nod.
Then, after what feels like a lifetime passing between us:
“
I
need
you, Jade,
”
he says, voice quiet.
I inhale deeply, lungs shuddering.
“
I need you to go,
”
I whisper.
He picks up his badge,
the hurt registering
in his features
,
fingers lingeri
ng. He studies it for a moment before shoving it deep in
to his back pocket.
Then
I watch his retreating figure as he leaves
, disappearing down the hall.
Daniel teach
e
s
me how to spackle. Appare
ntly there’
s a
technique
.
Too much putty on the knife, and
it’ll
take
forever to dry and sanding will
be a nightmare.
The idea i
s
to
scoop enough to fill the crack, then scrape away everything else.
And so, armed with my putty knife and
sticky, violet
putty (which I’m told will
turn white wh
en dry and ready to sand), I mak
e my way around Sarah and Daniel’s
living room
, filling cracks and
knicks
and cuts
and nail holes
in the walls.
“This is
gonna
take forever,” I mumble
, examining
the two walls I
puttied
in the
hour I’ve
worked.
They’r
e pock-marked, with a hundred or more spots (small and large),
where holes have
been filled.
“I didn’t realize how many craters were in this house.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what happens to old houses when th
e foundation shifts,” Sarah says
.
I move to the next wall and slap
some putty on a wide crack
.
I scrape
the ex
cess off and marvel
at how easily it fills
. Af
ter a coat of paint, no one will
know there
was
ever
an imperfection.
Instinctively, I reach out and touch the scar on my forehead. The stitches are gone
, but it’s still pink and fresh
,
new.
“Original
ly Daniel thought we should
strip the drywall altogether
. S
tart over
from the ground up.” She sighs
. “But we do
not
have the time or the money
for
that. I’d much rather pay for spackle and sandpaper than drywall.”
C
ursing,
and
lots of it,
interrupts o
ur conversation.
We wander
to the bathroom, where Daniel i
s install
ing
the faucet and handles for
the
shower. The tub and sink were successfully set up the day before. The tilin
g—which is what he really wants done—i
s not. A
few bundles of tiles a
re
stacked
neatly
in the hallway, surrounded by dust and demolition debris.
“It’s not working,” he says
.
“D
id you buy the
right one?” she asks
.
“Sarah, I do this every day of the week.”
“Obviously not well if you can’t install a faucet.”
“I’m not a
plumber!”
“I get that,” she says
, “but I can’t not have a faucet.”
I suppress
a smile.
Welcome to my world.
Daniel sig
hs
, stepping over
tiles and into t
he hallway. “Right,” he mutters
. “I need an adapter.
Or something.” He
wipes
the sweat off his forehead with the
d
ingy
sleeve of his t-shirt. “The water isn’t turned on anyway. I’m just
gonna
take the whole thing off and take it to Home Depot. I know someone who
can probably help
.”
I check
the time on my cell phone
. “It’s lunchtime,” I point
out.
Then: a
n enormous crash
.
“I hope that wasn
’t my countertop,” Sarah mu
tter
s
.
“Hey
,
loser!” Daniel barks
.
“It’s fine,” Ph
illip replies
.
“You didn’t bre
ak anything, did you?” she asks
, squeezing her eyes shut
.
“Nothing important.”
Sarah exhales
. “T
hat’s good to know.” She
turns
to me
. “All right. We need lunch. Daniel, why don’t you go to Home Depot, then swing by McDonald’s on the way back and pick us up something. Jaden
,
if you could go with him and have them mix my paint,
t
hat would be great.” She grabs
my putty knife
. “I’ll finish spackling.”
“Phillip, we’
re getting lunch,” Daniel calls
.
“Where?”
“McDonald’s.”
“Good, I want some Chicken
McNuggets
.”
“We are
n’t taking orders,” he announces
. “Everyone gets double chees
eburgers—no pickles, no onions—
frie
s, and
Dr. Pepper
s
.”
“You’re s
uch a
freakin
’ dictator,” I say
. “What if I don’t
like
double cheeseburgers? And you know I don’t drink sodas.”
He shrugs
his shoulders. “Sorry. It’s better to keep it simple. Otherwise I’ll get confused and screw everything up.”
“So instead of putting you out
none
of us sho
uld get what we want,” I charge
.
“Since when did
you get such a mouth?” he asks
, pausing long e
nough to glare at me. “Y
ou’re the flexible one.”
“I’m flexible,” I argue
, swiping the sweat away from my brow with the back of my hand
, looking away
.
“Good.
Because if I’m paying I’m ordering
. Let’s go.”
Within ten minutes Daniel
and I
a
re in his truck
heading toward
The
Home Depot,
in
the next town over.
The parking lot i
s nearly
empty
when we arrive
: obviously the masses have
better things to do on a Sund
ay than sand spackle. I focus on the task at hand, pushing everything else away, examining
the paint
chips Sarah handed
me as we walked out
the door. I need
to pick up three
gallon
s
of primer, and have them
mix a gallon of the light blue
she chose
for Joshua’s room, and two gallons of the taupe they planned to paint the master bedroom, hallway, and living room.
“I guess you can go ahead to the paint counter and order that. Pick up a couple of trays and
edgers
, too, while you’re there. I’ll b
e in plumbing,” Daniel says
.
We breeze
throug
h the automatic doors. I grab a cart and wheel
it to the paint
section
.
Daniel continues
straight.
My head throbs
. A
muted, pulsing ache.
I should’ve taken
something
before I left
.
The headaches
will
subside in a few we
eks, or so I’m told. In the meantime
, I’m popping Tylenols like candy. In addition to the laceration on my forehead, I was diagnosed with a concussion, which meant an overnight st
ay in the hospital. In between
x-rays and CT scans, I had to answer questions, detailing my account for police of everything that happened.
Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I didn’t
see Parker that night, but he
stayed. Sarah told me.
And
I have
n’t seen him since.
Between the breaking news story
—Vince
’
s death, and the arrests of half the Bedford High boys basketball team—
and
my involvement, it’s safe to say hi
s cover was blown. I missed an
entire week of school after it all happened, and when I returned the rumors swirled.
Parker Whalen
,
u
nderc
over cop?
I trudged from class to class, paid attention as best I could, turned in my work on time. But I didn’t offer any information, and
I refused to
talk to anyone except
Savannah and Ashley.
I sigh, overwhelmed, and when the guy
manning the
paint desk asks if I need help, I tell him yes
. We walk
do
wn the aisle together. He picks
out a couple
trays, rollers,
edgers
. . . . E
verything we’ll need. He explains
the difference between flat paint, and satin, and
semigloss
.
I
try to
liste
n,
but ultimately let him make
the decisions
.
“This will probably take
ten o
r fifteen minutes,” he explains as I hand him the paint samples Sarah
selected.
“That’s fi
ne.
Ca
n
I just leave this here?” I ask
, motioning toward the cart.
“Sure.”
I set off to
P
lumbing. When I fi
nd D
aniel, he’
s busy talking to an employee
at t
he far end of the aisle. I move
slowly,
studying
the random parts
—brass and plastic and copp
er—valves and washers and tubes
.
Something here might fix my
bathroom
sink
. But with all the names and
numbers and sizes, I do
n’t
know where to begin.
I scratch an itch on my neck at the base of my ponytail.
“
You ready?
”
I jump, startled.
“Jesus, Daniel.”
He eyes me carefully. “You all right?”
I swallow the
hard
lump forming in
the back of
my throat.
Heart hammering in my ears
, head aching
.
Why am I always
a second away from crying
?
“Fine,
”
I mumble.
Daniel does
n’t utter a word
as we walk
to the paint counter
. He does
n’t say anything on th
e way to his truck, or
after we climb
in and shut the door
s
. The
ride to McDonald’s i
s quiet, too.
“You’re not fine, Jaden,” he
finally
says
,
pulling
to the curb in front of the
new house, in a spot shaded from the midday sun.