Falling for You (16 page)

“I brought you a present,” I said, handing her the gift bag.

When she pulled out the CD, she looked it over and then, honesty being one of Ella’s strong suits, said, “But I don’t have a CD player.”

Right. That was a problem. My mind whirred as I tried to figure out how to fix it.

“Have you eaten dinner yet?”

“No. I was actually about to head down to the dining hall.”

“Do they let you leave this place?”

“Well, sure,” she said. “It’s not a prison. We’re free to come and go.”

“Then grab your coat and let’s go have dinner. You can listen to the CD on the way.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, you don’t need to do that. I’m sure I can ask my son if I can borrow a CD player from him.”

“But I want to! We’ll go to King Kone and get two of their hamburgers to go. Along with fries and chocolate shakes, of course. They have the best shakes.”

At the word “shakes,” she licked her lips. She really did.

We didn’t say one word on the drive there, instead letting the Christmas music fill us up. When we pulled into the drive-through at King Kone, I ordered for both of us (Ella liked plain burgers too). After we got our food, the smell of greasy goodness seeping through the bag, I drove us up a hill and we parked. We ate our hamburgers and sipped on our shakes while the Christmas lights winked at us across the city.

“This is the best kind of gift, Rae. Thank you.” She paused. “Life should have more moments like this.” It made me so happy, I wanted to hug her, but I wasn’t sure if Ella was the hugging type. She continued, “ ‘Oh better than the minting of a gold-crowned king is the safe-kept memory of a lovely thing.’ ”

“I love that,” I whispered.

“Sara Teasdale,” she replied. “My favorite poet. From ‘The Coin,’ one of my favorite poems.”

Why didn’t it surprise me that Ella liked poetry? I ate my last fry. “After eighty-five years, you must have a lot of safe-kept memories.”

“Yes. I do. And now, thanks to you, Rae, I have another one.”

And then I watched as she closed her eyes and took a long drink of her milk shake, savoring it so much, when I took a drink of mine, it suddenly tasted better than any other shake I’d ever had.

merry christmas

MOM HAD WORKED CHRISTMAS EVE. I’D SAT IN MY ROOM ALL DAY, reading and writing poetry. Dean had borrowed my truck at some point, and when Mom came home, he still hadn’t come back. I didn’t feel like hearing her whine, so I’d gone to bed and pretended to be asleep. She’d opened the door and closed it right back up when she saw my light off.

I’d left the plate of cookies and the CD on the counter for my mother, and when I went out to the kitchen Christmas morning, I found them exactly as I’d left them. Well, if she wasn’t going to enjoy them, I would. I took them back to my room.

After I shut the door, I popped the CD into my computer and let the now-familiar music fill the room. Then I reached under my bed and pulled out the gift Spencer had given me.

“Merry Christmas, Rae,” I whispered as I sat on the floor and listened to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

“Why, thank you,” I replied. “Same to you.”

I peeled back the paper slowly, wanting to prolong the moment. The paper gave way to a plain white box. I felt my heartbeat quicken in anticipation. Inside the box lay a knitted scarf, made of extra-soft yarn. The scarf was luxurious and warm, and such a gorgeous teal. It reminded me a little bit of a chenille bathrobe my grandma used to wear.

I wanted to call Spencer. I started searching for my phone just as Dean opened my door.

“What’s this?” he asked. I had to focus my eyes to see what he was waving in front of my face. Panic fell over me when I realized he had my bank statement. I scrambled to my feet. “You’ve been holding out on me, haven’t you?”

It felt like the floor had dropped out from underneath me. “Where’d you get that?”

“Found it tucked away in your glove box.”

I reached for the papers, but he held them behind his back. “Give that to me,” I said. “It’s not yours.”

“Well, yes, it is. If you want to keep living under this roof, you’ll hand it over. Monday we’ll be taking a little field trip to the bank when it opens. Understand?”

“I’m not going.” It came out almost like a growl.

“We’ll see about that,” he said, dangling my truck keys in front of me. “You want these back? It’s gonna cost you.” He glanced down at one of the papers. “Fourteen hundred and fifty-one dollars. I’ll let you keep the thirty-two cents, how’s that?”

I lunged at him, but Dean was too strong for me. He pushed me back, and I landed hard against my dresser.

I crumbled up into a ball on the floor, crying.

“What’s going on?” Mom asked, appearing in the doorway.

I looked up, trying to explain through the sobs. “Mom, please! Don’t let him take my savings. I worked hard for it. It’s mine!”

Mom looked at Dean and back at me.

“Don’t let him do it,” I begged.

Dean turned for the door. “I’m hungry. What’s for breakfast?”

Mom’s sad eyes met mine. She started to say something, but Dean wasn’t gonna have any of that. “Joan?” he said through gritted teeth. She knew better than to piss him off any more than I already had.

“All right,” she said with a sigh. “I’m coming.”

He headed down the hallway, giving her half a second to whisper, “Merry Christmas, Rae.” Mom reached into the pocket of her robe, pulled out a small package, and tossed it to me. And then she left, closing the door behind her.

I grabbed the box of candy I’d bought for her but hadn’t wrapped yet, and threw it against the door. The lid flew off and chocolates fell like dark rain, scattering everywhere.

I eyed the gift she’d given me, trying to decide how I felt about it. Then I picked up the package and threw it into the trash can by my desk. With nowhere to go and nothing left to do, I crawled into bed with my beautiful scarf wrapped around my neck and cried.

poetry journal—december

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ME AND YOU

When I hold a rose,

I see the soft, velvety petals

and smile, because

tucked between

those precious petals

is a special gift—

the one of a fragrance,

pure and sweet.

When you hold a rose,

you see the thorns

along the stem,

and you frown

because those thorns

can bring you pain

and cause you to bleed.

I see the gift.

You see the tragedy.

More and more

I fear that one of these days

someone will hand me a rose

and all I will see

are the thorns.

Talk about tragedy.

the hospital—4:21 p.m
.

Circumstances shape who we are and who we become
.

I believe that
.

But I also believe we have choices
.

There are always choices
.

Even now, I can choose who to blame
.

I can choose how to feel
.

I can choose to hold on or let go
.

“Rayanna, honey, I’m here.”

Mom strokes my hair
.

It feels nice
.

“You’re going into surgery now.”

“You have to stay strong. You’re going to be all right.”

She is choosing to believe that which makes her feel the best right now
.

The thing about choices, though, is sometimes you choose wrong
.

three months earlier

a revolution

WHEN I GOT TO THE BENCHES, EVERYONE HAD THEIR HEADS buried in the latest edition of the
Crestfield High Review
. I went to the rack and got a copy. Alix made room for me next to her on the bench.

“What’s everyone reading?” I whispered.

Her pretty green eyes sparkled with excitement. “Rae, you know I’m not big on poetry. But even I teared up when I saw today’s paper. Check out the poetry pages. You won’t believe it.”

I flipped through until I found it. This time “Poetry Matters” was four pages rather than two. Alix moved her finger around the poems on the second set of pages. They were all signed “Anonymous.”

I looked at her, my mouth gaping open. “How many are there?”

“Fourteen people submitted anonymously this time. And
some of them are so heartbreaking. I’m not kidding.”

I had just started reading when she nudged me with her elbow. Nathan walked by with his new “friends.” He’d come back from winter break a completely different person. Gone was the all-American boy and in his place was someone I hardly recognized. First of all, he had a mustache and a scruffy little beard. And he was letting his hair grow out. None of it looked good on him. He looked way older. Darker. He didn’t come to the benches at all when school started up again. Santiago had tried to reach out to him when he got back, but according to Alix, Nathan didn’t want anything to do with him.

I’ll admit, I was relieved at first. But then, a few days later, as I headed to lunch, I saw him sneaking out the back door with a couple of stoners. From that day forward, whenever I saw him, that’s who he was with.

Guilt consumed me. Had he turned to them because of me? Was he changing who he was, who and what he cared about, because of me? Had I hurt him that bad?

Alix told me, “He’s not your problem anymore. If that’s what he wants to do with his life, then let him. We all make choices, Rae. And we have no one to blame but ourselves when we make bad ones.”

Now I watched him walk by, his shoulders slumped and his hands stuffed in his pockets, like he didn’t want to bring attention to himself. He gave me the slightest of glances, his longish bangs partially covering his vacant eyes. I tried to smile
at him. Santiago called over, “Hey, Nathan. Come here, man. You getting excited? Baseball practice starts up soon, right?”

No response. Didn’t even turn around. Sadness pressed against my heart.

The bell rang, so we all tucked our newspapers away and scattered like dandelion seeds.

I was one of the first to arrive in English class. Ms. Bloodsaw motioned me over to her. “Did you see the paper, Rae?”

“Yeah, I was just looking at it. I didn’t get a chance to read them all yet, but wow. It’s kind of amazing, right?”

She winked. “Really amazing.” She leaned in and whispered, “It’s like you’ve started a poetry revolution.”

I loved the sound of that—a poetry revolution. Troubles at home? Put your pen to the page. Is your boyfriend being a jerk? Instead of spreading lies all over the Internet, whip out your journal and write a poem or two.

Ms. Bloodsaw gave us the period to read
The Great Gatsby
. I had finished the book, so I pulled out my poetry journal and began playing around with a new poem.

Felicia turned around. “Did you see the one Nathan wrote about you?” she whispered.

“No. How do you know it’s about me?”

“Because he used your name.”

My stomach dropped to the floor.

“Felicia,” Ms. Bloodsaw called out. That’s all she needed to say. Felicia turned around as I thought back to where things
were with me and Nathan a month ago. That was about the time we’d broken up.

Time dragged as I tried to focus on my poem. I couldn’t stop wondering,
What did he say, what did he say, WHAT DID HE SAY?

Finally, the bell rang. I rushed up the aisle and out into the hallway, pulling the newspaper out of my backpack as I went. The bathroom seemed the only safe spot to read the thing without having everyone’s eyes on me.

A couple of girls stood at the mirrors, putting on lipstick. I went into a stall and shut the door, leaning up against it as I scanned the poems. The title “For My Girl” jumped out at me. It was a short one, by Anonymous, and Felicia had been right. He’d used my name, although in a very subtle way. Some people probably wouldn’t even catch it. But I knew, without a doubt, it was about me. I’d thought he’d say terrible things, like I’d said about him in the poem I’d submitted for this issue. But it was just the opposite. And so it didn’t upset me, really. I actually kind of liked it.

For My Girl

by Anonymous

I’m not good with words.

I want to tell you how I feel

when you look into my eyes.

I want to tell you how I feel

when you smile at me.

I want to tell you how I feel

when you kiss me soft and slow.

I try.

But my words,

they’re never quite right.

If only you could see my heart.

Know what you’d find?

A million little Raes,

lighting my insides

like a lantern.

That’s what I’ve been

trying to tell you

all this time.

You light me up.

ups and downs

AT LUNCH I GRABBED ALIX AWAY FROM SANTIAGO FOR A MINUTE. They were headed off campus to get something to eat.

“Did you see Nathan’s poem?” I pulled the paper out of my backpack and pointed it out to her.

“How do you know that’s him?” she asked.

“He spelled ‘rays’ wrong. It’s spelled like my name.”