Authors: Mechelle Morrison
I can’t wait ‘till you’re home!
A
KyleKDTlovesyou
7
:07 PM(2 hours ago)
To me
Aspen
,
I love your name, you know?
And since we’re being honest and natural with each other it seems natural to tell you that I’ve been thinking on how I want your name to evolve until one day, it’s Aspen Thacker. Cause I’ll tell you, girl. As far forward as I can look, I see you there.
I know about those views on YouTube. And I’ll confide that it’s a dream I have to sell my songs on iTunes. I’ve been looking into it and stuff. But thinking on it now, I don’t care about all those views except the ones coming from you. It’s good people enjoy my music, but you inspire it. Remember that.
I love the idea of craving like crazy. I’m gonna write a song about it, and the lyrics will all be about how much I crave you and how much you crave me. That I’m sitting here, desperate to take that craving and act on it, is something you should know.
Thanks for the stuff you said about my brother. It meant a lot. I like how your thoughts draw a circle around what’s good in a person. I like how you see the better side of things. You have a gift for that, but maybe you don’t know. I know it and I need it. I need you, girl.
My mom’s taking me out to a late dinner, so I’m writing now to say good night. It’s been a rough day. Earlier, after I emailed you, my mom and I talked about Evan and we both cried, hard. It’s strange, but up until this week we’ve never really talked about what happened. Evan’s death was the shadow lurking behind our thoughts, but none of us dared bring it up.
My dad still won’t talk about it. It was good to hear my mom own that. It’s good she’s being brave, and that she’ll discuss it some with me. Mom says to give Dad time, that it might take him years, if ever, because Dad and Evan were real close. I may be the one who looks more like my dad, but Evan was Dad’s reflection. Evan was nineteen when he died, a year away from where I stand now. Mom says the closer I get to his age, the more Dad sees the best of my brother in me and it’s hard for him. Real hard. I wish Dad could talk about it though.
I miss my brother. I always will. It feels good to talk about him and it hurts like hell, all rolled up into one.
God, I’m tired. I wish I could curl myself around you girl, and fall asleep. Promise you’ll let me do that, when I come home.
K
1
4
THE SEA DRAINS
upward, filling Wyoming’s gigantic sky with rolling, green waves. Stars and planets wink as they submerge in the churning foam. The moon shimmers like a pearl on the ocean floor.
But f
rom where I watch, dry and sheltered in the Jam, I feel no worry. Kyle’s nearby, playing “Be All Right” on his guitar. He whispers in my ear, “It’s not done, girl.” His guitar’s strings make a weird, stinging
thwack.
I wake up a bit
.
Thwack
.
S
ilence.
Did I hear something for real?
A dripping faucet? Rain? Maybe animals, in the attic. We had that once in Portland. Raccoons, I think.
T
hwack.
I
roll to my side, open my eyes and blink the dim digital numbers of my clock into focus. One-fifty-two. No light seeps from under my door.
That means
Dad’s asleep. Right?
T
hwack.
S
omething hit my window! I slip out of bed and flex my toes in the cool fibers of my rug. Another
thwack
and I drop to the floor, my arms around my knees. Is it a bat? Are there bats in Wyoming? Big ones? Do bats break glass? Can bats even fly when it’s cold? A shiver wracks my body.
Another
thwack
. Then two more.
Three
thwacks
later I force myself to stand. For a nanosecond I consider opening my blinds, but I don’t. What if all I see is some huge monster gnawing on the glass to get in? I walk to my door and pull it open carefully, just in case the monster has friends waiting to attack me in the hall. Except for the weak little light Dad plugged into the center outlet, the hallway is empty and dark. Dad keeps the light there in case I need a late-night potty trip. I thought it was stupid when he plugged it in—“I’m not a toddler,” I’d said—but now I’m grateful.
Dad’s
door is shut, which is normal. He’s snoring on the other side. That’s normal, too. I step into the hall, clutch at my elbows and walk to the top of the stairs. Behind me, from my room, comes another sharp
thwack
.
Moonlight
pours like mercury through our paned front windows, painting an elongated, silvery checkerboard across the living room floor. I step from the stairs and edge along the interior wall, walking across the couch cushions before I squeeze behind and around Dad’s new chair. That way I keep in the shadows. The moonlight doesn’t touch even my toes.
Once I’m
in Dad’s office, I relax. His technology lights are all aglow—the computer’s tiny green ‘on’ button, the neon blue connection of his charging phone, the various printers and monitors and scanners, his stereo and his fax. Everything seems normal and I feel safe. The blinds are drawn, but this room is directly below my bedroom. If I look outside, maybe I’ll see where the noise comes from.
S
hrubbery lines the front of our house. To get a better view I move a chair to the window and climb onto it, parting the blind’s top slats with my fingers. Two shapes, like shadows free of their owners, stand a few feet away on the lawn. One of them throws something upward. Another
thwack
. The sound is softer from here.
I
f I turn on the porch light I might catch a glimpse of who they are, but from here, even with the moon on full, the people are featureless. One person waves toward the street and the other steps forward, his or her arm whirling in a wide arc. A cascade of sound follows as something—small stones, maybe—pelt against our house. Some hit the exterior cedar siding. Some hit Dad’s office window so hard I think the glass will break. I step back, lose my balance as my chair tips sideways, and spill to the floor. Pain shoots into my ankle. I almost cry out, but I don’t. Tears squeeze from my eyes.
The ceiling creaks
. Dad’s awake, moving around in his bedroom. Maybe he’s standing at his window, rubbing his hair the way he does in the morning before he showers. Footsteps echo in the street—the running kind fueled by self-preservation, the kind I did once when I snuck out with friends and almost got caught toilet-papering. A car engine starts then fades away. The ceiling creaks, again. The toilet flushes in Dad’s bathroom and a torrent of water rumbles down the pipes. The house grows still.
By the time
I sit up I’m cold as glacier stone. I pull myself to my feet and slowly right the chair. I peer through the blind, but it’s pointless. I already know no one is there and anyway, the bushes hide the view. My ankle burns with pain, especially when I put weight on it. I limp for the stairs, dragging my throbbing leg through the moonlight, biting my lip to keep from whimpering. One stair at a time I climb, always leading with my right foot.
Back in bed
, I pull the covers tight around me. I’m warm now but my ankle aches and I can’t sleep. Who were those people? How long had they thrown things at my window before I woke up? Did they see me when I went downstairs, tiptoeing out of reach of the moonlight, staying just beyond its touch?
It’s
three thirty-eight when I turn on my bedside lamp and reach for my computer. Fitting my earbuds to my ears, I bring up Kyle’s music and listen, eyes closed, first to “Return to Me” then another called “Wander” and then “Things You Can’t Replace.” I read through Kyle’s email, twice. I feel better. I feel safe. But now I miss him to where it hurts.
If he were here
we’d comfort each other, our whispered words as soft as darkness. I’d dare to say “I love you” because, well, what I’m feeling
feels
like love. We’d grow tired of talk and he’d wrap his arms around me. We’d drift into sleep.
But
he’s not here and my need to tell him about tonight doesn’t want to wait until he is. It’ll make him anxious, hearing how a stranger spent time throwing things against my window. Maybe he’ll head straight home, even if he’s not ready. By tonight we could be together, laughing over what happened and knowing it was just some school-kid prank.
I
want him here. I want him here! But . . . I have no right to mess up his therapy.
I
stare at the screen, biting my lower lip and wondering what to do. I almost exit out of Gmail, twice. My thoughts circle round and round, marbles bouncing on a roulette wheel. They always end in the same place: Kyle’s choice to be honest with me about his brother.
I read
all his email, again. Then, with his music in my ears and my pillows bunched behind my back, I begin to write.
15
MRS. MARTIN, MY
English teacher, walks the aisles between our desks, a stack of papers and composition books tucked in the crook of her arm. Desk by desk, she doles out her load. When it’s my turn she gives me the materials then pauses, looking at me over the rim of her glasses.
“What?”
I ask, covering my yawn.
“Beginning tomorrow we’ll be journaling,” she says,
moving on. “You will journal, keeping to the same topic, for one month. I want you to choose something about yourself or your life experience that you’ll find challenging to explore. Maybe you were violently ill as a child. Maybe you were lonely. Maybe you’ve suffered loss, or economic hardship or you’ve been in a terrible car accident. Maybe you have a hidden, gripping fear. Whatever you choose, I want you to discuss it in your journal as though you were confessing a long lost secret. Let the feelings that have built up behind the event evaporate into your words. Surprise me.”
T
he girl sitting at the head of my row raises her hand. “What if it’s something we’ve never told anyone?”
“Then I’d say it’s perfect,” Mrs. Martin answers.
“Are you gonna share what we write with the class?” asks Madison Borrow. She wears her hair so short and blonde it’s easy to confuse it for her scalp. “I don’t exactly want my junk aired in here.”
Everyone laughs. Madison
mumbles, “Seriously.”
“The writing is entirely private,” Mrs. Martin
says. “And will only be done during the first fifteen minutes of class. Your journals will be left with me before you are dismissed for next period. I will store them in a locked cabinet. I won’t read them until winter break, but be assured. No one will read what you write, except me.”
“What if people write bad stuff?” This comes from a guy named Henry Moss. He’s tall, though it’s hard to tell for the way he slouches in his seat
. His butt is so near the edge of his chair it’s like he can’t decide between being solid matter and melting into a puddle on the floor.
Mrs. Martin
removes her glasses and points them at Henry. “I’d save confessing illegal activities, such as drugs or violence or theft, for your attorney. Or your parole officer. But if you’re feeling lucky Henry, let it rip.”
Madison Borrow
snorts. “If Henry has secrets, it’s the stuff he does that’s good.”
By the time I reach second period my ankle hurts to where I feel tears. I plop into my chair, dig an Advil from my bag and chug it with a big gulp of water. Part way down my throat the capsule turns and lodges tight. Suddenly, I’m choking. Water spurts out my nose. I cough and hack, wheezing for air.
M
y Spanish teacher asks, “Miss Brand, are you all right?”
I’m not, but whatever.
Everyone looks at me and I shrug, wiping the water from my face with the back of my sleeve. I don’t know why I bothered. A little pill won’t dent the searing agony in my ankle. I mean, I’m pretty sure it’s sprained.
This morning
when Dad asked what happened, I told him I’d heard something in the night, got up to check it out, and tripped over a book I’d left on the floor. He didn’t mention that he’d been up, too. He just told me I should stay home and ice the thing, which was probably right. I should be home.
It’s that I
don’t want to be there alone.
So
I wrapped the swelling with an Ace bandage, saying I had a test and I was going to school and really, since he drove me, I didn’t have all that much walking to do during the day. Then I couldn’t get into my boot. I considered wearing tennis shoes, or even slippers, but in the end I removed the bandage, pulled on a pair of thick wool socks and, gritting my teeth, crammed my foot in. It almost made me scream. I thought the boot would give my ankle good support, but oddly, it doesn’t. If anything, the boot has made the swelling worse.
At least I
look
good. Over the weekend I painted my boot heels a mellow, chocolate brown—a perfect match to the brown suede mini-skirt and thick auburn turtle neck I’m wearing. My hair is shinier than usual. And despite the pain in my ankle, I’ve smiled twice today. The world seems beautiful, everybody’s happy, the sky is bright and blue.
Weird,
how just like that I’m one of those girls who are crazy in love.
Last night
I wrote Kyle the longest email ever. I told him I think of him every second of the day. I told him he’s my other half. I told him about the strangers throwing things at our house. After I hit ‘send’ I felt so nervous about everything I’d written I couldn’t sleep—I mean, I said things I’ve never said before—so I played my guitar. For a while I tried to make up a song, but I didn’t come close to anything original.
B
efore I left for school I wandered out into the yard and did reconnaissance. The front lawn was peppered with marbles. I scooped up a few and dropped them into my bag.
It
might be random, that someone threw marbles at my bedroom window in the middle of the night. It might just be coincidence. But my thoughts went to Em and how she messed with Kyle’s house when he broke up with her. And though I told myself I was being stupid, I couldn’t help it. I looked down my street, feeling paranoid, wondering if I was being watched.
In the lunchroom I sling my bag across my body, messenger-style. I didn’t want to take the extra steps required to stash it in my locker and now I’m stuck with it, its bulging weight hanging on my back like a lop-sided papoose. Today the menu is corndogs and hamburgers so I grab a salad, a bowl of fruit, and two milks. Then I walk slowly toward the table by the painted cobra. I’ve sat there with Gwen since the first day of school. Sometimes other girls join us—friends of Gwen who are slowly becoming friends of mine, too. I usually sit with my back to the crowd, but today I go for the side that allows me full view. Em hasn’t called out my clothes yet, though our eyes have met in the hall, twice. Both times she looked snarly. Both times I felt furious.
Soon I see Gwen
, her tray held waitress-style above her head. She’s smiling the smirky little grin she saves for secrets. As she sets her tray on the table and settles into her seat she asks, “Are you telepathic or what?”
“
Um. What?”
“
For your information,” Gwen continues, “and perhaps this is old news: Em Harrelson is my next door neighbor. We were friends in grade school but I got tired of her horse s-h-i-t and now we hardly talk. Today, however, she deemed it necessary to corner me in the hall with a bunch of questions about
you
.”
“Interesting,” I say.
“Oh it’s so much more than that. Em does not stoop to unsecured information channels. Ever. Have you noticed she’s been spying on you? She’s watching you right now, from a few tables over. She’s a pretty good lip reader and”—Gwen bangs her spoon against her tray—“Good hell, Aspen! Don’t
look
!”
I
stare at Gwen. “What’s she—?”
“
Shhh! Let me do the talking. Em’s stupid not be where she can figure out my side of this conversation, but whatever. Just keep the lip-reading thing in mind. And please. Maintain eye contact at all times.”
I rest my chin on my fist and glue my gaze to
Gwen’s eyes.
“
Could you
be
more obvious?”
“
Yes,” I say.
Gwen snorts.
“Let us begin with the million dollar question: Do you know where Kyle is?”
“No idea,” I say
. For emphasis, I shrug.
“
Ah. Well Em won’t buy that, because Lindsey told her he was talking to you in the parking lot. About two months ago or something.”
“
Why would that mean I know where he is today? Lindsey had me smashed against her car while she tried to rip her aunt Carol’s former pin off my sweater. Kyle talked to her. He told her to get to class.”
“Not quite how I heard it,” Gwen says. “But
your version sounds more like the Lindsey I know and so-much-less-than love. Curious, though, how you haven’t mentioned this before.” She studies me for a moment. “Then what?”
I
shrug, again. “Then nothing. Lindsey’s make-up was a mess.” With my fingers, I draw lines from my eyes into my hair. “Classic tear smear. She went into the building to clean up. Why are you asking all this stuff, anyway?”
Gwen’s eyes narrow. “
I’m fulfilling the letter of my contract. Not the law.”
“
You’re truly noble,” I say.
“You’re
the chosen inheritor of Gram’s beloved sweater. You’re my friend. I’m not about to hand you over to Em on a silver spoon.”
“
Platter.”
“Whatever
! Em figured I’d do what she asked and that I wouldn’t cross her because she threw a bunch of threats my way. She’s an idiot. Everybody knows criminals don’t crap in their own backyard. Even toads like Em Harrelson. But that reminds me. I’m supposed to ask you about your famous dance with Kyle on Halloween. I mean you two were so close you were—”
“
No,” I say.
“
But I haven’t asked you yet.”
“
Doesn’t matter. The answer is ‘No.’”
Gwen
smiles, revealing a bright green piece of lettuce caught in her braces. “Aspen Brand. You’re hot for him.”
I glance at Em
, lingering on her furrowed, awkward gaze. “Like the surface of the sun,” I say.