The Art of Holding On and Letting Go (26 page)

I jerked my gaze away before he spotted me and followed Kaitlyn and Nick over to their group of goth friends. They stood in a corner, clustered together, looking bored. Virgin Goth Girl was a southern belle vampire in a white corseted dress. She eyed Nick and swiveled her hips to the music. Nick was oblivious. Josh had a faint smile on his face, bemused. Kaitlyn grabbed my hand and said, “What are we standing around for? Let's dance!”

And we did. The four of us together, crazy on the dance floor. I made myself bob to the mindless beat of Justin Bieber, and I truly let myself go when the music shifted to the classic song from
Footloose
. I wasn't going to think about Tom. We formed a small circle and took turns swinging each other around. Josh and Nick were wild dancers, with their long arms flapping out to the sides, jumping and spinning. Then the music shifted from fast to slow in a second, and Josh was there with his arms around me, and Kaitlyn and Nick were right next to us.

Josh held me at a comfortable distance. He tried talking to me, but I could hardly hear him, so after a couple
what?
s we stopped talking. Kaitlyn and Nick talked and laughed while they danced, moving closer and closer to each other, then Kaitlyn rested her head on Nick's shoulder. He bowed his head against hers.

Would Tom hold me like that? I wouldn't be able to rest my head on his shoulder. I'd rest against his chest, and he could rest his chin on the top of my head. And his arms would wind around my waist, igniting my skin with electric sparks the length of my spine. And if I looked up, and he looked down, our lips might … was he dancing right now, holding Ann-Marie close, her big boobs squashed up against his chest? I scanned the room and found Tom on the sidelines. Alone. Well not
alone
alone, but with a couple of guys. Most importantly, he was not dancing with Ann-Marie; she was MIA.

The slow song ended, and our group headed for the jugs of lemonade to refuel.

I was examining a tray of cookies when Tom appeared next to me, bumping his shoulder against mine.

“Hey,” he said. “Who's the mystery guy?”

“Oh, he came down from MSU,” I said.

“Ooh,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

I giggled and rolled my eyes. “He's Kaitlyn's brother.”

“Hey, a college guy is a college guy. You look amazing.” He swept his arm from my head to my toes. “And you seem to have grown a couple inches taller.”

I straightened my spine and lifted my chin. I'd forgotten how tall the heels made me. Not quite cheek to cheek with Tom, but close.

“Where's your date?” I asked.

Tom winced. “I think she's puking in the bathroom, but I'm not really sure. She was trashed before we even got here.”

“Too bad.”

“Uh-huh, serves me right. I never would have asked her out. She asked me in front of a bunch of her friends, and I just didn't know what to do.”

He looked right at me, open and honest, and I held his gaze.

“Would your college guy mind if I stole a dance?” he asked.

I glanced over at Josh. He was standing next to Nick, joking around, pantomiming something. Kaitlyn watched me with a huge grin and wiggled her fingers in a wave. I smiled back at her. Tom took my hand and led me out to the dance floor. He held me closer than Josh, his hands sliding from my hips to the small of my back. Our thighs brushed together, and he peered down into my face, a wavy lock flopping over his forehead. Every molecule in my body roared.

“Tom, I'm back!” Ann-Marie clamped her paws around his bicep. She reeked. One of her dopey friends slurred, “We got to get her out of here. Mr. Halloway's already giving us the stare down.”

Tom looked back and forth from me to Ann-Marie and her friend. He stepped away, but grasped both of my hands and squeezed. “Sorry, Cara.” And then he was gone. He stalked ahead of Ann-Marie, leading the way, letting her friend half-stumble with her.

Kaitlyn came up beside me. “Well, that sucks.”

“Yeah.” I sighed. “But it was a nice sixty seconds.”

Grandpa was reclining in his chair reading a book when I got home. He wore his usual bedtime outfit, flannel pants and a sweatshirt, which was exactly what I wanted to be wearing at that moment. I kicked off my shoes and flopped on the couch.

“How was it?” he asked.

“It was fun. I like dancing, but my feet are killing me.”

Grandpa chuckled. “You'd think your feet would be as tough as stone after cramming them into those tiny climbing shoes of yours.”

“I know, but wearing heels is a whole other thing.”

“Grandma tried to wait up but she got too sleepy. She said she hoped you had a good time.”

“Thanks,” I said, yawning. “I'm beat. See you in the morning.”

I limped to my room and struggled out of my dress. I hung it back on the hanger, and whispered, “Thanks, Mom.”

Freshly laundered and folded clothes from Grandma were stacked on my desk with a note resting on top. Blue-lined notebook paper, folded into a small square.

The note I had shoved into my jeans pocket last week, unread. I unfolded the paper, square after square. Slanted, messy writing, in pencil.

In the morning, I reread the note. What the hell? Should I be reporting these to someone? But the notes weren't actually threatening; they were just weird.

He should have said yes
. Was the note writer talking about Tom? Only Nick and Kaitlyn knew about it, unless someone else at school had heard. I thought I had ruled Nick out, but … Who was doing this!

I tossed the note onto my desk and checked my phone for the first time in days. Dead. I plugged it into the charger. Tom had never called me before, but he could get my number. I remembered the warm weight of his hands on my hips, on my lower back. I watched my phone, but the screen stayed black. My rumbling stomach sent me to the kitchen.

“Wait until you go outside, Carabou. It's like spring,” Grandpa said with a smile.

He was right! Spring was here. After gray skies and subzero temperatures for months, forty-five degrees and sunny felt downright balmy. I would have bundled up in heavy fleece in California if it was below fifty, but today I only needed a sweatshirt. I knew right where I wanted to go. I stuffed my climbing shoes and chalk bag into my backpack and headed out for a walk. After half a mile, I found the spot. I stopped under the railroad viaduct and ran my hand along the stones that made up the wall. I had ridden my bike past this spot on the way home from Kaitlyn's, but it turned too cold before I had a chance to return and check it out. It was perfect for bouldering.

It was dim and cooler out of the sun, and my breath puffed into the air. I rubbed my palms together for warmth. I was the only one around. Not like back home in the Angeles Forest where there was almost always someone else hanging out in the most popular climbing areas. I had to tell Jake about this place.

“Echo!” My voice reverberated off the stone walls.

I pulled on my climbing shoes and tied the chalk bag around my waist.
Climb on
, I said to myself. No jug holds here, no brute strength needed, no dynos. Just a graceful, deliberate dance across the stones. The rock climbing puzzle. Finding the perfect matching pieces. Crack to crevice to nub to flake. When every piece falls into place, it's like a dance, a delicate but powerful balancing act. The art of holding on and letting go at the same time.

I traversed the wall until my fingertips were raw, my toes numb. I walked home with my forearms burning. I found Grandma standing in the yard, staring down at the soggy, dead flower beds. The plastic flowers from the window boxes lay in a heap on the straw-like grass. They had been covered in snow for so long, I had forgotten about them. She just stood there, surveying the yard, looking lost.

“Are you going to plant some new flowers?” I asked. “I could help.”

“Nah.” She shook her head. “It'll probably snow tomorrow.”

“Whatever.” I wasn't going to let her get me down.

I tossed my climbing shoes and chalk bag in the corner of my room and checked my phone. Fully charged with one text. Coach Mel.

Miss you.

I squinted at the picture. The team was at the exhibition event in Tennessee. There was Becky in a star-spangled skimpy outfit, Zach's arm around her shoulders, one hand raised in the peace sign.

I clicked off my phone. Whatever. I didn't want to think about competition climbing; I just wanted to enjoy the feeling from my dance across the stones.

But I couldn't stop checking my phone. I looked at the picture from Coach again, zoomed in and studied the climbing wall in the background.

Still no word from Tom.

Stupid Michigan. Winter was back by Monday. Grandma wasn't being negative, she was being realistic. The last dried-up bloom on my Christmas cactus crumbled in my fingers. The plant arched and stretched toward the stingy daylight. The cold seeped through my jacket as I trudged to school. A mist of frozen rain and tiny snowflakes spat into my face. I couldn't believe it. What kind of place was this? Why would anyone want to live here? Weather that plays tricks on you, never-ending winter.

I shoved my hands into my coat pockets, my fingers automatically searching for the smooth stone from Mount Chimborazo. It wasn't there.

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and carefully felt the lining in my pockets. I pulled one pocket inside out, then the other. No holes. No stone.

I nudged the slushy snowy ground around my feet and bent down to peer closer.

I started walking again. Maybe it fell out at home. I'd look for it later. It was just a stone. But my heart thumped and my stomach turned twisty. It wasn't just a stone.

I turned around and half-ran, splashing through slushy puddles. I slipped on a slick patch right in front of the house, landing on my hip, my hands thrust into the snowy bank trying to catch myself. The cold shock made me gasp.

I shoved myself up, my hands stinging, my pants soaked. I blinked back tears and choked on a rising sob.

Grandpa opened the front door and eyed my wet pants. “Oh no, did you fall?”

I threw my backpack to the floor and yanked off my boots. “My stone is gone!”

“What stone?”

“My stone from Chimborazo. Uncle Max's stone. It's always in my pocket.”

“It fell out when you fell down?”

“No. It was already gone.” I ran down the hall to my room, my eyes scanning the floor along the way. I dropped to my hands and knees in my room, searching the carpet.

“What does it look like?” Grandpa asked.

“It's about the size of my thumb, oval shaped and smooth. Shiny black with a coppery line running through it.”

He backed out into the hallway. “I'll check in the living room and kitchen.”

I felt my way all around my room without any luck. I sat back on my heels. Think, think, when did I last notice it in my pocket?

Grandma appeared in my doorway. “Grandpa said you lost something from your coat pocket? A precious stone?”

I nodded. “It must have fallen out somehow. I know, don't say it. If I would just hang up my coat like I'm supposed to and not toss it on the floor …”

“I washed it yesterday.”

“My coat?”

“It was so warm outside and you left the house without it, so I thought it'd be a good time to wash it.”

I closed my eyes, trying to contain the explosion of anger rising up from my gut. Why couldn't she leave my stuff alone?

“You didn't empty the pockets first? You pulled that note out of my jeans the other day.”

“Let's check the washer and dryer,” she said.

I popped up and dashed past her to the laundry room.
Please, please, please
.

Nothing on the floor, nothing in the washer, nothing in the dryer.

“What about the lint trap?” Grandpa asked behind us. “Sometimes I find coins in there.”

“I already emptied it and didn't notice anything,” Grandma said.

“The trash.” I went straight to the bin in the corner.

“Uh-oh,” Grandpa said. “I emptied it last night. It's garbage day.”

We all froze. The unmistakable sound of the garbage truck was right outside. I ran to the front door. Our silver metal garbage can was upside down at the curb. The truck rumbling on to the next house.

My shoulders sagged.

“I'm sorry, Cara,” Grandma said.

I shook my head and retreated to my room. I stripped off my wet clothes and climbed into bed. I curled up and hugged little Tahoe. I wanted to have a miserable-sorry-for-myself cry, but the tears didn't come.

I told myself the stone didn't matter. It was just something I'd become attached to, and I needed to let it go. When I got back to California, my real rock collection—the ones that Uncle Max had found for me— would be waiting. If they hadn't been damaged by the fire.

But my fingers still automatically probed the inside of my coat pocket, and I kept my eyes on the ground, always searching.