The Leaving Season (4 page)

“Looks pretty motorcycle-y to me. It has a motor and two wheels . . . with which to cycle.”

He swung his leg over the seat as if he were mounting a huge Harley. With one foot braced against the splashguard, he turned the key in the ignition and the engine gently
putt-putt
ed before catching.

He revved the engine, which sounded less like a dangerous beast and more like a swarm of angry hornets. He flipped up the kickstand with his heel. “Well, take it easy.”

That's it?
I grabbed the handlebars before he could turn the scooter around. “Why did you come here today, anyway?”

He stopped and squinted as the cloud cover shifted, revealing the sharp circle of sun against a pale blue skyscape. “Oh yeah. You talked to Nate?”

I shook my head. “No reception. You?”

“Nope. I sent him an email. He might get it if he can find a landline.”

“I'm sure he's just between towers,” I said, echoing Mrs. Bingham's optimism.

“Yeah. See ya round,” he called out over the buzz.

Shielding my eyes with my hand, I watched Lee pull out of the lot and away from the farm, sweeping the dirt road in a lazy S-shaped pattern.

Helmet,
I thought with a start. He wasn't wearing a helmet.

Then I stifled a laugh.

Big, tough no-helmet guy—riding off on his puny little scooter.

My little sister, Emma, at nine, was at the tail end of her Brownie career. More than anything, she wanted to be
older
. And crucial to her growing up was
me
moving out. Not for the room of her own, which she had now, but for the solitude of
being an only child. I couldn't imagine what that was like. Allison had it for a little while before I arrived, and Emma would have it soon, but me? I am the middle child. I have always been surrounded by others.

“You'll miss me when I'm gone,” I liked to tell Emma whenever she pounded on the bathroom door.

“No, I won't! I'll watch all the cartoons I want and eat candy on your bed!”

She
would
miss me, though, just as I missed Allison. Sure, we chatted online and she came home for visits each semester from Willamette University, but it wasn't the same without her around.
I
was the older sister now, the one Emma had to look up to. And it wasn't easy, especially when it came to projects for her Brownie troop.

“You're not doing it right!” Emma fumed as I attempted to iron a patch onto her Brownie sash.

“It's fine.” I pressed the tip of the iron against the patch, finished the edging, and held it up in front of me. “Look, it's perfect.”

Emma inspected it more closely. “Not perfect. But . . . okay.”

The ironing was something I'd happily taken over when Allison left. I was afraid Emma would burn herself or her bedspread if she did it on her own. And besides, there was something soothing about pressing all the wrinkles out—making a sheet or a cotton shirt crisp and perfect.

While I ironed, Emma told me all about her next
Brownie task, which would get her a leadership patch. I wasn't so sure Emma wanted to be a leader as much as she wanted to gussy up her sash.

“I have to write a story,” she told me as she carefully hung the sash near her beloved Brownie uniform.

I shut the iron off to let it cool and settled in among the pillows on Emma's twin bed. I stretched my legs in front of me while Emma arranged and rearranged the items in her closet. “To be a leader, a Brownie has to inspire others,” she said with a proud tilt of her chin. If it hadn't been for the flowered headband on top of her shimmering blond hair, I'd have thought she was already a teenager the way she carried herself. “I need a story that makes other people inspired.”

“Like . . . ,” I prompted her. “What have other Girl Scouts done?”

“
Brownies
, Middie. We are Brownies. Not Girl Scouts.”

I made a rolling gesture with my hand. “Whatever, Emma. Just tell me.”

She flopped onto the twin bed next to me and stretched her legs out as I had. The lace-edged pillows engulfed her tiny head and muffled her voice. “My friend Cynthia's story was about her uncle who was in a war.”

“That's good.” While she gave me the rundown on all of her friends' inspirational tales, my gaze wandered the room. Not long ago we had shared it: our twin beds side by side, a single lamp on a table between them. We'd had one alarm clock too, which meant Emma rose at the same
time as I did. We'd even shared Allison's old vanity and its rickety ladder-backed chair. Now all of this was Emma's alone. My room, which once belonged to Allison as well, was on the other side of the house, its windows facing the street. Here, we had a view of the garage and a backyard surrounded by trees.

“You know, I have to write a story too,” I told Emma when she stopped to breathe. “For college applications they have these—”

“Don't use Nate!” she said, her eyes wide. “He's mine!”

“He's . . . what?”

“He's my story.” Emma sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “He's all smart and always helping people and he's my friend even if he is your boyfriend and I can use him as an inspiration to other people because maybe other people will want to volunteer and help the misfortunate and maybe I will too because of him!” She finished with a gasp for air.

“Unfortunate. The people are ‘unfortunate' not ‘misfortunate.'”

“Whatever.” She mimicked my get-on-with-it gesture, which was a little annoying coming from a nine-year-old.

“I'm not
using
Nate,” I said. “I have to write a story about
me
.”

“You? You're not inspiring.”

“Well, thank you very much. Do they give out badges for being rude?”

“I don't think so.” She glanced up at the ceiling in thought. I could see the wheels turning in her head:
Can I get a badge for being rude?

“So as I was saying, I have to write an essay about myself for my college applications.”

Specifically, the Lewis & Clark application requested an essay that told them something that defined me, an event or experience that had made an impression on my life. I had absolutely no idea what I would write about.

My sister gave me a begrudging nod. “All right, as long as it isn't about Nate.”

I shook my head. “Don't worry, it won't be.” Emma had always known Nate, I realized. We'd been friends and then dated for ten years of my life but
all
of hers.

Back in my room, I turned on my laptop and carried it with me to the bed. As soon as the Wi-Fi connected, a message popped up from Allison. She was online and wanted to chat. I opened a window and typed a greeting.
Hey, Ali!

Almost instantly, I received a reply:
u up?

Duh.
Yes.

Can u look in my closet for a skirt?

I grinned.
You mean MY closet

topshop, black mini

I'm busy

Go Now

“Fine, I'm going,” I said to my computer as I hauled my butt to the closet. Despite having left for college two years
ago, Allison maintained an extensive wardrobe in
my
room, taking with her only one season's worth of clothing at a time. It wouldn't be so bad if we were the same size, but she was quite a bit taller than me.

I fanned a hand through her side of the closet, searching for a black miniskirt that had wide, flat pleats and a hidden side zipper. I knew exactly the one she was talking about because I'd tried it on when she was gone.

My phone rang before I'd had a chance to look for more than five seconds. I snatched it from my dresser. “What?”

“Are you in front of my closet?” Allison's voice greeted me.

“Stop calling it that. And yes, I am.” I poked my head in farther, inhaling the scent of cedar that lined the walls of the closet.

“Do you see it?”

“Oh my god, give me a chance to look!” I put the phone back on the dresser and pressed Speakerphone. I could hear my sister breathing on the other end of the line. “Why do you need to know if it's here? It's not like I'm going to mail it to you.”

“Why not?”

I laughed. “You live two and a half hours away.”

“You're going to drive it up here, then?”

“Ha! No.”

“Then get thee to the post office, sister-friend.”

“Can't you wait till you come home?”

“Nope. Hot date.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Really? Who?”

“Whom.”

“No. It's ‘who.' Just because you're in college—”

“He's no one. Just a guy.”

I stepped deeper into the closet and called out over my shoulder. “A guy you
have
to put on an awesome black skirt for.” I was up to my neck in Allison's clothes, but I still couldn't find the skirt she wanted. “Even if I do find it, you're not gonna get it till next week.”

“Overnight it.”

I had to laugh. “Is this guy worth an expensive FedEx delivery?”

A long pause and then I heard her sigh. “You're probably right. Forget it.”

I grabbed my cell and took her off speaker. “Wait! I was just kidding. You sure?”

“My skinny jeans are pretty hot,” she joked. “They'll have to do it for him.”

I laughed and pulled a chair up to the window. I cracked it open to feel a cool breeze on my face. Climbing through the closet had made me sweaty.

“You know, Al, I've never been on a date,” I told her. It was weird to say it out loud, but it was true.

My sister snorted. “You've been on plenty of dates.”

“Not really. Not like you. I knew Nate for five years before we got together. It wasn't ever
him asking me out
and
me getting all nervous
. Is it fun?”

“It sucks! You gotta worry if the guy likes you, if he has another girlfriend, if he
wants
a girlfriend, if he just wants a booty call—”

“A booty call? You? No way.”

“I could be a booty call,” she joked. Her voice was haughty. “When it works out, yeah, it's, I don't know . . . exciting.” She paused. “Anyway, you don't have to worry about it.”

“Yeah, I guess you're right.” But I did have something to worry about—and that something was gnawing at my brain. “Hey, what'd you write for your application essay to Willamette?”

I tapped the screen of my laptop and opened the application. Every field had been filled in—my name and address and so on. But the space for the essay was a big fat blank. “I can't think of anything to write.”

“Hmmm . . . I can't remember. It must have been good, though. I mean, I got into three colleges.”

“Gee, thanks.” I flopped back on the bed and rolled onto my side. On the other end of the line, I heard voices calling to my sister.

“Oh, hey. I gotta go, Mid. Talk later?”

“Sure, okay.” I was always reluctant to let Allison go. It so often seemed like she was on the verge of sharing something really important. I clicked off the phone and returned to my computer, paging through my bookmarks until I found one of my favorite websites, a vintage clothing
reseller. I loved the looks of the dresses on these pages even though they were styles and textures I'd never worn before: soft and flowing with layers of chiffon over silk, lace over cotton, lovingly embroidered with flowered appliqués and trails of beads.

These dresses were completely impractical and I loved looking at them. I imagined myself at my wedding with Nate, dressed in a diaphanous cream-colored gown with a beaded bodice and velvet trim, pulled in tight at the waist, with loose, flowing sleeves. I'd even bookmarked a photo of one I especially liked, but I'd never shown it to anyone, not even Nate.

I glanced at the time on my phone. It was just about ten where Nate was. I dialed, fingers crossed the call would go through. After three failed attempts, each one crushing my optimism a little more, I texted him instead.

Miss u, love u, NM4eva.

In the morning, my phone was still in my hand and my body twisted around it, as if I were protecting it in my sleep. I stared at the screen.
Miss u, love u, NM4eva.
I sat up quickly, my heart leaping to life. But it didn't take long for me to realize that was my message to Nate. It hadn't been answered.

I felt a stiffness in my shoulder and back from sleeping in a pretzel shape and a mild ache in my neck. This day was not off to the most promising start.

It didn't get any better.

At school, it seemed like every teacher had agreed
this
would be the day to give out massive amounts of work. After ten days of classes, we were slammed with homework
assignments and a killer midterm exam schedule. I didn't foresee a break until almost Thanksgiving.

Haley felt the pinch too. In last-period AP English, our only class together, she slid into the desk beside me and dropped her head on it with a
thunk
. “Oh my god, Middie. I'm swamped. Literally swamped.”

“Well, not literally.”

She turned her head to the side and stared up at me, one cheek smooshed into her nose. “Yes, literally. There is a swamp of homework around me. Math, history, chemistry. It's more than a swamp. It's a sea. An ocean of work.”

I chuckled at her hyperbole even as I reached across the aisle to gently shake her shoulder. “We'll be okay.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

She smiled and pulled herself up off the desk; strands of blond hair clung to her eyelashes, and she blinked them away. “Maybe a little extracurricular activity will help.” She dug her cell phone out of the pocket of her jeans. “Check it out.”

I peeked at the screen as she opened an evite with a photo of an inflatable bounce house. “A kids' party?”

“No, no. That's what it
looks
like, but watch. . . .” She tapped the screen with her finger and the bounce house magically transformed into a backyard pool. “Ta-da! Katrina's. Saturday. Her parents are going to a wedding or something.” Haley put her finger to her lips and then mine,
swearing us both to secrecy. “Very hush.”

“She sent an evite, Hale,” I said with a laugh. “How hush can it be?”

“Hmmm . . . good point.” She paged the screen again. “I'm sending you the link.” After a moment, my phone vibrated in my purse. Haley smiled slyly. “You're supposed to have that turned off.”

“It is off. Kind of.” I put my hand over my bag. “Just in case. You know.” Nate could call or text at any moment and even if I couldn't answer it, I wanted to know the message was there, to
feel
it.

We were interrupted by a sudden commotion in the hallway outside the room. Haley and I glanced up at the door, expecting to see Ms. Templeton shooing in the stragglers before the bell rang, but instead there was a crowd of students hanging around the door.

Haley clucked her tongue when we saw everyone staring at their phones. “Templeton's not gonna like that,” she said. She waved at a girl standing closest to the door, who was mesmerized by her phone. “Hey, Corey! What's going on?”

Corey Sanchez turned and froze in place. Her fingers gripped the phone more tightly, and she forced a smile through her braces. “Um, nothing.”

“Nothing?” Haley, who had to know everything that was going on, jumped up from her desk and headed straight for the center of the group. She poked her chin over Corey's shoulder, keeping her back to me. The girls whispered to
each other furiously, but I couldn't hear a word.

What on earth could be so intriguing?
I wondered. Curious, I started to stand, but the ringing bell pushed me back into my seat. I glanced around me. With Haley gone, I was alone in the room. No teacher, no classmates, and everyone still milling about in the hall. Maybe this was a senior ditch and no one told me?

I pulled my phone out too and scrolled through my emails. The only thing that was unread was the evite Haley had just forwarded to me.

“Middie, hey, don't do that!” Haley called to me, her voice on edge. She hurried toward me and snatched my phone from my hand. “What if Templeton came in? That witch would send you straight to admin, and then where would you be? Your parents would get called and probably it would go on your permanent record, and college, well, you know, forget college.” Her fingers fumbled around the sides of the phone and tapped the screen as if she'd never seen one before in her life.

“What are you doing?”

“You don't really need to have this on,” she said hurriedly, keeping the cell out of my reach. “I mean, there are studies that say you could get cancer from the battery being on all the time. Damn it, where is the button that shuts this thing off?”

“Haley, keep it on. What are you doing, Haley . . . Haley?” I lunged for the phone, but it was like a game of keep-away with her. “Don't shut it off. Nate might call.”

I leaned, she dodged. I dove, she weaved. But I was agile too. I faked a move and then plucked it out of her grasp. “Come on, Hale, you know I'm waiting—”

And she grabbed it back. “No! He's not going to call, Middie.”

“What? Of course he is.”

Haley's face turned red, and she looked like she might cry.

“Haley?” I put my arm around her shoulder. “What's going . . .”

“Oh my god, Middie! Are you okay?” Katrina burst through the door with her phone held in front of her. Some students from the hallway poured in behind her.

“Me? Yeah, why?”

I was surrounded by classmates. Katrina and Debra and Corey, among the girls, and a dozen more who weren't in my classes but whom I recognized. And then, in a blink, it seemed, there was Ms. Templeton in her teacher attire—a simple blouse and matching skirt. Her tight black curls fell over her tortoiseshell frames. Her hand fell gently onto my shoulders. “Meredith, I think you should come with—”

But it was too late.

I had already seen the screen of Katrina's phone.

Video from a news channel. Words in white block letters in a crawl under a reporter's face.

ATTACK ON HONDURAN VILLAGE.

AID WORKERS MISSING.

ALL FEARED DEAD.

A wall of shock and fear and anger hit me. It washed over me, knocking me back into my seat.

I sucked in a breath.
No. No. No.

“That's not Nate,” I choked out. “It's not him. He's—”

“Honey. Come with me,” Ms. Templeton repeated, more softly this time.

I allowed myself to be helped up from the desk, felt a hand at each elbow guiding me from the classroom and into the hallway, felt a palm pat my shoulder and rub my back and touch my hair. Voices called to me, voices of friends, classmates, acquaintances. Teachers, staff, students shrank as I walked the gauntlet of bodies pressed tightly against the lockers.

“—so sorry, Middie—”

“—be all right, I'm sure—”

“—here for you, okay?”

Mr. Z's office door opened. “Come in” was murmured by someone. Mr. Z? Ms. Templeton? I wasn't sure.

A corduroy-covered sofa magically appeared, having been liberated from beneath piles of papers and books and trinkets by my guidance counselor. The door closed on the clamor in the hallway, on the voices of my friends, who called my name.

The principal sat on the small couch beside me, a woman named Ms. McMahon who was new to the school. She wore her hair in a chin-length bob and favored black and gray. Her frightened eyes mirrored my own. “We're calling your
mom now,” she said softly. “You can wait here until she comes.”

I felt my chin nod.

On the right side of the office a television was showing the same footage I had seen on Katrina's phone. Principal McMahon flicked through the channels. CNN, Fox, MSNBC. Every news outlet was showing the same images of a destroyed village: trees down, buildings on fire, bodies littering the ground.

67 KILLED IN VILLAGE ATTACK.

SPLINTER GROUP OF LOCAL MILITARY SUSPECTED.

VILLAGERS AND MEDICAL VOLUNTEERS KILLED WHILE FLEEING.

No!
The tiny hairs on my arms rose up and my skin went cold. I shut my eyes and felt tears fall down my cheeks and drip off my chin. This couldn't be. It couldn't. It was a terrible, horrible nightmare.

It was nerves and anxiety over school and personal essays and Nate being gone and somehow Emma's inspirational Brownie troop story got mixed up in my dreams and . . .

. . . this is not real. Not real. This is a mistake. This is someone else's village, not Nate's.

I felt my throat tighten and my breath choke—every ounce of air was gone from my lungs and I couldn't inhale, couldn't stop my heart from thumping against my ribs.

“We shouldn't have this on.” Mr. Z shut off the television. “Everything's going to be okay,” he said.

Is he serious?

“We don't know anything for sure yet.” Mr. Z spoke carefully, like some kind of hostage negotiator. “Meredith, talk to me.”

“Talk?” I choked out the word. I could barely form a sentence in my brain, let alone hold a conversation with another human being. What the hell would I talk about?

My phone buzzed in my purse: Haley. I tapped the screen to send it to voice mail. Then it buzzed again. Katrina. And again. Debra. Each time I glanced at the ID in vain. Finally, Ms. McMahon took the phone from me and shut it off completely.

“No!” I cried, grabbing it from her and turning it back on.
“He might call!”

Our eyes met and I had to glance away. Because in them, I saw the truth as Ms. McMahon saw it. Nate wouldn't ever call. Ever.

My skin was clammy and moist. The air was stale and everyone was too close. Too close. I could feel Ms. McMahon's leg against mine on the too-small couch. I clutched my purse and phone tightly and lurched from the sofa to the door. “I have to go.”

“But your mother isn't here yet—”

“I'll wait outside.” I flung open the door and ran straight into Ms. Templeton, who was consoling Haley.

She reached for me, but I couldn't spare her more than a glance.

I tore down the hallway and burst through the doors.

“Meredith!” I heard. I turned and spotted the Vespa. Lee waved at me and I ran, away from school, away from everything. I sat on the back of the scooter, tucked my purse between my knees, and grabbed the chrome handle that wrapped around the back of the leather seat. Lee motored away from the curb.