“I didn’t know you played.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t know me that well, do you?” He’s on the defensive, and I know from experience that this will quickly descend into a sulk fest.
“How long have you been playing?”
“A while.” He tries to close the key cover but I hold it open.
“Show me.”
“No.”
I have some knowledge of music that I picked up at work, when my boss would teach me during the slow hours. But that was just guitar, and I never owned my instrument. I know even less about how to play the piano. I know part of one song, and that’s it, and I only memorized the finger placement, not the notes.
I start to pluck out my homely little song and Jem frowns. My left hand doesn’t want to cooperate. After a minute he pinches my ring finger and moves it over to the next key. My incompetence must irk him.
“Bach is rolling over in his grave right now.”
“This is Bach?”
Jem just shakes his head at me. But he can’t resist my blundering forever, and after a few minutes he starts to play along with me. His version sounds better.
“Lunch smells good,” he says quietly. I do believe that might have been a compliment.
“Don’t do that. When you’re nice it screws up the whole dynamic of this friendship.”
Jem snorts with amusement. He does that a lot. I bet his full-blown hysterical laugh is just a series of increasingly obnoxious snorts.
“It’s a new soup today,” I tell him. He smiles with genuine pleasure. “Lots of protein. See if you can’t gain another three pounds.”
Jem’s smile fades to a look of chagrin. “Oh shut up,” he mutters.
“How much do you weigh?”
“Inappropriate question.”
It’s almost time to take the tartlet shells out and check the soup. I slowly stop playing and take my hands off the keys.
“I gotta get back to the kitchen.”
“’Kay.” He doesn’t look up when I leave the bench and walk away. He just keeps playing Bach much better than I ever could. I’m almost at the door when he stops suddenly and calls my name—my first name.
I stop and turn halfway.
“One-eighteen.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t even nod. He turns back to his piano, and I turn back to the kitchen. Between the two of us there’s a six-inch height difference, but the weight difference is barely the mass of a healthy newborn. Ten minutes later, we all sit down to lunch. The food is a big hit—even the soup. While we eat Jem condescends to tell me, “Ten years for piano, eight for cello.”
Now, was that so hard?
Monday
I visit Oma Elsja after school. We bake cookies, and it feels just like being five years old again, only this time I’m tall enough to reach the mixer. I bring a plate of cookies home to share with Frank. Before he even takes one bite he pauses and looks at me suspiciously.
“Why do you smell like smoke?”
“I was at Oma’s house.”
Frank eyes the cookie in his hand. “Are you sure? These aren’t
special,
are they?”
“Do they smell like weed? I don’t do that anymore.” I can’t fault him for being on his guard, but it still annoys me to be questioned like a delinquent.
“Sorry.” He shrugs. “You’ve been all right so far, I guess. Your school hasn’t called me yet, so…” I have the urge to lower his expectations by telling him that it’s only a matter of time.
Tuesday
I try to volunteer at least once a week, and the hospital is my first choice of locations. I go to the volunteer station in the hospitality office to grab my green vest and check in with the volunteer coordinator. For the past few weeks I’ve been assigned to read books to the kids on the pediatric floor, which is great as far as I’m concerned. I’d much rather do that than push the squeaky book cart along the other wards. I might run into Jem again and have to deal with his bad attitude in class.
I step into the elevator to go up to pediatrics. On the second floor the doors open and none other than Dr. Harper steps on. He’s scrolling through his Blackberry and doesn’t immediately notice me. I don’t say anything because he looks busy. Dr. Harper is the kind of person that looks permanently pinched until he smiles. I have to look very hard to find a trace of Jem in him.
We both get off on the fourth floor. It looks like a clean break free of awkwardness, until he notices me out of the corner of his eye.
“Willa?”
“Hi, Dr. Harper.”
“I didn’t know you were a volunteer.”
“Yeah. I’m on my way to Pediatrics.”
He smiles and says the more he hears about me the better I seem. When the hell has he heard about me? What has he heard?
Dr. Harper’s phone beeps and we exchange a short goodbye before he hurries off to answer that emergency. I have half a mind to visit the Dialysis Clinic, just to see if Jem is in and to find out what he’s been telling people about me.
Wednesday
If I ask Jem what he said about me, he won’t give a straight answer. He’ll dodge the question or insult me, and that’s just counterproductive.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he demands during Soc.
“I’m stealing your thoughts.”
Jem leans in and stares right back, mocking me. Our noses are only an inch apart. His breath smells like mint and lime, and is surprisingly warm. I tend to think of Jem as cold—pale, anemically chilly hands, icy personality,
etc.
There are flecks of green in his blue irises.
“Hey, your eyelashes are growing back.”
Jem rears away from me like I’ve just spit in his face. He turns back to his work and rests the side of his face on his hand, blocking me from looking at him too closely.
“I saw your dad last night.” Jem peaks over his hand like he’s afraid of what he’ll hear. “He seems to be under the impression that I’m a good person.”
Jem smirks without humor and gives a soft snort. “My mom must have said something.”
Yes, he is indeed behind it.
Thursday
It’s entirely Luke’s fault that I have to do yesterday’s homework at lunch. I was doing it last night like a good student, and then he called. Two hours of conversation later, when I realized what time it was, it was far too late to get everything done.
I like talking to Luke. He’s interesting and takes a genuine interest in people. Chris teasingly scolds me when he notices I’m doing math at the lunch table, and it’s surprisingly difficult not to flip him off. Paige takes this opportunity to arrange a study date with Chris. I wasn’t aware that either of them was registered for practical Biology this semester, but I’m sure a little studying can’t hurt.
I’m not making enough headway on this assignment. It’s too loud in here, and I have to turn this in by the end of the day. I take my books out of the cafeteria and find a quiet place to work. I end up in the stairwell behind the auditorium, sitting on the floor and listening to closing doors echo above.
I’ve got twenty minutes to finish four more math problems. At five minutes each, I can probably get this done and make it to class on time.
The stairwell door opens from the auditorium and Jem sighs impatiently when he sees me. “Kirk.”
“Harper.” I move my books and papers to make room. He doesn’t take a seat.
“I was looking for you.”
“Okay.”
“You know, most people work in the library.”
“Okay.”
Jem huffs. I think my non-answers irritate him. “Math homework?” he says stiffly.
My math textbook is clearly visible right next to me. “No, French.”
Jem gives me that cocky smirk that I hate so much, and doesn’t say a word. He just folds his arms across his chest, watching me.
“You got any plans this weekend?”
“My brother and I are supposed to spend time together tomorrow.” Frank has been feeling a bit guilty about not spending enough time with me. Tomorrow we’re supposed to go to the Thorpes’ house for dinner, because even quality time with my brother can’t be spent one-on-one. We have almost nothing to say to each other. I summarize my plans for Jem while I conclude another math problem.
“Friday isn’t part of the weekend.” His voice is a little tense. He follows that up with, “So do you go to Port Elmsley often?” I shrug. What does ‘often’ really mean, anyway? “Seriously, what are you doing this weekend?”
“If I tell you, I’d be taking all the effort out of stalking me.”
Jem snorts wryly. He doesn’t have a comeback, and we’re silent for the time it takes me to complete another math problem. Jem picks up the completed pages of my assignment and looks them over.
“If you need more time for this, I can cover for you. I’ll tell Hudson you went to the nurse’s office or something.”
“No, I’m almost done.”
“But some of these are wrong.”
I snatch the papers out of his hand. I don’t need an A+ in math; I just need to pass with a decent grade. “Bugger off, Harper.”
He doesn’t. He rudely grabs the pencil right out of my hand before snatching my assignment back.
“You factored wrong.” He erases the work for three problems and redoes them in an impersonation of my handwriting. It takes him just three minutes, and then he gives back the pages and puts back my pencil.
“See you in class.”
“Thank you.”
“You owe me.”
I’m going to regret this.
Friday
I don’t think the potato salad is going to make it to the Thorpes’ house. Frank has been eyeing it all evening. We’re heading to Port Elmsley at five to have dinner and spend the evening. There’s probably a game on that Frank and Doug will watch. Mr. Thorpe will be there of course, and Luke’s little sister Briana.
It’s weird, but going to Port Elmsley feels more like going home than any place else; like Frank and I belong there, in the Thorpes’ house. I was worried I wouldn’t feel like that anymore when I decided to move back to Smiths Falls, but I’m glad I do.
Jokes about the appetites of teenage boys practically write themselves. Two burgers and six hotdogs later, Luke and I are in the kitchen washing dishes. ESPN is on in the other room, and Briana is blasting music upstairs. She’s changed, just like her brother. Her clothes are pretty tight and her makeup is awfully heavy for a fourteen-year-old.
“Want to take a walk when we’re done?” Luke says. “It’s a full moon tonight. We might be early enough to see it rise.”
We finish cleaning up and walk down to the edge of a ravine that runs behind the house. I can hear moving water down below; it hasn’t completely re-frozen from the afternoon melt.
“How have you been?” Luke casually takes my hand and I slowly pull it away. It might be warmer with my little hand wrapped up in his big mitten, but I don’t do hand-holding. Luke’s brows draw together; it’s the only outward signal that he’s the slightest bit miffed.
“Better. I’m more settled at school now.”
“Making friends?”
“I don’t think I’m fit company for anyone just yet.”
“Sure you are,” Luke says, and shoves my shoulder—it’s a little more than a playful push. He has no idea, and I don’t feel like talking about it, so I change the subject. I tell him about my plans to apply for a job in town. He tells me about a recent pep rally at his school where a cheerleader fell off the stage. I remind him of the tentative plan to go skating, and that improves his tender mood.
“Let me know when.”
Jem: March 2 to 9
Sunday
Around ten, I borrow Mom’s car and drive over to Willa’s house. Neither of the Kirks’ cars is at the house, so I sit on the front porch and wait for her to get home. It’s Smiths Falls on a Sunday, what could she possibly be doing that would take more than an hour? She’s probably just at the grocery store or something. I don’t immediately consider the possibilitiy that she might have made plans with other friends—especially the friend that lives in Port Elmsley, the one that thinks it’s okay to touch her whenever he feels like it.
It starts to drizzle so I sit in the car instead and listen to music for a while. The clock slowly creeps closer to noon. Where the hell is she? Maybe she’s out with her other friends, Paige Holbrook and Hannah Trilby and whoever else.
Not Chris Elwood, anyone but Elwood. Even that baby-face Luke is preferable.
I should go home. I can hang out with Elise and Eric and pretend I was never here at all. And Celeste is in town, so there’s the vague promise of a family dinner tonight.
When I get home I park Mom’s car by the garage, get out, and stand there staring at Willa’s car. She was here the whole time. Now I need a cover story for when she asks where I’ve been for the past two hours. I can’t just admit to a girl that I’ve been loitering on her porch all morning.
When I go inside the house smells like sugar and warm chocolate. Mom is laughing in the kitchen and Elise is chirping away about something. I can’t tell what because she talks so fast the words run together.
“Sothenhesaid—”
“C’mere, Jem,” Mom says when she sees me, and offers a beater for me to lick. Willa is up to her elbows in flour, rolling out dough for cookies. It smells like Christmas in here. While she rolls and cuts, Elise is decorating the cookies with squeeze-tube icing and chocolate chips.
“Where were you?” Mom leans in to kiss my cheek. She smells like cinnamon.
“At the library.”
“Sothenhesaid ‘maybe I’ll see you around’ andIwaslike, ‘okay’ andhewaslike, ‘cool,’” Elise continues to chatter in Willa’s ear. Willa has her smirk on; I think she’s sort of enjoying Elise’s one-woman catastrophe.
“She got her crush’s email address,” Mom informs me, sotto voce. “They were chatting online.” Oh crap. There’s a whole arena of interactive space where I can’t watch over her and counsel her not to make a fool of herself.
Willa puts the last cookie cutouts in the oven to bake and begins to clean up the counter. Elise is still talking.
“Imeanthat’scool, right? Iwas, like, justtryingtoplay, y’know, laidback or coolorwhatever—”
“Yeah, wonderful,” Willa agrees when Elise pauses for breath.