All We Left Behind (27 page)

I frown at her and that bunched-up feeling tightens in my chest. The sarcastic tone in her voice says she meant that as a joke, but of course it's not.

“Josie, I—” I pluck the A string. It's out of tune. Am I supposed to apologize? Tell her I know how fucked-up this is? Of course I want to get that thing off her ankle, but where would she go if she was free? That's the part that scares me. What if I never see her again?

She gets quiet and doesn't say anything, and maybe she feels that. Or maybe this is just another one of those moments with walls between us, with her on that side of the screen and me on mine.

“Play me that song,” she says, breaking the quiet. “The one from last night.”

“It's not anything.” I shake my head. “It's not one of Mom's.”

“Good.” Her cheek presses against the screen and I can't
read her eyes, gray mesh hiding them. “Play it,” she says, her voice getting strong. “This house needs music. Fuck the dead.”

I smile at that.
That
sounds like my sister.

I brush the strings. It really isn't a song yet. It's just a bunch of chords still trying to find. I work through the mess, and there's something in it—a rhythm, a phrase, something I can feel, and I want to trust it. That's all I know. I want to believe in the possible.

“What do you think?” I ask when I'm done, but Josie's looking past me to the trees. “Hey, Jos.” I try again, but she's in some other place in her mind. It reminds me of how she used to watch Mom and me from that window ledge, wanting to be out here with us. Only, Mom kept the music for just me, and selfishly, I liked it that way.

“I'm sorry Mom never taught you how to play,” I say, but she stares into the trees. Her tongue jets into that empty space where her tooth should be, still looking for what's missing, knowing something should be there. And I hate the feeling that crawls through me, because
I
can see that tooth is gone, but
she can't
. And it scares me to think we're both searching for something that isn't there anymore. It scares me to think how blind we must be.

Before first period, Conner Aimes
stalks up to me and slams himself into the locker next to mine. He tips back his Red Sox hat and glares.

“Conner . . . ?” I say cautiously.

“You the reason Kurt skipped practice?” he snaps.

“Excuse me?” I swing my locker open, noting how he's positioned himself so I can't hide behind the door.

“You heard me.”

“Isn't that something you should ask him?”

“I'm asking
you
.” He leans in and I can smell hot dogs on his breath. I pull my notebooks out of my bag and stack them carefully on top of each other.

“What do you want me to say, Conner?”

“I want to know if he was
with you
or not.”

My skin crawls with the way he says that, like I'm meat, distracting Kurt with the parts of me that are far less important than a soccer ball.

“Fuck you, Conner.” I slam my locker and stalk away.

The hallway has too many elbows. I can't get far enough, fast enough. Conner's hand slaps onto my shoulder and I whip around to face him.

“Seriously, what do you want?”

The crowd parts and people stare. Conner angles the brim of his hat between himself and the onlookers, nodding for us to move into the stairwell. I don't oblige.

“Look,” Conner hisses, trying to keep his voice down. “Kurt's never missed a practice in his life, all right. In his
life
. You get me?”

Conner stares at me, but his feet do an impatient dance below him. He glances around, unsure how long I'm going to make him stand here, and the pressure of everyone's eyes makes me nervous. He nods to the stairwell again, and this time I concede.

“Look, Kurt doesn't talk,” Conner admits, stopping under the stairs. “I just need to know what's going on. I'm not trying to get into your shit or—” He makes a half-obscene gesture.

“You want me to walk away again?” I snap.

“No! Look . . .” He yanks his hat off and strangles it between his hands. “Just level with me, okay?”

I stare at him, ready to demand an apology, but I can't ignore his unsettled expression.

“Okay,” I say, stepping back and waiting for a freshman who's slowed at the bottom of the stairs to pass.

“So?”

“So, we went for a drive.”

“And?”

“And then we went to a guitar shop.”

“A guitar shop?”

“Kurt plays the guitar,” I say, eyeing him. “I'm sure you know that.” He frowns, and I can't tell if he does or not, which completely blindsides me. Are Kurt and Conner not that close? Are they like Lilith and me? Age-old friends, but everything is half-truths and secrets, buried so deep it's hard to know where to begin.

“And?”

I adjust my bag. “And then we got stuck in the rain.” One of Conner's eyebrows rises slightly. “Seriously?” I snap, sick of his innuendos.

“Fine, fine.” He waves a hand like a white flag, but I can tell what I've said isn't satisfactory. Not because Kurt and I didn't get rain-happy, but because it doesn't add up for him.

“That's it.”

“That's it?” he echoes angrily.

I think about my hand on Kurt's shoulder and that ocean of rain. Of the things he started to tell me, and the things I will never tell him.

“I didn't know skipping practice was abnormal for him,” I say. Conner shakes his head and his sneakers squeak against the floor. “Conner, that's it. What else do you want—”

“Whatever,” he says, twisting that hat and ducking out from under the stairwell. He's almost gone when I call after him.

“Hey, do you know—” I pause when he looks back, not sure if this is the right time to ask. Not sure there is
ever
a right time to ask. “Do you know when Kurt's mom died?”

Conner's muscles tense and the hat in his hand goes still.

I've crossed a line. “Forget it,” I say, turning to go. “Never mi—”

“He talked about her?” Conner eyes me, but his tone isn't angry.

“Well, sort of.” I tilt my head so my hair falls in my face like a shield. “He talked about her drinking.”

“Was this yesterday?”

I nod, but it feels wrong to admit that to him, even if he is Kurt's friend. “You know, I shouldn't be talking about—”

“He was thirteen,” Conner interrupts. “And you're right, you shouldn't.” His stare scolds me, but his tone is kind. “He doesn't talk to
anyone
about her.”

Conner watches me as footsteps bang up the stairwell over our heads; his stance is defensive, his body rigid with jealousy. But something in his expression is sad. He stares me down, but there's a tinge of hope in that look. And that's when it hits me, what that look actually is—it's respect. His lip tightens and he puts his baseball hat back on.

“If Kurt's going to skip practice,” he says, “he should tell me first. Got that?”

“Okay.” I nod.

The bell for homeroom rings, but he doesn't leave.

“Did he talk about Josie?”

I shake my head. “No, who's Jos—?”

“His sister.” His gaze hits the floor. Voices and movement rush past us as the crowd heads to class. I feel the pull to join them, uncomfortable with all that Kurt has trusted me with.

“Did she die too?” I ask.

“No,” Conner says, shaking his head, but then he stops. “Well, maybe.” He looks at me then. “You should ask him about her.”

Marion walks ahead of me
down the hall. I watch the small of her back. Her hair. The slight tilt to her shoulders, hitched to the right. She bends with the weight of her bag and moves through the crowd.

I don't want to be blindsided by her. I want to keep this hopeful feeling.

I follow her until I can't stand it anymore and I slide up beside her. She doesn't know I'm there until I slip my fingers into her hand. She startles, then calms as I squeeze her fingers. It reminds me of her hand on my shoulder. Of her and me . . . Learning how to do this.

She squeezes me back and I pick up my pace and let go. I walk through the crowd ahead of her, because I don't want this to be a scene. This is just the quick brush of a hand.
We
aren't something everyone else has to see.

*  *  *

Conner walks with me to the practice field, matching my stride even though I'm faster than him. Our cleats dig
into dirt. He says nothing. Not even a joke.

“I covered for you,” he says finally, eyes trained on the field.

I didn't ask him to do that. But I knew he would.

“I told Coach it was a stomach bug. That you were throwing up.” He rolls his shoulders, not liking the lie. “It's your deal now. Got me? You gotta convince Coach not to bench you.”

“What, you can't hold the offensive line without me?” I joke, but he stops in his tracks.

“I do fine without you.” He squares his shoulders. “The question is, what are you going to do when I stop cleaning up your mess?”

I stare at him, shocked.

“Con, I—”

“We're late,” he says, showing me his back. “Keep up.”

At practice we run and do drills and I try to get him to ease up. I set him up for shots. Pass him the ball. Wait for him to return the favor or make a joke. But he makes his plays with Troy and Andy instead.

Ignores me.

I lean against my car
in the parking lot and stare at the mountain tipped in sunlight. I can't see the soccer field from my angle, but I didn't want to be too obvious by waiting by the field. The air is crisp and I can't keep my mind off yesterday's rain. Off floods and Kurt's music and mothers drowned in 80 proof or lost on the other side of the sea. Is it because my mom is gone that he felt I might understand? That I'm trustworthy?

What makes anyone ready to spill a secret?

A sparkle of gold sun sits on the edge of the mountain, a single glare of light flickering vibrantly. It's a grain of sand in my eye, with the whole sun hidden below it. You're not supposed to look directly at the sun. Not in the daylight when it's exposed and scalding the sky. Looking at a star that close will burn out your eyes. It's only meant to be seen half-shadowed, with the whole body of the earth to protect you.

“Hey! You hungry?”

I expect to see Kurt, but it's Abe. I squint as he leans
into the sunlight next to me, orange light tangling his curls. I have to look away and not let my eyes linger.

“I'm fine,” I say. “And I have a thing.”

“Right,” he says, scuffing his shoe against the asphalt. “Of course you do.”

He says it quietly, drumming his fingers against the metal of my car. Everything about him seems sad, like he's giving up and I'm that ridiculous girl on the Ferris wheel again, always striking matches and pretending I know how to play with fire. My palms press into the metal of my car, and my pinkie finger falls against his. He stills at the touch and I want to explain to him that I'm not that girl anymore, that I
do
think about him like that. I just . . . I'm not allowed to. Not with that soccer field just out of sight. Not with the secrets I'm supposed to keep.

But one secret always spills into the next, and before I know it Kurt will expect more of me. He'll see the mud in my toes and the rose hips that don't allow me to speak. But not Abe. Abe is different. He isn't a minefield that wakes the secrets in me. Abe is starting again.

“Okay, well . . .” Abe pushes off the car to leave, but I hook him with our pinkies. Warmth spreads through my chest when he looks back at me.

“I'm sorry,” I say, but it comes out wrong. It sounds like a good-bye, when I'm desperate for him to stay.

“Don't be,” he says, annoyance in his voice. “I get it.”

“No, I mean the carnival.”

That stops him.

It stops me, too. I want to be brave and apologize for how I ruined us. Clear the air. But the way our pinkies hook together feels uncomfortable, like being in my car with my hand on Kurt's shoulder. Something I can't take back.

“I mean,” I say quietly, trying to find my breath. “I mean, how I broke up with you.”

Abe is so still that his thumb is not tapping. We've never talked about this. His eyes hit me and it's clear he's been waiting a long time to hear this.

“Okay,” he says, and my tongue goes limp.

“I, um . . .” I try to gauge his reaction, but his expression is stone. “I was a stupid girl.” I unlatch our fingers and bite the edge of my thumb, pressing the nail into my lip. “I didn't know what I was doing and I didn't know how, how to . . .”

My words are hot, caught and thick.

“You,” I stumble. “You were my first kiss. My first . . .” I drop my hand and gesture awkwardly to my chest, and the parts of me he's touched, because I don't have a word for that. Then the first that is Kurt, aches through me, and I don't think I can do this.

“Uh-huh?” he prods. He wants the rest.

“I care about you,” I whisper, my hands shaking. “I just . . . I just didn't know how to be
with
you. Or how to talk to you . . .”

I look up and his eyes are kind. Thank God, they're kind.

“I didn't know how to let you . . .” I feel the ocean on me. “How to let you”—waves breaking over and under—“touch me.”

He stands silently, rigidness all through him.

“I was a stupid—”

“You were never stupid, M,” he says. “You were just scared.”

My cheeks pinch and I purse my lips tight. It seems so obvious when he says it out loud. I look at the ground, feeling that sick-blue pinch of sugar at the back of my throat. Cotton candy I couldn't swallow.