Page 41 of The Last to Let Go
“You’re asking if I’m—if I’m g-g-g—” The word gets stuck in my throat, and then I can’t finish because he bursts out laughing. Loudly.
“I’m sorry if my lesson is getting in the way of comedy hour back there!” our teacher yells, hand on hip. “Don’t make me separate you—this isn’t preschool!”
“We’re sorry,” Tyler apologizes, still giggling. “Won’t happen again.” When she turns back around, he stutters, “G-g-g-g-g—” accompanied by a full-body shudder, like he’s being electrocuted.
“Shut up,” I whisper, people turning to stare at us again.
“So, are you?” he whispers so quietly I can barely hear him, even though I’m right next to him.
I open my mouth, but I have no idea what to say. “I don’t know,” I finally tell him.
He raises his eyebrows and turns his head slightly, looking at me like that’s not a real answer. Except that’s theonlyanswer I can give him. To say no would be a lie, but yes would be to cross that line between fantasy and reality, and I’m pretty sure that there would be no turning back. I don’t think I’m ready to be that real yet.
“I don’t know, okay?” Now someone shushesme. “Is that not allowed?” I ask, feeling defensive, hearing it in my voice.
“It’s allowed. Just a friendly inquiry,” he says, pivoting in his seat to face the front of the room again. He hitches his chin in the direction of the board. “Hey, quit messing around and pay attention, will you? My life is in your hands, remember?” he jokes, laughing quietly to himself.
FAMILY DINNER
AS I WALK HOMEfrom the bus stop after school, a dense patch of gray and black clouds rolls in overhead. The wind howls past me, blowing the leaves from the trees like they’re nothing more than dandelion fluff. My hair whips around my face. I can smell it in the air, taste it—that wild, earthy flavor—a storm, a big one.
I make it to the steps of our building just as a team of crisp brown leaves lifts off the ground and charges toward me, until it crashes full speed into the bottom step and falls lifeless to the ground. Then the first fat, freezing drops of rain fall down against the sidewalk.Splat, splat, splat.Then. Monsoon.
Upstairs the apartment smells amazing. I can hear the sizzle of something simmering in a pan in the kitchen. The windows in the living room have been darkened by the clouds overhead, and the rhythm of the rain outside is muffled into a soft hum. The feeling is unfamiliar. Comforting, warm, cozy. Like maybe this is what people mean when they talk abouthome.
I close the door behind me, and Callie turns around in her seat at the kitchen table, throwing a casual “Hi” in my general direction.
I reciprocate with a “Hey,” careful not to sound too excited about her greeting. Leaving my shoes and jacket and backpack by the door, I make my way to the kitchen to find Aaron standing there in front of the stove. “Smells good,” I tell him.
“Thanks.” He glances up at me and smiles. “It’s just spaghetti, though. The sauce is from a jar.”
“Well, it smells great. I’m starving,” I add, trying to stretch out this good feeling as long as possible. Twenty minutes later, the three of us are at the kitchen table, and Aaron keeps clearing his throat like he’s working up the nerve to break some kind of bad news. Bad news about Mom, I’m sure, about the trial.
“There’s this thing on Friday,” I begin, thinking that maybe if I can talk long enough, then Aaron won’t ever get the chance to tell us whatever it is he doesn’t want to tell us, and then we’ll never have to know, and we can hold on to this moment.
“Oh yeah?” he asks, too interestedly, as he twirls a bunch of jumbled stands of spaghetti around his fork over and over, around and around.
“A dance thing. Whatever. I might go, I don’t know.”
“Youshouldgo,” he agrees.
“Maybe,” I say, and I wonder how much longer we can feign interest in this pointless conversation. “It’s not like I have my heart set on it or anything.”
At this point Callie rolls her eyes and tears off a bite of bread between her teeth, looking back and forth between Aaron and me like we’re some kind of preverbal cavemen, not speaking a real language, but just grunting and snorting and pointing.
“No, go. I mean, why not, right?” he says, finally putting that twirled and retwirled forkful of spaghetti into his mouth.
“Yeah?” I ask. “Well, maybe.”
Callie sighs loudly.
After a few seconds of silence, chewing, and swallowing, Aaron clears his throat once again. “So, listen. I saw Mom today.”
Callie sets her fork down with a clang against her plate and crosses her arms over her stomach, sitting back in her seat.
“Aaron, you knew I wanted to go see her too,” I tell him, careful not to yell.
“It wasn’t a visit like that. Her lawyer wanted me to go talk to her. She’s getting cold feet, I guess. She wants to take the plea bargain instead of having the trial.”
