Page 44 of Saved By Noel
“Your marshmallows. Do you like them toasty brown or burned black?”
“Oh. Definitely toasted brown,” I answer, turning to her. “Are there even people who truly prefer them burned?”
“You tell me after you try yours,” Clara giggles. In gazing at her, I’d taken my eyes off my marshmallow, which is now a flaming torch. I quickly blow out the flames.
It’s charred to a crisp. “I’m not eating that,” I say, moving to pull it off and throw it in the fire.
“Don’t waste it! I’ll eat it, you big baby,” Clara says. She holds my hand briefly to steady the roasting stick while she pulls the marshmallow off. Now my hand is flaming. Clara gives a quick blow to cool the marshmallow off, then stuffs the entire thing in her mouth. Her nose crinkles.
“If there are people who think marshmallows taste good burned, I’m not one of them,” she says, then coughs. “That was disgusting.”
Chuckling, I slide a new marshmallow onto the roasting stick. “Just pay more attention to the flame spurts than I did, Buttercup.” Clara smiles at myThe Princess Bridereference as she holds her marshmallow close to the embers. We fall silent, watching the fire.
The gentle sounds of the river and occasional sparks from the flames fill the quiet. I’d be perfectly content to sit here next to Clara all night without saying a word, but I know she’s more the conversational type.
“So,” I clear my throat as I remove my toasted marshmallow from the flames to let it cool. “You’ve mentioned your parents and your late aunt. No siblings?”
Clara shakes her head. “Just me.” She pauses for a moment. “My parents experienced secondary infertility after they had me. They tried for years to have another baby, but it never happened.”
Unsure of the right way to respond, I settle on, “I guess that was probably tough.” I pop my marshmallow in my mouth as an excuse to not say anything else. I want to follow Clara’s lead.
She nods. “Yeah, it was extremely tough for them. I remember a lot of times hearing them quietly talking about it and my mom crying when I was young.” She pauses, pensive. “Aunt Gloria and my parents doted on me, but their sadness at not having any other children was always there in the backdrop of my childhood. I was determined as a kid to not cause any trouble and be as helpful as possible. I guess, in a way, I was always worried that I wasn’t enough.”
Clara stiffens as she seems to realize what she shared. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. That sounded so whiny. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Clara, you’re more than enough,” I respond, eyes locked on Clara’s. Hers widen, and I scramble to recover. “I mean, I’m surethat your parents felt that way. That you were more than enough for them. You’re incredible—how could they not?”
So much for that recovery.
Needing to remove my eyes from Clara’s, I lean in to prop my roasting stick in the fire to char off the remainders of marshmallow.This is why I don’t attempt small talk.
We fall quiet again as Clara chews her marshmallow, giving me the opportunity to replay all the awkward things I’ve said. I know I shouldn’t stare, that my fixed attention would be too obvious, but I can’t stop my gaze from settling on Clara every few seconds. The soft glow of the firelight brings out the red tones in her hair, the flickering light making her eyes take on a life of their own.
“Will you tell me about your tattoo?” she asks, breaking the silence and catching me staring.
I drop my eyes to the fire, my right hand subconsciously moving to rub my tattooed left arm. When I don’t answer right away, Clara tries to backtrack.
“I’m sorry. Maybe that was a personal question. I think I’m tired after being out in the sun all day, and my brain isn’t operating within accepted social norms.” She stands abruptly. “Maybe we should pack up.”
“No, sit down,” I say, unintentionally gruff. “I mean, I’ll tell you about it. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to order you to sit. I guess my brain is also tired.”
My brainmustbe tired. Because the significance of my tattoo isn’t something I talk about with people. Ever. Davis and Pops are the only two who know its meaning.
It could also be that string wrapped around my heart that I keep trying to ignore, but one way or the other, I start talking. Clara sits back down, angling toward me. “I’m sure you’ve already heard about what happened to my parents and brother,” I begin, glancing at her.
Even in the firelight, I can see her blush. “Yeah, I have.”
I shrug. “Small towns talk. It’s okay. Although I didn’t get the tattoo until a few years after the accident, the inspiration started a long time before that. When I was growing up.” Clara settles deeper into her chair, rapt attention on me. It makes me nervous, but rather than clamming up about my personal life like I typically do, I force myself forward.
“I didn’t exactly get along with my dad growing up. He was a successful financial planner in addition to being mayor. My older brother, Sam, was so much like him. Sam and I never were very close because he was six years older than me. He was always mature for his age, even as a kid. And always doing everything with my dad. By the time I came along, my dad already had everything he wanted in a son. They were both book smart and business savvy. Two peas in a pod. And I was on the outside from the start.”
I pause, swallowing down the old insecurities that still manage to flare up even in my father’s absence. “Let’s just say I was the opposite of Sam and my dad in every way. School was never my thing. Don’t get me wrong—if something intrigued me, I would read every book about it I could find. The school librarian had her work cut out for her, helping me find books about whatever topic had caught my attention that month. But I was always more interested in doing things with my hands, taking things apart and figuring out how they worked. But that wasn’t an acceptable pursuit in my dad’s eyes. And . . . he let me know that constantly.”
Clara’s quiet voice cuts in. “What about your mom? Were you any closer to her?”
I shrug, staring at the fire. “I mean, closer to her than to my dad, sure. But she was always a more passive personality. She went along with whatever my dad said or did. Mom also handled a lot of the administrative tasks for my dad’s business, so shewas pretty busy. I knew she loved me, but she never stood up to Dad on my behalf.”
I don’t dare glancing at Clara to see her reaction. I just continue talking.
