Glass Girl (A Young Adult Novel) (10 page)

“I’ve never seen anyone turn as many colors as you do,” he said. “It’s nice. Your mom—who was the letter from? The one that crushed her?”

“Apparently her boyfriend back home in New York had decided he couldn’t keep his hands off other girls.”

He groaned. “Sounds like she dodged a bullet. What’s it like being an only child?”

It’s terrible. It’s the worst thing that’s happened to me. It’s so final.
All the things I wanted to say pushed into my consciousness so forcefully that I had to shake my head to ward them off. “It’s lonely.” I chose a word that held as much truth as any.

“I could use a little lonely sometimes,” he said. “I have three older sisters.”

I laughed quietly. “I feel like I should apologize for my gender, then. Plus, you know all our secrets.”

“
Yes
. Yes, I’ve been severely wronged most days of my life.” He laughed and shifted closer so that our knees pressed together. I’d never voluntarily held my knee steady to maintain contact with a boy. I found that it took a lot out of me.

“So tell me, what is it about
To Kill a Mockingbird
that gets to you?”

“Seriously? I love Scout. I love how much she loves Jem. And he protects her. And they call their dad ‘Atticus.’ And he lets them.” I stopped and played with Butch’s ear for a minute, thinking about Scout growing up without a mom.

“What else?” Henry said, touching my hand where I held Butch. My nerves, already on high alert, felt the brush of his fingers linger long after he’d moved them.

“I love that her heart gets broken every time she sees something mean. And how she processes things and goes on with her life because she’s brave. I love when she meets Boo Radley for the first time and she cries and says, ‘Hey, Boo.’”

The faintest hint of a smile changed Henry’s mouth. “What else?” he whispered.

A lump had been forming in my throat. It was all too much. Being opened up by Henry’s curiosity, knowing I had to withhold so much, explaining the heart of a book that slayed me because Scout nearly lost Jem like I lost Wyatt.

I could only whisper. “How Atticus isn’t afraid to respect his kids’ minds. How he’s the best shot in the county, but he doesn’t want anyone to know. How he risks everything for truth and gives his kids the gift of a life free of hate.”

“Do you have a Boo Radley?” Henry said.

“I do. Do you?”

“Yeah, I do,” he said. He picked at a callus on the palm of his right hand, a callus most likely created by some repetitive chore he’d done for years.

“What’s your favorite book?” I expected something appropriately western to come out of his mouth.

“
The Catcher in the Rye
, hands down.”

I glanced up quickly to see if he was serious. He was.

“It’s a great book,” I said.

I was pierced by an image of Holden from
Catcher in the Rye
and how his brother, Allie, died—Allie, who wrote poems all over his baseball mitt so he could read them when no one was up to bat. Wyatt would’ve done that.

I must have gone very pale, pale even in moonlight, because Henry sat up in a flash and narrowed his eyes at me, trying to figure out what changed.

“You okay?” he said.

“Fine,” I said.

“Hey,” he said, running his index finger through the dust next to me. “When’s your birthday?”

“Hah! I’m one of those poor souls born on Christmas Day. Usually people forget my birthday. My parents always tried to remember to wrap one or two Christmas presents in birthday paper so that I wouldn’t be sad. When’s yours?”

“Last week. September 10.”

“Happy Birthday, Henry. I wish I’d known.”

“What would you have done? Surprised me at my house?”

“Maybe.”

“Now that, Pittsburgh,” he said, with a sly smile, “would’ve been my best present by far.”

I felt my eyebrows betray me, drawing together and exposing my confusion. Why would he welcome a birthday visit from any girl other than Brooke? We sat quietly for a few minutes while Henry rubbed Butch’s ears.

“I’m sorry people forget your birthday. I promise I’ll remember you this year. In fact, I promise I will
see
you on your birthday this year.”

“You shouldn’t make promises like that. I have no idea where I’ll be.”

The fire and the nighttime noises made me feel drugged. I wanted to hang on so I didn’t miss anything, but I was losing the battle. I tried to stand without waking Butch, but he hopped up when I moved.

“I’m falling asleep,” I whispered.

“I see that. We should move you to bed ground.”

He helped me gather my sleeping bag and pillow. “I’ll just make sure you don’t have any unwelcome guests in your tent.”

Unzipping the tent, he knelt down and looked around with a flashlight, and then he shoved my sleeping bag in and laid the blanket on top of it.

The moment felt like it needed closure. Something memorable to match the way the night had gone. “Thanks, Henry, for everything.”

“I’m glad you’re here, really. Sweet dreams.”

“Good night.”

I climbed into my sleeping bag and Henry turned off the flashlight. He looked at me like he wanted to say something but changed his mind. Then he shook his head and said, “Hey Meg, I just wanted to say…sometimes the girls here are kind of unoriginal, but you’re not and that’s good.” He looked at me for a loaded second while I tried to think of a response.

“Henry?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry. I’m feeling confused. What about Brooke?”

I don’t think I imagined the look on Henry’s face—a kind of shuttered disappointment. “It’s not like that, Meg. I can’t….” He stammered and seemed to search for the right words. “It’s not like people here make it out to be.”

“Oh,” I said.
What?

“Get some rest. I’ll tell you about her some day.”

He zipped up the tent. I heard him walk back over to the fire and ease down to the ground. I pictured him lying back on his elbows with his impossibly long legs stretched out. Butch turned around and around right outside my tent and then he lay down, mostly on the tent fabric. I felt him through the thin material, so I patted his back, and every once in a while he sighed deeply.

W
hen I finally emerged from my own room Sunday afternoon, I felt like a zombie. We’d left our tents early that morning because our hips hurt from sleeping on the ground. I’d climbed right into my soft bed and slept until the shadows in my room were long and sad.

I’d never liked waking up at this depressing time of day. Not a day full of possibilities. Or a night that could be fun. Just an in-between time when the clocks in the house were too loud and everything seemed to be waiting for something. Like a dad coming home from work. Or a dinner to be ready. Or a brother to finish a run.

I found my mom in the living room, wrapped in a blanket on the couch. When we arrived in Wyoming, she acted like she’d try to be happy here. Not happy in the regular way of finding life fulfilling, but her own special brand of subdued acceptance.

During the first week here, she went for a long walk every day. She dug around in the garden and stacked pretty rocks on the windowsills. But, in what my dad and I called “the slide,” she began to revert to habits formed after we buried Wyatt—rarely leaving her bedroom and surviving on little to no food. The dark cloak of her blankets proved too alluring.

I sat down on the end of the couch and lifted her bony feet onto my lap, resting my head and reading the spine of the book she held. It was Wyatt’s copy of
Lone Survivor
—a book by a Navy Seal.

When he was little, he told us he was going to be a Navy Seal some day. One summer at our swim club, he jumped into the water completely dressed and tried to devise flotation devices out of his pants after he stripped them off. He got kicked out of the pool for that one.

Mom put her arm over her eyes in the classic “I’m sleeping” block.

“I just wanted to say hi, Mom.” I tried not to let her hurt my feelings. “The whole sleeping on the ground thing was a little strange last night.”

“Did you have fun?” She didn’t even look up.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m supposed to have dinner tonight with the same girls.”

“Sure,” she said.

“I’m eloping tonight with a felon who learned how to do tattoos in prison. Do you mind?”

“No, just be careful and take your phone.”

Sighing, I stood by the window. “Where’s Dad?”

“Work.”

“Oh. Guess it’s a busy weekend at the hotel?”

“I have no idea,” she mumbled.

“I’m going to make a sandwich. You want anything?”

Conversations with her had been shallow before we left Pittsburgh; now, in Wyoming, they were less than shallow. It felt like trying to dig in cold, hard ground. Given our history of mind-bendingly deep talks before Wyatt died, these episodes of hurried small talk frustrated me. My fickle heart bounced between anger and worry. Right then, what I saw of her form under that blanket made me sick. She looked impossibly small. I couldn’t imagine introducing her to my new friends.

More than anything, I wanted to talk to Wyatt about it. He could always get through to her. And if he couldn’t, he could at least say to me, “I know…she’s driving me crazy, too.” We’d share the experience and I would feel better. But Wyatt couldn’t be counted on now, either. He’d been uncommonly silent on the issue.

By the time Tennyson picked me up for dinner, I’d had time to shower. I left my hair damp and wavy down my back, threw on jeans and a sweater, and walked out without saying goodbye to my mom, locking the door behind me.

Tennyson seemed preoccupied, but looked amazing. She actually had on makeup and jewelry. Her low-cut shirt offered more than the suggestion of breasts. I looked down at my sweater that denied the existence of mine.

“I thought we were staying at Sara’s and having dinner,” I said. “Like, with no guys and no one to impress.”

She winced. “Slight change of plans. We’re going to a party at Taylor’s fishing cabin.”

“What? One, why does Taylor have a fishing cabin? Two, why are we going to a party there?”

“So many questions,” Tennyson said. “Everyone here has a fishing cabin. And because we were invited and it would be rude not to show.”

“There’s more. What are you withholding?”

Tennyson blew out a frustrated breath. “Sara’s brother Matt is my friend and he’s home from UW this weekend. He brought a bunch of friends. And you’ll know people there from school.”

“I’m really tired, Tennyson. I think I’d rather stay home.”

“It’s low-key, Meg.” Tennyson stepped on the gas and we flew through the last stop light in town and toward the highway heading north of town. “We can sleep tomorrow. No school, remember?”

At least there was that. Teacher in-service meant we got the day off.

“So who is he, Tennyson?” I looked pointedly at her outfit. “Is the makeup and all the skin for Matt?”

“What?” Her smile was fake.

“Oh, it’s nothing… just that your ‘desperate’ is showing a little.” I laughed.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, and keep your hands off Matt.”

“I’ve never seen you with makeup,” I said.

“Yeah, well, some of us have to try a little harder to be beautiful. You, with the whole long, perfect hair and creamy skin, have it way too easy. Do you even have pores?”

“I could ask you the same question,” I said. “When I first saw you, I thought you’d been photoshopped into the classroom, with your ironic wiener dog shirt.”

“That reminds me,” she said, “who are you on Instagram?” She picked up her phone from the center console and held it out to me to enter my information. “I posted pictures from last night.”

“I don’t have an account.”

“That’s weird,” she said.

“Yeah. It’s weird. We’ve discussed this already.”

We drove into the foothills north of town for at least half an hour. Tennyson turned onto a dirt road that skirted the banks of a river. There were cabins every so often along the road and she parked beside one of them. The brown paint covering it was cracked and peeling, and one of the windows was taped up with cardboard.

Obviously Taylor’s family didn’t spend a lot of quality time here, but now cars surrounded the place. We stepped out of Tennyson’s car and walked toward the cabin, right through the middle of a group that I recognized from school. They greeted Tennyson as she passed, but mostly ignored me. Thank God for small miracles.

Tennyson didn’t hesitate to open the door and walk into the cabin. She grabbed hold of a tall blonde who looked enough like Sara that I assumed he was Matt, her brother. He bent down to kiss Tennyson. And then again with feeling.

He introduced her to his friends. I should have taken her car keys, but before I could, she tucked them into her pocket and grabbed a beer.

Sara and Taylor introduced me to the people standing around. I recognized a guy named Blake from English class. He reached into a cooler at his feet and handed me a bottle.

“No, thanks.” My dad’s father died of alcoholism and seeing one person turn yellow from a failing liver was enough for me. When my friends drank their parents’ Scotch, I poured myself a soda.

I looked around for a place to wait for Tennyson. A television played loudly in the front room and several guys were lounging around, watching an NFL game. I found an open chair and made myself invisible. The sports enthusiasts looked up and grunted at me—amazed that there was a girl interested enough in football to sit and watch the game with them. One of them I recognized from school, where he was kind of a loner.

Loner boy grinned at me. “Hey, Meg Kavanagh,” he slurred. “I find myself fantasizing about you all the time and here you are.”

“Really?” I was completely unsure how to follow that. “Awesome.”

One of the guys next to him laughed. “That was messed up, Josh.”

Josh kind of snorted and then turned back to the game. Every now and then someone came by and offered me a drink. The game ended. Since I was the only one who stayed in front of the TV, I flipped channels until I found
The Last of the Mohicans
. An hour passed and things went downhill. Tennyson, Sara, and Taylor played “Never have I ever” in the kitchen for a while until the never-evers were no longer funny. They spiked generic energy drinks with cheap vodka—double the self-destruction.