Hallowed (35 page)

“What for?” he demands.

“You know . . .”

“No. You tell me.” Suddenly he tugs off his tie and flings it on the bed.

“You started the fire!”

“Yeah, I’ll probably go to juvie. Is there even a juvie in Wyoming?”

“Jeffrey . . .”

But now that he’s talking, he doesn’t plan to stop. “This is pretty convenient for you, right?

Because now you get to blame me. If I hadn’t started the other fire, Tucker would have been safe and your thing with Christian would have gone off without a hitch, and you’d be a good little angel-blood who fulfilled her purpose. Is that right?”

“Are you sure it was your purpose?”

“Are you sure about yours?” he counters.

“Okay, true enough. But seriously, I don’t get it. It doesn’t make sense. But if you say you had the visions about it, and that’s what you were supposed to do, I believe you.”

“Do you have any idea how hard it was?” He’s almost shouting now. “The crazy stuff that went through my head, like I could have been murdering people, starting that fire. All those animals and all that land, and the firefighters and people who risked their lives to put it out. But I still did it.” His lip curls in disgust. “I did my part. Then you had to go and bail on yours.” I lower my eyes, look at my hands. “If I hadn’t, Tucker would have died.”

“You’re so wrong it’s pathetic,” Jeffrey says more calmly. “As usual.”

“What?” I glance up, startled. “Jeffrey, I was there. I saved him. If I hadn’t shown up when I did, he would have . . .”

“No. He wouldn’t have.” Jeffrey looks out the window like he can see it happening all over again. “He wouldn’t have died. Because I would have saved him.” He starts packing his bag again, underwear this time. He laughs, a mean, humorless sound, shakes his head. “God. I was frantic that night, looking for him. He didn’t show up where he was supposed to, where he always did, in the visions. I thought I’d messed up somehow. I thought he was toast for sure.

Finally I gave up and came home. I saw you on the porch with Christian and I was like, well, at least she did it. At least she fulfilled her purpose. Then I spent all night agonizing over how your face would look when you found out Tucker was dead.”

“Oh, Jeffrey.”

“So you see,” he continues after a minute. He grabs a stick of deodorant and tucks it into his duffel bag. “You thought I screwed up your purpose, right? But the truth is, if you’d followed your vision, if you’d just trusted the plan, then you and Christian would have done your thing in the forest, and Tucker would have been perfectly safe, and everything would have worked out fine. But instead you had to go and screw it up for the both of us.” I don’t say anything. I just slink out of his room and shut the door. In my own room I lie down on the bed and stare up at the empty ceiling wide-eyed, dry-eyed, and it feels like the ache opens a huge gaping hole in my chest.

“I’m sorry,” I gasp, although I have no idea who I’m apologizing to, Jeffrey or my mom, who believed in me so much, or even God. I just know that it’s my fault, and I’m sorry.

Don’t beat yourself up,
Christian says in my head. I sit up and glance at the window, and of course he’s there, sitting in his normal spot.

I messed things up for you too,
I remind him.

He shakes his head.
No, you didn’t. You just changed things.

I go to the window and open it, step outside into the cool night air. It feels like summer now, a kind of shift in the way the night feels, the way it smells.

“You’ve got to stay out of my head,” I say as I hunker down awkwardly next to Christian.

I’m still in my mom’s nice black pumps. My toes hurt. “It can’t be very fun for you, always finding out my deep dark secrets.”

He shrugs. “They’re not so dark.”

I give him a hard look. “My life is a soap opera.”

“A really, really addictive soap opera,” he says. Then he puts his arm around my shoulders and draws me into him. And I let him. I close my eyes.

“Why do you want me, Christian? I’m hopelessly screwed up.”

“We’re all screwed up. And you look so cute while you’re doing it.”

“Stop.”

The back of my neck feels hot where his breath is touching me, stirring the wisps of my hair that managed to escape my braid. “Thank you,” I say. We sit there for a while, not talking.

An owl hoots in the distance. And suddenly, miraculously, there are tears in my eyes.

“I miss my mom,” I choke out.

Christian’s arms tighten around me. I lean my head onto his shoulder and cry and cry, my body shuddering with sobs. It’s one of those loud, probably unattractive kind of sobfests, the kind where your nose runs and your eyes get all huge and swollen and your whole face becomes this messy pink swampland, but I don’t care. Christian holds me, and I cry. The ache empties itself out on his T-shirt, leaving me lighter, a good emptiness this time, like if I tried I might be light enough to fly.

Chapter 21

High Countries

At graduation all the girls have to wear white robes and the boys wear black. When the band plays “Pomp and Circumstance” we file two by two into the gym at Jackson Hole High School, which is filled with chattering, cheering, frantic-picture-taking friends and relatives. But it’s hard to look up into the bleachers and not see Mom. Or Jeffrey, even. The police showed up at our house the next day to question him. This time they even brought a warrant. But he wasn’t there. All we found in his room were a bunch of clothes and toiletries missing—and here I’d believed that lie he’d fed me as I watched him pack it up that night—and a single yellow Post-it stuck to his window.

Don’t look for me,
it read.

He didn’t even take his truck. We’ve been frantically searching for him for days, but there’s not a trace of where he might have gone. He’s just gone.

I spot Dad in the audience next to Billy. He gives me a thumbs-up. I smile, try to look happy. I am graduating, after all. It’s a big deal.

When someone dies in the movies, there’s always that scene where the main character stands in the dead person’s closet and fingers the sleeve of the favorite shirt, the one she remembers from so many happy moments. That was me, this morning. I went into Mom’s closet for this white eyelet dress she used to love. I thought I’d wear it, under my gown. That way, maybe a part of her would be there. Sentimental, I know.

In the movies, the main character always presses her face in to get a whiff of that last, lingering hint of the person’s smell. And then she cries.

I wish I didn’t know this, how real those scenes are, how unbelievable it was in that moment to stand there looking at all the dead can leave behind. How can the shoes still be here? I thought. How can the clothes survive, when the person did not? I found a hair on the shoulder of a flannel shirt and held it gently between my thumb and forefinger, this hair that was once attached to a person I loved so much. I held it for a long time, unsure of what to do with it, and then I finally let it go. I let it float away.

It hurt.

But right now she’s with me, her vanilla perfume rising off the fabric, and somehow it makes me feel stronger.

This is officially torture,
Christian says in my head.
How many speeches are there?

I consult my trusty program.

Four.

Mental groan.

But we get to cheer for Angela,
I remind him.
Angel Club sticks together, right?

Like I said. Torture.

I turn slightly and cast a subtle glance in his direction. He’s sitting a couple rows behind me, right next to Ava Peters. Just down the row from him, Kay Patterson smirks at me.

I know, I know, I think. I’m still looking at him.

He lifts his eyebrows.

Never mind,
I tell him.

One speech ends and it’s time for Angela. The principal announces her as the class valedictorian. One of Jackson Hole High’s best and brightest stars. One of the three students who will be attending Stanford University in the fall.

Applause, applause.

Stanford must be lowering its standards,
remarks Christian.

I know. Wait, did he say three students?

I think so.

So who’s lucky number three?

No answer.

I turn around to look at him again.

No.

He grins.

Now I get it,
I tell him.
You’re stalking me.

Quiet now. Angela’s about to talk.

I shift my attention back to the podium, where Angela stands stiffly, a stack of note cards in front of her. She pushes her glasses up on her nose.

When did Angela get glasses?
Christian asks.

She’s playing Studious Straight-A Angela today,
I answer.
The glasses are her costume.

O-kay.

Angela clears her throat lightly. She really is nervous, I can tell. All these eyes on her. All this attention, when she’s usually the one in the corner with the book. She looks at me. I smile in what I hope is an encouraging way.

“I know how these speeches typically go,” she begins. “I’m supposed to get up here and talk about the future. How great it will be, how we’ll all pursue our dreams and make something of ourselves. Maybe I should read a children’s book about the places we’ll go, and talk about how bright our futures are, out there, waiting for us. That’s inspirational, right?” Murmuring from the crowd.

Uh-oh,
says Christian.

I know what he means. It sounds like there might be a very good chance that Angela’s going to pull one of those anti-inspirational graduation speeches, the kind that calls the school cheerleader a vapid Barbie doll or a favorite teacher a creepy perv.

Angela glances down at her cards.

Don’t do it,
I think.

“I know that when I think about my future, I’m usually overwhelmed, knowing how much will be expected of me. I know the odds are that I’ll fail many of the things I try. And it’s a big deal. What if I figure out what my purpose is, my reason for being on this planet, only to fall short? What if I don’t pass the test?”

She looks at me again. I hold my breath. One corner of her mouth lifts—she’s laughing at me. Then she goes back to serious.

“But then I think about what I’ve learned here in the last year, and I don’t mean in my classes, but what I’ve learned from watching my friends face their futures and search for their purposes. I’ve learned that a storm isn’t always just bad weather, and a fire can be the start of something new. I’ve found out that there are a lot more shades of gray in this world than I ever knew about. I’ve learned that sometimes, when you’re afraid but you keep on moving forward, that’s the biggest kind of courage there is. And finally, I’ve learned that life isn’t really about failure and success. It’s about being present, in the moment when big things happen, when everything changes, including yourself. So I would tell us, no matter how bright we think our futures are, it doesn’t matter. Whether we go off to some fancy university or stay home and work.

That doesn’t define us. Our purpose on this earth is not a single event, an accomplishment we can check off a list. There is no test. No passing or failing. There’s only us, each moment shaping who we are, into what we will become. So I say forget about the future. Pay attention to now.

This moment right now. Let go of expectations. Just be. Then you are free to become something great.”

She’s done. The crowd claps and claps, mostly I think because her speech was pretty short. It’s in one ear and out the other for most of us at this point. But not for me. I heard her loud and clear.

“Okay, that was, I have to say, about the cheesiest thing I ever heard in my life,” I say to Angela as we’re milling around afterward. We hug, so Billy can take our picture. “I mean, seriously. Just be? You should write ads for Nike.”

“That was good stuff, I’ll have you know. Wisdom from the heart and all that.”

“So you’re going to be all relaxed about your purpose from now on, then?”

“Not relaxed, exactly. I’m trying to be Zen about it.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Hey.” She looks the tiniest bit offended. “You really didn’t like my speech? Because I kind of wrote it for you.”

“I know. I did like it. I just don’t have a lot of room for philosophy these days. I’m still doing the breathe in/breathe out thing.”

“Did you talk to Tucker yet?” she asks.

The girl sure knows how to spoil a good time.

“No.”

“Well, you’re about to,” she says, staring off over my shoulder. “I’ll catch you later.” Then she’s gone, lost in a sea of black and white gowns. I turn around to see Tucker standing right behind me. He looks uncomfortable.

“Hi, Carrots,” he says.

“Hi.”

“Some crazy thing, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Graduation.” He gestures around us. “Finally blowing this Popsicle stand.”

“Oh. Yes. Crazy.”

His eyes narrow on my face. “Can we go outside for a minute and talk?” I follow him out the back, into the grassy area behind the school. It’s quieter here, but we can still hear the buzz of conversation from the gym. Tucker stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“I’m sorry. I was a jerk that day. I don’t know, I was surprised, and then I saw . . .” He stops, takes a deep breath. “I think a caveman took over my body. I’m sorry,” he says again.

I can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t involve me bursting into tears.

Tucker clears his throat. “How are you doing?”

“Right now? I’ve been better.”

“No I mean—” He sighs. “God, I’d forgotten how frustrating you can be.” It’s an insult, but it comes with a begrudging smile, the admiration in his eyes that sends me back to those days when we used to drive each other crazy.

“And I’d forgotten what a rude hick you can be,” I throw in for good measure.

“Ouch.” He shows his dimples this time. My heart aches, wanting to make everything better between us again. It must show on my face because his expression suddenly sobers. He steps closer to me, puts his hand on my arm.