Has to Be Love (11 page)

I stare at my feet and tap the toes of my ballet flats together. Then twist my hair with a finger. Suddenly I hear the words that signify the end of his talk.

“Amen.”

Whew. Survived. Still awake.

Sunday school is Old Testament studies, and instead of following along in the lesson, I read in Psalms. The rhythms of the words and the interesting thoughts bounce in my brain, settle my heart, and help me remember why I come to church in the first place.

“You seem distracted,” Dad says. He holds the passenger door open for me after church. He's done this since I was a kid, and I went through a phase where I thought his overt politeness was stupid. But Suki pointed out that Dad lost his wife, and I'm his little girl, and sometimes we let people do nice things because it makes them feel better. It isn't always about the person on the receiving end. I guess she has a point.

“Maybe a little distracted.” I give him a noncommittal shrug.

“A lot distracted since you and Elias went out the other night.” Dad walks around the front of the car, and I notice his graying hair and growing belly in a little different light. My dad looks … older. Noticeably. Like I can remember a time when he barely had any gray, and it doesn't feel like that long ago.

A fluttering panic beats in my chest as Dad slides in the driver's seat. “Well?”

“Senior year. Just busy. Getting over being sick.”
Fake sick.
I blink a few times, wishing for his age to fade.

It doesn't.

Dad looks at me sideways as he turns on the car. “Don't think for a minute I don't know you use ‘just busy' as an excuse.”

Well, crap. “I'm good, Dad.”

He gives my knee a quick squeeze. “Well, okay. I wanna stop by your mom's grave today. You up for that?”

No, I'm not up for that. She's gone. She's gone and I don't get to talk to her or get her help or …“Yeah, of course.”

Dad slides the car into reverse and we move out of the parking lot. “I wanted to ask you …”

I wait. And wait. And tap my fingers against my skirt and then stare out the window …

“Two things, I guess.” Dad's hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Mr. Kennedy is …”

The car clunks over the uneven pavement as we wind through the trees, and Dad doesn't speak.

“Get it out, Dad. You can do it,” I tease, wondering if I should have kept my mouth shut or had a pretend coughing fit to avoid the conversation.

“I want to know if you and Elias are being careful.” The words blur together in Dad's nervousness.

I can totally feel my brows rising, and I'm once again holding my breath—sort of counterintuitive when I'm trying to make myself sound relaxed. “Um … shoulders to knees and everything in between, Dad. Elias and I are okay.”

And I'm still not sure how I feel about that.

Dad shrinks about three inches as he relaxes. “I also want to know if it's awkward for you to have your teacher over at our house so much. I just remember being that young and on my own, and he's in a town he's never been to before so I thought it would help if he felt like he had people.”

“I know why you've invited him over.” It's so like my dad to take in the new stranger in town.

Tapping my fingers on the window, I watch the trees blur by as we wind our way up the road to the cemetery.

“So … Kennedy?” Dad asks. “Is it okay, or should we slow down the dinners?”

My heart does a fantastic
ka-thump.
“Why do you ask?”

“When you leave for the barn, he stands up so fast that he nearly knocks his chair over. Don't get me wrong. I really like Rhodes. I just want to make sure that nothing is awkward. I also might be seeing things that aren't there.”

“Oh.” Huh. “No, um. No weirdness. I mean … like you said, he's my teacher, and he's hanging at our house a lot, but it's fine. I mean …” Why must my brain be farting out now? How many times have we tossed out the fact that he's my teacher? “I mean it's totally fine. He lost his brother and likes to talk, so he follows me. That's all.” Is
it?

“Relax, honey.” Dad flicks on the stereo. “I was just curious. I'm glad you've found a friend in him because it might be good for you to know some people who aren't from here. I'm just giving you a hard time.”

And there's no way to hide the rush of my relief breath, which earns me a sideways smile from Dad. He sees way too much.

“You and Cecily decide on Anchorage or Fairbanks for school in the fall?” he asks.

Oh. Right. “Cecily's going to New York.”
This fall. Like a traitor to our plan.

“Sorry, hon.” Dad pats my knee. “I wrote out a few checks for out-of-state college applications. You heard back from any of those places yet?”

I hold my breath. I could tell him about Columbia. I totally could. He'd be proud. We're about to go visit Mom. Timing is good. “Nope.”

Dad nods in this odd, distracted way. I'm not sure what he'd say to my acceptance. He'd probably panic.

We pull into the small, empty parking lot of the cemetery. The grass is still yellowed from winter, and the leaves have tinged the branches slightly green, but the drab brown covers the landscape. At least the headstones aren't buried in four feet of snow and drifts like they are for most of the winter.

We move slightly uphill until we pass the third bench, then we take a right onto the grass. Dad grasps my hand and gives me a squeeze. “You have to miss her,” he says.

I swallow, my palms sweaty. I take back my hand. “Of course.” I
also wish I could tell her that I got into her school. In person.

“Especially now.”

Folding my arms, I ask, “Why especially?”

He chuckles. “Because I'm not a good sounding board for clothes and boys and all that.”

“I have Cecily.” But I'm swallowing the familiar lump of emptiness, sadness, and that horrid pit of
loss.
“And I don't care about clothes.” There's no point in dressing nice when what I wear can't change my face.

We stop. Her simple stone stands about waist high, and seeing the words of her name, her birth, her
death …
it's as if someone's etched them into my skin. Like every time I'm faced with this place.

I. Hate. It. Here. My heart is once again stuffed into that too-small box.

Dad closes his eyes and touches the cold stone, like he does every time we come. I'm pretty sure I should feel something more than the gut-wrenching, heart-squeezing I do. Some sort of peace or closeness, but I don't. Never have. She's not here.

I wait for Dad to finish, for him to blot his eyes and take my hand again. “You're unusually quiet.”

“Am I?” I ask.

We walk back toward the car in silence. The blue sky stretches to the mountaintops, and the faint rush of the river reverberates through the trees. When the inevitable breeze blows, it hits the back of my neck, making me shiver. The glacier air is biting, even in summer.

Dad unlocks the car and I slide in, letting out a breath I didn't know I held. I've been doing that a lot lately, which probably says something about my stress level.

“Do you ever …” But I stop. What if Dad's answer is yes? If it works for him and not me?

“Ever what?”

“Ever hear her. Mom. Like … feel like you can talk to her.”

“No. Maybe sort of.”

I press my hand to my chest as the relief leaves a numbness in my body. “Oh.”

“I remember the feel of her. Of being around her.” He makes a frowning sort of smile. “So sometimes I probably pretend I can talk to her without realizing it. I talk to her out loud when I'm working on the plane sometimes. It helps.”

“I remember the feeling of her too.” I wish I could close my eyes and feel that, but it doesn't happen often. Maybe because I don't take the time to. Maybe because it hurts too badly when I'm done. I'm not sure.

He pulls me into a sideways hug. “I don't know what I'd do without you, Clara.”

And he won't have to worry about doing without me—at least not for a while. I glance at the face that seems to be aging even as I watch. No, it was good I didn't tell Dad about Columbia. I need to figure out what I'm doing first,
then
we can talk.

Dad doesn't say anything else as we follow the windy road back home, and I close my eyes in the passenger's seat. I'm battling on too many sides right now to try to talk through anything else.

12

I'm cataloging all the props, checking off lists for each character.

I slide all of “Teddy's” props to the right side of the backstage table and start matching objects with my list. My phone beeps with another text from Elias. I'm grinning like an idiot before I think to stop it because he rarely texts me when he's working.

Elias: We still on for later?

Clara: Come on over. Dad will be home. All okay.

“All okay” for both of us—for Elias because we won't be alone, and for me because he won't ask me anything crazy about houses or forevers in front of my dad.

When I set down my phone, Rhodes is watching me. The intensity of his gaze starts to warm and pool in my stomach. Abby stops next to me, and I snap back to reality.

“Is this my stuff?” Abby asks as she peers over my shoulder. Left side. This girl has never, ever approached me on my right.

“Yep.”

“I'm an old lady, remember?”

“I know the play.” I keep my voice even, despite the fact that I knew her lines before she did. Of course I know which character she is.

“I just mentioned that because I think I need a shawl, and—”

“Mrs. Craddle's nearly finished with one for you.” I check off two more boxes. My job of collecting props is nearly over.

Abby glances toward Rhodes and then back toward me, but I continue scrolling down my list, unwilling to follow her gaze and add fuel to whatever delusion she has running through her head.

“Seriously?” Abby frowns. “It'll smell like dog. She has, like, eight of them, and Esther said she makes her own yarn out of dog hair.”

Gross. But I'm not about to let on. “I gave her money for yarn, so I doubt that's the case.”
Lie.
“But if you'd rather, you could go to the Salvation Army and pick up one that smells like old urine.”

Rhodes snorts, Abby frowns, and then her eyes shift from me to him like three times before she moves away. As if I didn't already see her sideways glances.

It's not that I don't get along with Abby, but I have Elias when I'm at school and people to talk to when I'm at church. Cecily is almost home. I'm not about to open myself up to more scrutiny from Abby and Esther who can dish out more crap judgment than anyone else I know.

“Okay!” Mr. Kennedy calls. “You better have those lines memorized starting tomorrow. Go enjoy the sun!”

I want to drop everything and run outside, but I only have one more small section of prop table to cross off as finished and organized. The sounds of backpack zippers and clomping feet fill the small auditorium for about three minutes before I'm met with silence. So much better.

“Need any help?” Rhodes's kind, deep voice sets my nerves on edge because now we're alone. I really wish the aloneness didn't send my stomach into a flurry. But we were together in the barn and could talk … This should be fine. Maybe even nice.

“I'm good.” I keep my eyes on the table and put down a few more small labels.

Teddy. Shovel.

“Your last paper was really good … It's college-level work. Easy. You're so ready for school.”

I don't look up. “You said on the paper.” I might sound like a brat right now, but I'm just not sure how to act around a teacher whose lips I watch too much.

“Did I do something to offend?” he asks.

I so wish he sounded condescending instead of genuine. Having him be worried isn't supposed to pool warmth in my stomach.

“I'm sorry.” I finally look up at him and instead of seeing my teacher, I see the guy who sat next to me in the barn and told me about his little brother. I step closer before forcing my feet to stop.

The corners of his mouth are slightly turned down. “I'm about to sound like a cheesy commercial or something, but you seem … really distracted, and I just didn't know if it was something I could help with.”

As a teacher? A friend?
I have zero idea how to begin to decipher what he might want from me. “I'm good. Just a lot of decisions to be made, and that's sometimes hard to deal with.” I move back to the table and check off another box on my prop list.

I know I sound like every other high-school senior stressing about what to do with my life, but maybe that's better. Rhodes is way too easy to be around for someone who has a boyfriend and is also
his student.

“I can totally understand that.” He folds his arms and leans against the table. “It's going to be a matter of figuring out what you want outside of what everyone else wants.”

“No.” I shake my head. “That's not it at all. Because when you love the people around you, your decisions and your future are not just about you, they're about them too.”

“Maybe.”

Pressing the pen against the paper, I mark off another box, ripping the paper. I take in a deep breath and my finger finds the scar that tugs on the corner of my mouth.

“Your scars …” His head cocks to the side as he unashamedly studies my face.
“They're
not slowing you down, are they?”

Heat rushes up my neck and I spin away from him, hating how quickly he understood this about me. I set my clipboard down and snatch my backpack from the floor, already moving for the back door. The idea of my scars making me afraid is something that cuts far too deep to discuss. A knife is lodged in the center of my chest, and we're just
talking.