I’ll Meet You There (2 page)

I shook my head, but Chris just stared fixedly at Dylan’s forehead, avoiding looking
at her chest with the same concentration he’d applied to his AP Calculus homework.

“Dylan, you are super boobalicious. You should cover those things up—they’ve got to
be illegal in all fifty states,” I said.

Dylan laughed and shook her chest. “Hey, I’m enjoying the perks of motherhood. Besides,
it’s just Chris.”

“Thanks,” he muttered.

Just Chris.

If she knew he’d been in love with her since the days we played with Power Rangers
and Barbies, she might not say shit like that.

“Okay, so check it out.” Dylan lowered her voice even though someone had just turned
the music up even higher—some dude rapping about how I needed to bend over.
God
.

“Lisa eloped with Raul right after graduation, and her dad is, like, freaking out.
He’s all, ‘If I see that wetback, I’m going to cut off his—’”

“Yo,” said Chris. “Brown boy standing
right here.
”

“Christopher, I’m
quoting
the racist bastard,” Dylan snapped. “Hello? My son’s half Latino.”

“Just call it the W-word,” Chris said. “How hard is that?”

“
Anyway
,” said Dylan, rolling her eyes, “you guys are lucky to see me alive. Her dad was
at Ray’s, literally waving around a butcher knife. I refused to take his order. I
was like, I’m too young to die, you know?”

“Dylan!” someone shouted.

She looked across the yard: Jesse Hernandez, aka Dylan’s baby daddy, was waving her
over. “Gotta go get some,” she said.

Chris’s hand tightened around his red cup. “One baby’s not enough?”

Dylan patted the pocket of her skirt. “Oh, we learned our lesson. I came prepared.”
She looked back over her shoulder and began edging away. “You guys hanging around?”

“Do we ever?” I asked.

“There’s a first time for everything.” She fluttered her eyes at me. “Remember what
we talked about.”

“
Dylan!
” I swatted at her, but she was already too far away. She was currently making it
her life’s mission to get me to third base before I went off to San Francisco State.

Chris stared after her until she was lost in the crowd.

I socked him in the arm. “Eyes on me,
amigo.
”

“What?”

“You know what. Why do you torture yourself like that?”

A thick pair of arms came from behind me, and I started as they wound around my waist.

“Hey, you,” whispered a low voice, lips against my ear. I knew who it was—I’d spent
a week drenched in that smell. I swear to God, Blake must have poured on half a bottle
of Curve just before the party.

“Blake,” I said, “go hug your girlfriend if you’re feeling sentimental.”

I tried to maneuver out of his grip, but he had the strength of a man who’d already
downed a six-pack. There’s nothing worse than getting affection from drunk people.
It’s almost as bad as if someone had paid them to be nice to you.

“But I want to hug
you
,” he said.

Chris snorted, and I gave him a look loaded with dire promises. He just rolled his
eyes and took a long drink of his beer.

“Blake, I’m, like, two seconds away from using self-defense on you,” I said.

He laughed, soft, and loosened his hold just a little. “I miss you.”

I gripped his arms and pulled them off me. “That’s your Budweiser talking. We lasted
a week—you can’t miss me after seven days. Besides, I’m sure Alexis loves when you’re
all up on other girls.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed his girlfriend staring at us, her glossy lips
turned into a frown.

“
Sky
,” he said, as if I were being unreasonable. Then he grinned, like we had a secret,
which we didn’t.

He caught sight of Chris and raised his hand for his half of the obligatory fist bump.
“What up, dude?”

Chris hesitated, then hit his knuckles against Blake’s. “Hey, man.”

“Fuckin’ graduation, huh? I’m glad that shit’s over.” Chug, chug, chug: half his beer
down his throat in seconds.

Chris and I proceeded to have an eye conversation that went something like this:

What the hell did you see in him?

Nothing, I don’t know, shut up.

I pled temporary insanity to Dylan and Chris after that week of ill-advised hooking
up, even though I knew better. It’d had nothing to do with Blake.

“Hey, is your brother around?” I asked. “We wanted to say hi, see what’s up with him.”

Blake wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and looked around the yard. “Yeah,
somewhere. Probably inside or something.”

“When does he have to go back?” I asked.

Blake shrugged and started peeling the label off his bottle. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Not sure.”

Chris elbowed me, and I elbowed him back. I thought we were having another secret
conversation about Blake, but then he elbowed me again and whispered, “Sky.”

I looked in the direction Chris was staring.

“Hey, Skylar. Long time no see.”

The voice was familiar, but I barely recognized the person in front of me. In the
dark, all I could make out was a shaved head and gaunt face, but then I saw the eyes.
Those were what tipped me off. They were Van Gogh eyes—swirls of dark and light blue.
All the Mitchells had them.

“
Josh?
”

He smiled, but there was nothing behind it. His eyes were glazed over, two bottomless
wells that reflected the kitchen lights but held none of their own.

“Yeah, if you can believe it.”

I looked at Blake, almost for confirmation, but he’d gone back to peeling the label
off his bottle, his shoulders hunched and lips set in a hard line. The place between
expectation and reality had instantly become so wide that I couldn’t see to the other
side of it. There weren’t any words I could build a bridge with. Words didn’t mean
shit.

“Welcome home,” I whispered. At least, I think I did. I felt my lips move.

Josh opened his arms for a hug, but as he moved forward, his body jerked to the side
in an awkward limp. I looked down and choked on the air.

His leg. He’d lost his leg.

*   *   *

Fuck. God, God, fuck.

“Like it? It’s my souvenir from the Taliban,” Josh said, giving a slight kick with
the metal cylinder that used to be his left leg.

All I could think was: Josh squatting by the Paradise pool, his bare feet leaving
wet footprints on the concrete; Josh on the roof of the motel, looking out over the
orchard and saying,
Dare me to jump?
; Josh walking toward me, tall and proud in his uniform but trying to be cool, like
it was no big deal.

“Now I can be a goddamn pirate or something, right?” he said. “Got the peg leg and
everything.”

“Shit.” Chris breathed.

Josh shrugged. “Shit happens.”

I had to tear my eyes away from the metal pole that began somewhere under Josh’s khaki
shorts and ended inside a tennis shoe. I was like those drivers out on Highway 99
who felt compelled to slow down and stare when there was an accident.
Lookie-Loos.
The more gruesome the wreck was, the slower the Lookie-Loos drove, their eyes drawn
to the thick pools of blood and shimmering shards of glass that spread across the
asphalt like a Jackson Pollock painting.

I lurched forward and hugged him, holding my breath as his arms went around me. He
reeked of whiskey, weed, and rank sweat. It was a stiff, graceless hug—me trying not
to accidentally kick his leg, him trying to stay balanced. I wanted to kill someone.
Whoever had done this to him, his parents for telling him he should go, the president.
It was the sickest thing I’d ever seen, this man-boy whose whole life was screwed.

“This is so fucked up,” I whispered.

Words.

His breath caught, and he let out a raspy “yeah.”

A bridge.

We stayed like that for a few more seconds, then I pulled away. Chris was staring
at Josh’s leg, and I hoped I didn’t look like him, so shell-shocked. Blake was still
pulling at the label on his empty bottle, letting the torn pieces flutter to the dead
grass at his feet.

“So you’re home now? I mean, for good?” I asked.

“Don’t know.” Josh frowned. “What about you? How’s the motel?”

“Same, same,” I said.

It seemed like those long days working together at the Paradise were a million years
ago.

“I believe it.” He turned to Chris, as if he’d noticed him for the first time. “What
about you, faggot? You still playing with computers and shit?”

Chris’s eyes flashed, and he opened his mouth to reply, but then Josh clapped him
on the back.

“I’m just fucking with you, man. You’re all right.”

I could almost see the debate in Chris’s head: is it, in fact, morally reprehensible
to deck a one-legged dude who’s been fighting for his country?

It got quiet then, the air oozing awkwardness. All I could think about was that leg,
blown to bits.

“You need a drink,” said Josh, pointing to my empty hand.

He called out to a girl in super short shorts and a crop top—it took me a minute to
realize it was Josh’s thirteen-year-old sister, Tara.

“Baby girl, hook us up with some beers, will you? And put on some goddamn clothes.”

Tara rolled her eyes and headed over to the coolers.

I shook my head. “I’m okay.”

Josh gave his brother a knowing glance. “Ah, still a good girl, I see.”

“
Dude
,” growled Blake.

Our town was so small that even a guy who’d been in
Afghanistan
knew about our stupid fling.

“Get your head out of the gutter, Josh,” I said.

“Um, that’s impossible.” Blake’s lips turned up just a little. Josh snorted in response—for
a second, we forgot about the leg. Seemed to, anyway.

“Josh! Get over here, soldier!”

He turned around and gave a thumbs-up to a bong raised high in the air. A group lay
sprawled on the grass a few feet away, staring at the sky. Josh turned to us and shrugged.

“Duty calls. See you later.”

He gave us a lazy salute and then limped away, his fingers groping the darkness, as
though he were trying to take hold of the night’s hand.

Blake cleared his throat and looked away, toward the garage that was filled with guys
playing beer pong. I stole a glance at him. For the first time I noticed his tense
shoulders and how his clenched teeth made the lines of his jaw sharp and pointed.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” I said. Josh was nineteen years old.
Nineteen years old
. I reached for Blake, because right then he looked like a little boy trying not to
cry, but Alexis was still staring jealous-girlfriend daggers. My hand dropped against
my thigh, slapping the skin.

“He’ll be okay. He’s tough.” Blake threw his beer in the general direction of the
trash cans lined up along the fence. “You gonna be around for a while?” he asked,
scanning the packed yard. “I gotta resupply the coolers.”

“I don’t think so. I’m pretty wiped out from the ceremony.”

Strange. It was only a few hours ago that Mom had given me a bouquet of wilted carnations
dyed a bright, unnatural blue to match our school colors. Seeing Josh had turned it
into a distant memory. The war had come home, and it was ugly and senseless, and I
just wanted to be in my bed, to be anywhere but here, really.

Blake grunted, and I risked putting my hand on his arm. “When did you guys find out
about … you know?”

“January.” He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and looked up at the starless sky.
“He was in some hospital in Maryland for like six months, doing rehab or whatever,
but he didn’t want any of us to visit him. Then he was in San Diego, doing whatever
guys like him do on a military base. He made my mom promise not to tell anyone.”

“Shit,” Chris said again. It seemed to be his only response.

“Blake, I—”

But I didn’t know what to say. It seemed like I should have guessed. How could you
kiss someone every day for a week and not know his family was going through hell?

“S’okay. He’s a Mitchell. He can take it.”

Tara waved him over from one of the empty coolers. “I’ve gotta motor, but, you know,
thanks for coming. I know this isn’t your scene.”

I nodded, surprised he realized that, and he went toward the house. I glanced at Josh
again; I didn’t know if it was because it was so sad—all of it, all of
us
—but my vision started to blur.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said.

Chris’s face was all kinds of relieved. “Lead the way.”

People were starting to pass out on the grass, and couples were peeling away, leaning
into each other as they stumbled to their cars. For a second, I was jealous. I wished
I had someone I could lose myself in. I watched Blake maneuver through the crowd,
saw Alexis slip her arm around his waist. Pot and cigarette smoke hovered above the
party, covering the wasted youth of Creek View with a thick, pungent haze. It was
like the whole town was swimming in failure, but no one realized they were drowning.
I turned my back on everything I never, ever wanted to be and headed toward the chain-link
gate near the driveway.

“Hell,” Chris muttered. He stopped for a moment and looked back.

I followed his eyes. “Yeah,” I said, my voice soft.

I could just make out Josh, leaning on his real leg, surrounded by the bodies of whole
people. All I could think about were those words he’d said, just before he left for
Afghanistan:
This is as good as it gets for me.

JOSH

I get that Vonnegut line now, got it after that sniper wasted Sharpe but
really
get it now—broken kite.
This isn’t a man. It’s a broken kite.
Flew all the way from Afghanistan and crashed in the middle of fucking nowhere, right
back where I started except minus a goddamn leg. Major combat stress. But this is
my welcome home party, so I gotta look happy and fuckin’ mingle. This dude I knew
in high school comes up to me, and he’s all
Hey, man, what’s up
and shit, and then we sort of shake hands and drink beer and watch the party.