Saving June (8 page)

The bus will be coming around again in a few minutes. I begin to pick my way over the clutter on the floor—books and old newspapers, empty beer cans and piles of discarded clothing—and toward the door, when Jake stops me.

“Harper.”

It’s the first time he’s used my first name. I hadn’t even been completely positive that he knew what it was. We’ve never exactly had a formal introduction—how would that have gone?
Hi, I’m Harper, the sister who didn’t die. You must be Jake, the guy said dead sister tutored, the guy who burned her the mix CD she was listening to when she overdosed on Mom’s sleeping pills, the guy who blackmailed his way into joining our road trip for reasons I am none too clear on. Nice to meet you.

“Remember to give Eli back the key,” he says. “And do me a favor. Try and pack light.”

Packing.
I haven’t even considered that. There are the obvious necessities, of course: Clothes. Money. The problem is that I have no idea how long we’ll be gone, so how much am I supposed to pack? How far away is California exactly, anyway?

I call Laney to ask and she looks it up online.

“A little less than two thousand, three hundred forty-five
miles,” she reports. “It will take approximately thirty-four hours and twenty-six minutes.”

Of course, that’s only if you drive straight through—not taking into account bathroom breaks, food breaks and sleep deprivation. It’ll take us a few days, at least. To be on the safe side, I drag my canvas duffel out of the closet and stuff it to the brim with clothes and water bottles from the fridge. I decide to leave behind my cell phone; it might have one of those GPS tracking chips if Mom does end up calling the cops, and I’m sure Laney will insist on having hers. I also stuff my old Polaroid camera, the one I found at a yard sale last summer, and a bunch of film rolls into the bag. Maybe there’ll be something worth documenting along the way.

After digging through the hall closet, I find an extra pocket-size flashlight, batteries, a pocket knife and a roll of duct tape. I have absolutely no idea what on earth I’ll need duct tape for, but I shove it in my backpack anyway. It’s better to be prepared, right?

And then there’s the most important item of all: the urn. Of course, that will have to come last.

The rest of the week leading up until Friday is uneventful. Every time someone says my name, I expect to be called out on my plans, but it usually turns out to be something only fractionally more preferable: the privilege of being on the receiving end of Aunt Helen’s moral
harangues. Things have been tense between us all week. More so than usual.

It’s not that I think Aunt Helen is evil. It’s just that she thinks she has all of the answers. To questions of God, the universe, life, everything. She’s always been like this. Maybe it’s why she and Uncle Randall divorced when I was nine. Maybe she thinks by running our lives she can ignore the mess she’s made of hers. Mom told me a while back how Helen really wanted kids, but there were conception issues, and Randall didn’t believe in adoption, so it never happened. And then he left her, and now she’s almost fifty, childless and alone. She fills her life with Jesus and taking care of my mother because really, what else does she have?

I’m feeling sorry for her, almost, thinking about all of this on Friday night in the kitchen. She and Mom get ready to leave the house while I sit at the table, slowly eating a bowl of sugared cereal. The dinner of champions. I’m taking my time, and the milk has made the cereal all soggy and soft.

Aunt Helen comes in and stops in front of the refrigerator. When I look up, a spoonful of cereal in my mouth, I realize she’s staring at a picture of June stuck there with a magnet. It’s from last summer, taken by me with the Nikon, when she was tanning in the front yard. In the picture she’s wearing this rockabilly style cherry-print bathing suit, with high-waisted bottoms and a top that tied in front. A pair of Jackie O sunglasses cover her eyes. She’s lying
on her side in the green grass, long legs stretched out with one knee bent, propped up on an elbow as she rests her head of sun-gleamed brown hair on her hand. Her Mona Lisa smile is small, almost secretive, and the suit and the glasses make her look like a 1950s movie star.

I’m still staring at the photo when Aunt Helen turns around to face me.

“Harper.” It’s amazing the amount of sheer disdain that woman can squeeze into two syllables. She says my name like it’s something dirty she wants to spit out of her mouth. “You know, you could come along to our knitting group if you’d like. They’re lovely women from the church, and I’m sure they have a lot to offer you. Some spiritual guidance, perhaps.”

I look away from the photo, at her, and then down into my bowl, ignoring that last comment. “I already told you. I’m spending the night at Laney’s.”

Aunt Helen scowls. That’s the I Am Silently Judging You look—I recognize it because it’s the same expression Laney has when she sees people wearing black and blue together, or the look I myself have when people pontificate on the brilliance of Ayn Rand. Aunt Helen is currently wearing a navy cardigan and black slacks. Figures. I wonder what her feelings are on
The Fountainhead.

She takes a deep breath as though she’s preparing to launch a lecture that, if similar to the ones I’ve endured recently, will say many things, like how I need to Let Jesus
Take the Wheel, and It Is Time to Be an Adult, Harper, and also, You Need to Surround Yourself With Positive Influences. That’s her roundabout way of implying that Laney is a
bad
influence, and also a vapid slut. Aunt Helen thinks hair color is a telltale indicator of sexual promiscuity levels—it’s her belief that brunettes are inherently more virtuous. It is
my
belief that she’s out of her mind, but no news there, I suppose.

A look at her watch must persuade her otherwise, because she simply sighs and says, rather mournfully, “My words fall on deaf ears,” and leaves it at that. They’re out of the house before six-thirty, my mother, still silent, shuffling behind Aunt Helen like a zombie. I try to look on the bright side: At least she’s not a drunken zombie. Apparently she’s traded alcohol for Jesus.

I’m not even sure which one is worse.

Seven o’clock rolls around faster than I realize; Jake’ll be here any minute. Everything is set. My duffel and backpack, both stuffed so full they barely zip all the way, sit in a pile at the door. Now I have to take the last step. I have to take down the urn.

Aunt Helen and my mother picked it out; I wanted nothing to do with that decision-making process. It’s a black vase with fine white veining patterns branching out across the polished marble, sleek and smooth looking. I’ve never touched it before, and even at the memorial service, I gave the table it was displayed on (next to a large
black-and-white portrait of June and thick layers of flower bouquets) a wide berth. Just looking at the thing makes me uncomfortable, knowing my sister, the girl I grew up with, lived with, shared blood with, was burned away into nothing but dust and sealed inside that vase.

The same vase I stand in front of now.

Carefully, I put my hands around the cool marble and lift it off of the mantel. It’s a lot heavier than I expected. If I hadn’t been holding on to the urn for dear life, I might have dropped it. I hold it close to my chest and make my way slowly, cautiously, to the front door.

Outside it’s nearly pitch-black, the porch light emanating just enough light for me to make out shapes in the dark. At first I’m sure Jake hasn’t shown up yet, but my eyes adjust, and I catch sight of the van, headlights off, idling curbside farther down the street. He must have wanted to make sure he wouldn’t attract attention. Which is a good idea in theory, but not so good when I, not exactly the most graceful person ever, have to carry a fragile, heavy urn half a block without stumbling over a crack in the pavement or my own two feet.

“About damn time,” Jake says when I finally inch my way down the sidewalk and reach him. He leans against the side of the van, eyeing me up and down. “Where’s your stuff?”

“First things first.” I look pointedly at the urn in my arms. “You mind—?”

“Oh. Right.”

He opens the doors in back, hops in and drags forward an old trunk with scratched, peeling bumper stickers slapped all over the top of it. The lid pops up to reveal two thick blankets inside. When he reaches for the urn, he looks to me for permission first, and I relinquish it to him, carefully, watching as he swaddles it in blankets so it won’t move around. Clearly he’s given the storage of the urn some forethought.

I return to the house to grab the rest of my things. Suddenly, it hits me. The note. The all-important note. Somehow in all of my preparations, I forgot to write one. I rip a sheet off the notepad in the kitchen. The problem: I’m suddenly struck with a massive case of writer’s block. I don’t know what to write. Nothing seems adequate. but I guess I could try to be honest.

I’ll be back in a while,
I write.
I don’t know how long. I’m okay. With Laney. I’ll call you. Don’t worry.

Leaving it in the kitchen is a bad idea; it’ll be discovered too soon. I tape it to the mirror in my bedroom instead, knowing it’ll take longer for them to find it, that it’ll buy me more time.

I need as much of a head start as I can get.

Jake’s van is rickety and loud and smells like cigarettes and pine trees—the pine scent due to a cardboard freshener that hangs from his rearview mirror. When I climb into
the passenger seat, I have to kick aside a heap of CDs scattered on the floor in order for my feet to have any room. He pulls out onto the road, and as he drives, I pop open the glove compartment. It’s overflowing with more CDs and cassette tapes. Who in the world needs to store this much music in their car?

“What are you doing?” he snaps, irritated, eyes flicking over to me as I dig through his array of music.

“Geez, are you trying to open up a Sam Goody in here or what?”

“If you think that’s a lot, you should see my bedroom.”

Is he trying to make me blush? Because it’s not going to work.

I click the compartment back shut. “You know, if you got an iPod, you could save some serious space,” I point out.

He frowns. “I like having something to hold in my hands. Plus, they have artwork, liner notes. There’s nothing exciting about getting music off the internet.”

“If you say so.” I don’t really see how buying music is exciting in the first place. “Your collection is impressive. Benefits of working at the Oleo, I presume?”

“You could say that.”

I direct him down Laney’s street. As he approaches her house, he flips off the headlights, puts it in Neutral and coasts into her driveway. We sit waiting, Jake already reaching
for a cigarette, and when he lights it, I notice some movement at the side of the house.

It’s Laney, tossing a bag out of the upstairs window. And then another. And another. A second later, she eases through the window space and crawls down the trellis. She’s had plenty of practice from nights of sneaking out. Even in her plaid skirt and sandals, it takes only a minute or so before she’s scaled all the way down and drops the last few feet. She gathers up her two suitcases and extra bag and bustles into the van, breathless and grinning.

“Three suitcases?” Jake twists around in his seat to gape openmouthed at her. “Are you kidding me?”

“Um, no?” Laney shoves the luggage into the far back and looks over her shoulder at him. “What do you expect me to do, carry around one garbage bag? I’m not some hobo! I need my
things
.” She pauses, nose wrinkling. “Ew, why does it smell like a forest fire in here? Are you
smoking?
Harper, you know I hate that.”

Laney hates the stink of cigarettes. I don’t really blame her for that, either. But hey, she has her rebellion—boys and beer—and this is mine. She can get over it.

“Get used to it,” Jake says as he backs out of the driveway and blows a stream of smoke in her direction, just to be an ass. I punch him in the shoulder.

“Gross.” She shudders. “Have fun with your lung cancer, emphysema, yellow teeth and perma-bad breath. The rest of us will be over here, enjoying our health and maintaining
our good looks. But you wouldn’t know much about that, would you?”

He rolls his eyes at her in the rearview mirror. “Oh, that’s funny. You should be a comedian.”

“What a coincidence. That’s actually my backup plan, you know, in case the acting thing doesn’t pan out.”

“You want to act?”

She fluffs out her hair and says, “I’m going to be the next Marilyn.”

Laney does, actually, sort of have that Marilyn Monroe, classic Hollywood look. She dresses the part in her thrift-store attire, and then there’s her wavy, finger-combed golden curls, the generous curves, the long dark lashes. On top of that, Laney has something my mother would call
presence.
It sets her apart from the other girls at school, makes the boys turn their heads when she walks by them in the halls.

“Laney is obsessed with old movie stars who died tragically in the prime of life,” I explain to Jake. She shoots me a concerned look as soon as the words slip out of my mouth, and I smile enough to let her know I’m not offended or anything. It does make me think, though, about that photo of June on our refrigerator, the one where she looks almost like Natalie Wood or something. The swimsuit came from Laney, something she’d bought that was too small for her and too revealing for me, and so she’d offered it to June.

I don’t know how, exactly, Laney feels about June now.
She has an older stepbrother from her father’s first marriage in college on the East Coast, but her relationship with him was never like mine with June; they barely know each other. And as my best friend, she spent a fair amount of time around our house. She and June treated each other almost like siblings. Even though it can’t be the same, I wonder if that’s what it feels like to her. Like she lost a sister, too.

“Wasn’t Marilyn Monroe a little past her prime when she died?” Jake asks. I punch him again, and he scowls. “Would you stop doing that? You’re gonna run us off the road!”