The Story of Us (23 page)

       6. Possessiveness: My food. My bowl. My parking spot, my father, my boyfriend, my … You get the idea.

Jupiter also just showed shame after throwing up in my room. It wasn’t her fault—everyone probably gave her food at the party, not knowing everyone else had too. If you could call what we just experienced a
party
. A party implies fun and laughter and good times. This was more one of those twelve-car pileups you see on the news whenever it snows. Everything’s a big mess here, Janssen. I wish they’d get married now, quick, before anything else happens. I mean,
I’d
even be questioning things right now. I would. So Mom will definitely question.

Jon Jakes, Vic Dennis … But remember Garret Hanks? I almost forgot about him. Jupiter hated him. Used to growl at the guy. How clichéd of her. The dog-hates-boyfriend routine. He went to some sales conference in Phoenix, and Mom broke up with him in the long-term parking area of the airport after she’d dropped him off. She turned in there accidentally, trying to find the exit. You know how confusing that airport is. Garret Hanks probably hadn’t even gotten through security yet when she called him. But remember why she broke it off? She had a bad feeling. He’d ordered for her in a restaurant. That was it. That was all. And what’s been going on here is a lot more than salmon fettuccine when you wanted the steak.

I wish you were here with us now. You understand all of this. You know us. It’s all my stupid fault that you’re not here too. You don’t have to keep reminding me. Okay, that’s unfair. You’re not reminding me at all. You’ve gone silent on the matter. You’ve said what you need to, I guess. The ball is in my court. I hate that expression. Anytime I’ve tried to play tennis, I spend the whole time running around and chasing the ball. It’s never actually in anyone’s court.

Fear, willfulness, possessiveness. Uh-huh. Dogs and humans, we’re ALL a big mess of feelings. But love, too, and don’t forget it.

You’re not here, and it’s strange, period, because after that time when you stood up to my father, you were part of our family. Don’t you think? That summer, after you and my father faced off in the driveway, all of us spent time together. Ben and me gave Mom that rubber raft, the SS
Monarch
, for her fortieth birthday, remember? She’d always gone on about how she loved the one she and Aunt Gaby had when they were in high school. How they’d float around Lake Washington. How she inflated it in Aunt Hannah’s room and filled it with their old stuffed animals on April Fools’ Day.
So Ben and I bought that raft and filled it with our stuffed animals, and it made her cry. The SS
Monarch
—I’m only guessing why she named it that, but butterflies are trapped first, before they are free.

But we all took that raft to Marcy Lake. We tied it to the top of the Bermuda Honda. We almost lost it on the way over, when it lifted up like a plane taking off. We had to ride the rest of the way holding on to it out our windows. I think that’s why Ben can tie anything down to any car now and it won’t move an inch. Right? Not an inch. Doesn’t want a repeat of the SS
Monarch
trip down to Marcy Lake.

Then, ha—there we were, all packed in that raft, floating around and trying to eat a picnic lunch in there, elbows knocking against elbows. Mom got out to swim, and barely could get back over the round hump of the boat’s side. We had to grab her thighs and heave, as she tried to scootch, scootch in, wet skin over inflated rubber. You were
really
part of our family after that little scene.

And we floated around the river too, down by that park a few miles from home. We hiked. You came
with us when we tromped up to Moon Point, where the paragliders take off. I thought we were going to have to call an aid car for Mom, but she huffed and complained and made it all the way up there. We spread out on the grass and watched the colored parachutes lift up into the wind. The treetops and the valley spread out down below in a landscape quilt. We took pictures of ourselves out there. Mom hung them in our kitchen too, remember? They’re packed in a box somewhere now.

You were part of our family, but finally it was just you and me too. After that day in our driveway with my father, we would get into your car and drive. Your dad’s old hand-me-down Mercedes, the most odd boy-car match ever. We’d go out toward the mountains, head to the pass just outside our town. We’d get lost. And we’d park there, in lost. Away. Escape. I loved that. But a lost-away-escape that was more safe than any found.

You seemed to know where you were going when you were driving. Did you?
How
did you? You drove so responsibly, too. You drove like a businessman. You never rode people’s butts or swore. You were very calm. You’d offer Altoids like a businessman too. You’d turn off onto some
road that looked like it went nowhere, but there’d be a hidden park or something. In your car, things would get a little out of control between us. I wasn’t anyone’s little sister anymore. I was yours, you were mine, and …

“We have everything we could want,” you said.

“More,” I said.

We had to work hard at finding places to be alone. Yeah, there were times when we were all together with my family, and times when it was you and me and Ben like the old days, and times at your house, and with your friends, and at your swim meets and games. But …

“There are always too many people,” you said.

“Way,” I said.

So we’d get into the car, or go to Marcy Lake, or drive down some horror-movie dark road, just so that it could be me and you and no one else. We’d roll down the windows and listen to crickets and coyotes and smell the deep sweetness of darkness and nighttime rain and ferns rolling up for sleep.
The breeze would rustle the leaves and evergreen boughs, and we’d sit there until you’d grab my knee suddenly to scare me, biting the back of my neck vampire-like, which probably meant the solitary road and the endless dark was giving you the creeps too. Not that you’d admit it. Growing up out there, growing up around horses and with your father—you could handle an ax and chop wood and discard the remains of a dead rabbit, so you “had cojones” (to use your dad’s expression). You hated when the right song could make you cry. Don’t worry. Our secret.

Of course my father hated you. He never said it, but when he found out you were my boyfriend (that word—it still gives me some stupid, shimmery thrill), he was pissed. He purposefully left you out of any invitations. That one Thanksgiving dinner, yeah. And he didn’t even speak to you the whole time. You spent the holiday pretending not to notice. We fought that night. Too many things we wanted to say to other people so we said them to each other instead.

I hated it that he hated you. I wanted to sit down and explain you to him, and him to you. But I’ll tell you something, Janssen. I loved it too. I loved
that he hated you. You were a stone wall, a fort in high, unreachable trees, an island, my own island, that no boat could reach. I loved that.

You hated him right back. You did the part I couldn’t.

And then the salmon hatchery, remember that? We walked around and watched silvery little fish fly in the air and attempt the impossible. The odds against making such a long trip, surviving …

“It’s a long way from here to there,” I said. You had lifted me up until I stood atop a bench, and I was bent down toward you, and your arms were around my knees.

“Here?” You rubbed my lips with your finger. “To here?” You kissed me. Janssen, you’re an amazing kisser, you know that.

“No, those fish,” I said. But I could hardly concentrate on them anymore.

“It doesn’t matter if we’re young. If you love someone, and it’s right … We can make it the whole way, Crick.”

“Well, I know I love you,” I said.

“And I love you,” you said, and lifted me back to the ground again.

It wasn’t the first time we said it. No, that was in your yard, by the horses. We’d said it many times by then. But it felt more important than it had before. We’d decided something.

I didn’t think I could feel any closer to you than I did right then, as some game warden in tan clothes walked around the hatchery and as some little kid broke free from his father’s hand and ran forward to pound on the glass windows where you could see the fish swimming underwater.

I was sure I couldn’t feel any closer, or more bound to you. But I could. I would. Soon after that. Oh, God, you know where this story is going.

I’m glad you had such a good time on your hike to Mt. Rainier. But who is Alyssa?

Love always,

Cricket

“A divorce? How can my parents be getting a divorce?” Dan’s golf-course green back was bent over as he sat on the couch, his head in his hands.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” Mom said.

She had her hand clasped over her mouth. She met my eyes, shook her other hand in front of her, to indicate that I shouldn’t say a word. She was struggling—I knew the look. It was the same one she’d gotten during Ben’s orchestra concert when Jonathon Yamaguchi was playing his difficult violin solo in that silent auditorium, and then someone’s mother in front of us farted. It was the same look she got when that vigorous college recruiter came from Tufts and asked the crowd to shake hands with our neighbor and give three reasons why Tufts was terrific. It was the same look she got, that I got, that Ben got,
whenever we had to go to a wedding or a funeral. She’d be trying to find the page in the church hymn book until the song was practically over, with her shoulders shaking up and down, and with that look, that very one, on her face.

“Stop laughing, Daisy,” Dan said.

“No, I mean it. I’m really sorry,” she said. She looked down in her lap, but I could still see the corner of her mouth tipped up.

“They’ve grown apart? What does that mean?” Jane said. She was sitting on the other couch, rubbing the knuckles of her hand. Her face was pale, and her makeup cried off.

“They’ve been married for sixty-five years!” Dan said.

“Maybe they stayed together for the sake of the
grand
-children,” Mom sputtered. She could only hold back hilarity and suppressed one-liners so long. She was really cracking up now. She had to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand.

Dan whacked her with a pillow.

Amy leaned in the doorway. “It’s hardly
funny
.”

Going out,
I mouthed to Mom, and gestured outside with my thumb. Mom had sobered up quick with the rebuke from the endlessly disapproving fifteen-year-old who was about to become her stepdaughter. It was a sobering thought, all right, or else the laughter was gone because she was considering the jail sentence for walloping the kid.
Someone
should. Was Dan just keeping his mouth shut in front of a large audience, or did he not even see the war-torn land developing between his daughters and my mother, the dead bodies of soldiers gathering, the burning trees? Maybe he had some fatherly garbage
chute, where snotty comments efficiently disappeared, and where the bad smell was waved away into the high, hazy sky of forgotten. Here was a worry: Jon Jakes never noticed those comments either.

Outside, the lanterns were still lit, but the party had ended quickly after Dan’s ancient mother arrived. Everyone ate fast and disappeared. Gram and Aunt Bailey were “tuckered out.” Grandpa and George were going into town to see if the Possession Point Pub was open. Ben headed to the tent with Oscar, Gavin, and Hailey to play Circus Racers with the new controllers. Amy eventually went to her room. I’d gone up to mine, too, but after I shut my laptop, it felt too lonely up there.
Me, Jackson, Devon, and Alyssa hiked up Rainier …

I headed down the boardwalk. The tent gang was probably having the most fun. Circus Racers, why not?

“Hey,” Ash said.