The Sweetness of Salt

C
ECILIA
G
ALANTE

This book is dedicated to Josie, Therese, and Margaret:
my sisters, my heart, my life.

“We dance round in a ring and suppose;
But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.”
R
OBERT
F
ROST

“Sometimes the best laid plans of mice and men go awry.”
R
OBERT
B
URNS

part

one

chapter

1

“Julia!” Mom leaped up from the couch as I walked through the front door. “I was wondering when you’d get back. What took so long?”

I glanced down at my watch and sidestepped my way over to the stairs. “Mrs. Soprano is in charge of graduation practice this year. She made us all line up and then walk across the stage
three
times. Like we’re in kindergarten or something.”

Behind Mom, I could see my bright gold graduation robe spread out over one arm of the couch, the hem folded back neatly. No, no, no. There was no time for this now. Milo was probably already in the window seat, a book resting on his knees. His worn-out Converse sneakers would be pushed comfortably up against the corner wall, while his honey-ribboned hair flopped across his forehead. I had to get up there. Now. I lunged up the steps, two at a time. “I’ll talk to you later, Mom, okay? I have some stuff I have to do.”

Mom took the needle and thread out from between her teeth.

“Wait a second, will you?” Mom turned around and grabbed my robe off the couch. “Just try this on for me real quick. I hemmed the bottom where it was loose, and I want to make sure it’s even all the way around.”

I paused at the top of the steps. “Later, okay? I got this great idea on the way home for the end of my speech, and I want to write it down before I forget.”

Mom paused, her small blue eyes crinkling around the corners. “Oh. Well, why didn’t you say that? After dinner, all right?”

“Great.” I turned, ready to head into my room.

“Oh, and Julia?”

“What?”

“You have it memorized, don’t you? Your speech, I mean?”

“Yes. I have it memorized, Mom. Don’t worry.”

She ran a hand through her short brown hair and then rested it on the hip of her purple sweat jacket. Beneath the hall light, I could see the tiny cord attached to the hearing aid in her left ear, something she’d had to wear even before I was born. As the founder of the neighborhood walking club, Mom was fit and strong, but sometimes, like then, when I caught a glimpse of her hearing aid, she looked a little fragile.

“I’m not worried, honey,” she said. “It’s just…well, the valedictorian has to be prepared, you know? When all is said and done, it’s kind of your day, Julia. You have to make sure you sound really professional. I mean, to the hilt.”

I sighed. “I won’t sound like anything, Mom, if you don’t let me work.”

“Go!” she said, tapping the step. “Work away! I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

I closed the door carefully to my room and then locked it. Mom had a habit of forgetting to knock sometimes, barging into my room with an armful of clean laundry or something she’d brought home from the florist, where she worked a few days a week. Some days I came home to find arrangements of sunflowers or dried seed pod wreaths arranged on my desk. I didn’t need that today. Not right now.

I walked over to my window and drew back the curtain ever so slightly. Oh God, there he was, right there, in the window across the street, just like he was every afternoon at this time. I withdrew a small notebook from the bottom drawer of my dresser, positioned my chair in front of the window, and opened the curtains. With everything in its place I set my feet against the windowsill, rested my tablet against my knees, and began.

Milo was easy to draw, not just because he was beautiful, but because he sat still for so long. At least during this time of the day. During school he raced from person to person, laughing and joking, always in on—and usually a part of—whatever new thing was happening. Just last week, he’d been voted Mr. Personality by the senior class. The nickname, I thought wistfully, fit him. But I wondered how many people knew this side of him, this secret-reader side. Every once in a while he would put his book down and just stare out the window. Those were the times I lived for most, when his profile turned suddenly, revealing the whole of his face: the long Roman nose, widely set green eyes that looked out from behind a pair of brown glasses, and the dimple in his left cheek, an indentation so deep that when his sister Zoe, his younger sister, told me she had been able to fit a peanut M&M into it, I’d actually believed her.

The pencil moved across the page swiftly, my hand knowing where the slope of Milo’s cheekbone began and how the curve of his chin dipped narrowly in the center. Soon, his eye appeared, the lashes framing an almond-shaped lid. I shaded most of the iris, leaving tiny speckle-points of white where I knew the lightest points were, and started on the other one.

My mind began to drift in the easy way it always did when I drew, wondering what book he was immersed in today. This morning, on the way to school, I’d watched from the backseat of Zoe’s car as he opened
Carrie
again. Lately he’d been reading a lot of Stephen King, which surprised me because his head was usually buried inside a book of poetry. Milo read poetry the way Zoe drank Dr Pepper, first thing every morning on the way to school and then steadily on the way back home. Walt Whitman. Anne Sexton. Sylvia Plath. Ralph Waldo Emerson. He read poets I hadn’t even heard of, like Mary Oliver and W. H. Auden, Billy Elliot and Sharon Olds, writers he called the “scary truth tellers.” Every once in a while he would look up and recite some line he liked. He’d just say it—whether Zoe and I were listening or not—and then leave it hanging there, like a tiny cord of stars strung on the dashboard.

Did he do that kind of thing for Cheryl Hanes? I tried to picture him at the foot of his girlfriend’s staircase, arm outstretched as he recited Emerson or Whitman up to her. The thing was, I could not imagine Cheryl—who, despite being the most beautiful girl in the senior class, had a brain like a bag of rocks—actually sticking around long enough to hear it. Cheryl didn’t get poetry—or literature of any kind. It bored her. Once, in ninth grade, she’d actually asked our English teacher if Mark Twain was related to Shania Twain. I doubted Milo had heard about that one.

But I guess it didn’t matter. The rules of high school dating were the same everywhere: the prettiest girls always got the pick of the lot. The rest of us had to make do—whether we liked it or not. And so I made do with watching Milo from afar.

Then, a few days before Christmas, while we were waiting in the parking lot for Zoe to come out of the building, Milo turned and handed me a small, stiff piece of paper. I had been staring at the freckles on the back of his neck, which were arranged exactly like the Little Dipper, and wondering what he would do if I reached out and touched one. Actually, I thought, he probably wouldn’t even notice. Half the time he seemed surprised when he caught sight of me in the backseat, as if he had forgotten completely that I tagged along in his sister’s car every day. “Here,” he said, talking to my knees. “I thought you might like this. Merry Christmas.”

I glanced down at it. There, in tiny cramped handwriting, was the line:
“nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.”
Around the words, like a frame, were curly vines and leaves of all different sizes. They had been drawn with a felt-tip marker, and some of the edges were smudged.

“I didn’t write it,” Milo said. “It’s by a poet named e. e. cummings. He’s one of my favorites. One of the scary truth tellers.”

I didn’t understand what the words meant.

How could rain have hands?

But it was for me.

From him.

And I knew it meant everything. “I love it,” I whispered. “Thank you.”

He looked up at me and smiled, the dimple in his left cheek deepening. For a split second, I wanted to lean forward and put both of my lips over that dimple. But of course I didn’t.

At the beginning of May, Cheryl and Milo broke up. There were lots of rumors going around—Cheryl was getting too clingy, Milo was flirting with other girls—but Milo himself never said a word about it. He didn’t say much at all actually, until one day, when he turned around again in the car and asked me if I wanted to go to the prom with him. Just as friends, of course. Just to go, since we were both seniors.

I didn’t sleep for two days. Mom took me shopping for a dress, and I listened with half an ear as she yammered on about delicate necklines—nothing V-necked, nothing cleavage-baring—and long white gloves. To me, the dress—and even the prom itself—was secondary. It was Milo I wanted. Just him. Nothing else.

He spent most of the night dancing like a crazy person out on the dance floor with his buddies, but he’d rested his hand on my arm twice. Once, just before he’d asked if I wanted something to drink from the soda bar, and then again, when he asked me if I wanted to slow dance. Both times, a heat had traveled through my arm, straight to my stomach, until I felt like my whole body was glowing.

And then, in the car on the way home, as we parked in front of my house, he’d said that he wanted to tell me something. The street light behind us threw a shadow over his face. He’d taken off that silly red tuxedo tie, and a faint sheen of perspiration gleamed along his jaw. I didn’t wait for him to say anything more. Instead, that same longing I’d felt in the car at Christmas reared its head again. This time, I leaned over and kissed him.
Really
kissed him. Like, pressed myself against the front of him, flattened both my hands against the lapels of his tux, and leaned in with my whole weight, kissed him. I could taste Certs against the heat of his tongue.

But he’d pulled away, looked at me with liquid eyes that I could not read.

I held my breath, waiting.

“I’m sorry…,” he started, shaking his head a little. “I just…”

I turned and bolted, mortified that I’d misunderstood.

That was in May.

Today was June fourth.

He hadn’t said another word to me since.

I closed my sketch book, stood up, and walked over to my dresser. Taped in the corner was Milo’s little cardboard note. I ran my fingertips lightly over the words: “
no one, not even the rain…
” and closed my eyes. I would give up anything, I thought, even being introduced tomorrow in front of a crowd of eight hundred people as the valedictorian of Silver Springs High School, if I could kiss Milo again—and have him kiss me back. For real this time.

“Jules?” My doorknob rattled softly, followed by a light knock on the door. “Are you in there?”

I threw the sketch pad in my bottom drawer again and snatched my speech from off the top of my desk. “Yeah, I’m here. I’m working, Mom.” I rattled the papers loudly for good measure.

She sighed. “Okay. Dad just got home. We’re eating in ten minutes. Swiss steak with buttered noodles. Your favorite.”

“All right. Be right there.”

I stared back out the window.

But Milo had disappeared.