Stella
Careful to avoid the fifth step of the outdoor metal staircase, I hop onto the sixth step, and rust sprinkles to the blacktop below. Joss walks in front of me and she’s slow going up the steps because she’s doing that stupid hip sway to catch the eye of the guy who lives in the apartment below her. The sad part is, he’s watching, but I don’t think he’s the kind of guy she should aim for.
“He doesn’t have a job,” I tell her when she reaches the second-floor walk and stops the stupid butt roll.
“You don’t know that. He could be a superstar living off residual checks.” Joss slides the key into the lock of her apartment door, but it’s a meaningless gesture since the lock broke last month and the door will open with the slightest push. We both agreed to continue with the show of unlocking and locking for security reasons. “There are many theories as to why he’s always home.”
“Like he sells crack?” I mumble under my breath.
“Heard that,” she sings. Joss nudges the door open and struts into her one-bedroom apartment. “Anyway, he doesn’t have enough class for crack. I’m leaning toward meth.”
“My mistake. I get the dealer’s social classes mixed up.”
Joss laughs and begins to root through the cupboards, pulling out boxes of crackers and Pop-Tarts to assess expiration dates. “Hungry for dinner?”
“Sure.”
It’s a tiny place that’s five code violations beyond being condemned. Last year, the stupid landlord painted the lone window shut, making our little ant trap a fire hazard. The living room slash kitchen is the same size as most walk-in closets and the only bedroom barely fits a twin-size bed. My knees hit the sink when I sit on the toilet, but unlike the other units, Joss keeps the space homey thanks to her fascination with carousels. She’s found several paintings of them at yard sales.
“I talked to that guy at the car dealership today,” says Joss. “He said if you can enter that co-op program at school that he’d get you on part-time during the day and then you can have a full-time job as soon as you graduate.”
“Awesome.” Though internally the awesomeness of it is lost on me. It’s as if someone’s wrapped a plastic bag over my head and air is no longer a privilege. “Thanks for setting it up.”
“No problem.” Joss pitches a box of crackers into the garbage. “A girl’s gotta work.”
“Yep.” It wasn’t until this moment that I realized I was buying into that college crap the guidance counselors cram down our throats.
I plop onto the gray couch and dust scatters into the air along with the scent of mildew. Joss and I salvaged this fine piece of furniture near the dumpster on eviction day last month. I bet the great Jonah Jacobson doesn’t smell mildew when he lounges on his couch. He and his little group of friends have tortured me since elementary school and I hate them for it.
Well, not exactly Jonah, but more his friends. They tell jokes with me as the punch line and I’ve seen him laugh...and sometimes not laugh. No one’s tormented me since last year—the same time that Jonah shoved his hands in his pockets and kicked the ground when Cooper asked if I bought my jeans at a sale at Goodwill.
I flipped Cooper off and told him that I heard his girlfriend was cheating on him. Which it turns out was true.
Even though Jonah didn’t laugh, he’s as bad as everyone else. He never tells anyone to back off. The weird part is, for about five minutes today, I almost felt like I made a friend. “Do you think people can change?”
“No.” Joss opens a box of wannabe Frosted Flakes. “That’s why I’m throwing my business around for the jerk downstairs. Your daddy is going to be around soon.”
My head snaps up and my heart squeezes to the point of pain. “You heard from my dad?”
Joss points a newly painted fingernail at me. She may not have money for a better apartment, but she does pay for manicures. Guys, she says, notice those things. “Nope. Don’t do it, Stella. Don’t go getting sentimental over the man. He abandoned you...again.”
It’s the again that stings. My dad, he’s the only thing besides Joss I’ve got, and I’m not a moron about why Joss lets me stay. We both suffer from the same delusional issue: we love a man who doesn’t or can’t or is unable to love us the same way in return. Joss keeps me around because if I’m here, Dad will eventually roll into town and into her life.
“So...” I take a deep breath then hedge, “Dad’s coming back?”
“I hear hope,” says Joss. “Kill it and kill it now. Hope is a deadly snake with fangs of poison.”
“How literary,” I reply.
The evil glare she throws me shuts me up. “I mean what I said, but yes, your dad called me at the club last night and said he’s heading back.”
I bite my bottom lip, not wanting to ask, and yet I do. “Did he ask about me?”
One heartbeat goes by. Another. Each one is like a shard of glass ripping through my chest.
“Yes,” she finally answers. “And he’s called a couple of times over the past few months to make sure I’m still giving you a place to crash, but this is the first time he said he’s returning. But it could mean nothing. He could have sobered up and forgotten he called.”
A large rush of air escapes from my mouth. He’s been gone six months this time. Maybe the next time he won’t be away as long. Where he goes or what he does when he leaves, I’ll probably never know...or want to know. Sometimes he returns looking like he barely escaped the grim reaper. The last time, he detoxed from something so bad that he shook for two out of the three weeks he was home.
The expression on Joss’s face mirrors my balled-up and twisted insides, so I kind of change the subject. “What’s my dad coming back have to do with the male crack whore downstairs?”
“Here.” Joss drops into the spot beside me and offers me the box of cereal. “It’s only a month past expiration.”
I take the box, but I’ve lost my appetite. She tosses a few flakes into her mouth and when she’s done crunching she looks at me. “If I don’t find another guy to hold my hand when your dad shows, he and I will end up in the exact same position as before and I don’t think that’s a good place to be.”
Meaning they’ll fall completely tangled together in that twin bed and then she’ll end up in there alone crying her eyes out when he leaves again. Joss is in her late twenties and Dad’s in his mid-thirties, but together they add up to a mess.
My throat constricts. “Do you want me to leave?”
Because if I’m gone, he won’t stay here. He’ll find me...and a new girlfriend to con. But the scary part is, if Joss kicks me out, I’ll have run out of suitable ex-girlfriends. They’d probably let me crash if I showed, but I value my life and some of those places have the ingredients for the headlining story on the eleven o’clock news. My only hope for a stable home lies in Joss’s stubborn feelings for my deadbeat dad.
Lines form on Joss’s forehead. “No. I want him to come back. Maybe this time he’ll stay.”
He won’t. He never has, but I keep that to myself.
Joss’s brown eyes stare straight into mine. “Don’t become me, Stella. Don’t you dare ever hope for more. There’s no such thing as living happily ever after or pulling yourself up by your bootstraps. The world is how it is and there always has to be bottom-feeders. People like you and me, we’re it, and the world might want us to believe we can have more, but the moment we try to break out of the water they’ll shove us down into the mud. It’s better to know the truth. It hurts less if you accept society’s crappy rules.”
I start school tomorrow. Graduate in the spring. Joss may be older than me, but I’ve lived this type of life longer. Yet even with all the years of experience, deep down inside, I’ve hoped to become more. “Sounds a little pessimistic.”
“No, not pessimistic. Realistic.”
Jonah
There’s a spot saved for me in the driveway outside the two-car garage, but what makes me circle the block for the fifth time are the four cars parked on the street in front of my house.
Being obsessed with new houses, my parents built this place three years ago. We’ve moved six times in the past seventeen years. My parents stick to the same area of town, sometimes a few miles from where we lived before, but it’s always newer and bigger.
What I never noticed before today is how the houses in this neighborhood are clones: red bricks, black roofs, large windows on the first and second stories, and columned porches. Baffles me that I never paid attention before or that anyone would spend so much on the unoriginal.
Thanks, James Cohen. Once again, the world as I know it has changed.
I round the corner again. My house comes into view and so does my younger sister, Martha. In a blue sundress, with her brown hair styled as if she’s on the way to prom, she waits next to the brick mailbox by the street. If she’s dressed up that means bad news for me.
By the other three cars, I knew Todd, Jeff and Brad were here, but I’d assumed that the missing Camaro equaled a missing Cooper. The fourth car’s a mystery, but it could be anyone: a friend of Mom’s, a business associate of Dad’s, but my sister’s choice in clothing suggests Cooper’s in the house and she needs me in order to have the courage to stand near him.
Gripping the steering wheel tighter than I should, I ease into the driveway and turn off the engine. Home sweet home. Until Mom decides to move again.
I exit the car, and Martha’s in my grill before I can shut the driver’s side door. “Where have you been?”
“Driving.” It’s better than telling the truth, that I visited the cemetery again. Not a good answer when everyone’s in the dark about me visiting at all.
“Well, Mom texted you and so did I. Why are you ignoring us?”
Crap. My phone. I pull it out of my pocket and power it on. Sure enough, the message icon pops onto the screen. “Sorry. I must have turned it off by mistake.”
Not a mistake. I crave silence, not Mom asking if I need anything for the millionth time.
Martha focuses on the ground and does that thing with her toe that shows she’s nervous—like she’s squishing an ant with her foot. “Cooper’s here.”
She’s barely sixteen and he’s eighteen. She’s bright-eyed and innocent and he’s Cooper. I’d shatter his face with my fist if he asked her out or if he mistakenly dreamed of touching her like he’s touched half the girls in school. For some reason, I force a smile instead of letting the angry thoughts tumble out of my mouth.
“Why is he here?” I nod to the other cars. “Why are any of them here?”
Martha’s glare would set tropical rainforests on fire. “Cooper’s your friend.”
“Yeah, he is, and so are the rest of them. Last I checked, I wasn’t home and I didn’t invite them over.”
Her anger washes away. “We’re all worried about you. You aren’t acting right.”
The muscles in my back cramp. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not. Even Cooper said it.”
That stops me short. “When were you talking to Cooper?”
Martha’s cheeks redden. “I don’t know. A week or so after the accident. He called looking for you and like always these days, you weren’t home so we talked...about you.”
I step forward and tower over her. “You don’t need to be talking to Cooper.”
“He’s your friend,” she hisses with venom.
For the second time today, I wonder why I’m his friend. The guy treats girls like toilet paper and he should know better than to creep on my sister.
“You don’t smile like you mean it anymore,” she continues. “You’re quiet and you don’t go out with anyone. He’s worried about you and so am I. I mean, you never invite your friends over anymore.”
“Who are you really concerned for, me or you?”
Pain slashes across her face and I immediately regret the statement. What the hell is wrong with me? “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“But you did,” she whispers. After a few blinks, she lifts her chin and stares at me like she wishes I didn’t matter. For a few seconds, I wish the same thing. It wasn’t my goal to hurt her.
“Mom invited them over for dinner,” she says. “She thought it would cheer you up.”
Martha’s starter heels click against the stone driveway as she pivots away from me and heads for the house. She tried wearing real heels last spring and tripped over her own feet and into a coffee table in front of my friends. They laughed. She cried. I did nothing.
“You’re too good for him,” I call out.
My sister trembles like she’s on the verge of a seizure before she turns around. “What are you talking about?”
I don’t know. What is my deal today with not keeping my mouth shut? Martha’s crushed on Cooper since we were young, and I’ve ignored it, but seeing Stella...seeing James Cohen’s grave again...I bet he would have been the kind of guy who protected his sister.
I force myself to join Martha. Her eyes plead with me to give her hope, causing my shoulders to roll forward as I smash my hands into my pockets. Who am I to step in? It’s her life, right? “No one’s going to be good enough for you.”
This light forms in Martha’s eyes and air rushes out of my lungs when she rams her body into mine, both arms glued around me. “I love you, Jonah.”
I still, and I don’t like the surge of guilt crawling into my bloodstream. She tells me she loves me while I say nothing about her standing in front of an oncoming train because she’s worshipping the worst guy at school.
This affection thing—Martha and I don’t do it. Screw that. I don’t do affection with anyone. Girls I used to date would get pissed because I wouldn’t hug or kiss them in public. Even Mom and Dad have caught on that I won’t hold hands during prayers at church.
I lay my fingers on her shoulder to try to detach her from me, but she squeezes tighter.
“When the police showed at the house that night and said there had been an accident, I freaked. I thought...” her voice breaks. “I thought they were coming to tell us you were dead and I didn’t want that. I realized I didn’t want that.”
My eyes slam shut. I didn’t die that night. James Cohen did and somewhere he probably has a sister who can’t hug him. He’d hug her. Maybe he wasn’t the kind of guy who did before, but if he was here, he would now.
I wrap one arm around her and awkwardly hug her back. We’ve never done this before and while I should be grateful for it, I’m ready to be done.
I clear my throat. “Let’s go eat.”
We enter the kitchen through the garage and sweat breaks out along my hairline at the amount of people in the kitchen. I don’t usually have this type of reaction and I rub at my neck in an effort to force it away.
It’s my parents and my friends. More than Todd, Jeff, Brad and Cooper. Other guys I’ve hung with over the years are here, too. A couple of guys from Todd’s basketball team. A couple from Jeff’s football team. A few girls are mixed in. Some are girlfriends of the guys. Some people I’ve known since kindergarten. Crap—two exes skulk along the periphery. All of them are people I have spent time with, but not people I prefer to see today.
Or even tomorrow.
My mind jumps back to Stella, the cemetery and the brief few minutes of peace I had while sitting under the shade tree next to a dead girl named Lydia. I’d give everything to have those moments now.
Martha grabs my hand and shoots me a weird look, possibly because of the clammy condition of my skin. Instead of acknowledging it, she smiles and announces to the crowd, “He’s here!”
And they clap. All of them. Some shout my name. I step back and a hand slamming ont
o my shoulder blade keeps me from withdrawing into the garage. I spot Dad behind me. He’s the older spitting image of me, and he’s smiling from ear to ear. He pats me on the shoulder again. “You should have told us.”
“Told you?” I echo.
He holds balloons and they bob as he yanks them through the door. Then I notice the other helium balloons in the kitchen and the sign hanging from the archway into the dining room: We love you, Jonah!
I run a hand over my face. “It’s not my birthday.”
“Duh,” says Martha as she finally lets go of me and wanders over to Cooper. He cups his hands over his mouth and shouts my name, which brings on another round of applause. The sound thunders in my head like I’m being trampled in the middle of a stampede.
A wave of dizziness crashes into my head and it takes everything I have not to bend over and hold myself up by pressing my hands to my knees. What the hell is going on?
In her Sunday best, Mom walks through the crowded kitchen with a huge smile on her face. The type she reserves for the priest after service or for Martha when she gets straight As. “We are so proud of you, Jonah.”
“Proud?” It’s like I’ve morphed into a parrot, only able to repeat what’s been said.
Mom tosses her black hair over her shoulder before looping her arm through mine. She’s gesturing to someone I never wanted to meet again: a woman, mid-twenties, with golden hair in two thick braids. She abandoned James Cohen and me after she said the sight of blood made her queasy. Seeing her again makes me want to vomit.
She shifts under my glare and a refined woman with her hair slicked back into a bun whispers something to her.
“Who’s that?” I jerk my thumb toward the woman in the business suit.
“That’s Mrs. Sawyer. She’s a reporter,” answers Mom. “And you know the other woman, Sonya. She told us what happened at the accident scene. And she also told Mrs. Sawyer. They think, like we all do, that what you did that night was inspiring. The world should know what a great man you’ve become.”