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Mom and Dad ended the interview, informing her that we could reschedule once I’d had time to process my thoughts. No one seemed concerned when I stated that I wasn’t interested in rescheduling. Interview about goodwill and uplifting inspiration, my ass. Everyone craves the same sickening detail: What was it like when he died?
“Heard the University of Kentucky might be ranked in the top five going into the preseason,” I say. Sports I can discuss. The accident? No go.
Cooper dips his hamburger into a blob of ketchup. “I’m thinking one or two. Florida State may be in the top three.”
My best friend since childhood meets my eyes before taking a bite of his burger. This stuff with James Cohen, and Stella, and my sister crushing on Cooper, it has me messed up. Yeah, Coop’s got issues, but he’s the guy who’s had my back in the past and the one watching it now.
“Is it true?” asks a guy farther down the long table. “Did that guy bleed to death while you were there?”
Cooper drops his burger. “You’re an ass.”
I lower my head and rub my eyes, swallowing as if that would loosen the knot in my throat. But closing my eyes was a bad idea, because it’s James Cohen’s face that I see. He was scared when he died. Plain desperate. I can’t erase the fear that pulsated from him. It was nothing like death in the movies and it haunts me.
I stand so abruptly that the chair beneath me squeaks like nails on a chalkboard. A lot of people stare, but I don’t care. “I’ve gotta go.”
As I reach the door, I spot Stella. The book’s in her lap, her sandwich on the plate, and her eyes are fixed on me.
Stella
Eleven years of education and I’ve never had homework on the first day. Stupid math teacher. Being different in her case is overrated.
Because it helps Rick feel useful, he checks my Calculus homework and nods every so often, a sure sign I did something right. Rick used to be a genuine professor.
On the ground, I lean against the grave marker next to his beloved Juliette while he sits in the lawn chair he lugs everyday with him from his rusty ol’ pick-up.
Rick plucks his straw hat from his head and scratches the white hair behind his ear. He’ll be eighty-nine next month and his kids are threatening to take his truck away simply because of his age. They’re wrong. He’s agile and alert. Even though he grieves for his wife, he’s more alive than most people I know.
With a smile on his face that makes me wish we were related, Rick hands me back my paper. “You have a brain in there, Miss Stella.”
“Thanks.” I take it from him and drop it into my folder.
A breeze blows through the trees, the sound like waves crashing against the beach at the ocean...or at least what I dream the ocean would sound like. Going to the ocean, it’s one of my bucket-list goals. The gust of air is welcome as it cools the sweat forming along the roots of my hair.
“See how the leaves turn up?” Rick points to the maple near Lydia’s grave. “That means a storm’s coming—a bad one.”
“A storm’s always coming,” I state. “Some don’t have rain.”
Nope, some come in the form of my father arriving and leaving. Some come in the form of a boy in my American Lit class.
“True,” he responds, peering at the white marble that marks the love of his life’s grave. “How true.”
“Any other signs? Wooly worms moving en masse toward the east? Horses neighing near midnight?” I ask quickly to keep Rick distracted from dwelling on Juliette. He’s a Farmers’ Almanac enthusiast and can talk about superstitious crap all day long.
“Birds on a telephone wire.” He tilts his head to the row of birds hanging out on the nearest line. “Sure sign of rain. Plus the sky was red this morning.”
“So?”
“Red at night, sailor’s delight. Red in the morning, sailors take warning.”
The sound of a car motor silences both of us and we watch as the black Charger eases over the speed bumps and parks behind Rick’s older-than-me F-150.
“He’s back,” says Rick.
“Yep.” I kind of hoped he wouldn’t be. At the same time, a few little green worms weave a little cocoon in my stomach, threatening to morph into butterflies.
Jonah slips out of his car, rises to his full six feet, and stretches out those beautifully muscled arms of his. Good Lord, he’s got to lift every stinking day of his life. Those dang worms in my stomach sure move out of pupal stage fast as the butterflies take flight.
“Do you think people can change?” I ask Rick.
