What else is new?
“And I think she might be onto me. That’s why she lied. She may know I helped you.”
This is worse news. “So she knows I’m alive?”
“I’m not sure. But you should definitely lay low.”
“How much lower can I lay? I’m in total hiding.” I have another horrible thought. “Does she know I’m here? Are the Guzmans in danger?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?” I glance at Isabella, sweet Isabella asleep in her bed, her French braids still intact. “How about you know instead of thinking? I can’t put them at risk.”
“I’ll find somewhere else for you to stay, another place, another town. Just don’t talk to anyone right now. Don’t even trust me if I come to your window.”
I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t have trusted her in the first place, but I don’t say it. She’s trying to help. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t even know about Violet’s intentions. I’d probably be dead. My head is awhirl with jumbled feelings, but mostly regret, regret that I have to leave here, leave the people I love, people who have protected me. Goose, whom I adore despite his recent meanness. Yet I don’t see any other way.
“How will I hear from you?” I ask.
“Through the mirror, only the mirror,” Kendra says.
And then, she’s gone.
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21
I stumble back to bed and find the mirror under my pillow, as I knew it would be. But now I can’t sleep at all. I have to go away. I have to leave to protect the Guzmans. It’s not fair to them. I should rest up, then sneak away in the morning. It’s hours before I sleep again, and then, I am awakened too soon, by a hand in the darkness.
“Celine?”
Goose. He’s climbed up the ladder even though he’s afraid of heights. He nudges my shoulder. I smell that citrus cologne he’s been wearing.
I have never been good at giving people the silent treatment. When Laurel and I would fight, we’d say we were never speaking again. That would last an hour. I can never handle someone I love being mad at me. One of the most heartbreaking things about my father’s death is that I was so mean to him. I would have broken—if he hadn’t died. I don’t want to leave on bad terms with Goose. I may never see him again.
So I say, “What, Goose?” not even sounding mad.
“I’m so sorry. I . . . it wasn’t you. I had a crap day. I got a D on a pre-calc quiz.”
“A D?” He’s good at math, usually. At least, he understands the chem math a lot better than I do. “Ask if you can do extra credit, maybe.”
“Yeah, maybe. That’s not the point. The point is, I was a douche, and I’m sorry. I’m upset that you’re leaving, mainly.” He doesn’t know how soon I’m leaving, and I decide not to tell him. He’ll just try to get me to stay.
“Okay,” I say. “But listen. You can do stuff with your other friends, you know. Just leave me home playing ponies with Isabella. I like it, and I’m not going anywhere.” A total lie.
He tries to brace himself on the rail of the bed. “I know. I want to hang with you. Can’t you tell that I . . . ?” He stops, then drops down to the floor.
“Tell what?”
“Nothing. I don’t remember what I was going to say. But we have fun together, don’t we?”
“So much fun I ruined your grades?” I know the D is because he was hanging out with me too much.
“That’s my fault, not yours,” he says. “I know you’re lonely, no matter what you say. I’m sorry you can’t go to the concert. I know it was important to you.”
“It’s not that big a deal. I know the Jonah thing is stupid.” He must think I’m such an idiot. “I was more upset about Laurel. Laurel’s going with someone else. It feels like she forgot all about me.”
“No, she misses you.” He kicks the floor. “Shit. I forgot to tell you. I saw her the other day, and she said she misses you so much. She doesn’t understand why she hasn’t heard from you.”
“Oh, wow.” Now, I feel worse because she probably thinks I forgot all about her, and I can never tell her otherwise, tell her I miss her.
From below me, Isabella yells, “Would you guys be quiet! I’m trying to sleep. I’m going to tell Mom you were in my room.”
“Okay, I’m sorry.” Big talk from a kid whose hair I do three times a day. To Goose, I say, “I’ll come down.”
We go to the kitchen, and over Cheerios, Goose says, “Maybe they’ll do one of those 3D concert movies next year, and I can take you to it.”
I smile. “You’re so sweet.” Even though a 3D movie isn’t the same as actually being in the room with Jonah. But I think of what Kendra said. By this time next year, I will be in some other place, far away from everyone I know.
Or I could be dead.
“Listen, you’ll get out. You’ll come back here, or I’ll go to Ohio. Or even France. We’ll do stuff together. You heard what Kendra said. Violet will move on. No one’s that crazy.”
You don’t know Violet. “You’re probably right.” I don’t want him to worry any more than he already has.
“Of course I am. What are you doing today?”
Leaving. Suddenly, I just know it. I have to leave, have to protect them from Violet. That’s more important than anything else, even than seeing him again. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll practice the piano a lot. Your mom has a PTA meeting, and then, she’s taking Jeron for a checkup, so I’ll be all alone.”
“I wish I could stay home with you, so you won’t be lonely.”
“I’m fine. Really. You should go suck up to your math teacher.” Forget me.
“I will.”
I watch him trying to catch a stray Cheerio that’s floating away like a little life ring. This is probably the last time I’ll ever see him. I stare at him, memorizing his eyes, his dimple, everything about him. I don’t want to go. Yet, what choice do I have? A lock of hair falls into his face, and I reach to move it. He looks up at me, raising an eyebrow.
“Violet always told me people treat you better if your hair is neat,” I say. “Besides, it covers your beautiful eyes.”
I remember what Dorothy said to the Scarecrow: I think I’ll miss you most of all.
He smiles halfway. Our eyes meet, and for a second, we just stare at each other. He smiles big. “Yeah. My hair should be more of a priority, I guess. I should get going.”
But he stands there, still staring. Suddenly, I want to tell him lots of things, that I don’t really care about Jonah, for one. That no one in my entire life has ever been as nice as he is, for another. It’s weird that you can just meet someone, and right away, they mean so much to you. But if I say that to Goose, he’ll know something’s up, that I’m running away, and I don’t want him to know. I don’t want him to stop me. I don’t want to leave, but I have no choice.
I wish I could stay here. With him. Forever.
So I wait until he’s picked up the cereal bowls and is on his way out before I say, “I really appreciate everything you and your family have done.”
He shoulders his backpack. “Please stop thanking me. Anyone would do this, anyone decent.”
“Guess I don’t know many decent people.”
“Why don’t you get some more sleep?” he says. “I’ll see you later.”
It’s just barely light out. I say, “Okay.” I want to hug him, feel his arms around me one last time. But, instead, I wait until he closes the door, then go back to my room.
I watch him out the window, feeling like my bones may crumble, as he runs to his car in the morning rain. Then, I watch the car’s taillights get smaller and smaller until they disappear entirely.
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I lie in bed, tears running down both cheeks, my fist in my mouth so as not to wake Isabella with my sobs. I will never see him again.
And he is the only one who ever rescued me, truly rescued me when I really needed it.
I sleep, fitfully, dreaming of apples, exploding like the bomb at Hiroshima, taking me up in a mushroom cloud to the top of the world. The dreams make me sure that leaving is the only way. I’m not safe. Nothing will make me safe. At least, if I leave, I won’t endanger others. I can’t put the family I’ve come to love in danger.
When I wake, Isabella is gone, Stacey and Jeron and the boys too. I’m sorry I can’t say good-bye to them, but I can’t. I stuff my few possessions back into my backpack. I take the songbook Goose bought me, not as a souvenir of Jonah, but as a souvenir of Goose, of our time here.
I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth.
On the counter, I find a sheet of paper.
It’s a poem, the poem Goose said he’d leave for me someday. I see the title, “Going to Target With Her.” I smile and feel like I’m about to cry at the same time. It’s about that day at Target, with Willow. I’m a little surprised that he would write a poem about Willow, or leave it for me, when he said he wasn’t in love with her, when she dumped him. Then, I read it.
Going to Target With Her
Going to Target with her
Driving the ass-backward long way to Target to spend more time with her
Rather than cramming for the test I need to ace
Time I couldn’t have gotten otherwise
At Target with her
Trying on cheap, stupid, beautiful red and purple Target hats,
Trying to make her laugh and pose for pictures I take
Telling her we’re there for a different reason
Lying that we’re there for a different reason
When really, I just want to be with her
At Target with her
Hoping her tiny, white butterfly hand will brush against mine across the displays of socks and gloves,
And she’ll see me differently.
Differently than everybody else.
But she doesn’t.
Taking pictures of her trying on stupid hats
Taking selfies, but really, training my phone on only her
At Target with her
Goofing around in frozen foods
At Target with her
Her and another girl, the girl I was supposed to be at Target with
The girl I used to think I maybe liked until the first day I met her, the first time I heard her voice, the first time I talked to her
And I knew
That she was the arrow that hit the target that was my heart.
The paper smells like his cologne, just a little. Underneath the poem is a photo, a selfie Goose took that day. He’d taken it of all three of us, but in the photo, you can only see part of Willow’s arm.
Training my phone on only her.
I stare at it a second, realizing that I, not Willow, am the “her” of the poem. The poem is about me, about that day at Target. Driving the ass-backward long way. I remember how long it took to get there and, especially back, how Goose made a wrong turn on the way from Willow’s house to mine. Stupid. He asked me to go because he liked me.
Maybe loved me.
Loves me.
I remember what he said about showing me his poetry: “Okay, how about this? Someday, I might leave a poem lying somewhere, where you can find it. Just don’t ever tell me you read it, okay?”
But how could he expect me to say nothing?
I sink to the floor, reading it over and over to see if I could be wrong, yet I know I’m not.
I wanted to leave today, right now, to protect him, his family, from Violet. I love them and need to protect them. This makes it worse. He endangered himself because of how he feels about me. Yet how can I leave without talking to Goose? If I leave, he’ll think I ran away because of the poem. But that’s not it at all. Not at all.
The doorbell rings. My pulse quickens. Is it him? I know he skips sometimes, or takes
“personal days.” But he wouldn’t ring the doorbell, unless he forgot his key. I want to see him again, so much. Maybe he did forget his key. I’ll check. I start for the door, then go into the bathroom to put the poem back where I found it, facedown on the pink tiled counter. Maybe he changed his mind about showing me. Maybe he came home because he wants to get it back. I sprint for the door.
But when I bend to look out the peephole, I see only an old woman holding a Publix grocery bag of mangoes, standing in the rain.
Kendra.
I have to get her to help me leave tonight, after I talk to Goose. I open the door.
She looks confused. “Who are you?”
Not Kendra.
Through the mirror, only the mirror. That’s what Kendra said. But this isn’t Kendra. She must be the neighbor, the nice lady with the mangoes. I make up a name. “I’m, um, Mary, the Guzmans’ cousin. I’m staying with them a while.”
“Pretty girl.” With her free hand, she reaches out to touch me. She is old, with wrinkles atop her wrinkles, white hair piled on her head. I back away. Stupid. She’s just an old woman, a nice old woman. I step forward, letting her touch me. The rain is falling, but she doesn’t seem to care.
“Thank you, ma’am. Stacey’s not home.”
“I came to bring her these.” With great effort, she lifts the bag of mangoes. “Do you like mangoes?”
“I do.” They smell overripe, rotten. “We’ve been making smoothies from them.” I start to take the bag from her, but she pulls it away.
“Have one plain.” She reaches into the bag and takes out one that is mostly scarlet, about the size of her clawed hand, perfectly firm with no brown spots. “Nothing like a mango, fresh from the tree, juicy . . . succulent.”
“Thanks. I’ll have it later.”
“Oh. Okay, if you don’t like them.” But she keeps holding it out in her veiny, spotted-brown hand. “I always save the nicest ones for my neighbors, and this is the best one of all. Isn’t it pretty?”
I nod. It is beautiful, so red it almost glows. The most beautiful mango I’ve ever seen.
The old woman is looking down. She drops the hand holding the mango, slowly. “It’s just, they don’t last very long.”
It’s so ruby red.
“I . . . okay. I’ll try it.” I hate to hurt her feelings. She seems like a nice old lady.
“Just one bite. You’ve never had one fresh picked, I’ll bet. Why, when I was a little girl, we used to put a straw right into them and drink the nectar. You should try that.”
“I don’t think we have a straw, but another time.” I reach for the mango. It is hot, probably from the sun, though it’s morning, and the light isn’t too bright yet. I examine its surface, looking for the perfect place to bite. It is smooth as porcelain, red and yellow as flame, no green, every part as perfect as the next. “Looks yummy.”
“Try it then. It won’t make you fat, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She laughs.
Her lips are so wrinkled, and there are hairs sprouting atop them. Suddenly, I don’t want to bite it, but what else can I do? Throw it back into an old woman’s face? Just a small bite. I choose a red part and sink my teeth into the thick flesh. The bite mark shows a crescent of yellow, like the sun.
Only after I’ve bitten it does the old woman look up at me. I notice her eyes. They’re not old at all, and they’re familiar, so familiar.
It’s the color. They’re not blue.
They’re violet.
The bite of mango catches in my throat. I choke as I fall to the ground.
I hear her laughter.
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PART 3:
Goose
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
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1
I decided yesterday in chem that I was going to stop being in love with Celine.
Okay, that sounds a little arbitrary, but life is arbitrary. It was arbitrary life that put her in my path, that made her audition for that play, that let me fall in love with someone so completely unattainable.
And I need to butch up. My grades are sucking wind. I’m getting a C in pre-calc because I can’t stay awake in class. Every day, I sleepwalk through school, just waiting for the time when I can go home, when I can see her, talk to her, stay up all night watching John Freaking Hughes movies with her, hoping our hands will meet across a bowl of cut-up mangoes or teaching her piano just so I can sit next to her on the bench.
And every night, I crawl into bed an hour before I have to be up for school, wondering why I haven’t told her how I feel.
But really, I know.
I’m afraid. Who wouldn’t be? What guy wouldn’t be scared to declare his love to the most beautiful girl on the planet—a girl who could have anybody, even a rock star? Why would she want me?
But maybe she could. Maybe she appreciates my intelligence, my talent, my sense of humor, my low center of gravity. Maybe she’s special enough to see who I really am.
So, yesterday, I made my plan. I would walk in there, find her, and say, “Celine, I love you.” No. Too bold. Maybe I’d say, “Celine, I was thinking I’d like to make you dinner. No, not mac and cheese, but something special, a special dinner for the two of us, like spaghetti with crumbled-up hamburger in the sauce, like my mom makes. Okay, maybe my mom will just make it for us, but then, she’ll leave us alone so we can have dinner together. Like a date? Yes, like a date. Actually, a date.” I could say that, couldn’t I?