“Where’d you even learn how to make it?”
He starts to slice some fruit on the counter, avoiding my gaze. “You know, you grow up…. Ma’s always busy scrounging up money and teaching the neighborhood henna class…. Good old Dad’s never around, because he’s looking for ways to illegally fund his drug habit, and even when he is there, he’s not really since he’s using…. Eventually the prospect of mac-and-cheese every night loses its charm.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “If it matters.”
“It does.” He sets the knife down and wipes his hands off with a dishcloth. “Look, I’ve learned that the only way to prevent being a product of your environment is to at least be honest about what that means—your sister taught me that.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s the reason I graduated,” he says. “Honestly, I always planned to drop out. It’s not like I ever cared about school. No one in my family ever expected any different. And then the school set me up for tutoring with June, and…I don’t know. Somehow she convinced me to try. Said pulling up my grades and passing would piss off the administration more than anything else.” He smiles a little to himself. “She made me promise to get my shit together—no drinking, no getting in trouble, no blowing off school. So I did. Because she believed I could do it.”
“Wow,” I say carefully, “that’s really…” Sad? Weird? No. Not weird. It’s exactly the kind of thing June would do. The kind of thing that made me both proud to be her sister and ashamed that I was never able to be so naturally good the way she was. “I mean, I’m glad,” I tell him. “That she could help you.”
Jake drops the dishcloth and leans on his elbows against the counter next to me. “I’m really sorry she died,” he says. He tucks his chin into his chest. “If it matters.”
It does, but I don’t know how to tell him that without feeling like I’m putting too much on the table. Which is stupid, because it’s not like he hasn’t seen me vulnerable. Hell, he’s seen me naked. And if I was a better person—if I was June—I would recognize this vulnerable moment of his, this olive branch he’s holding out, and extend one of my own.
Except I’m not June. I’m just me.
I look at the running water and say, “My hand is numb.”
He reaches across my shoulder and turns off the faucet. For a few seconds we stay that way, his front pressed against my back. His entire body brushes mine, and I can feel the heat of his skin radiating through his thin cotton shirt; his mouth is in my hair. I shiver.
When I turn to face him, Jake’s crowded me so close to the sink that I have to lift my chin to look him in the eyes. That boyish vulnerability has been replaced by a heated look. I think about how it felt to kiss him before, and I want to kiss him so badly, those kisses that were so consuming. Melting everything else away.
“You know what’s really weird,” I finally say, when the silence is too much. “Mix CDs.”
And now he’s just confused. “Mix CDs?” he says skeptically.
“Think about it. With technology and everything, compact discs are going to be, like, vintage soon, right? The way vinyl is now. Like, if I ever have kids, they’re going to look at CDs and think, ‘What is this crap, geez, how clunky.’ By then everyone will have the fiftieth edition of iPods—or maybe they’ll just have music downloaded directly into their brains, like with microchips, or something. And I’ll be the old lady in the corner going, ‘Back when I was a kid, we had mix tapes, and floppy disks, and gas didn’t cost twenty bucks a gallon, and oh, yeah, MTV actually played music videos, if you can believe it.’ And they’ll probably say, ‘Oh, Mom, you and your stories, we’re jetting to the oxygen bar, see you later,’ and take off in their flying cars. You know there’ll be flying cars, it’s only a matter of time.”
Jake tilts his head to one side. “You’re rambling.”
“I know,” I say. “I do that when I’m nervous.”
“And when you’re drunk.”
“You’d know better than me on that one.”
“Yeah,” he says, and laughs. “Well. Personally speaking, mix CDs will never go out of style. I like having something tangible, you know? And making mixes is a craft. Like storytelling. It has to flow. I mean, you can’t follow up a Sam Cooke ballad with Black Sabbath. It’s gotta build, have the right climax and ending. Like a book.”
I remember the first time I listened to the CD he gave June, how that was exactly what I’d thought.
Jake reaches for the mayonnaise jar and unscrews the lid. “You don’t have to be nervous. It’ll all work out.”
“It will?” What is he referring to? The two of us?
“Sure,” he says. “Later today we’ll go to Sausalito and meet up with this Charlie guy, and after that, it’ll be smooth sailing. Terrible pun intended.”
The final stage of the plan. Of course.
Jake gently smears some mayonnaise over the burn mark and wraps it with saran wrap. His grip on my hand lingers; our mouths are really close together. “Good as new,” he murmurs.
And then we make out.
Except not really. We could. I want to, and I’m pretty sure he wants to, too, but kissing him will change this from a fluke to a habit, and the last thing I need is a bad habit. Couldn’t I just start biting my nails or something? Or maybe I’ll just start smoking on a more regular basis. Surely emphysema or lung cancer or whatever horrible disease I’d be inflicted with would be a preferable fate to making out with Jake and then having to talk about our feelings.
“I should…” I untangle our hands and gesture past him.
He steps back, and I start to rush out of the kitchen. Except then I see an open shoebox sitting on the table, and when I pause to look inside, I realize it’s full of my Polaroids.
Jake notices me looking. “I brought those in last night. Didn’t want them to get all bent.” He pauses, wiping his hands off with a dishcloth, and smiles a little. “You know, they’re really good.”
“You looked at them?” I’m sort of embarrassed. The only person who ever looks at my photographs is Laney, and even then she never really has anything to say about them except that she thinks they’re good. I love Laney, but I don’t exactly hold her opinion on art too high.
“You’re really talented,” he says. “Have you thought about doing something with your photography? I mean, really doing something. You could, if you wanted.”
“That would be, like, impossible.”
“Not any more impossible than being the person who names nail polish colors,” he teases.
Later, while I’m in the shower, I think about it. Could Jake be right? Am I good enough to even attempt photography as a real career? I feel like he wouldn’t just say that if he didn’t mean it—he has no reason to give me false praise. And I do want to. I guess I always assumed there was just no way, so why even try? Better to make myself want something else within reach.
But what else is there? I don’t have any passions. I’m not particularly good at anything else. Why should I have to settle? Maybe…maybe Jake isn’t so off base. Maybe it’s okay for me to want something more.
When I finally emerge from the bathroom, Carmen and Laney are at the kitchen table, polishing off the French toast. I’ve barely sat down before Carmen is on her feet, downing the last of her coffee and reaching for her purse. She explains she has to get to the salon for a morning appointment, and that she’s booked most of the day, but she’s written out directions to the marina in Sausalito on the back of an old grocery list and stuck it on the front of the fridge. She wishes us luck and ruffles Jake’s hair before she leaves.
“And then there were three,” Laney intones solemnly. Jake and I roll our eyes at the same time.
There are a few hours to kill, so we decide to burn off our nervous energy by surprising Carmen with a second coat of paint on her walls. Jake and I grab the foam rollers as Laney commandeers the stereo.
“I’m tired of listening to nothing but old white guys,” she say
s.
She puts in a Dr. Dre album and raps along through the first two songs flawlessly, taking a small brush and detailing the wall corner, head bopping in time to the beat. We work all through the entire first loop of the CD, then take a break for lemonade and a bag of sugar cookies and television watching. Laney flips it over to some old movie on one of the cable channels.
“I want to find the Rock Hudson to my Doris Day,” she proclaims with a heavy sigh.
“Rock Hudson was gay,” I remind her.
“Fine. The William Powell to my Myrna Loy. The Bogie to my Bacall. The—”
“I’m getting more cookies,” Jake says, and abruptly gets off the couch. The plastic sheet makes a weird puckering sound when he peels himself off of it.
I watch him leave the room, and Laney watches me watch him. “And here I thought you two resolved all that unresolved sexual tension,” she says.
I turn up the volume on the television. “There’s no tension. I have about fifty million other things on my mind that rank much higher in importance than Jacob Tolan.”
“Sorry. I know. It’s just easier to fixate on your boy drama than deal with my own.”
“And how is that going? The dealing?”
“Not so well,” she says lightly. “I’m sort of completely and totally plagued by this all-consuming panic that I only manage to keep at bay by indulging in some hard-core denial.” She leans her cheek against my shoulder, exhaling a deep breath. “I hate this.”
I look down at her. “You know I’m behind you, whatever you choose to do.” I keep my voice neutral. “You do have options.”
“No good ones.” She sighs. “I don’t know what I want to do yet.”
“That’s okay. It’s a pretty big decision.” Bigger than I can wrap my mind around.
Laney is quiet for a while, long enough that I think I should say something more, even though I don’t know what—I’m no good at pretending to be wise. I can’t dispense any advice because I have no clue what I would do if I was in her place.
“Life is so unfair,” she says bluntly. It’s the kind of thing you say when you’re six years old, but even now it still holds true. It doesn’t matter how much you complain, it’s always going to be true.
I pat the top of her head in consolation. “Don’t I know it.”
“Before we go out there, we got a few ground rules to cover.” Captain Charlie is a formidable man, built like a rugged linebacker with his broad shoulders and tree trunk of a neck. He narrows his eyes at us, a seemingly permanent scowl in place, as the wooden boards of the dock creak beneath our feet. “First off, what you’re doing’s illegal. Usually you gotta get a permit to do a scattering. Since I’ve been told that ain’t possible, it’s gonna be like this: I don’t want to know your names, and when we get out there, I’m gonna go into the cabin and you do whatever you do and I ain’t gonna have any knowledge of it. The second you step foot off this boat, I never seen you before in my life. Understood?”
Jake, Laney and I trade looks and nod.
“Got it,” I confirm.
“All right, then. All aboard, ladies and gent.”
Charlie’s boat is old but solid. He revs it up, messes around with some rope ties and pushes off into the ocean. Jake stands at the railing while I sit on a bench in the bow deck, clutching the urn to my chest, shivering even though it’s not that cold. Laney settles beside me. She holds on to my hand, her warm fingers entwined with mine, and says nothing.
With every lurch of the boat I think about how in my arms June’s ashes are shifting around in the vase. I’ve been holding them ever since we got into Joplin for the short drive to Sausalito. When we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, I stared out the window and wondered if this was right. If this was where she’d want to be laid to rest.
I tried my best. That has to count for something.
Wind whips at us like ghosts on all sides. Despite that, Jake manages to slide a cigarette out from behind his ear and light it. He turns to me and holds it out. An offering. I shake my head no. I’m done with the smoking. Done with all of the stupid things I’ve been doing just to prove a point no one but me cares about to begin with.
The water sparkles dark blue as the sun begins to sink onto the horizon and make everything shimmer. Soon enough we hit the bay, and then there’s the Golden Gate Bridge, not too far off, red and striking and sprawling. This is a beautiful place. This is a good place to spread the ashes. Peaceful and pretty—like the front of a postcard.
Charlie comes around from the stern and calls out, “I’m pulling up!” The engine putters and dies, cutting off and leaving only the sound of the waves as they slap up against the side of the boat. He ducks into the cabin and out of sight.
Laney’s hands move to the lid of the urn. Mine tighten around it instinctively, and she looks at me and asks, “Are you ready?”
I’m not sure, but I nod anyway. I grip the urn’s sides as she works at the lid, which is sealed tight, and after some twisting, there’s a loud pop and the release of air as it gives.
“Here,” Laney says softly, helping me stand. We join Jake on the deck. Our side of the boat faces the bridge. “We can leave you alone. Come on, Jake.”
She starts to reach for him, but I shake my head. “No. Don’t. I want you here for this.” I pause and glance at Jake. “Both of you.”
He frowns a little. “Are you sure you want us to be part of this?”
“You already are. We came this far together, didn’t we?”
I didn’t get here alone. I don’t want to do this alone.
I turn to Laney and gesture to the open urn with my chin. Understanding, she steps forward and scoops out a handful of ashes. She keeps her hand half-inside the urn, biting down on her lower lip.
“I guess I should say something,” she says shakily. She looks down into the urn. “June, I know we weren’t super-tight, really, but you meant so much to Harper. I was always a little jealous of her, because I never—I never had a sister. You were the closest thing, really. It sucks that you’re gone, but I hope you’re happier. Wherever you are.”
With that, she opens her palm, and the ashes spill out and into the water. She brushes tears off her cheeks and backs away from the railing.
“Guess that means I’m up next, huh?” Jake pinches the bridge of his nose briefly, then reaches into the urn. His eyes stay on me the whole time, like he’s scared I’ll change my mind and jerk the urn away from under his nose. He bends over the railing with the fistful of ash, bows his head.
“Say something,” Laney urges.
“Uh—” He coughs, clears his throat and fidgets nervously. Finally he takes a deep breath and says, “June, you. you helped me out a lot. I can only hope I’ve returned the favor. You were a good friend, and I’ll miss you. Every day I’ll miss you.”
He scatters the ashes slowly, and after he’s done, he just stares down into the ocean, head bowed. He sniffs like he’s trying not to cry, and runs his hands through his hair, before he finally turns his back to the water.
And then it’s my turn. I realize I should’ve prepared for this better, should’ve thought of something to say, a profound and meaningful last goodbye. Why hadn’t I stopped to think about it? It’s my own fault, really. June’s ashes are gritty against my skin, fragments of hard bone among powdered dust. Pieces of her that withstood the flames of a furnace, that couldn’t be destroyed. I let them fill my palm and close my eyes.
There is so much I could say—and even more that I will never be able to formulate into words, ever.
All I can think of is how when I was six, I jumped out of a tree in our backyard with paper wings taped to my back and sprained my ankle. June was only eight, but she didn’t freak out. She just held my hand while I cried my eyes out, the whole time until Mom found us. And she told me when I was suspended in the air for just a moment, I looked like a bird flying out of its cage.
Maybe that was what she wanted all along. To be set free.
 
; “I’m sorry,” I say. “For everything I did. For everything I didn’t. I wish you were here. I know it’s not enough, but I guess this is the closest I’m going to get, to saving you.”
I lean over the railing and let the breeze blow the ashes out of my hand, and then I overturn the urn and pour the rest into the ocean, where it forms a cloud beneath the surface. As the cloud slowly dissipates, I drop the urn completely, watch as it fills with water and sinks to the bottom. Jake pulls out a single carnation from inside his jacket and hands it to me. I let it flutter down into the ocean, floating on the waves.
And that’s it. Everything that was left of my sister is gone.
Except not, because I have sixteen years’ worth of memories, and they mean more than bone and ash ever could.
I’m gripping the steel rail so hard I think I’ll fall over if I let go. But I don’t have to worry about that, because Laney and Jake flank me on both sides, ease me down onto the deck. They hold me up with their weight and their arms. Laney buries her face in my neck, her tears wet against my skin, and Jake tucks his chin on top of my head. They wrap themselves around me so close and so tight it’s like we’re all one person.
And I’m not alone.
I gaze out at the glittering sea, the breathtaking sky above it, and think of birds and the moment before the fall, and how my sister as a child had been strong enough for the both of us, and I wonder when exactly that changed. I don’t know when, but it did. Jake was right—I’m strong in a way June never was. Because I know that I want to be here. Even with the pain. Even with the ugliness. I’ve seen the other side—marching side by side down city streets with people who all believe they can change the world and the view of the sunset from Fridgehenge and Tom Waits lyrics and doing the waltz and kisses so hot they melt into each other and best friends who hold your hand and stretching out underneath a sky draped with stars and everything else. There is so much beauty in just existing. In being alive.
I don’t want to miss a second.
I only cry a little, after, at the beach next to the marina. When Charlie drops us off at the docks, I shake his hand and thank him profusely. He squeezes back and says, “Don’t mention it, kid,” which maybe is him being humble, or maybe him wanting me to take it literally. It’s probably a safer bet to assume the latter.