Page 7 of Saving June


  “Harper.” She pauses, breathing in and out through her nose a few times, one hand pressed to her temple as if to prevent the onslaught of a migraine. “I don’t appreciate your hostile attitude. She’s trying to help—”

  “Well, maybe she’s trying, but she’s not helping.”

  “She’s helping me! “ she snaps. Her chin quivers with the threat of tears. “I need someone right now. It’s not like your father has been of any help, if you’ve bothered to notice. Helen is the only one who’s here for me. I can’t do this on my own. Do you not understand that? Does that not make any sense to you whatsoever?”

  So that’s how my mother sees it? That she’s all alone, save for Aunt Helen? My presence means nothing. I’m invisible, or worse, a burden.

  “Helen says I need to surrender,” she continues. “That I need to let God in, let Him take control. And I think it might help you find some peace, too, if you came with me.”

  “Let me think about it,” I lie, because I know already that I will never step foot inside that church, know that come Sunday I’ll be long gone from this town.

  Why should I stay? Aunt Helen hates me. Mom doesn’t need me. I can’t do anything right. Really, I’m in the way. This just makes my decision all that much easier.

  Mom nods once and starts to close the door. For a second, I want nothing more than for her to come back, to cradle me in her arms like when I was a kid and had badly scraped a knee, to smooth her palm across my forehead as if checking for a fever, to do something—anything—to remind me of the days when knowing that she was my mother and that she was there was enough to make the bad things better.

  It’s weird because I don’t really want her to comfort me; I just want her to try. But that yearning is only a dull ache in my chest, the kind of phantom pains amputees get where their missing limbs should be. It isn’t anything real.

  The next day I take the bus across town to the Oleo Strut. The bus stop is three blocks from the store, and even though I have on a T-shirt, it’s another blistering day, and by the time I arrive in front of the brick building, the thin cotton is stuck to my back with sweat like a second skin. No one notices when I enter. Jake’s brother—I don’t know his name—is behind the counter, arguing with a man in his forties dressed in a skuzzy, spiky leather jacket and a pair of dirty corduroys.

  “Punk is not dead,” Jake’s brother is insisting emphatically. “Look at—”

  “Who? Green Day? Avril Lavigne?” the other man sneers. “That’s just manufactured pop bullshit. You’ve got all these poser bands out there, cranked out of big-name labels, pretending to be part of the counterculture when they’re just another cash cow for the capitalist, consumerist machine. It’s a gimmick. Kids these days think they can go out and buy punk self-identification through massmarketed band apparel from Hot Topic.”

  “Yeah, but there is still good stuff, true punk. It’s out there, it’s just not being played on the radio. Punk isn’t just a look. It’s not even just about attitude. If you have the aesthetics and the posturing, you better back it up with the politics.”

  “Bullshit. Johnny Ramone was an NRA-supporting, full-fledged Republican!” the guy protests.

  Jake’s brother leans farther over the counter. “Fuck Johnny Ramone. The U.K. had the right idea—look at Joe Strummer. Look at the Sex Pistols, and Crass and—”

  “Whatever, man. The culture’s still dead. Nothing like that exists anymore.”

  “You just have to know where to find it,” Jake’s brother says. He withdraws a neon-green flyer from underneath the counter. “The Revengers. They’re hardcore, the real thing, and they’re playing a few shows in state later this summer. You gotta check them out—they don’t mess around. If after that you still think punk’s dead, I’ll give you any record in the store, half off. Hand to God.”

  He holds up one hand solemnly. The man only grunts in response—but he takes the flyer before he leaves.

  “You make a compelling case on behalf of punk rock,” I say as I approach the counter.

  “Someone has to do it,” he replies with a grin. “Need help finding something?”

  “Yes. I’m looking for the latest Green Day album.”

  He laughs, surprised, and eyes me more closely. “Hey, I’ve seen you before. You were in here the other day, with the blond girl, right?”

  “Yeah, that was me.” I pause and clear my throat. “Is your brother around?”

  “Jake?” He rubs his chin. “He’s not working today. But I think he’s at home.”

  “Oh,” I say, deflated. Too bad I was an idiot and never got his phone number. I could’ve saved myself a pointless bus trip. “Um. Could you tell me where that is?”

  His amused grin widens. “We live upstairs. Second level. There’s a side entrance outside, but it’s locked. Let me lend you my key.”

  “Really?” I watch as he scrounges around in his back pocket. “I mean, thanks.”

  “No problem. Just drop it back off before you go,” he says, procuring a brass key. “And if he puts on Bowie’s early stuff and starts sweet-talking, dammit, you run. You run as fast as you can.”

  He winks at me, and I blush as I realize what he’s implying. Rather than try to explain myself, I push out the door and walk around to the side of the building. The door there has a lock that sticks a little, but I lean my shoulder against it until it pops open, and a narrow staircase leads up to another wooden door. I pause for a moment before knocking.

  A minute passes—no answer. I knock again, more persistently. Footsteps pad toward the door, a lock turns and the door opens to reveal Jake. He’s bleary-eyed, shirtless and holding an open jar of peanut butter, a spoon stuck in his mouth. Somehow, he still makes it look attractive. He blinks a few times and pulls out the spoon with a loud popping noise.

  Okay, maybe not so attractive.

  “That’s disgusting,” I say.

  “Nice to see you, too,” he says through a mouthful of peanut butter.

  I lean to the left and try to peer around him. “Can I come in?”

  He sticks the spoon back into the jar and sighs. “You’re not going to go away until I say yes, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  He turns and walks back into the apartment, but leaves the door open, which I take as my cue to follow. The apartment has dark walls and thick brown carpet. The furniture is sparse—a ratty couch, a coffee table and a television in one corner. Shelves are built into the wall, only one of them filled with books, the rest used to house vinyl records and CDs and cassettes.

  Jake flops down on the scratchy sofa and props his bare feet up on the table. “So how’d you get in?” he asks.

  “Your brother gave me a key,” I explain, sidestepping the huge-ass stereo system stacked on the floor. “He seems cool.”

  “Eli? Yeah. He’s not bad.”

  “It must be cool to live above his store.”

  “It’s not his store,” he says. “He wishes. He’s just the manager. The guy who owns it, Don, retired a few years back. Lives in Petoskey now. Eli looks after the place for him, apartment included.”

  “Oh.” I look around again. “It’s. Um. Charming.”

  “It’s a shithole,” he says, “but I’ve lived in worse.” He sets the peanut butter jar on the coffee table. “Is that what you’re here for? To admire the decor? Or is it something else?”

  Okay. Time to cut to the chase. “So…the answer is yes.”

  “Yes…what?” he asks.

  “Yes, you can come with us to California.”

  “I’m honored.” He looks skeptical. “You came all the way here to tell me that?”

  “It’s not like I have your phone number,” I remind him. “Anyway, we want to leave on Friday.”

  “For California?”

  “No, for the mall.” I roll my eyes. Something about Jake incites a lot of eye-rolling on my part, I’ve noticed. “Yes, California. What else would I be talking about?”

  “Friday.” He rol
ls the word over on his tongue like he’s testing it out. “Okay, I think that’s doable.”

  Well, that was easier than I’d thought it’d be.

  “Is Eli going to be okay with you just taking off?” I ask.

  “I’ll tell him I’m going to visit friends or something.” He shrugs and scratches at his stomach—still shirtless. Still making things totally awkward. For me, anyway; Jake seems obliviously unaware of his half-naked state. “He doesn’t ask too many questions. It’s not like he can call the cops—I’m eighteen now.”

  I nod curtly. “Good.”

  “And you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Your parents. Are they gonna freak?”

  “My mother might. I don’t know what she’ll do.”

  Have a meltdown, probably. But she’ll be okay. Aunt Helen will be there. She’s better at picking up the pieces than I’ll ever be.

  “Here’s what you have to do,” Jake says. “You have to write a note. Let her know you left on your own. Otherwise she’ll probably assume you’ve been kidnapped or some shit. And if she does call the cops, they treat runaway cases way different than abductions. They have to wait at least twenty-four hours before releasing the hounds, anyway.”

  “Wow. Your precise and in-depth knowledge of the legal ramifications is very helpful. And somewhat unsettling.”

  We go over the specifics of Friday’s departure: I’ll write a note beforehand, lie and say I’m spending the night at Laney’s. Mom and Aunt Helen already said they’re going to be at some church knitting-slash-study-group thing, so the house will be clear. I’ll meet Jake outside around seven o’clock. If something goes wrong, I’ll call or text him to let him know. We’ll swing over to Laney’s, pick her up and hit the road. Easy enough—or so I hope.

  As we outline the plans, the knot in my stomach winds tighter and tighter. This isn’t some vague scheme anymore; it’s becoming more and more concrete. We’re going to do this.

  “I can’t believe this is actually happening,” I say out loud. I don’t mean just this—the trip to California—but everything that has changed in my life over the past two weeks. Automatically I feel stupid, knowing that Jake will probably scoff or whip up some cutting retort in return.

  But instead he says, “Yeah, I know,” in a quiet sort of voice. His expression changes. There’s something there—definitely not pity. Not even sympathy, exactly. Understanding? Maybe.

  The bus will be coming around again in a few minutes. I begin to pick my way over the clutter on the floor—books and old newspapers, empty beer cans and piles of discarded clothing—and toward the door, when Jake stops me.

  “Harper.”

  It’s the first time he’s used my first name. I hadn’t even been completely positive that he knew what it was. We’ve never exactly had a formal introduction—how would that have gone? Hi, I’m Harper, the sister who didn’t die. You must be Jake, the guy said dead sister tutored, the guy who burned her the mix CD she was listening to when she overdosed on Mom’s sleeping pills, the guy who blackmailed his way into joining our road trip for reasons I am none too clear on. Nice to meet you.

  “Remember to give Eli back the key,” he says. “And do me a favor. Try and pack light.”

  Packing. I haven’t even considered that. There are the obvious necessities, of course: Clothes. Money. The problem is that I have no idea how long we’ll be gone, so how much am I supposed to pack? How far away is California exactly, anyway?

  I call Laney to ask and she looks it up online.

  “A little less than two thousand, three hundred forty-five miles,” she reports. “It will take approximately thirty-four hours and twenty-six minutes.”

  Of course, that’s only if you drive straight through—not taking into account bathroom breaks, food breaks and sleep deprivation. It’ll take us a few days, at least. To be on the safe side, I drag my canvas duffel out of the closet and stuff it to the brim with clothes and water bottles from the fridge. I decide to leave behind my cell phone; it might have one of those GPS tracking chips if Mom does end up calling the cops, and I’m sure Laney will insist on having hers. I also stuff my old Polaroid camera, the one I found at a yard sale last summer, and a bunch of film rolls into the bag. Maybe there’ll be something worth documenting along the way.

  After digging through the hall closet, I find an extra pocket-size flashlight, batteries, a pocket knife and a roll of duct tape. I have absolutely no idea what on earth I’ll need duct tape for, but I shove it in my backpack anyway. It’s better to be prepared, right?

  And then there’s the most important item of all: the urn. Of course, that will have to come last.

  The rest of the week leading up until Friday is uneventful. Every time someone says my name, I expect to be called out on my plans, but it usually turns out to be something only fractionally more preferable: the privilege of being on the receiving end of Aunt Helen’s moral harangues. Things have been tense between us all week. More so than usual.

  It’s not that I think Aunt Helen is evil. It’s just that she thinks she has all of the answers. To questions of God, the universe, life, everything. She’s always been like this. Maybe it’s why she and Uncle Randall divorced when I was nine. Maybe she thinks by running our lives she can ignore the mess she’s made of hers. Mom told me a while back how Helen really wanted kids, but there were conception issues, and Randall didn’t believe in adoption, so it never happened. And then he left her, and now she’s almost fifty, childless and alone. She fills her life with Jesus and taking care of my mother because really, what else does she have?

  I’m feeling sorry for her, almost, thinking about all of this on Friday night in the kitchen. She and Mom get ready to leave the house while I sit at the table, slowly eating a bowl of sugared cereal. The dinner of champions. I’m taking my time, and the milk has made the cereal all soggy and soft.

  Aunt Helen comes in and stops in front of the refrigerator. When I look up, a spoonful of cereal in my mouth, I realize she’s staring at a picture of June stuck there with a magnet. It’s from last summer, taken by me with the Nikon, when she was tanning in the front yard. In the picture she’s wearing this rockabilly style cherry-print bathing suit, with high-waisted bottoms and a top that tied in front. A pair of Jackie O sunglasses cover her eyes. She’s lying on her side in the green grass, long legs stretched out with one knee bent, propped up on an elbow as she rests her head of sun-gleamed brown hair on her hand. Her Mona Lisa smile is small, almost secretive, and the suit and the glasses make her look like a 1950s movie star.

  I’m still staring at the photo when Aunt Helen turns around to face me.

  “Harper.” It’s amazing the amount of sheer disdain that woman can squeeze into two syllables. She says my name like it’s something dirty she wants to spit out of her mouth. “You know, you could come along to our knitting group if you’d like. They’re lovely women from the church, and I’m sure they have a lot to offer you. Some spiritual guidance, perhaps.”

  I look away from the photo, at her, and then down into my bowl, ignoring that last comment. “I already told you. I’m spending the night at Laney’s.”

  Aunt Helen scowls. That’s the I Am Silently Judging You look—I recognize it because it’s the same expression Laney has when she sees people wearing black and blue together, or the look I myself have when people pontificate on the brilliance of Ayn Rand. Aunt Helen is currently wearing a navy cardigan and black slacks. Figures. I wonder what her feelings are on The Fountainhead.

  She takes a deep breath as though she’s preparing to launch a lecture that, if similar to the ones I’ve endured recently, will say many things, like how I need to Let Jesus Take the Wheel, and It Is Time to Be an Adult, Harper, and also, You Need to Surround Yourself With Positive Influences. That’s her roundabout way of implying that Laney is a bad influence, and also a vapid slut. Aunt Helen thinks hair color is a telltale indicator of sexual promiscuity levels—it’s her belief that brunettes are inhe
rently more virtuous. It is my belief that she’s out of her mind, but no news there, I suppose.

  A look at her watch must persuade her otherwise, because she simply sighs and says, rather mournfully, “My words fall on deaf ears,” and leaves it at that. They’re out of the house before six-thirty, my mother, still silent, shuffling behind Aunt Helen like a zombie. I try to look on the bright side: At least she’s not a drunken zombie. Apparently she’s traded alcohol for Jesus.

  I’m not even sure which one is worse.

  Seven o’clock rolls around faster than I realize; Jake’ll be here any minute. Everything is set. My duffel and backpack, both stuffed so full they barely zip all the way, sit in a pile at the door. Now I have to take the last step. I have to take down the urn.

  Aunt Helen and my mother picked it out; I wanted nothing to do with that decision-making process. It’s a black vase with fine white veining patterns branching out across the polished marble, sleek and smooth looking. I’ve never touched it before, and even at the memorial service, I gave the table it was displayed on (next to a large black-and-white portrait of June and thick layers of flower bouquets) a wide berth. Just looking at the thing makes me uncomfortable, knowing my sister, the girl I grew up with, lived with, shared blood with, was burned away into nothing but dust and sealed inside that vase.

  The same vase I stand in front of now.

  Carefully, I put my hands around the cool marble and lift it off of the mantel. It’s a lot heavier than I expected. If I hadn’t been holding on to the urn for dear life, I might have dropped it. I hold it close to my chest and make my way slowly, cautiously, to the front door.

  Outside it’s nearly pitch-black, the porch light emanating just enough light for me to make out shapes in the dark. At first I’m sure Jake hasn’t shown up yet, but my eyes adjust, and I catch sight of the van, headlights off, idling curbside farther down the street. He must have wanted to make sure he wouldn’t attract attention. Which is a good idea in theory, but not so good when I, not exactly the most graceful person ever, have to carry a fragile, heavy urn half a block without stumbling over a crack in the pavement or my own two feet.

 
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