How It Ends, Page 2

  And of course we had our adventures.

  We sat like statues on the bench under the catalpa one June day and watched as a new fawn, dainty and curious, sauntered to within six feet of us. She paused, her wide, black velvet eyes unblinking, ears high and nostrils twitching, gauging our presence, and then, fluffy white tail waving, turned and danced away.

  You stared after her in awe and said, “I never saw a real fawn close up before. A wild one, I mean.”

  “Beautiful, wasn’t she?” I said.

  “Wow,” you breathed.

  We spent your tenth birthday eating egg rolls and combing yard sales in pursuit of some elusive, unidentified treasure and it wasn’t until late in the day that we stumbled upon the item you’d been secretly searching for: a chair of your own for my living room. The one you wanted was vintage, a wide, sturdy overstuffed monstrosity in an unsettling currant-and-forest-colored tweed and didn’t match anything I owned, but you loved the brass nail heads pounded in along the arms and the plush six-inch fringe along the bottom, so we jammed it halfway into the trunk of my car and drove home at a crawl. Lon almost popped a disk hauling it up the porch steps and we had to take the front door off its hinges just to get the thing inside, but it fit perfectly opposite my reading chair by the window, creating a cozy little nook with a view past the bird feeders to the pond and became Serepta’s favorite new ambush spot.

  When you were thirteen we went grocery shopping and the object of your crush, a cocky teenage produce boy with bleached hair and a pierced tongue, was there. He was tending the root crops, unloading onions, neatening turnips, stacking bags of potatoes, so I sent you over to pick me out three nice yams. “Yams?” you whispered, as appalled as if I’d said extra-large tampons, but the lure of him was too strong, so off you went in blushing agony, arms folded across your chest, walking too fast, eyes too bright, lost in the exquisite torment of feeling too tall, too stupid, too hopeful, and too embarrassed to be with an old lady, hating your outfit, your hair, and the squeegee squeak your boots made crossing the polished floor. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, not even when he shifted to make room for you, only snatched three enormous yams from the middle of the pile, causing the tubers at the peak to descend in a tumble and scatter across the floor.

  You froze, mortified.

  “Nice going, Ace,” the kid drawled. “Any more like you at home?”

  Your eyes filled with tears.

  “Great,” he muttered, setting aside a crate of onions. “They don’t pay me enough for this kind of shit.” He dropped to all fours, groping under the display for the errant tubers and giving you the chance to rush back to me, throw the yams in the cart, and run out to the car.

  I wanted to slap him for his careless cruelty, to ask him if it really would have cost so much to smile at a child with such stars in her eyes, but I didn’t, of course. Instead, I discovered that you were mad at me that day, me and those stupid yams for making you look foolish. I tried to explain the idea of keeping your composure even when you were embarrassed so no one would ever know you felt small and vulnerable, but you were either too young to get it or too busy replaying the tragic humiliation to listen, because your thundercloud expression never lightened, and so I swallowed my hurt and resorted to a stop at Rita’s Italian Ice for coconut gelatos. By the time we were done eating, most of the storm had passed and the sun showed signs of peeking through again.

  When you were fifteen and not coming around to visit as often, I unearthed my old red bicycle from the cobwebby corner of the barn, and huffing, puffing, and wobbling, ringing the old tink-ching bell on the handlebars and wearing a violent purple scarf, mirrored shades, and my yellow winter hat with the ridiculous crocheted daisy earflaps, warbling “Dear Prudence” and looking like the village idiot, I rode in circles around your house until you staggered out the front door, weak with laughter, and begged me to stop before anyone saw me.

  “Not until you go for a ride with me,” I called, and then, “Oof!” as a vicious rut sent me jouncing over a rock and you into fresh gales of laughter. “Har, har. What a wretched child you are. Come on, where’s your adventurous spirit? Are you really going to let me have all the fun?”

  You started down the steps, eyes sparkling and the crisp breeze stirring your long hair, and then stopped, biting your lip as if you suddenly remembered having fun wasn’t all that simple anymore, and as you hesitated on that threshold, Hanna, time shivered and for a moment you were no longer a confused adolescent still wearing a granddaughter’s smudged and rosy glasses but a tall, beautiful young woman whose naked gaze welled with tears as the cold autumn wind tore the brittle, heart-shaped leaves from the catalpa and I gripped the handlebars, silent, paralyzed, and unable to wave as the rattling bicycle carried me past.

  We never went for that ride together or any other and we never spoke of why not, but something important had changed, and for the first time in years, I remembered what it was like to be lonely.

  And that heart which was a wild garden was given to him who loved only trim lawns.

  And the imbecile carried the princess into slavery.

  —Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

  Chapter 1

  Hanna

  This is not exactly the exciting new high school experience I had in mind.

  I’m a month into St. Ignatius, a regional, parochial school nine miles from home and I still don’t know what I’m doing, where I’m going, or how I’m supposed to be.

  Plus, this is the ugliest uniform in the world. It’s true. I would like to know what girl-hating hag cursed us with knee-length brown plaid polyester skorts, long sleeveless vests, and baggy yellow polyester blouses.

  I wish Crystal’s parents had transferred her here, too, instead of keeping her in public school. Then we could be miserable together.

  Oh, and I definitely need new shoes. Mine are loser wear.

  Sigh.

  I’d still rather be here with five hundred new kids, though, than stuck with nobody but the same boring, cliqued-out crew from junior high. They move in huddled masses just like they did in ninth grade, and seeing that makes me feel like some kind of intrepid pioneer striking out on my own.

  Hanna’s big adventure.

  It’s scary but I kind of like it.

  (Cue Grandma Helen’s voice) Back straight! Stand tall! Look ’em in the eye! Smile! Never let ’em see you sweat!

  (Cue my voice) Be brave, Hanna.

  School would be a lot easier if I had a partner in crime.

  I miss Crystal.

  I’ve done some research and found that most of the older girls’ uniforms are way shorter and tighter than mine. I asked someone about it and she said that’s because everybody hems them up and takes them in. They wear killer heels and black panty hose, too. All against the rules, but most of the nuns are old and slow, so even if one tries to snag you on a dress code violation, you can usually outrun her before she IDs you.

  Turns out only us lame sophomores wear long, baggy uniforms.

  Time to convince Gran to do a serious overhaul on this hideous skort.

  Well, it took whining, pleading, and begging but she’s hemming my skort even though my father said he didn’t spend three hundred dollars on a uniform to see it turned into something too small to wear to the beach. I said everybody wears them that way, and he said (of course), Come on, Hanna, if everybody else jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge…

  He is so tiresome sometimes.

  My mother laughed and told him it was just history repeating itself because she’d gone to parochial school, too, and had a uniform just as ugly, and she’d always rolled her skirt up at the waist because feeling ugly was no way to spend your whole high school career.

  My father just looked at her and shook his head like she was hopeless.

  She laughed again and tickled him in passing. He told her to quit it but I could tell he was trying not to smile.

  I love it when everybody’s happy.

  Oh my God, I�
��m in love.

  Seth Kobilias.

  I must have him.

  He’s a junior, beautiful, sexy, sweet, and I found out that Bailey, the girl he really loved last year, broke his heart so now he supposedly parties hard and goes out with a lot of different girls because he was too hurt and doesn’t want to be again. He plays guitar, too, and hangs out in the courtyard.

  I need to make the courtyard my new hangout ASAP.

  I never felt anything like this before. I love his eyes and his smile and his hair and just everything. He’s really tall, blond, and a little skinny but it looks perfect on him. He even makes a uniform jacket and tie look hot.

  He hasn’t noticed me yet but I can change that, I just know it. Good thing Gran Helen hemmed this uniform. Now at least when he does look at me, he’ll be able to tell I’m a girl.

  Also, I hung out with another sophomore named Sammi Holloway who I think might be my next partner in crime. We’re pretty different—she’s thinner, flatter, richer, and sleeker than me, and next to her I feel like nothing but flyaway hair, frayed edges, and loose ends—but she cracks me up bad and so far I like her a lot.

  I think we could have great adventures together.

  Life is very exciting these days.

  I took too many classes. I have to drop some right now. They’re interfering with my chance to meet Seth. The days are rushing by and I’m not getting anywhere because of all these stupid classes! I tried to dump algebra and physical science but Mr. Sung in guidance won’t let me. So maybe journalism and…what? There’s nothing else I can get rid of. I don’t mind dumping journalism; it’s all about facts, and who needs facts when imagining what could happen is so much more satisfying?

  I kept creative writing but dropped journalism so now I have an extra free period and I just found out that for some reason my name isn’t on the sophomore Mandatory Community Service list. Yay! I probably should be worried about this but I’m not, and I’m sure not bringing it up. I can use the time for my Seth quest. I’ll just make it up next year or something.

  I love a good computer glitch.

  My parents went on a date last night—which kind of freaked me out because the last time they did that was like two years ago, and right after, they argued about growing apart—so I went down to Crystal’s and we passed the time hanging out with her older brother and his friends. They were full of compliments and if I didn’t like Seth so much, I probably could have found myself a boyfriend.

  I hope he appreciates this sacrifice.

  Oh. My. God.

  Seth noticed me today. For real. And it was good.

  No, better than good.

  Great.

  I was caught in a stream of kids changing classes, flowing down the right side of the hall, and there he was, heading toward me in the stream on the left side, ambling along, head and shoulders above the crowd, laughing at something somebody said and kind of scanning oncoming traffic as he walked.

  I looked at him right as he looked at me and I swear time stopped. He held my gaze for like a full three seconds, then smiled this sweet little sideways smile and lifted his chin in a Hi. I smiled back and then we passed and he didn’t break the connection until he was almost past me.

  He saw me. Out of all the hundreds of other people in that hall, it was me that he smiled at. Me!

  These teachers take their classes way too seriously. I mean, I’m fifteen; I have like another seventy years to worry about zygotes or circumferences or whatever.

  I wish I could just learn what I’m interested in, which would be creative writing, psychology, and nature stuff. And not biology. I don’t want to hack open dead animals; I want to study them alive and healthy.

  If I ever have to take biology, I’m boycotting carving up dead things, and too bad about the grade. If anybody makes me do it, I’ll just throw up on purpose every single day all over the lab until they let me out. I don’t care. I will not mangle dead animals.

  Gran won’t mind. Heck, she’ll probably give me a medal.

  (Cue Gran’s voice) : No, Hanna, we don’t kill spiders; they’re the perfect natural insect control. Careful, you almost stepped on that beetle. Look, the spring fawns are out frolicking on the lawn!

  Yes, she actually uses words like frolicking.

  She is so embarrassing sometimes. (I would never tell her that, though. It would hurt her feelings too badly. Actually, I’d better call her soon or else her and Grandpa will show up at school or something just to make sure I’m still alive.)

  Anyway, what I really need is less classes and more free time. How else am I supposed to develop into a sociable, well-rounded human being if I never have the time to get my hands on Seth?

  Sammi’s doing trash pickup along the roads with a bunch of other kids for her community service, and yesterday some lady in a Lexus stopped and asked if they were from a juvenile detention center because usually only prisoners from the county jail pick up garbage, but they wear orange jumpsuits so everyone know they’re prisoners out on work detail.

  Sammi, being tired, disgusted, and a smart-ass said they usually wore brown plaid uniforms and wouldn’t get released unless they completed their mandatory service, too.

  The lady looked righteous and said, Well, I don’t know what you did to get into this situation, but I certainly hope you’ve learned your lesson, and drove away.

  Sammi said it was funny but also pretty humiliating, and next year she’s just gonna stuff envelopes or something instead.

  God, I’m glad I escaped this.

  I’ve been sitting out on the curb in the courtyard in my free time, pretending to read or page through my notebooks but really watching Seth from beneath my hair and trying my hardest to will him to come over and fall in love with me.

  So far, it isn’t working.

  I am learning him, though, by watching and listening, and sooner or later that’s got to be worth something. I’ve already discovered that he smokes Marlboros, loves South Park, and is a killer flirt when he’s high. He also seems to be addicted to bitchy girls with long nails, ankle bracelets, and cool, you-can’t-touch-this smiles, which is kind of depressing.

  “Hey,” Sammi said, plopping down on the curb beside me. “Anything good going on?”

  “You-know-who likes ankle bracelets,” I said glumly.

  “So?”

  “I hate ankle bracelets,” I said.

  “I like them,” she said, leaning back on her hands and turning her face to the sun. “I think they’re hot.”

  “I don’t,” I said. “They remind me of shackles.”

  She snorted, amused. “Oh, c’mon Hanna, you can’t tell me that if he walked up to you and said you’d look hot wearing an ankle bracelet, you wouldn’t go right out and get one.”

  “No,” I said, irritated, and then, “You’re a pain in the butt, you know that?”

  “I love you, too,” she said, smirking and bumping her shoulder against mine.

  Chapter 2

  Helen

  “It’s pretty quiet around here these days,” Lon says, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table and easing down into it. He’s been outside cleaning the gutters and his arrival carries the mingled scents of hand soap, damp soil, and cold, matted greenery.

  “Mm-hmm,” I say and ladle him out a big bowl of vegetable beef soup from the pot simmering on the stove. I set the bowl in front of him and, ignoring his searching look, head for the pantry to see if the last of the summer tomatoes have ripened yet.

  “Heard from Hanna?”

  “Not since I hemmed up her uniform,” I say without turning.

  “That was back in September,” he says.

  “Was it?” I say lightly, as if I wasn’t aware of every single empty second. “Well, I imagine homework and such is keeping her busy. She’ll visit when she gets a chance.” I wait, but other than a quiet exhale Lon is kind enough not to take it any further, as he knows it will only make me feel worse than I already do.

  Most days I deal with
Hanna’s absence by trying to keep busy: baking muffins, feeding the birds, enclosing the porch in clear heavy-duty plastic, setting up the heat lamps and readying the stray-cat condos for winter, raking leaves, and stapling new PRIVATE PROPERTY/NO HUNTING signs on the trees along the wood line. When those tasks fail to distract me, I remind myself that it’s normal for her to want to socialize with new friends rather than spend all her free time dancing attendance on an old one. It’s a bitter pill, though, and doesn’t go down well, so I’ve taken to calling Melanie Thury, Hanna’s mom, once or twice a week just to chat.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” Lon says.

  “In a minute,” I say, holding the pantry door frame and stepping carefully down into the chill darkness.

  “My soup’s getting cold,” he says.

  “Then start without me.” I reach up and finding the pull cord, yank on the light.

  The bare overhead bulb isn’t fancy but it does the job, revealing rows and rows of wooden shelves stocked with cabbages, buckets of carrots in sand, yams, potatoes, kale, garlic and onion braids, and of course, the tomatoes.

  At the end of the season some gardeners pull the entire tomato plant from the ground and hang it upside down to let the green tomatoes ripen on the vine. I’ve never taken this shortcut as I figure no matter how well you shake the roots there will always be dirt and bugs left clinging and brought inside. My way takes longer but I’d rather go plant by plant, fruit by fruit, examining each for bite marks or spoilage, filling my buckets and then carefully lining each tomato up on the pantry shelf beneath sheets of newspaper so they can ripen at their own speed.

  I lift the first sheet of newspaper. It rattles and I realize my hands are trembling again. This has been happening more and more lately, and I don’t know whether it’s low blood sugar or just old age smirking at me from around a shadowy corner, but I have no intention of letting it win, so after I eat I’m going to do more reading through my natural home remedy books for causes and cures.