100 Days (26 page)

And just like that, in my mind, I'm an eighth grader again. It's right before the holidays, and I'm back at the wood-gathering spot that's not too far from where I'm standing now.

My father was done cutting big rounds from the felled tree trunks with his chainsaw. As we each carried a last armful of wood up the steep, forested hill toward where the truck was parked, he noticed the rear tire on the driver's side. It was flat as a pancake. “Shit,” he said.

“Should we change it?” I asked him.

“What do
you
think? No, let's just drive home and ruin the rim, shall we? It's just money, right? Numskull.”

By then, I was pretty much used to the hair-trigger temper he'd had since falling off that roof and losing his job more than a year before. Plus, I knew he was tired from the day, tired from the responsibilities and the money worries that constantly seemed to be crushing both my parents back then, but my father's tone still struck me as unnecessarily sarcastic. Why did he have to be like that? I'd only asked an honest question. I'd only thought that maybe the forest floor was soft enough to allow us to get home, where Mom would say “Here are my men” when we walked through the door. For that's what I was now, wasn't I? A man? Maybe she'd even make cups of hot apple cider or her special hot chocolate with vanilla and cinnamon and heaps of those miniature marshmallows stirred in. Maybe there was still hope for things to go back to the way they'd been once upon a time.

The only jack we could afford was meant for a regular car, not a pickup. It was too light-duty for such a heavy work truck, especially a truck loaded down with more than a half cord of wood. I started to remind my father of this, but he grabbed the jack from behind the seat anyway, ignoring me.

“Truck's on a hill,” I said. I knew I was really pushing it now, but it seemed like he was being too reckless, even for my dad. “Want me to at least find a big rock to put under the good front tire so she won't roll?” I thought using the word
she
was a nice touch, like we were two sailors at sea and the Chevy was our battered but trusty ship. I thought it might calm him down. I was wrong.

“So,” he said, his voice almost friendly for about half a second, “are you going to shut the hell up and stay out of my way, or are you going to keep yammering like a useless girl?”

“I just thought chocking the tire—”

“Just shut the hell up, Boone!”

With that, my father confirmed what I'd been thinking for a while: I
was
useless. I was always in the way, nothing but a nuisance. Obviously the ground wasn't soft enough to drive on without wrecking the wheel rim. Duh. And of course he knew what he was doing, brain injury or no. My father was right: I was a yammering idiot. Maybe not a total girl, but no better than a dimwitted little boy. It didn't matter that I'd start high school next year; I was still nothing like a man, not even close. Even when I was an actual, physical grown-up, I probably wouldn't be anything like a man.

 

84

AGNES

DAY 17: JUNE 8

The memory of being lifted off that tailgate and swung around by Boone as he sang still comes to my mind at the oddest times.

Apparently, my wonky senior-citizen heart is broken, and it sucks. Heartache isn't like it seems in romantic movies. There's no swelling violin music following me wherever I go. All I want to do is hang out alone in my room listening to Mazzy Star and watching old black-and-white movies.

“Agnes?” I listen to Mom's soft knock on the door. It's a regular thing lately, this knock. “Are you okay?”

I know she's been worried about me lately. I can tell by her fingernails chewed down to the quicks and the bags under her eyes. This is the kind of thing Mom always assumed I was immune to, after all, this kind of teen heartache and angst.

“Yeah,” I call back, forcing my voice into the most convincing, cheerful lie I can muster. “I'm fine. Just resting a little.”

*   *   *

On Wednesday afternoon, with my last final on the horizon and only two more days to go until summer vacation, there's a lockdown at school. It turns out to be nothing, just some idiots setting off firecrackers behind the gym, but nobody knows that at the time. It happens during biology. As soon as we all hear the popping noise that sounds like gunfire, Mr. Gund locks the door and closes the blinds. He orders everyone to take cover and stay quiet, but I refuse to hide under the lab table like I'm supposed to. My classmates are down there on the floor, some of them staring up at me in the half dark, all of us listening for screams outside, for the gunshot sounds to get closer. “Get down here, Agnes,” a few of them hiss, but I won't listen. I remain at my desk like a statue, a wee figurine.
Que sera, sera,
I think.
Whatever will be, will be.
Finally, Mr. Gund crawls over to me on all fours like an army guy, his forehead covered in sweat. “Agnes,” he whispers. “You need to come down here with the rest of us.”

In response, I continue to do what nobody expects; I disobey authority by shaking my head and looking away. It's not that I want to get shot. It's that I need to start practicing things like defiance and toughness, the kind of things Moira has always been so good at. Everybody always thinks of me as this delicate thing. Well, I'll show them.

Still. That night before falling asleep, images of Moira and Boone keep coming to me. I can't help it. I miss them both. I'd be lying to myself if I said I didn't. But I'm still so angry I could cry. The only thing bigger than that anger now is the fear that I may have pushed them too far when I pushed them both away, that I might have said things I can't ever unsay.

 

85

BOONE

DAY 16: JUNE 9

“Mr. Craddock, would you care to join our last mathematical conversation of the year, or would you rather we not interrupt your nap time? Mr. Craddock?”

My own name invades the dream I'm having, a dream of somebody screaming, some faceless person needing my help, but I'm paralyzed and unable to reach them. I sit up flustered, not knowing where I am.

Geometry. I must have fallen asleep at my desk.

 

86

MOIRA

DAY 15: JUNE 10

Finally, it's the last day of school. I should be happier about that than I am, especially since it's only a half day and I aced most of my finals. After the last bell rings, I clean out my locker and then instinctively look around the hallway for Agnes. She's nowhere to be found.

It's only when I'm pulling out of the parking lot, listening carefully to what I think might be one of El-C's pistons misfiring, that I spot her. She's sitting alone on the curb where the buses usually park, but the buses have already left. She's not wearing a wig. Instead, the blue-gray scarf from home ec is tied around her head.

“Hey,” I say, rolling down the driver's side window.

There's no response.

“What's going on?” I press.

Agnes looks away from me, squints toward the bright horizon. “Nothing,” she says, finally.

“Where's Brittany?”

She shrugs.

“Wasn't she supposed to stay with you until your ride came?”

Another shrug. “She had … stuff to do.”

“That bitch.”

“It's no big deal.” Agnes shifts her eyes ever so briefly in my direction. “My mom's coming to get me.”

“Can we talk?”

Silence.

“Agnes, please get in. Just hang out with me and El-C until Deb gets here. We miss you. Look.” I swat the driver's side door to get her attention. It works. Agnes glances up, and I point to the side-view mirror. “Even El-C's mirror is drooping.”

“What happened?”

Sighing, I explain. “
Allegedly
, I
might
have sideswiped the mailbox while I was backing out of the driveway the other day.” (Agnes can't hide her smile.) “But that's according to my dad, who happened to be present at the time. Personally, I admit to nothing.”

As I'm talking, Deb pulls up and gets out of her car.

“Moira and I are going to hang out for a while,” Agnes tells her. My heart leaps in my chest. “Is that okay?”

“You bet it's okay.” Deb walks over to El-C, leans in through the window, and gives me a hug. “I've missed you,” she says.

“I've missed you, too.”

*   *   *

I drive us toward the west-side park where we sometimes used to sit on the swings and talk. We're about halfway there when Agnes murmurs something.

“What was that?”

“I said
slug bug
.” She points at an oncoming Volkswagen and then punches me in the arm. Hard.

Five minutes later, we're at the park, sailing back and forth through the air. The swings sound like elephant calls, like whale song.

“I should have told you what was going on,” I say.

“Yes, you should have.”

“I'm really sorry, Agnes. I mean, I'm
really
sorry. You don't even know.”

“It's okay.”

“No, it's not. Because the way you found out was just shi— It was crappy. And not fair.”

We've stopped pumping our legs and are letting the swings come back to earth. “Em,” she says, “it's okay.”

I have a hard time believing she really means it. I saw the look in her eyes when she caught me and Boone kissing. The image makes me cringe all over again. “The thing is, all this stuff came out of the blue. I didn't even know I felt that way about him until—”

“Moira,” Agnes says.

“What?”

“I love you, okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

“I've been thinking about all of this. A lot. You're my best friend. And Boone's a close second. I just … got my feelings all mixed up for a minute. It felt like I was trapped in a flipping … damn … love triangle. And I hate love triangles.”

I raise my eyebrows at the language. Swearing definitely doesn't come naturally for Agnes.

“Anyway,” she continues, “you two belong together.”

This takes me by surprise. “You think?”

The swings have come to a complete stop. Agnes rolls her eyes at me. “I've thought so since sixth grade.”

For a minute, neither of us says anything more. “I don't know who I'd be without you, Agnes Delaney,” I tell her finally.

“We should talk to Boone,” she answers.

“Yeah. I guess so.”

When she stands up from the swing, the chiffon scarf slips from her head and falls to the ground.

“Ha!” I cry, grabbing the scarf and holding it tight in my fist. “Mine again. I
win
!”

“You're a dastardly villain, Moira Watkins.”

“Don't I know this.” To prove it, I put on my toughest gangster face, but a smile breaks through despite my efforts.

Agnes and I, we are
so
back.

 

87

AGNES

DAY 14: JUNE 11

We go to the Y as soon as it opens on Saturday.

The first thing I notice is that Moira seems more confident in her swimsuit than she used to. It's a black one-piece, and she stands there at the edge of the pool, not bothering to tug the hip panels down like she normally would. Maybe my best friend is finally figuring out how fabulous she really is.

In contrast, I feel like an extraterrestrial. As always, I'm wearing flippers and water wings to help with propulsion and buoyancy, even though wearing them hurts my shoulder and toe joints more than I let on. The trade-off is worth it, though; with hardly any fat to speak of, my body's natural tendency is to sink like a stone.

The pool's not crowded yet, which is nice. I affix my nose clamp and dog-paddle away until Moira is at the other end of the lane, but I feel her keeping an eye on me anyway. I wonder for the millionth time what it would be like to swim unattended and unadorned, like a normal person, without the stupid clamp and flippers. Without someone always having to watch over me.

 

88

BOONE

DAY 13: JUNE 12

They're at my door. I don't think twice about inviting them in.

Mom stands half inside her room and half outside it, sheltered in the doorway, weird and twitchy as ever. I expect her to back up and lock herself in, but she doesn't.

It's awkward. Nobody seems to know what to say.

“You go first,” Agnes tells me. She looks rough: there are dark circles under her eyes, and she's paler than usual.

I bend down so I'm looking right at her. “Agnes, I'm an idiot.”

“I know,” she says, nodding. I assume that's the end of it. That's what they came to hear, and now they're going to turn around and leave. It would serve me right.

But they don't go anywhere. Instead, Agnes opens her tiny arms wide and motions at me and Moira. “Come here, you two.”

Moira and I haven't even said anything to each other yet. We exchange a glance, and then we step toward Agnes, both of us careful, crouching so she can reach us. Unfortunately, I'm not a very good croucher, so I lower myself to my knees instead. The three of us stay like that for a long time, our arms wrapped carefully around one another.

“Group hug,” Agnes sings in her high-pitched voice.

Honestly, it's the most bizarre thing I've ever done, especially with my mother standing nearby, hugging herself and practically vibrating out of her pilly cardigan from social unease. But at this point I don't even care. The cardigan is a step up from the bathrobe as far as I'm concerned.

“We are
such
dorks,” Moira says into my shoulder. God, the feel of her breath.

Once again, all is right with the world.