“Why’d you go and upset Mama?”

  “We were just talking to her,” Henry says.

  “You think you’re gonna come in here and abracadabra, fix everything? You just make things worse, both of you. Why don’t you get the hell out of here.”

  “Gladly,” I say, fuming at his audacity.

  Henry says, “Sugar is staying with me from now on, and someone is going to be coming here to look after Mama.”

  Skunk looks as if he’s ready to spit bullets. “The both of you look so smug. Gone and lost all that weight. Henry, you stole Sugar here away. I reckoned you’ve been plotting something. But just know she’s a fat slut, always coming on to my friends, so I guess that don’t matter now she’s gone. The only thing she is good for is wiping Mama’s ass.”

  Henry stiffens next to me.

  “You wait and see; you’ll find out how useless she is. Why, if you ask me, she’s better off—”

  “Sugar, why don’t you go on outside,” Henry says through gritted teeth.

  I’ve already said what I needed to say to Skunk, and I’ve heard enough. I leave the keys to the Honda on the counter and go into the garage. I unearth the motorcycle and back it out. I almost feel like I want to stroke it affectionately, like a horse. Something close to laughter loosens inside. I get in the saddle and feel instantly invigorated. From the house, there’s shouting and then a loud slam. I fire up the bike so I don’t have to listen to it. I’m done there. I look toward the west, where the sun just begins to set.

  After a few nail-biting minutes, Henry bursts out the front door. When he gets closer, I can see a small cut slices across his cheek. He’s ruffled and breathes heavily. Without hesitating, he gets on the back of the bike and, with that, we’re off. As I put miles between that old house and my old life, my shoulders relax and I mold to the bike, riding easy.

  We walk up to Henry’s apartment in silence; I get the feeling he isn’t ready to talk. When we get inside, Stacy bounces off the couch where textbooks and her laptop are scattered around her. She rushes to give Henry a hug. When she pulls back, she asks, “What happened?”

  “After you went outside,” he says, looking at me, “I had a feeling things might get ugly, but first I wanted to tell him about Papa. I explained we’d found him, but he said and I quote, ‘I don’t want nothin’ to do with that bastard.’ So, basically, Skunk isn’t interested. Funny how it seems we’re divided evenly. You and I, Sugar, are welcoming change, health, and healing, while Skunk and Mama are content to wallow in their misery.”

  Henry’s the most upset I’ve seen him.

  He goes on, “I didn’t really like the things that he was saying but was willing to let them go. Then one of his friends came in and started hollering at me, some stringy kid who I vaguely remember as Caleb. Before he could say any more, I punched him in the face.” He bows gallantly.

  I laugh appreciatively.

  “Your knight in shining armor. Or brother in shining armor.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Don’t mention it. I’m not sure he understood why he got one in the face, but serves him right. Anyway, of course, Skunk got pissed and threw a punch, but there wasn’t much behind it. Just like I remember. He never did think much, just plowed through. Although, he wouldn’t stop until I had him pinned.”

  “Your face,” Stacy says, putting her hand gently on his cheek.

  “Trust me; he got the worst of it.”

  “You two used to fight all the time,” I say.

  “It was good to know where his weak spots are. I didn’t mean for it to come to blows, but that’s the language he seems to understand. It isn’t my way—well not anymore—but I made my point.”

  “And I said goodbye,” I say, feeling somewhat relieved.

  “Good riddance,” Henry says.

  The next day, I set out early on the motorcycle. I pull onto Birch Road and park beside the pickup truck. I wait, sitting astride the bike, hoping to see some movement upstairs that will urge me in or push me to turn around and leave. After another moment of indecision, I tell myself it’s now or never, and I have a meeting at the school in an hour.

  I walk up the stairs and knock. Nash isn’t expecting me, so when he peers through the blinds I’m not surprised he takes a moment before he opens the door. He looks me up and down and then leaves the door hanging open. I suppose he means for me to follow.

  I close the door behind me. The kitchen is tidy. Either he hasn’t been eating or he’s changed, and if so, that’s promising.

  “Mr. Anderson, I was a friend of Even’s. I came here today to ask you something.” In the morning light, Nash looks tired, the lines in his face deeper than the last time I saw him.

  “Yeah, I remember you. You said something at Even’s memorial serv—” He coughs, and I’m not sure if it’s just because he needed to or if the word is hard for him to say.

  “That’s right. I have something to show you. I’m not sure if you’ve ever seen it, but I suppose he might have liked you to. Do you mind if we sit down?”

  We take a seat at the dinette table. I show him the journal and Even’s plan for both Tansy’s ashes and his journey out west. By the end, there are tears in both our eyes. Nash looks through the kitchen window into the distance.

  “What I’d like to know is if I can have his motorcycle. If you want money for it, I’ll give you what I can. He salvaged the thing and rebuilt it, but he also taught me to ride it. He meant for it to take him west, to the Pacific. He wanted it to carry him there so he could release Tansy’s—pardon me, Mrs. Anderson’s—ashes.”

  Nash puts his hand over his mouth. His arm shakes beneath his plaid shirt. He takes a moment and then gets up, goes to Even’s bedroom and then to the living room. I stare at the floor, as if I might see Even’s footprints there. He returns carrying some papers and two wooden boxes. He places them on the table. Engraved across the top of one is Even’s name, birthdate, and the date he died. It’s almost identical to Tansy’s box.

  Nash takes a pen from his shirt pocket and then writes a note titled “Bill of Sale.” He adds the date and that he’s selling the bike to me for one dollar. He has me sign the paper. Then he pushes the box toward me and nods his head.

  “Yes. Take them both,” he manages to say as he battles his emotions.

  “Are you sure, Mr. Anderson?”

  He nods.

  I’m not sure that we’re done, but I see I have five minutes to make it to the high school. I carefully pick up the boxes and put them in my bag. I place a dollar bill on the counter, but he shakes his head. “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you. Just one thing,” he says when I’m at the door. “Would ya do me just one favor. Would you do it at sunrise? That was always her favorite time of day. And his, too. I favor the sunset, but they had that in common. Maybe, if you’re able, you could take a photo of it over the water and send it to me. I’d appreciate that.”

  “Of course.” I look around the room, where Even lived, making sure I never forget, and then hurry down the stairs. The wind dries my salty tears as I ride to JRHS. I get to the school as the second period bell rings. I’m a minute late. When I arrive at the secretary’s office, she gives me a look and says, “They’re waiting for you.” I make my apologies, but the principal, my English and Algebra II teachers, and Ms. Barrows don’t seem irritated.

  The meeting is quick and to the point. They agree to allow me to finish the semester off-campus; though I’ve never understood why they call the high school a campus; it’s just one building. I also have daily online check-ins with each of my teachers and then will return for exams, but I’m not required to be at the school other than that. I agree to this and gather all the materials I’ll need. On my way out, Ms. Barrows calls, “Good luck!” I can tell she means it.

  Over the next few weeks Stacy and I study and cook together. She really is a whiz in the kitchen. I’m on my way to eating healthy, whole foods and liking it, which I never would have guessed. Over dinner one night, of jeweled rice with lemon, thyme, almonds, and cranberries with a side of baked halibut, the happy couple announces they have something to share with me.

  “I’ve been in touch with Papa,” Henry says.

  “You heard back?”

  He nods.

  “And . . .?” I ask.

  “He’s so happy. We spoke on the phone earlier. You were out, but he can’t wait to see us. I haven’t filled him in on all the details; I figured it would be better to do that in person. Well, we haven’t picked a date yet for our wedding; we were thinking we’d put it off until Stacy graduates, but now we are thinking we might go to Mexico in August for our honeymoon. We decided we’re going to have a private ceremony and a party here for friends and family, but of course Papa won’t be able to come, so what better way to include him in our plans than to go there afterward? We won’t spend the entire time with him—it’s a honeymoon after all—but we want you to be there, too.”

  My smile matches Henry’s. “Of course,” I answer with happy surprise before I think of logistics.

  “Just call us when you figure out where you’ll be, and we’ll arrange for a ticket. Sound good?” Stacy asks. I’m glad to hear her say this. Her words tell me that she actually wants me included and this isn’t just Henry’s idea.

  “Yes. Absolutely,” I answer.

  I spend the next weeks walking and cooking and sewing and studying. Exam time comes and I make it in and out of the classrooms, unscathed, for English, math, science, and history. My last exam is Spanish. I’m nervous because I know Hillary and Allie will be there, not to mention Brandon.

  I have to wade through the rows of desks toward the back to find an empty one. Eyes are on me, but I don’t look around. I take my seat. Hillary and Allie laugh. Part of me wants to turn, stare them down, or ask them what gives, why do they pick on me? Then whispering and pointing accompanies the laughter. The proctor gives a five-minute warning for using the bathroom. I get to my feet. As I try to slip by the laughing girls to exit to the girls’ room, mostly to center myself before concentrating on Spanish, knowing I’ll mostly be thinking about Papa, Allie blocks my path. She gives me an appraising look, up and down.

  “No matter how much weight you lose or how many days you skip school, you’ll never be pretty”—she pauses—“or cool, or desired.” She says this last word in a sexy, husky voice. Her eyes penetrate the layers of courage and confidence I’ve amassed in the previous weeks. She sees right through to my soft, mushy core. “You’ll never be like me.” The words hiss like a fuse.

  But I’m the dynamite.

  I take a careful look at her dyed and straightened hair, perfect upturned nose, painted lips, and narrow hips. “You’re right, Allie,” I answer, meeting her eyes. It stings. I don’t want to be accepted or liked by her, but still, it’s mean. I want to tell her how awful she is or at least just call a truce. Instead, I hold her gaze, my chin lifted. “I’ll never be like you. And you know what? That’s flippin’ great, because I’m going to be exactly like me.”

  Nonetheless, in the bathroom, I brace myself on the edge of the bathroom sink and splash cool water on my face. I think back to the day in the cafeteria when Even bumped into me and I sought refuge in here. When I look up, the girl in the reflection is radiant. That girl is me. There’s a discarded tube of lipstick lying on the sink against the wall. I open it. It’s bright pink. I ignore the germ factor and apply it, rubbing my lips together. I lean into the mirror and kiss it. “You are beautiful,” I say. Next to my lip stain, I write, “Love, Sugar.”

  I sit for the exam, pink lips and all. Before I know it, I’m on the last question. A chime rings, indicating we have to close our test booklets. Everyone passes them forward, and the proctor dismisses us. I race to the front of the room. There are giggles. I blow them a kiss, a smirk blazing across my lips. Maybe I did have the last say.

  I rush out the doors, hoping never to return to Johnson Regional High School. With one last glance at the spot where Even and I used to meet, I get onto the motorcycle in the parking lot and coast through the bus loop toward the street. I lap Brandon, putting along on his bicycle. He calls out, “Ride, fat girl, ride.”

  Oh, I will. I yell, “Kiss my curves!” I may no longer be fat, but I’m a curvy girl, and I like it. This new body has arches and curls in all the right spots, and is my real body. I have no desire to be skinny, but the excess weight I carried around wasn’t mine; it was Mama’s, and I’m glad to be rid of it.

  That night we celebrate my completion of eleventh grade. Henry raises his glass. “Didn’t someone once say something like ‘To the best of times and the worst of times’?”

  Stacy nods. “I’m no English major, but I did have to memorize that for English in high school. Charles Dickens. It was something like ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times—’”

  I remember it from English, too. I join in, our voices in harmony. “It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us . . .”

  We sit there for a moment, letting the words cast their nets around us, picking up shards of our lives and holding them as truth and letting others slip through. I imagine Even sitting in the empty chair across from me.

  “There’s more, of course, but darned if I can remember,” Stacy says, breaking the spell.

  “Me neither,” I say. It means something that Henry wanted to toast using that quote, and both Stacy and I knew it—it speaks to common experience, the good, and the bad. We dig into the ten-veggie stir-fry, my first foray into proper cooking, courtesy of Stacy. They both praise the dish.

  When we’re done, Stacy brings out fortune cookies.

  “A little treat. I bribed the guy at the Chinese restaurant by the university for a few. I figured some good fortune was in order to wish Sugar on her way,” she says.

  We each crack into the cookies. Henry pulls his out.

  “‘Good company is as agreeable as a good meal.’ Too true,” Henry says, reading his.

  Stacy goes next. “‘You’re sitting next to your best friend,’” she reads, beaming. “You’ve got that right.” They share a peck on the lips. “Your turn,” Stacy says to me.

  I crack the cookie in half and pull out the small rectangle of paper. “‘The fortunate make their own good fortune.’” Indeed.

  “Right again,” Stacy says, laughing.

  We enjoy the rest of the evening together, and before I go to bed, I say goodbye. Henry gives me a bear hug and says, “Look after yourself, Mercy.”

  At dawn, I pad to the bathroom and slide into a romper I sewed especially for my ride. It’s the first garment—made by me—I’ve ever worn. The fabric, against my skin, is fabulous. It looks like a dress, but the bottom is actually a pair of shorts. The zip-up front is hidden by tiers of tangerine and rose, peach and amber: the flames of color that can only be described as sunrise. I will float in the wind, like I have feathers, like a bird. I put on a sparkly, chunky bejeweled necklace. I twirl in front of the mirror, fluttering and shining. Then I look at myself, full-on. I’ve decided that size does and does not matter. I didn’t have to lose weight to grow as a person because the truth is, the girl I see, no matter what I look like, feels gorgeous, buxom, and whole.

  I slip out of the apartment, and take some time fitting everything into the compartments of the bike. I tuck the two wooden boxes carefully in the pannier bags I added for travel, with my sewing on top. My clothing, toiletries, and supplies go in the other one. I keep Even’s journal in my jacket. I tuck my hand into my pocket and feel for the shell he gave me on the beach. It’s there, solid and true. I have a photo of the two of us tucked near the handlebars where I can see it, but secure so the wind won’t blow it away. I say a prayer and then set off.

  At a traffic light, near the state border, I put my helmet on. The sun shines on my back, warming me. I don’t look up, but sense an eagle above, circling overhead. Then I get the green light, and I go.

  Acknowledgments

  To my big and littles, thank you for shining so bright. Dad, thank you for upgrading my MS Word and for the encouragement. I offer heartfelt gratitude to my family and friends for your support. Christine ((C)) for the early read, and Tamar for your cheerleading. Rah! Rah! Rah! Daily hearts to my K-girls for indulging in me.

  I thank God for all the blessings and lessons, especially patience.

  Tackle hugs are in order for the team at Skyscape. Courtney, thank you for opening that document, reaching out, and taking a chance. If you haven’t checked, you may very well have fairy-editor-angel wings! Kelli, you make my words, and me, sparkle. For your dedication to the manuscript, I owe you lunch at Locanda (also, just so we can hang out).

  I’m grateful to the amazing writing community on Twitter. You are outstanding writers and people, who not only provided me with the push to focus but also with more than a few laughs and much cute emergency relief.

  Readers, for believing in the magical power of the written word, thank you, thank you, thank you.

  About the Author

  During her teens, Deirdre Riordan Hall traveled throughout the United States and Europe, developing a love for stories and a desire to connect with worlds—imagined or real—on the page. She has written To the Sea, Surfaced, and the Follow Your Bliss series. When not spending time with her family, writing, or traveling, Hall is at the beach, pretending to be a mermaid.

 

 

  Deirdre Riordan Hall, Sugar

 

 

  Thank you for reading books on GrayCity.Net
Share this book with friends