that’s what I mean.”
“Dreams like feet better than knees,” she said.
“Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?”
“It means I need to do this now. And I’m going.”
This time I couldn’t hide the quaver in my voice. “Do you realize I left the bus—just left it—at Jim’s to chase after you? We need to find a phone and call home so they know where we are and—”
“I have an iPhone,” said the redhead.
I glared at her. She didn’t look like she could afford a plastic spoon.
“What?” she said, with a hint of defensiveness. “Just because I’m out here enjoying a hippie moment doesn’t mean I can live without my cell any more than the next American. I charged it in the last town, too, so as long as there’s service—”
“You’ll have to sleep in the woods, Jazz,” my sister said. “If you come. If you decide to go with me now. We won’t be able to get there today.”
The air felt like fire in my nostrils as my desperation rose. “Olivia.” I gripped her shoulders again, fighting the urge to shake her into submission, and played the last card I had to play. “I will hate you forever if you do this.”
But, as always, my sister held the ace.
“Oh, Jazz,” she said, and her eyes turned sad. “I think we both know that you will hate me forever anyway.”
I called Babka using a cell phone that looked more expensive than any I’d ever seen. The reception wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough. I was able to say what I needed to say, even if I didn’t hear what I wanted to hear.
She was glad I’d called, glad we were still on the way to the glades. She would take care of the bus, as I would take care of my sister. I was a good girl.
I wasn’t a good girl, I told my grandmother. I was a stuck one.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Fortunate Thing
OLIVIA
T he story of how my parents met is a tale of love at first bite. Papa was at Kennaton State, taking a trayful of Babka’s biscuits and rolls down a flight of stairs and to a campus grocery store. Mama, a junior there, lingered behind him with some of her friends, admiring his cute butt and strong shoulders—until she tripped, somehow, on her own heels. She couldn’t catch herself; her feet wouldn’t land right on the steps, her hands couldn’t snag the railing no matter how she tried. She said it was like being a bird flung out of a nest to learn that it had no wings, and that she was lucky someone was there to break her fall. She plowed into Papa’s back, which threw him off balance, too.
There were ten steps, maybe, to the bottom, which didn’t sound like much but was a lot when you were out of control. I picture them rolling, cartwheeling down the stairs, baked goods everywhere, biscuits raining over them like falling stars. When they reached the end of their tumble, my mother’s body landed over my father’s back in an ungainly sprawl, and her shrieking mouth pierced his shoulder.
When he turned himself over to face her, like a half-cooked griddle cake, Mama kissed him—despite her throbbing teeth and sprained ankle. Her friends thought maybe she should see a doctorbecause she was acting so funny, but Mama said the only prescription she needed was the delivery guy’s phone number, which he gave her.
I asked her once what made her kiss him, and she said it was two things. The first was his eyes; they were big pools of blue, bright and happy to meet her. The second was the taste of him when she bit into his shoulder. He tasted, she said, like tomorrow.
If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.
The train rattled on in my veins long after we were off it and on the ground, which might explain why my feet were slow to do as I asked—like they’d turned to clay and clay didn’t have to listen to me. The clearing we’d argued in, the one we’d said goodbye to Ruby, her brother, and his dog in, was the last we’d seen of a wide-open space in the forest. The brush became thick as we walked south,
“Dreams like feet better than knees,” she said.
“Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?”
“It means I need to do this now. And I’m going.”
This time I couldn’t hide the quaver in my voice. “Do you realize I left the bus—just left it—at Jim’s to chase after you? We need to find a phone and call home so they know where we are and—”
“I have an iPhone,” said the redhead.
I glared at her. She didn’t look like she could afford a plastic spoon.
“What?” she said, with a hint of defensiveness. “Just because I’m out here enjoying a hippie moment doesn’t mean I can live without my cell any more than the next American. I charged it in the last town, too, so as long as there’s service—”
“You’ll have to sleep in the woods, Jazz,” my sister said. “If you come. If you decide to go with me now. We won’t be able to get there today.”
The air felt like fire in my nostrils as my desperation rose. “Olivia.” I gripped her shoulders again, fighting the urge to shake her into submission, and played the last card I had to play. “I will hate you forever if you do this.”
But, as always, my sister held the ace.
“Oh, Jazz,” she said, and her eyes turned sad. “I think we both know that you will hate me forever anyway.”
I called Babka using a cell phone that looked more expensive than any I’d ever seen. The reception wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough. I was able to say what I needed to say, even if I didn’t hear what I wanted to hear.
She was glad I’d called, glad we were still on the way to the glades. She would take care of the bus, as I would take care of my sister. I was a good girl.
I wasn’t a good girl, I told my grandmother. I was a stuck one.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Fortunate Thing
OLIVIA
T he story of how my parents met is a tale of love at first bite. Papa was at Kennaton State, taking a trayful of Babka’s biscuits and rolls down a flight of stairs and to a campus grocery store. Mama, a junior there, lingered behind him with some of her friends, admiring his cute butt and strong shoulders—until she tripped, somehow, on her own heels. She couldn’t catch herself; her feet wouldn’t land right on the steps, her hands couldn’t snag the railing no matter how she tried. She said it was like being a bird flung out of a nest to learn that it had no wings, and that she was lucky someone was there to break her fall. She plowed into Papa’s back, which threw him off balance, too.
There were ten steps, maybe, to the bottom, which didn’t sound like much but was a lot when you were out of control. I picture them rolling, cartwheeling down the stairs, baked goods everywhere, biscuits raining over them like falling stars. When they reached the end of their tumble, my mother’s body landed over my father’s back in an ungainly sprawl, and her shrieking mouth pierced his shoulder.
When he turned himself over to face her, like a half-cooked griddle cake, Mama kissed him—despite her throbbing teeth and sprained ankle. Her friends thought maybe she should see a doctorbecause she was acting so funny, but Mama said the only prescription she needed was the delivery guy’s phone number, which he gave her.
I asked her once what made her kiss him, and she said it was two things. The first was his eyes; they were big pools of blue, bright and happy to meet her. The second was the taste of him when she bit into his shoulder. He tasted, she said, like tomorrow.
If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.
The train rattled on in my veins long after we were off it and on the ground, which might explain why my feet were slow to do as I asked—like they’d turned to clay and clay didn’t have to listen to me. The clearing we’d argued in, the one we’d said goodbye to Ruby, her brother, and his dog in, was the last we’d seen of a wide-open space in the forest. The brush became thick as we walked south,
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