Has to Be Love (4 page)

I want to be a writer.

But that want feels fragile—like if I talk about writing as a career too much or hope for it too much, that future will shatter before I have a chance for it to begin.

“I might go up to UAF for my freshman year,” I say as I toss the last load of hay over the partition and lean against the stall next to Rhodes. University of Alaska is a massive compromise, but it's one I'm willing to make to stay close to home—at least until my scars are fixed. After that, the world might seem less like a cliff I've been asked to climb with no gear. That's when I'll maybe leave for New York, but not before. I'm still not sure how to manage the idea of leaving Elias behind for Columbia. I shove the thought away.

Rhodes's brow furrows. “You might want to think about somewhere else. See the world a little. I fully believe in current opportunity.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“It means that life is too short to wait for things to come to you.” He gives me a purposefully crooked smile, like he thinks he's cute or something. “Sometimes you have to reach out and try for what you want. Sometimes you don't know what you want until it's right in front of you. I had no idea I wanted to go to Alaska until my aunt suggested it, and now here I am, experiencing Alaska.”

I'm self-aware enough to know I hide in my bubble, but that's as temporary as my scars.

I trace the welts coming off my upper lip as I lean against Snoopy's stall.

Rhodes's eyes are on me. Something in me should be squirming under his gaze because we just met, but the relaxed way he's talking to me and playing with my horse, makes me feel like I've known him longer than I have.

People don't normally warm up to me like this. They always keep their distance for a while, watch me, and wait to feel comfortable before they talk. It's one of the things I love about Knik—everyone here knows me and the story of my scars. I get second glances, but not the stares I get when I'm somewhere new.

Rhodes keeps watching and my gaze flits to the ground. I drop the hand from my face.

“Do they hurt?” he asks.

“No.” I shake my head, wishing I hadn't touched my scars in front of him.

“Do they feel strange?” He steps forward, his voice completely relaxed as his fingers slide over the scar on my eyebrow, his face more inquisitive than anything else.

I jump back, and he drops his arm.

“Sorry.” He shakes his head. “That was probably rude. I was curious.”

My heart's like a hummingbird—fast and out of control.

“Umm … yeah. The scars are sort of numb. And sort of funny, tingly, weird down deep.”

“Sorry.” His brows twitch, but he's still just leaning against the stall like we're out here together every night instead of him being someone I just met.

“It's fine.” I'm more flattered with the relaxed way he's hanging out in the barn with me—he's a teacher
and
someone who attends an Ivy League school. “No one asks, but I know they want to know the story of how it happened.” I
hear them whisper about it in school.
I turn toward Tori in her stall as her nose hits the back of my head, her mouth full of hay.

“So …” He rubs under Snoopy's ears and for the first time is pointedly not looking at me. “Do you have a simple version of the story?”

“Yep.” I swallow once, rubbing my hand over Tori's forehead until she starts bobbing her head up and down, using me as a scratching post. “I don't remember the bear coming at us or Mom screaming for help or anything.” I swear though, the
feeling
of the memory is still there, digging into my stomach and heart, tearing up my insides worse than anything marking my face. “I don't remember leaving for our morning walk. I know nothing about that day until I woke up in the hospital.”

Tears stream down my face before I realize how deeply my chest aches. It's been so long since I've cried about Mom that the loss of her hits hard, like it does once in a while.
How do I not remember losing my mother?
I was twelve. Not three. I should remember. She should be here.

“Clara. I'm sorry. That's … crazy.”

I swipe my hands over my face again and again; my right hand slides over the bumps of my scars. Rhodes reaches for my face, and his fingers brush just under my eye, shocking me into jumping back.

He raises his arms in the air in a gesture of surrender. “I'm so sorry. I'm an idiot. I wasn't thinking. A girl cries, and I react.”

I take another step back, my heart pounding again. “I should go help Dad with the dishes.”

“No. Clara. Wait.” Rhodes presses his fingers to his forehead before running his hand over his head. “I'm not exactly sure what just happened, but I feel like I did something wrong. What I wanted to say is that I think it's amazing that you—”

I frown and he stops talking, but he steps close enough that his breath hits my face. My heart does a crazy
thump-thump-thump
over this stranger I'm reacting so … strangely to, and I feel myself flip into frustration to avoid the strangeness. “What's amazing? That I happen to walk around with scars on my face?” I snap. “Like I somehow have a choice?”

He leans back. “No that's not what I meant. I just wanted to—”

“Good night, Mr. Kennedy.”
Maybe now when I see you at school, it won't send my stomach into a flurry.

“Good night.”

I head to the house, go through the back door, and run up the stairs to my attic bedroom. I'm sure he thinks I'm insane, but he probably wouldn't be the first.

The second I'm surrounded by my wooden, slanted walls, I grab
A Worn Path
by Eudora Welty. As I kick my shoes off and flop on my bed, Welty's words dance in my brain. The words Mom introduced me to the year before she died. One day I will write as perfectly as this story is written.

The problem is that the words aren't sticking. I'm reading, but my brain is spinning instead of following the lines.

I pick up my phone and pause before texting Cecily. She's four hours ahead, so it's like 1:00 a.m. in Georgia. Suck. I scroll to Elias's name.

You up?

Yep

I'm not sure how to shake the story of Mom and the bear, or share what it was like to talk to someone from Columbia.

Miss you tonight,
I type.

Maybe we should try to find some time to do a real date? Take a drive?

Immediately I relax into my mattress.

I'd love that

Being around Elias almost always seems to reset me. A night together should be perfect. I need to shake off the skittering, frantic feeling of Rhodes.

You wanna talk?
he asks.

His voice might help me relax more. But then my mind jumps to Rhodes Kennedy, to how I reacted to Rhodes Kennedy, and to the letter in my drawer with my acceptance by an out-of-state school.
Nah. See you tomorrow.

Tomorrow

I set the alarm on my phone before leaving it on my nightstand. If I can't talk to Cecily or Elias about all the new uneasiness running around inside me, what do I do about it?

4

“Clara!” Dad hollers up the stairs. “Time for seminary!”

I roll over and wish to live somewhere that I could have my once-a-day religious class during the school day and not
before
school in Sister McEntyre's living room with four other students as sleepy as me. I also sometimes wish that Elias and I belonged to the same church so he'd pick me up. I could sleep in his truck for a few extra minutes as we drove to seminary together.

Some days I'm grateful we have these morning sessions because they help me focus on being a better person than I tend to be, and other mornings I want to stab out Sister McEntyre's eyes with a spoon. I'm having one of those mornings. Should be an interesting day.

“Clara!” Dad calls again. “I'm going to go feed the horses. You need to be walking out the door in five minutes!”

I let out a sigh as I flip on my hair straightener and grab a pair of jeans from my closet. At least uniforms aren't part of my private school. After straightening my bangs over my face and double-checking the battery on my phone because my scriptures are there, I head out to my truck.

The two-lane, bendy highway that runs through Knik is quiet at six fifteen in the morning because all the smart people are still in bed. The river runs fast and muddy on one side, and the mountain stretches up almost as high as I can see on the other.

I reach the log-cabin-looking mailbox that signals Sister McEntyre's driveway and turn off, climbing the steep, gravel driveway until it levels off in front of her log home.

Two other cars I recognize are there, belonging to kids who go to the public school.

Sister McEntyre is on the porch steps and smiles an even, teacher smile. “Morning, Sister Fielding.”

I give her a mumble and a nod, trying to force myself to
wake up
already. I used to think it was so cool when I became a teenager and everyone referred to me as “Sister Fielding” instead of just Clara, but in my church, calling someone Brother or Sister isn't really a distinction. I'm more and more convinced it's just a nice way of saying, “We're going to ask you to teach soon or do some kind of work for the people you go to church with.” Or maybe that perception is just my cynicism.

I manage to survive seminary without nodding off once. But by the time I get to first period, I wish for a tool to keep my eyes propped open.

“Dear Baby Jesus …” Mrs. Apple begins as she says the morning prayer. Because my private school doesn't care that I've already had my once-a-day religious class and because we always start the school day with a prayer.

I never understood praying to “baby” Jesus. Wherever He might be, if she thinks He's a baby, why would she bother? What is a baby possibly going to be able to do for her? I asked her once, and she said it was blasphemous for me to question Jesus's power. And then she just gave me a weird look like of course this is something the
Mormon
girl wouldn't understand, because she somehow thinks I don't get who Jesus is. Mostly I don't think anyone gets who He is, whether they believe in Him or not.

The second problem is that as she says the words “baby Jesus” for like the fifth time since starting the prayer, I picture a really alien-looking infant with a magic wand. Not really an image conducive to prayer time, but awesome for entertainment.

Elias murmurs his own prayer like he has since elementary. A few bits of stubble dot his cheeks and chin, which means he probably worked late again last night. I stare for a moment, hoping he can sense me staring and will end his prayer early.

No luck.

I scan the room for intruders. Okay, not intruders. For people like me who still think the separation of religion from the school system was probably a good thing. I find none.

Instead of following along with the baby Jesus prayer, I think back to Dr. Breckman's website. To the people whose scars he made disappear. Only a couple more weeks before I'll get to talk to him about mine.

Elias clasps our hands together while we wait for the few theater people to gather after school. I'm not onstage, I'm the stage manager, which means I'm in charge of sets, lights, pulling the curtain, and sound. Small school.

Esther, a girl I've known on the periphery for years, glances over her shoulder but looks away the second our eyes meet. Normal, but it still gives me twinges in my stomach.

“Wanna get together after play practice?” Elias asks. “I'm finally not working tonight.”

“Dad says we had company last night, so tonight's not a good night.” I tilt my face forward. I'm usually much more careful about making sure Elias is on my left side instead of my right. But he's used to me, so maybe he can be my buffer today—spare the rest of the room having to look at that side of my face.

Elias shrugs like it's no big deal that “family time” interrupts time we could spend together. I don't know if I should be angry about this and want him to fight to spend more time with me or if I should just be happy we don't argue.

“We'll find another night then.” He gives me a squeeze.

For sure he wouldn't be dating me if we went to a bigger school. He probably would have found someone without a messed-up face. So, really, I'm relieved I never feel torn and a bit amazed we're together.

Elias tucks my hair behind my ear. “Are you hiding from me?” he whispers.

I stare at my lap. “I don't know.”

“I'm excited for you to get these fixed because you want it, but you know I don't care, right?” He softly kisses my cheek between the scar that starts on my nose and the one that starts at the edge of my eye.

No. No I don't know that he doesn't care. Maybe I should. Maybe I'm just afraid to trust him with this. He's known me for long enough that he knows how I'd feel if I thought the scars grossed him out the way they do me.