The Leaving Season (2 page)

As sentimental as Nate was, I was always surprised he didn't feel the same way I did: sad. “When I look at Rocky, I see the puppy he was,” he told me once. “I never see him as an old dog.”

Which really tells you everything you need to know about Nate.

No sooner had we stepped outside than we were nearly trampled by the strawberry blond twins. Chelsea and Cassidy jumped off their swings and ran to Nate. He was like a rock god/superhero these days.

“Nate, push us! Push us!” they said in unison.

Nate gripped my hand tighter and whispered. “Just once, okay?”

I pushed down my impatience. After all, they were losing Nate for a year too. It was right to be gracious.

Nate used both hands to push each of the girls as hard as he could, sending them soaring over our heads. They squealed with delight while their cousins begged for the same.

“Nate! Nate! Nate!”

It was like an obstacle course of small children. I gritted my teeth and accepted it. My turn would come—eventually. And as I stood there waiting for it, I felt a cold nose nudge my hand. I glanced down to see Rocky's wide eyes begging for some attention. His white muzzle seemed to smile when I gave it to him.

Finally, after every cousin got a push on the swing, Nate feigned exhaustion and then fell against me. “Come on, let's go before they realize I'm faking.”

He grabbed my hand and we ran to the edge of the Binghams' property, where a corral fence separated the woods from the yard. A pair of Douglas firs towered majestically as if they were welcoming us to the forest.

That was one thing about growing up in a lumber town in the Pacific Northwest: we knew our trees. Fir, pine, hemlock—each had its own personality. I always considered the firs to be protective guardians—evergreen sentinels watching over us.

Yeah, I know. Pretty corny.

Nate tugged me farther into the woods to a clearing near the stream that flowed through the mountains past his house
and mine. On a summer day like today, the water sparkled like it was made of diamonds. Rocky eagerly lapped at the stream before plopping himself down in a patch of sun.

Nate sat on an old tree stump and pulled me down onto his lap.

“Watch my dress!” I cried as I tumbled. “It's brand-new!”

“For me?”

“Yes, well, for your
party
.”

“Aw, you didn't have to do that.” He carefully arranged my dress so it didn't touch the forest floor. “You could have worn nothing and I'd be just as happy.”

I giggled as he tickled me. “I'll
bet
you would!” I held on to the back of his neck with both hands and stuck my tongue in his ear—
not
romantic at all, just wet and gross. Like that lizard he thought was funny from the Disney movie about Rapunzel.

He immediately recoiled. “Ugh! Do
not
do that again.” He wiped his ear with his sleeve.

“How about this instead?” I leaned in again, this time with a gentle kiss. He kissed me back. A kiss that said,
We are alone and I like it that way.

No kids underfoot. No parents interrupting. No dogs begging—at least not this one, who still lay happily sprawled by the stream. Here in the forest the only sounds were the bubble of the water, the whistling of a few sparrows, the swish of tree branches.

Nate's lips left mine, but he buried his head against my
neck, burrowing under my braid. “Oh, Middie, it hurts to think of being without you.”

I exhaled. “Yeah. I'll be so . . . lonely.”

“You?” he said. “Nah, you'll have plenty to do while I'm gone.” He traced the line of my jaw to my ear with his finger, and then played with my earring, a long dangly heart-shaped pearl with a gold loop.

“Like what?”

“Like . . . I don't know. Applying to college? Graduating? It's your senior year.”

“So?”

“So . . . we've got plans. You've gotta make it into Lewis & Clark so we can be together when I get back, remember?”

I smiled. “Yeah. I will.”

“When I come back, we'll get started on the rest of our lives together.” He took my hand and kissed my fingertips, one by one. “College, engagement, med school, marriage, family . . .”

A shiver ran up my spine when he kissed my pinkie finger for that last one. Family. Our family. His and mine. It felt so far away from where we were and yet, not nearly close enough.

“Sure. Just like that,” I said, softly snapping my fingers. He kissed me again and I felt light-headed in his arms.
College, engagement, med school, marriage, family . . .
I thought.

But first, he needed to come back to me.

The shade box was burning a hole in my purse. When we
came up for air, I reached behind me and pulled it out.

“Ta-da!”

He looked surprised. “What's this?”

“You didn't think I would forget to give you a going-away present, did you?”

“Well, no, but . . .”

“Your brother gave you sneakers—”

“He picked them out. He didn't
buy
them.”

“And the twins gave you lip balm—”

“I think Cassidy found it in my mom's purse.”

“And your parents gave you a big party—”

“They're my
parents
. That's what they do.”

“Nate!
I'm
giving you something,” I said and firmly pushed the box at him.

He smiled sheepishly. “Okay.” He took the package and turned it over in his hands, examining every inch of it.

Grrr . . .
Why wouldn't he rip it open? Sometimes he was so maddeningly patient!

He grinned up at me. “You hate that, don't you?”

“What?”

“That it takes me forever to open a present.”

“Not really.” I tried to shrug, but he knew me so well. “Just open it, okay?”

He carefully slid the bow and ribbon off and then unpeeled the tape with painstaking care. He grinned again. “I might want to reuse it.”

“Oh my gosh, I am going to kill you!” I grabbed the paper
from him and balled it up, then tossed it toward Rocky. The dog sniffed once and then went back to sleep.

Seeing what was underneath, Nate inhaled sharply. “Middie . . . the box. You . . . you got me the box?”

I smiled with pride. Folded my hands in my lap. “Yep. I did.”

He ran a finger along the woodwork. “But it was so expensive.”

“I, um, I saved some money. No big deal.”
Gave up
Saturday-morning lattes at the Matchbox, took on a few extra babysitting and tutoring gigs . . .
He didn't need to know. “You like it?”

He squeezed me in response. “I love it.” He was about to open the clasp when I stopped him.

“No! Not yet. Wait until you get there—to Honduras.”

“Why?”

“There's, um . . . stuff inside.”

He cocked his head to one side. “Stuff? Nothing that will get me in trouble when I cross the border?”

“Ha, ha.” I took the box from him and turned it over in my hands. “It's just some things to remember me—us—by.” I held it up in front of him. “Every day you're gone, you can reach inside and take one thing out. For a whole year.”

“For a year? I can take one thing out
every single day
?” I nodded and was rewarded with an impressed grin. “That's three hundred and sixty-five things, Middie. In this box.”

“Um, yeah, Nate, I think I know how long a year is.” I
laughed and handed him the box back. Now he was truly impressed. His eyes widened and he shook his head.

“I can't believe it.”

“That I could cram three hundred and sixty-five things inside? Some of them are
really
insanely tiny.”

“No. Just . . .” He stopped. “You found three hundred and sixty-five things to remember about us.”

I placed my palms on the sides of his face and brought my lips to his. “Try a million. I can think of a million things to remember about us.”

We kissed again, the shade box between us, its edges pressing hard against my rib cage. But I barely noticed. For the moment, it was just me and Nate in this vast forest. For all I knew or cared, it was just us in this world.

One of our last kisses,
I thought,
for a full year.
I kissed him greedily, swallowing him up with my lips, my hands. Across town, across the country, were other girls like me doing the same thing? It was the leaving season, after all, the dog days of summer, when high school grads went off to college for the first time. Those of us left behind were desperate to hold on, afraid if we let go, we might be forgotten or cease to exist. Or maybe that was just me.

“Middie . . .” I heard him whisper. “I love you.”

“I love—”

Bzzz! Bzzz!

“I lo—”

Bzzz!

Nate released me briefly and then fished his phone out of his pants pocket. He held up the screen. “Mom.” He silenced the vibration and then quickly texted her.

I leaned back against the tree and rubbed my palm against the whorls of bark. Just then, my phone buzzed in my purse. I reached in and glanced at the screen.
Dad.
I dashed off a text too:
On my way.

“I guess we've been ignoring the real world,” Nate said with a sigh. He helped me to my feet and we each brushed the other free of leaves and twigs.

The real world?
I thought.
Can't this be the real world?

A voice in my head answered,
It will be—soon enough, it will be.

I took Nate's hand and swung it gently by my side as we walked back to the party. Nate clutched the shade box to his chest with a grin. I couldn't help but grin back; I had made him happy.

I wanted to make him happy for the rest of my life.

Lockers at our high school were sacred spaces: staff stayed out, allowing us creative freedom to decorate the interiors however we chose, asking only that we didn't leave food overnight and that we cleaned them out at the end of every year. Girls taped up photos of friends and boyfriends, stored love notes and to-do lists, maybe a dried flower from prom, while guys hid a pinup or two behind their football practice or band rehearsal schedules.

I was one of the first at school. I woke up before my alarm in anticipation of meeting Nate for our usual morning run. I was nearly out the door when I remembered Nate left for Honduras yesterday. I even reached for my phone a few
times, checking for messages from him. Of course, there were none. My morning felt strangely empty.

With almost an hour to spare before first bell rang, I took my time putting mementos up in my locker: a photo of Nate and me dressed up for last year's Spring Fling, another of us at a poolside party. As I taped each picture to the metal walls, I was reminded of one more outing, one more event, one more party or date or kiss we'd shared. I supposed it was my own shade box.

Just as I was putting the finishing touches on my decorating, I heard my name. Haley Larkin, one of my best friends since grade school, was hurrying toward me, blond braid trailing behind her, canvas book satchel strapped across her chest. “Middie! Middie, we are
seniors
!” She grabbed my hands and twirled us in a circle in the center of the hallway. “Seniors! Whoo-hoo!”

I rolled my eyes, even as I laughed. “You did not just say ‘whoo-hoo.'”

“I did. And I'm doing it again. Whoo-hoo! Senior year!” Haley had a contagious smile. Her blue eyes dazzled and shone when she was happy, which was often. She was like a walking positive affirmation, spreading sunshine wherever she went. Except when she was on the softball diamond. Then she crushed everyone in her path. “This is going to be the best first day ever.”

“Our
last
first day,” I told her when she stopped spinning us. I went back to my locker to get my books for our first class.

“You make it sound so
dire
,” she drawled. Her eye caught the photos in my locker, and her smile twitched. “Do you think you can't have any fun without
him
?”

“I think I can get along without my boyfriend for a year.”

A year?
I gulped, swallowing my anxiety. I could do this. I had Haley and my friends and my classes and family and a million other things to keep me busy. A year would fly by before I knew it, just like Nate said.

“Of course you can! I'll help you!” She tapped a finger against her chin and squinted as if she was thinking hard. “You know . . . there
is
a party on Saturday night.”

“Uh-huh.” I eyed her warily.

“Dr. Haley thinks a little beer pong is just the treatment you need.”

“Well, maybe . . .”

“Really?” Haley's eyes lit up.

Nate and I didn't go out much. We preferred to spend time in his parents' rec room. Haley always understood, even if she wished we'd come along.

“Senior year kickoff party with my best friend!” She clapped with glee. “It'll be amazing!”

Typically, kickoff parties involved gathering around some body of water—either a lake at the edge of town or someone's backyard pool. There were the obligatory kegs, very little food, and lots of making out. Nate and I went to his last year, and it was okay. I couldn't imagine this year's would be much different.

The first bell rang. We had three minutes to get to class.

“Let's do this. Hold it up.” Haley lifted her schedule from her satchel.

I grabbed mine from my locker and held it up to hers to compare. “Hmm . . . AP English? Is that it?”

She nodded. “All your classes are for nerds.”

I elbowed her with a smirk. “Shut up.”

Haley slammed my locker door closed for me. “Senior year, here we come!”

I glanced back at the hallway and saw students quickly filling up the wing: football players and cheerleaders in uniform, lost freshmen desperate for a friendly face, sophomores thrilled to no longer be freshmen. I closed my eyes and smelled someone's breakfast—a fried egg sandwich—sweet coffee in a teacher's travel mug, and a hint of bleach used to clean a locker.

I'd write it all down in a letter to Nate later.

“Middie, come in, please,” Mr. Ziegler said, raising his voice a bit over the ring of the last bell. He'd been my guidance counselor since my freshman year, although I rarely needed to see him. Today, however, we had to talk about my college applications.

Mr. Z's cheeks were round and ruddy and he wore glasses perched on the end of his nose. He loved to travel, and his office was filled with souvenirs of his trips from around the world. Every summer he visited a different country, happily
crossing one off his list when he returned.

He moved aside a pile of Italian language books for me to sit in a chair opposite him. “How's the new year look?”

I resisted the urge to tell him it had only been one day, and an easy one at that. I rattled off my classes. “AP English, Spanish, and history, Calc 2, Honors Chem.”

He nodded, an impressed look on his face. “So, Lewis & Clark, is it?”

“Yes, sir. I've got a campus tour scheduled for November.”

“Fine school. Anyplace else?”

I hesitated. “No. Not really.”

He leaned forward and I felt his stare. “Why not?”

“Because . . .”
Nate is going there.

But I couldn't say that. It sounded too . . . Mr. Z wouldn't understand.

“I like it.” I'd only visited the campus once before with Nate. It was nice, a lush environment, not much different from our small town. In fact, it kind of
was
our small town, with pretty brick buildings, cafés, green lawns, and a decent football stadium. “I follow their dean on Twitter.” I held up my phone as if I needed to remind him what Twitter was.

He frowned. Maybe he did need to be reminded. “That's all well and good, Middie. But it's not a bad idea to have a second choice, or maybe even a third.”

My pulse quickened. “You don't think I can get in? Is it my grades?”

“I just want you to consider other options. That's all.
It's a big world out there.”

“Oh. Okay, sure.” But I didn't need a second choice. I had only one. I picked up my books and started to slide off the chair. “Anything else, Mr. Z?”

He grinned, appreciating his nickname. “No worries. Go do your thing.” I could just imagine him thinking,
Do your thing . . . That's what the cool kids say, isn't it?
I smiled to myself as I closed the door to his office.

Hurrying off to my SAT prep class, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. A text.
Miss u. Luv u. xo.

I smiled and felt my cheeks blush. Nate. Somehow he'd gotten a few characters off.

My fingers dashed over the keys:
Miss u more. NM4eva.

A moment later, it buzzed again. By some miracle had Nate found a Wi-Fi connection in Central America?

Party! Whoo-hoo!
the screen read.

Haley. I shook my head with a laugh. I sent one back to her: all exclamation points.

Nate found the community garden two years ago when he was searching for a volunteer gig that would look good on college applications. He wanted something outdoors since he loved spending his free time in fresh air. Naturally, he convinced me—and eventually others—to join him there.

We typically harvested one or two days each week and then spent a day boxing and delivering fresh greens and vegetables to people around town. While I was often nervous
visiting private homes, Nate was the picture of confidence. Everyone knew who he was and looked forward to seeing him on their doorsteps.

Today was a harvesting day. When I arrived, I snapped a photo of the vegetables we were going to pick and sent it to Nate.

In the office, I waved to a couple of older, graying volunteers who were finished for the day and washing their hands at a wide stone sink.

One of them called to me over the running water. “You talked to Nate yet?”

“Not yet.”

“You tell him all us old ladies said hello, all right?”

“Will do.”

They giggled behind their hands like my little sister, Emma, would. Nate would be tickled knowing he had fans back home.

I grabbed a pair of canvas gloves that hung on a nail under a strip of tape with my name on it. Next to them were Nate's. While mine were daintily flowered with purple and pink daisies, his were striped in blue and white. I ran my bare fingers over his gloves, as if I could take a little of him with me, before tying a tool belt around my waist and heading to the garden with a wicker basket.

I really hoped I could talk to him soon.

“No phones at the dinner table,” my dad said around a forkful of beets. One of the perks of the community garden was free
vegetables, which my parents loved but Emma hated. She'd have preferred that I work at McDonald's and bring them leftover McNuggets instead.

Tonight Mom had roasted the beets with basil and olive oil and served them alongside cold chicken. The night was so warm, we ate on the back patio under the stars, with citronella candles burning to keep the mosquitoes away. The moon was a mere sliver of white, but it shone brightly enough to light up our backyard.

“Dad, you know I'm waiting to talk to Nate.” I sighed and sat back in my chair.

My mother's brow creased. “I thought you talked to him yesterday.”

I plucked a beet from my plate and popped it in my mouth. The juice left stains of red on my thumb and forefinger. “No. We were supposed to, but . . . it's been weird. He's busy, I guess.” I spun my phone on the table, hoping I could jar loose a call. All I got for my efforts was another text from Haley about the party on Friday night.

Emma glanced over my shoulder at the message and opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something. “Yes?” I dared her.

My little sister liked to poke her nose where it didn't belong. She'd tattled on me before, on the rare night when I'd come in a few minutes past curfew.

Her gaze held mine and then flickered away. “It's ringing.”

“What?”

She pointed at the table. “Your phone. It's ringing.”

“My phone . . . It's ringing!” I had put it on silent. I forgot! I snatched it off the table. “Nate!” His face was on the screen, calling me for a FaceTime chat. I pressed Accept.

My mother waved me away from the patio. “Go inside, please.”

With my phone held in front of me, I dashed indoors. On the screen, Nate made a face. “Stop running, Middie! You're making me nauseous!”

I laughed but didn't slow down until I'd gotten upstairs to my bedroom. I collapsed onto my bed and placed my phone on my knees. I wanted to smother the screen with kisses but settled for an air-peck near his lips.

“Where are you? How are you? Is it awful? Are you okay?” My words came out in a rush before I'd even given Nate a chance to say hello. I took a breath and smiled. “Hi.”

“Hi.” His grin was soft, his eyes tired. A hint of stubble dotted his chin. I wondered how long he'd been awake. The time difference between Oregon and Central America was only an hour. “I'm outside Tegucigalpa,” he said. “There are two other Americans with me, and we're training with the doctors now. And learning Spanish.”

“But you speak Spanish!”

“It's different here,” he said. “Like, I
know
the language, but then when I'm surrounded by it . . .” He rolled his eyes as if he were overwhelmed. “It's not easy.” His smile slipped a little, betraying anxiety.
My
Nate? Worried?

“You'll be fine,” I told him soothingly. “What about the training? Do you like the doctors?”

“They're amazing!” He went on to tell me about the group of doctors and relief workers who were part of his team, about the other volunteers from the US and Canada. I didn't catch all of it as the connection between our phones started to drop out. While Nate talked, I slowly rose from the bed and walked to the window, hoping to get more bars on my phone.

“. . . rainforest . . . ,” I heard. And then “. . . gangs . . .”

Gangs? We had talked about some of the dangers. In Central America there was a lot of unrest. Was he seeing signs of it already—before they had even left base camp?

“What? Nate, you're breaking up.” His face pixilated on the screen and then righted itself when I leaned out the window and got more range. “Nate?”

“I'm here,” he said, waving a hand at me. “Middie?”

“I'm here too.” I waved back.

“This is probably the best it's gonna be for a while,” he admitted with a frown. “The service is only going to get worse when we leave for the village.”

I felt my chest tighten. “What about texts?”

He held his phone out farther from his face and I saw his shoulders shrug. I strained to see behind him, to get a picture of where he was and what he was doing. I couldn't see much but a bulletin board with a map on it and the corner of a metal bunk bed.

His image started to get funky again.
No, no, no!
I leaned farther out the window until my head and arms were free. I filled my lungs with clean late-summer air, as if I could suck it all in for Nate. There was so much I wanted to tell him: the SAT prep classes I was taking, his old-lady fans at the farm, the upcoming party. But it all paled in comparison to what Nate was doing and where he was doing it.

“Middie? I should go. I'm really tired and I have to get up early.”

“Oh, sure.” But I didn't want him to leave—not yet. “Did you open the box?”

“The box? No, was I supposed to?”

“Get it! Open it! But just take one out, okay? One thing?” I waited while he rummaged in his backpack for the shade box I'd given him. When he came back to the phone, he held it up. “Reach your hand in and close your eyes,” I told him.