Read The Sky Is Everywhere Online
Authors: Jandy Nelson
Tags: #Performing Arts, #Love & Romance, #Family, #Juvenile Fiction, #General, #Music
The Sky Is Everywhere (11 page)
“Who’s that guy?” Joe asks, with none of his usual equanimity.
“Toby.” It comes out oddly robotic.
Joe looks at me like:
Well, who’s Toby, retard?
Well, who’s Toby, retard?
“I’ll introduce you,” I say, because I have no choice and cannot just keep standing here like I’ve had a stroke.
There’s no other way to put it: THIS BLOWS.
And on top of everything, the flamenco has begun to crescendo all around us, whipping fire and sex and passion every which way. Perfect. Couldn’t they have chosen some sleepy sonata? Waltzes are lovely too, boys. With me on his heels, Joe crosses the room toward Toby: the sun on a collision course with the moon.
The dusky sky pours through the window, framing Toby. Joe and I stop a few paces in front of him, all of us now caught in the uncertainty between day and night. The music continues its fiery revolution all around us and there is a girl inside of me that wants to give in to the fanatical beat—she wants to dance wild and free all around the thumping room, but unfortunately, that girl’s in me, not me. Me would like an invisibility cloak to get the hell out of this mess.
I look over at Joe and am relieved to see that the fevered chords have momentarily hijacked his attention. His one hand plays his thigh, his foot drums the ground, and his head bobs around, which flops his hair into his eyes. He can’t stop smiling at his brothers, who are pounding their guitars into notes so ferocious they probably could overthrow the government. I realize I’m smiling like a Fontaine as I watch the music riot through Joe. I can feel how intensely he wants his guitar, just as, all of a sudden, I can feel how intensely Toby wants me. I steal a glance at him, and as I suspected, he’s watching me watch Joe, his eyes clamped on me. How did we get ourselves into this? It doesn’t feel like solace in this moment at all, but something else. I look down, write help on my jeans with my finger, and when I look back up I see that Toby’s and Joe’s eyes have locked. Something passes silently between them that has everything to do with me, because as if on cue they look from each other to me, both saying with their eyes:
What’s going on, Lennie?
What’s going on, Lennie?
Every organ in my body switches places.
Joe puts his hand gently on my arm as if it will remind me to open my mouth and form words. At the contact, Toby’s eyes flare. What’s going on with him tonight? He’s acting like my boyfriend, not my sister’s, not someone I made out with twice under very extenuating circumstances. And what about me and this inexplicable and seemingly inescapable pull to him despite everything?
I say, “Joe just moved to town.” Toby nods civilly and I sound human, a good start. I’m about to say “Toby was Bailey’s boyfriend,” which I loathe saying for the was and for how it will make me feel like the traitorous person that I am.
But then Toby looks right at me and says, “Your hair, it’s down.” Hello? This is not the right thing to say. The right thing to say is “Oh, where’d you move from, dude?” or “Clover’s pretty cool.” Or “Do you skate?” Or basically anything but “Your hair, it’s down.”
Joe seems unperturbed by the comment. He’s smiling at me like he’s proud that he was the one that let my hair out of its bondage.
Just then, I notice Gram in the doorway, looking at us. She blows over, holding her burning stick of sage like a magic wand. She gives me a quick once-over, seems to decide I’ve recovered, then points her wand at Toby and says, “Let me introduce you boys. Joe Fontaine, this is Toby Shaw, Bailey’s boyfriend.”
Whoosh—I see it: a waterfall of relief pours over Joe. I see the case close in his mind, as he probably thinks there couldn’t be anything going on—because what kind of sister would ever cross that kind of line?
“Hey, I’m so sorry,” he tells Toby.
“Thanks.” Toby tries to smile, but it comes out all wrong and homicidal. Joe, however, so unburdened by Gram’s revelation, doesn’t even notice, just turns around buoyant as ever, and goes to join his brothers, followed by Gram.
“I’m going to go, Lennie.” Toby’s voice is barely audible over the music. I turn around, see that Joe is now bent over his guitar, oblivious to everything but the sound his fingers are making.
“I’ll walk you out,” I say.
Toby says good-bye to Gram, Big, and the Fontaines, all of whom are surprised he’s leaving so soon, especially Gram, who I can tell is adding some things up.
I follow him to his truck—Lucy, Ethel, and I, all yapping at his feet. He opens the door, doesn’t get in, leans against the cab. We are facing each other and there’s not a trace of the calm or gentleness I’ve become so accustomed to seeing in his expression, but something fierce and unhinged in its place. He’s in total tough-skater-dude mode, and though I don’t want to, I’m finding it arresting. I feel a current coursing between us, feel it begin to rip out of control inside of me. What is it? I think as he looks into my eyes, then at my mouth, then sweeps his gaze slowly, proprietarily over my body. Why can’t we stop this? I feel so reckless—like I’m reeling with him into the air on his board with no regard for safety or consequence, with no regard for anything but speed and daring and being hungrily, greedily alive—but I tell him, “No. Not now.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. After work,” I say, against my better judgment, against any judgment.
What do you girls want for dinner?
What do you girls think about my new painting?
What do the girls want to do this weekend?
Did the girls leave for school yet?
I haven’t seen the girls yet today.
I told those girls to hurry up!
Where are those girls?
Girls, don’t forget your lunches.
Girls, be home by 11 p.m.
Girls, don’t even think of swimming—it’s freezing out.
Are the Walker Girls coming to the party?
The Walker Girls were at the river last night.
Let’s see if the Walker Girls are home.
(Found written on the wall of Bailey’s closet)
chapter 14
I FIND GRAM, who is twirling around the living room with her sage wand like an overgrown fairy. I tell her that I’m sorry, but I don’t feel well and need to go upstairs.
She stops mid-whirl. I know she senses trouble, but she says, “Okay, sweet pea.” I apologize to everyone and say good night as nonchalantly as possible.
Joe follows me out of the room, and I decide it might be time to join a convent, just cloister up with the Sisters for a while.
He touches my shoulder and I turn around to face him. “I hope what I said in the woods didn’t freak you out or something ... hope that’s not why you’re crashing ...”
“No, no.” His eyes are wide with worry. I add, “It made me pretty happy, actually.” Which of course is true except for the slight problem that immediately after hearing his declaration, I made a date with my dead sister’s boyfriend to do
God knows what!
God knows what!
“Good.” He brushes his thumb on my cheek, and again his tenderness startles me. “Because I’m going crazy, Lennie.” Bat. Bat. Bat. And just like that, I’m going crazy too because I’m thinking Joe Fontaine is about to kiss me. Finally.
Forget the convent.
Let’s get this out of the way: My previously nonexistent floozy-factor is blowing right off the charts.
“I didn’t know you knew my name,” I say.
“So much you don’t know about me,
Lennie.”
He smiles and takes his index finger and presses it to my lips, leaves it there until my heart lands on Jupiter: three seconds, then removes it, turns around, and heads back into the living room. Whoa—well, that was either the dorkiest or sexiest moment of my life, and I’m voting for sexy on account of my standing here dumbstruck and giddy, wondering if he did kiss me after all.
Lennie.”
He smiles and takes his index finger and presses it to my lips, leaves it there until my heart lands on Jupiter: three seconds, then removes it, turns around, and heads back into the living room. Whoa—well, that was either the dorkiest or sexiest moment of my life, and I’m voting for sexy on account of my standing here dumbstruck and giddy, wondering if he did kiss me after all.
I am totally out of control.
I do not think this is how normal people mourn.
When I can move my legs one in front of the other, I make my way up to The Sanctum. Thankfully, it has been deemed fairly lucky by Gram so is mostly untouched, especially Bailey’s things, which she mercifully didn’t touch at all. I go straight over to her desk and start talking to the explorer picture like we sometimes talk to The Half Mom.
Tonight, the woman on the mountaintop will have to be Bailey.
I sit down and tell her how sorry I am, that I don’t know what’s wrong with me and that I’ll call Toby and cancel the date first thing in the morning. I also tell her I didn’t mean to think what I thought in the woods and I would do anything for her to be able to meet Joe Fontaine. Anything. And then I ask her again to please give me a sign that she forgives me before the list of unpardonable things I think and do gets too long and I become a lost cause.
I look over at the boxes. I know I’m going to have to start eventually. I take a deep breath, banish all morbid thoughts from my mind, and put my hands on the wooden knobs of the top desk drawer. Only to immediately think about Bailey and my anti-snooping pact. I never broke it, not once, despite a natural propensity for nosing around. At people’s houses, I open medicine cabinets, peek behind shower curtains, open drawers and closet doors whenever possible. But with Bailey, I adhered to the pact—
Pacts. So many between us, breaking now. And what about the unspoken ones, those entered into without words, without pinky swears, without even realizing it? A squall of emotion lands in my chest. Forget talking to the picture, I take out my phone, punch in Bailey’s number, listen impatiently to her as Juliet, heat filling my head, then over the tone, I hear myself say, “What happens to a stupid companion pony when the racehorse dies?” There’s both anger and despair in my voice and immediately and illogically I wish I could erase the message so she won’t hear it.
I slowly open the desk drawer, afraid of what I might find, afraid of what else she might not have told me, afraid of this rollicking bananas pact-breaking me. But there are just things, inconsequential things of hers, some pens, a few playbills from shows at Clover Repertory, concert tickets, an address book, an old cell phone, a couple of business cards, one from our dentist reminding her of her next appointment, and one from Paul Booth, Private Investigator with a San Francisco address.
WTF?
I pick it up. On the back in Bailey’s writing it says
4/25 4 p.m., Suite 2B.
The only reason I can think of that she would go see a private investigator would be to find Mom. But why would she do that? We both knew that Big already tried, just a few years ago in fact, and that the PI had said it would be impossible to find her.
4/25 4 p.m., Suite 2B.
The only reason I can think of that she would go see a private investigator would be to find Mom. But why would she do that? We both knew that Big already tried, just a few years ago in fact, and that the PI had said it would be impossible to find her.
The day Big told us about the detective, Bailey had been furious, torpedoing around the kitchen while Gram and I snapped peas from the garden for dinner.
Bailey said, “I know you know where she is, Gram.”
“How could I know, Bails?” Gram replied.
“Yeah, how could she know, Bails?” I repeated. I hated when Gram and Bailey fought, and sensed things were about to blow.
Bailey said, “I could go after her. I could find her. I could bring her back.” She grabbed a pod, putting the whole thing, shell and all, into her mouth.
“You couldn’t find her, and you couldn’t bring her back either.” Big stood in the doorway, his words filled the room like gospel. I had no idea how long he’d been listening.
Bailey went to him. “How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve tried, Bailey.”
Gram and I stopped snapping and looked up at Big. He hulked over to the table and sat in a kitchen chair, looking like a giant in a kindergarten classroom. “I hired a detective a few years back, a good one, figured I would tell you all if he came up with something, but he didn’t. He said it’s the easiest thing to be lost if you don’t want to be found. He thinks Paige changed her name and probably changes her social security number if she moves...” Big strummed his fingers on the table—it sounded like little claps of thunder.
“How do we even know she’s alive?” Big said under his breath, but we all heard it as if he hollered it from the mountaintop. Strangely, this had never occurred to me and I don’t think it had ever occurred to Bailey either. We were always told she would be back and we believed it, deeply.
“She’s alive, she’s most certainly alive,” Gram said to Big. “And she will be back.”
I saw suspicion dawn again on Bailey’s face.
“How do you know, Gram? You must know something if you’re so sure.”
“A mother knows, okay? She just does.” With that, Gram left the room.
I put the card back in the desk drawer, take St. Anthony with me, and get into bed. I put him on the nightstand. Why was she keeping so many secrets from me? And how in the world can I possibly be mad at her about it now? About anything. Even for a moment.
Bailey and I didn’t talk too much
about Gram’s spells,
what she called her Private Times,
days spent in the art room
without break.
It was just a part of things,
like green summer leaves,
burning up in fall.
I’d peek through the crack in the door,
see her surrounded by easels
of green women, half formed—
the paint still wet and hungry.
She’d work on them all at once,
and soon, she’d begin
to look like one of them too,
all that green spattered on her clothes,
her hands, her face.
Bails and I would pack
our own brown bags those days,
would pull out our sandwiches at noon,
hating the disappointment of a world
where polka-dotted scarves,
sheets of music, blue feathers,
didn’t surprise us at lunch.
After school, we’d bring her tea
or a sliced apple with cheese,
but it’d just sit on the table, untouched.
Big would tell us to ride it out—
that everyone needs a break
from the routine now and then.
So we did—
it was like Gram would go
on vacation with her ladies
and like them
would get caught somewhere
between here and there.
(Found on a brown paper bag in Lennie’s clarinet case)
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