WE HELD hands all the way back to Black Earth High. I glanced at Landon now and then. I couldn’t see the dimple in his left cheek, but I knew it was there.
Reality hit me when we pulled into the overflow lot. Practice was more than half over, the duet not worth thinking about. My slot on the team, however? That was probably worth a worry or two.
Landon took my hand again on our way across the parking lot. In the shadow of Black Earth High, the move sent a nervous pang through me, from the center of my stomach all the way down to my fingertips and into Landon.
“You okay?” he said.
“I missed duet practice,” I said. “I told Constance I’d be late, but I don’t think Patti is—”
“I’ll handle Patti. She loves me.”
“You give her gray hair.”
“She still loves me.”
That, sadly, was true. He squeezed my hand again. “Don’t worry. You—we—did it. We make a pretty good team, don’t you think.”
“We always did.”
By now we’d cleared the school’s double doors and stood near the stairs that led to the locker rooms. I needed to hurry, throw on a practice suit, and use all the stealth under my power to sneak into the pool area.
My foot was on the first stair when his arms wrapped around my waist. He turned me around until I stood on the step above him. My mouth was even with his and the jumping in my stomach told me what came next was either very good or else very, very bad. I held my breath.
“We could keep on being a team,” he said. “All the way to prom.”
All the way to … prom? For the second time that day, I couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, couldn’t get my legs to move.
“It’s why I bought the tickets,” he said.
“But you bought the tickets from Nissa.”
A crease formed between his brows, one so perplexed it took all my willpower not to smooth it away. How could a boy who was so popular with girls not understand anything about them?
“You bought the tickets from Nissa.” I stressed each word. “She thinks it means something.” I waited, but when he didn’t speak, I added, “Between the two of you.”
Landon shook his head. “Of course there isn’t.”
“You friended her on Facebook.”
“She friended me, and I would’ve sent you a request, but I was afraid you’d block me.”
Back in January, I would have. But somehow, during the last four months, Landon had chipped away at the wall I’d built around my heart. Brick by brick, he dismantled my defensives, broke through until I stood there, thinking: Yes, I’ll go to prom with you.
Except I knew I couldn’t.
“Nissa—” I began.
“Is not your friend,” he countered. “I don’t know what happened between you two, but take it from someone who’s been watching both of you real close, trying to figure it all out.”
“We’re still—” My mouth couldn’t form the word best or friend and Landon jumped in again.
“You’re not. Seriously, she’d rather hang with Sierra. And believe me, you don’t want to know what they say about you and Con when you work on your duet.”
But I could guess. Landon was right. I didn’t want to know.
“And why she thinks saying it so I can hear is a good idea, beats me.”
Because we were all clueless when it came to boys? It was a tactic, one I’d seen Nissa use. The result? Self-inflicted wounds. Always. Like now.
“But that’s not the point,” he said. “The point is me and you.” His exhale reached me and I saw the quick, nervous bob of his Adam’s apple. “And prom?”
“Oh, Landon—”
“Is that ‘Oh, Landon, yes’?”
I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head, a single teardrop trailing down my cheek. He caught it with his thumb. His touch made me jerk and I stepped to the second stair.
“She’s not your friend anymore,” he said.
“But she was.” The words, the accusation, streamed from my mouth. “She was my best friend, and she was here for the last five years. Where the hell were you?”
I whirled from him, stumbled up the stairs. Tears blurred the corridor in front of me. Maybe that was why the girl in the Dolphins hoodie didn’t register until I barreled into her. Jodi leaped back and flattened herself against the wall, her red hair fanning all around. From the look on her face, I could tell.
She had heard the whole damn thing.
In the locker room, I took my time. Stealth hardly mattered at this point. So I soaked myself in the shower, drenching my suit, my hair, hoping to wash away the tears and the telltale red from my eyes. Before stepping out, I jerked the handle all the way to the right. Icy water stung my skin, shocked the tears from my eyes and thoughts from my head. If I could hold onto that state of shock for the last hour of practice, things would be okay.
I eased along the edge of the pool area, working my way to the diving board. Patti stood on the deck, at the shallow end, talking the freshmen through sculling techniques. Landon worked with the tech crew up in the stands. I averted my gaze, but not before I saw Sierra nudge Nissa in the back and inch her closer to the boys.
I hid behind the rolled up lane markers. But not for long. Constance found me, her already pale skin going a shade whiter when she saw me.
“Holy shit, tell me. No wait, don’t tell me.” She glanced over her shoulder and crouched. “Okay. Tell me. We don’t have the posters, do we?”
“No,” I said, “we do.”
“Then—?” She glanced toward Landon. “Why do you both look like shit?”
“Because we got free matching programs too?”
“Seriously, what’s the problem?”
“It’s just.” I broke off and rubbed the back of my neck. Was there such a thing as emotional tetanus? I felt like at any moment I’d stiffen up and break in half. Thank God we weren’t swimming the duet today.
“It’s personal,” I told her. “It has nothing to do with the show. Things just got ...” My eyes had a will of their own and they flickered toward Landon.
“What did he do?”
“He didn’t do anything.”
“No, he did something, and you’re telling me what it is.” She plopped down on the pool deck, effectively blocking any escape path.
“He asked me to prom, and I said no.”
Her face was a mask of disbelief. “Why the hell did you do that?”
“I ... what?”
“Why say no?” She waved a hand toward the stands. “It’s why he’s hosting the show, and actually busting his ass to help out. Maybe Josh does it for the view, but that’s not why Landon’s here.”
I stared at Constance, not daring to steal another look at Landon.
“You really don’t see it, do you?” Constance asked, her voice losing some of its edge.
“I see other things.” This time, I let my gaze wander to the stands where Sierra had successfully nudged Nissa all the way into the corner. The three of them—Nissa, Jodi, and Sierra—were talking to Matt and Dylan, or, judging by Josh’s scowl, distracting them. Landon worked on the sound system as if he were alone, not raising his head, not speaking.
“I can’t go to prom with Landon,” I said at last.
“Can’t,” Constance echoed. “Funny, but that doesn’t have the same ring as don’t want to.”
I shrugged.
“You sure?” she asked.
For a second time, I went with the highly articulate shrug.
“Well, okay. I’ll drop it then. But you’d better stretch. I got Patti to push back duet practice. We’re up in ten.”
Crap.
Dad was sitting on the front steps, under the light of the porch lamp, when I pulled the Jeep into the driveway. Under any circumstances, this greeting was not good. Tonight? I didn’t have the strength for any kind of talk. Never mind the emotional lockjaw, I ached all over from the worst duet practice ever. Constance stayed silent about it, which made it that much worse.
Sure, Dad was all casual, leaning back against the cement landing, legs crossed at the ankle, but I knew better. I thought about various offensive maneuvers but decided on subterfuge. If I could dash inside and get something aromatic going on the stove, it might distract him. An army moved on its stomach, after all.
I made it to the landing when Dad grabbed my ankle.
“So,” he said, still staring straight ahead. “I had an interesting talk with Mr. Scott before leaving work today.”
“Oh.”
“‘Oh’ is right,” Dad said, but he let go of my ankle.
I glanced down at him. His brow was crinkled. He looked almost defeated, even. Not as bad as I’m sure I looked, but clearly Dad was out of his element. He sat up and rubbed his face.
“Jesus, princess, I don’t know where to start.”
Grounding? Yelling? Would you like the butane lighter?
None of the above? I sat next to him. The cold cement soaked through my jeans, reminding me I wasn’t completely dry after my short time in the pool. We stayed like that, in the circle cast by the porch light. The air grew darker, crisper. I felt the chill against my eyes and blinked to warm them.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” Dad said.
My mind whirled with so many things that had happened, I couldn’t pinpoint which one he meant. Besides, the question felt rigged, almost like he’d started reading parenting magazines (highly unlikely) or had some fiery plans for the kitchen.
“Adele thought we should start there,” he added.
Or option number three. Thank God for Grandma Adele.
I gave Dad the publicity chair story Landon had concocted, figuring he’d already heard that from Mr. Scott. Why complicate matters with the truth? Then I described my impromptu Shirt Shack survey and how I used the results to convince Mr. Scott to print our posters. The matching programs, I told Dad, totally Mr. Scott’s idea.
“Well, you impressed Mr. Scott. I’m dying to know what you told him.”
“Basically that his school discount program sucked, only I used more words.”
Dad chuckled. “Want to know what Mr. Scott told me? Anytime you want to start up at Scott Industries, you have a job.”
Oh. Joy.
“They have tuition reimbursement, for undergrad, too, you know.”
Thanks, Dad, for that not-so-subtle hint. I knew all about Scott Industries and their tuition reimbursement program. He’d slaved away in night classes and weekend seminars to get his MBA. We used to sit at the kitchen table and do our homework together. So, yeah, consider me informed and unimpressed.
“Tired, princess?” Dad’s expression changed from amused—and maybe even a little proud—to concerned. Despite the dim light, I could still see the furrows along his brow. “Or is there something else?”
The locker room mirror had told me that I wore today—or the last few hours of it—across my face.
“I had a bad day,” I said.
“And...?”
“A boy asked me to prom.”
I had to hand it to Dad. Not a single twitch or muscle spasm, but I felt his entire being shift from relaxed to high alert.
“I told him no,” I added, after letting him sweat for a few seconds.
“Any particular reason why?”
“I ... a friend likes him.”
“Oh, princess.” He tugged me close, held me tight. “If I were a better dad, I’d know what to say right now.”
“If I were a better daughter, you wouldn’t have to say anything.”
“Stop that.” He pulled back, just enough to see my face. “You are the only daughter I could ever want.” He hugged me again, fiercer this time. He smelled like Scott Industries, like spray starch and recycled air and twelve hours spent in white collar hell. I buried my face against his chest and whispered:
“I’m sorry.” For what, exactly, I couldn’t say. Maybe everything.
Dad on apologies: Easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, princess.
Words to live by.
Up in my room, I reached under my pillow for my mom’s journal. The any-soldier mail, the teapot, and all the rest stayed in the ammo crate, but I’d taken to rereading the poems when I couldn’t sleep. I’d select one and work my way through it until I could recite it by heart, write the words in the air with my finger.
Stars and Stripes
February 1991
Stars and Stripes Forever
Master Sergeant Collier pulls
a folded newspaper article
from his wallet.
He sets it on the field table
on top of the operations order
I’m trying to write.
The newsprint blurs. It’s like a lone
cloud has passed over the sun,
turning the entire desert gray.
I can feel the questions bloom
between us—how long has he had this—
where did he get it—has anyone else (like
the colonel) seen it?
But it’s his one question to me
that I must answer, the one
he speaks out loud:
How do you do it?
The Stars and Stripes
January 5, 1991
First Lieutenant Elizabeth Grey is one of the new breed—a wife, a mother, and a soldier currently deployed in support of Operation Desert Shield. She has the same responsibilities and carries the same weight as the men around her.
Absently, her hands come together, and Lieutenant Grey cradles a phantom baby. “It’s strange,” she says. “Even with all this.” She hefts the rucksack on her back. “I still don’t know what to do with my arms.”
MacKenna’s Toy Box
Before MacKenna was born,
Paul built her a toy box.
He painted it too, in jungle
green and startling blue,
with monkeys, giraffes, lion cubs
and hippos.
I can see them now, all marching
around a tree with fronds
so long, they sweep the ground.
I keep that image of the box
in my mind. Everything about MacKenna
is in there.
I can remove those things, one by one,
examine them, inhale them, hold them close.
But I can also put everything back inside.
I can close the lid.
I can lock it tight.
And then I can write an operations order
that will take us into Iraq.
The only thing that doesn’t fit
inside the box are all the questions,
like Ahmed’s where are your men?
And Master Sergeant Collier’s how do you do it?
Because no matter how much space there is
inside that box,
there isn’t any room
for doubt.
Master Sergeant Collier: You know, ma’am, no one would’ve blamed you if you had stayed home.
(I would have.)
Me: Could I raise a daughter to do the right thing if I refused to?
When Master Sergeant Collier speaks
I wonder if he’s heard me at all.
Or maybe he’s heard me too well.
Master Sergeant Collier: I’m thinking Lieutenant Meyers is one hell of a lucky guy.
Me: No. I’m the lucky one.
My First Cup of Coffee
Master Sergeant Collier: How is it, ma’am?
Me: Now I know what heaven will taste like.
Master Sergeant Collier: Jesus, ma’am. It’s not that good.
I can’t find the words to explain
just how wrong he is
about that.
It took me forever to realize my mom was telling me a story. Okay, maybe not me, exactly. But I could feel the story building, not only in the words she put on the page, but the ones she didn’t. Each poem had weight, like each time she wrote one, it cost her something.
But even as I thought it, part of me couldn’t help but feel light. All these words. And they were mine now. It was like after all these years, my mom was able to tell me a bedtime story.