ON MONDAY, I avoided everyone at school, all those years of stealth finally paying off at last. Even so, I dreaded English. Landon and Patti in the same room? The answer: skating into my seat at the very last second.
Josh gave me an odd look. I imagined, after I was a no-show at today’s practice, that tomorrow’s look would be even odder. Landon, over by the windows, surrounded by cheerleaders, never had a chance. I ignored him—or pretended to, even with his gaze fixed on my face.
I was mapping out my escape from class when Patti called on me.
“MacKenna? Can you tell us what the symbolism is in this passage?”
Considering I didn’t know which passage she meant, never mind what book, that would be kind of difficult. I’d finished the reading on Saturday, but I hadn’t reviewed last night. Unless you wanted a world of hurt, you always reviewed for Patti’s class.
I shook my head, slunk lower in my seat, my cheeks on fire. Patti gave me a hard look. People shifted in their seats. Josh coughed. Then, predictably, one of Landon’s fan-girl cheerleaders giggled.
Class couldn’t end soon enough.
When the bell rang, I bolted upright. My books spilled onto the floor. I was grappling with them when Patti said, “MacKenna, a moment please.”
Someone let out a long, obnoxious, “Woo, someone’s in trouble.”
Patti waited for the classroom to clear, thankfully, before skewering me with that same, hard look.
“You never told me your father didn’t approve of the scholarship.”
If anyone could understand, it would be Patti. She’d understand about my mom, if only I could get the words out, if only Patti would let me.
She didn’t. “In all my years of teaching, I can’t think of a time when I’ve been more humiliated. Did you honestly think you could apply for and receive an ROTC scholarship without your father knowing?”
Apparently, I had, or at least believed the scholarship might make all the difference. I shrugged.
“Right.” That single word held so much: Sarcasm. Hurt. Dismissal.
I ran blindly for my next class.
The best place to hide in Black Earth High School was the third-floor girls’ bathroom in the language wing. If you didn’t have a language class, you didn’t bother with the hall. At the very end of the corridor was a staircase, one most people forgot about, that led to the side door of the school.
I waited there after last bell, long enough to be certain everyone was at swim practice, including Constance and Landon. After school, I was supposed to march home—literally, on foot—because, oh, by the way, Dad revoked my car keys this morning.
The bonus part? He decided to work remotely, which meant he’d be timing my trek home. He also revoked computer access (a no-brainer), television (it was all crap anyway), and my cell phone (who was going to text me now?).
To make up for the delay, I dashed through the hall, down the staircase, and crashed through the door. The sun struck my face, blinded me for a minute. I took one look behind me, just in case, and broke into a run.
There was only so far you can run with a jacket tied around your waist and a load of books on your back. After a quarter of a mile, I decided it wasn’t worth the potential spinal cord injury. I’d walk fast and hope that was fast enough for Dad.
Four blocks later, I made a conscious effort to ignore the car. This was really hard to do since the car was flame yellow. Even harder, it was a Corvette. Hardest of all, Landon rolled down the passenger side window and simultaneously tried to talk to me and drive. If Dad saw the Corvette, he’d freak. It wasn’t exactly inconspicuous.
Landon kept the car creeping alongside me. At last, I halted, but I held my ground, standing in the center of the sidewalk. “What are you doing?”
Landon pulled near the curb and let the car idle. “Trying to talk to you.”
“You’re not supposed to, remember?”
“Fuck that. Talk to me, MacKenna.”
“About what?” How my life sucked? How this sucked? How if Dad saw Landon he’d probably get a restraining order? The list was endless.
“You. Let’s talk about you.” Landon said. “How are you feeling? Shit, I missed you today.”
Oh, God. I missed him, so much that the thought of it stole all my breath. I couldn’t bear to think about it, not for long. I’d decided the only way to get through this whole ordeal was avoidance mode: avoid thinking about Landon, avoid anything that made me think about Landon, avoid Landon, period.
Of course, Landon was making that difficult.
“So I can’t talk to you?” he said.
“I’m not supposed to see you.” I waved a hand in front of my eyes. “Here I am, seeing you.”
I started down the sidewalk again. Landon put the Corvette in gear and kept pace with me. Up ahead, I saw my house, with its neat lawn, crumbling asphalt, and Dad inside.
“You’ve got to go,” I said to Landon.
“It’s not against the law to drive down your road.”
“Try telling my dad that.”
“Look.” Landon leaned so far toward the passenger side window, how he drove was a mystery. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I only meant to help, not make it worse.”
“Well, you did.” It wasn’t nice. It really wasn’t fair. But in that moment, Dad and I agreed about something: Things had been just fine until Landon showed up in Black Earth again.
“Next time.” His tone went sarcastic, almost nasty. “I won’t bother.”
“Good.” I glanced over my shoulder at the house. Dad’s Blazer sat in the driveway. The front door was closed. The Corvette rumbled. The scent of freshly cut grass mixed with its exhaust. I felt wrung out—by all of it—but most of all by Dad.
“You know what it’s like to live with him?” I said, louder now, not even talking to Landon—he just happened to be handy. “To always wonder what kind of mood he’ll be in? To tiptoe around subjects because mentioning this or that will send him into a two-week funk? I can understand—” I paused, not entirely sure what I understood about Dad. Maybe nothing. “I understand about not wanting to talk about all of it. But nothing about my mom? Ever?”
“MacKenna, honestly, I didn’t—”
“Didn’t what? Look past your own issues?”
I’d regret these words later; I knew that even as I spoke them. They felt sharp in my mouth, like what I said would cut my tongue, my lips. I couldn’t stop—not them, not myself. Everything I’d bottled up for so long came pouring out. Landon was just unlucky enough to be standing underneath it all.
“When I was six, I brought home a CD from a birthday party,” I said, on a roll now. “He didn’t like a song on it, so he used the album for target practice. Did you totally forget the camping trip from hell? Do you remember no one but you and Nissa talking to me for most of fifth grade?”
Landon looked pale, not healthy, not himself at all. But I wasn’t through, not yet. My mind went back to that day in the cafeteria—Sierra leaning forward, offering printouts from the Internet. Maybe it took being a bitch to tell someone the truth. Maybe, of everyone I knew, she was the only one who’d cut through all the bullshit. If I didn’t hate her so much, I’d thank her. As it was, it killed me that she was right. And maybe if I said those words, I could finally let them go.
“What part of post-traumatic stress don’t you understand?” I didn’t expect an answer.
I didn’t get one. Landon stared, incomprehension on his face. Then he scooted all the way back into the driver’s seat, put the Corvette in gear, and drove away. I tracked the car down the street until the last bit of yellow vanished. Only then did I turn toward the house. And wished like hell I hadn’t.
It wasn’t incomprehension in Landon’s expression, but horror. Because standing on the porch, his face stricken, was Dad.
Dad didn’t say a word; he didn’t have to. He vanished inside the house, and the screen door rattled. No matter how long I live, I’ll never forget the look I put on his face.
Inside, I slipped off my backpack and went searching. No sign of him in the kitchen, or the den. The door to his bedroom was closed. I raised my hand to knock, but let my arm drop. I’d already screwed up enough. I needed help. We needed help.
In the kitchen, I picked up the landline phone. Grandma Adele was on speed-dial. On the fourth ring, right before voicemail picked up, she answered.
The words wouldn’t come. I sniffled a bit, took a breath, but couldn’t manage anything coherent.
“MacKenna, honey?” Grandma Adele said. Thank God for Caller ID. “What is it?”
Her voice opened not a floodgate, but the smallest crack. I felt as though I would splinter. At last, I said, “Grandma, we need you.”
Grandma Adele brought food. I hadn’t been grocery shopping in a while, which happened during swim season. With this whole grounded for life deal, I might not get to go, ever. That left Dad; we’d end up eating nothing but Hot Pockets and expired MREs from his Army Reserve days. Yum.
“I still can’t cook for just one, not even after all these years.” Grandma Adele put one pan of macaroni and cheese in the freezer and the other, in a Correlle dish, into the microwave to warm. “And I know you’re so busy with swim season.”
Well, I had been. “Thanks, Grandma.”
She shook her head and tutted. “My pleasure.”
Grandma Adele rearranged the refrigerator to accommodate the food, and I clattered silverware and plates while loading them into the dishwasher. I told her, in shorthand, what had happened, all about the scholarship, swimming, prom, and Landon. It was easier to talk when my hands were busy. When I finished one task, Grandma Adele gave me another. I was holding the broom when Dad wandered into the kitchen. He didn’t glance toward me at all.
“Adele?” Dad sounded—and looked—guarded.
“Paul, how are you?” Grandma Adele said, her voice ringing chipper and false. “I was just telling MacKenna that I went on a cooking spree again and can’t possibly eat all this food. I’d hate to see it go to waste.”
“Bullshit. What are you really doing here?”
My breath caught. Dad never talked to Grandma Adele that way. Actually, no one did.
Grandma Adele never took it. She turned, hands on hips, and squared off in front of Dad. “Well, excuse me for being concerned.”
“It’s none of your business,” Dad said, “this is between me and MacKenna.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Grandma Adele sounded far too reasonable. She was still using her fake chipper voice, but it had a sharp edge to it. “I could remind you that I’m her legal guardian as well as you.”
Then Dad did it. I couldn’t believe it myself. He rolled his eyes and did it so Grandma Adele could see.
“Mature, Paul.”
Dad held up a hand, warding off the lecture. Grandma Adele turned her back on him and focused on me.
“So, MacKenna, honey, when’s your swim show again?”
Even though this was a ploy—to draw out Dad—I nearly choked. “It’s in three weeks, but I’m not in it.”
“I thought you were swimming a duet.” Grandma Adele took the broom from me and tucked it into the pantry.
“MacKenna’s grounded,” Dad said.
“That’s a little extreme, don’t you think. And it certainly isn’t fair to the other girl or the team for that matter.”
“MacKenna should’ve thought about that before she went behind my back.”
“Really, Paul.” Grandma Adele took a tentative step toward Dad. “Most parents would be thrilled with a child who took the initiative like this.”
Dad rounded on Grandma Adele, stuck a finger in her face. “You want her joining the Army?”
She gave his finger a significant look, then pushed his hand aside, gently. “This isn’t about that,” she said. “It’s about MacKenna learning to make decisions on her own—”
I felt the tiniest surge of hope. Grandma Adele was on my side.
“It’s exactly about that, about joining the God damn Army.” Dad looked like he might point again, but instead crossed his arms over his chest. “Can you really stand there and tell me you want MacKenna in the Army?” Dad kept talking and that bit of hope started to falter. “Do you want her to go off to Afghanistan or Iraq, to fight this war, to die in this war? You want her to be like Beth?”
Without warning, Grandma Adele collapsed in a kitchen chair, like Dad had somehow delivered a physical blow. I wanted to rush to her, but stayed frozen at the sink. She stared at her folded hands, at the table, at everything before lifting her head and meeting Dad’s unflinching gaze. “No. I don’t.”
Those three words tore through me, tore me apart. I always thought Grandma Adele understood, or at least would, if I told her everything. I mean, my mom’s ammo crate, the journal, all of it. She gave me those things for a reason.
“Grandma?”
“Oh, honey, come here.”
I shuffled to where she sat. She snagged me around the waist as if she were scared I’d slip away from her. “It’s complicated, at best.”
“No. It’s very simple.” Dad again. Of course. “MacKenna isn’t joining the Army. End of discussion.”
A sigh wracked Grandma Adele’s body, seemed to flow through her and into me. I felt the exhaustion behind it, the frustration, but really, Dad could do that to anyone when he was in one of these moods.
“What did you expect, Paul,” she said. “You only have yourself to blame.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’ve done everything to encourage MacKenna except give her tacit permission. How many girls her age are marksmen? How many can shoot at all? The camping and field craft. God knows she didn’t learn that from me. Actions speak louder than words, and yours were loud and clear. No wonder the poor child is confused.” She touched my cheek before nailing Dad with a look. “Honestly, Paul, what did you think your little warrior princess would want to be when she grew up?”
Dad looked dumbfounded. “I never—”
“Good God, give it up. Of course you did,” Grandma Adele said. “I’m tired and I’m not going to fight about this tonight.”
“There’s an easy solution for that,” Dad said.
Did he mean Grandma Adele should leave? That was crazy. No way could we navigate this without her.
“I don’t want MacKenna joining the Army,” was what he said.
“Then tell MacKenna,” Grandma Adele said. “Tell her why. You owe her that.”
The stricken look washed across Dad’s face again. He stood, unmoving, not speaking. The microwave dinged, making us all jump. Grandma Adele scooted me to one side. Oven mitts on, she removed the warmed macaroni and cheese and set it on a stove burner to cool. The warm, gooey smell filled the kitchen. So homey, so comforting, and at the moment, so totally wrong.
Dad looked up, but his gaze went right through me. “I don’t want to lose you the way I lost your mom.”
“That’s a start,” Grandma Adele said.
“Butt out, Adele.”
Grandma Adele raised an eyebrow, but let Dad talk.
“I don’t want you torn to bits by some IED or some suicide bomber. I don’t want you in Afghanistan and I don’t want you in fucking Iraq. This family has given enough for wars that don’t make any sense. I refuse to give you. You’re all I have.”
I shook my head, but Dad held up a hand. “You’re all I have. Go ahead and hate me for the rest of your life. From where I stand, that’s a small price to pay.”
I stood there, shell-shocked by his words. I felt myself deflate, my will, my anger, the certainty that I was right.
“Paul, I know you feel guilty about Beth.” Grandma Adele still wore the oven mitts and she studied them before slipping her hands free. “But her death wasn’t your fault. You can’t blame yourself for it. And overprotecting MacKenna isn’t going to bring Beth back.”
Something strange happened then. Dad and Grandma Adele stared at each other, but not in anger, although that wasn’t too far under the surface. Grandma Adele seemed startled and Dad like he was trying to work something out, something important. It hit me then. A big part of this battle had nothing to do with me at all. There was something else, something to do with my mom, something about her death that went beyond the bare facts.
It was a Humvee accident.
Landmine.
“Blame myself.” Dad sounded like he really did.
Grandma Adele reached for my hand and squeezed it hard. “I’m sorry, honey. I can’t support you on this. I can’t tell you to go ahead and do what your mother did.” She touched my cheek, softly, like she was trying to touch a memory. “Too much of me wants you to live the life your mother never had.”
Her words were a blow to my solar plexus, sudden, sharp, stealing all my breath. If I felt it, then Dad must, too. He was pale except for two bright spots of color on his cheeks.
“The life Beth never had,” he echoed, the words slow, painful.
“And the worst part of it?” Grandma Adele sighed, an angry sound. “Like any of it was good. After Beth died, the letters kept coming, and she wrote nearly every day.” She held me close, stroked my hair. “I’d read the letters out loud to you and show you her picture. Every day. I’d say, ‘That’s your mama. She’s so brave.’”
A lump clogged my throat. The tears weren’t anything I could fight. I wanted to remember that. I wanted to remember my mom.
“I know why Beth died,” Grandma Adele’s voice was soft, but hollow. “It was in her last letter.”
Dad gripped the back of a kitchen chair. His knuckles went white.
“She sounded so happy, just like a newlywed.” Grandma Adele stared straight at Dad and I wondered how much courage it took to do that. “She loved you, Paul, and I know why she was on the road that day. I know why it was her Humvee that hit the landmine.”
Dad was glass, unmoving, fragile. If I touched him then, he’d shatter.
“She was on her way to see you.”
It seemed to me Dad must have shattered because I felt my own heart splinter.
Landmines have the right of way.
“I don’t blame you,” she continued. “It would make more sense to blame President Bush, or the Iraqi Army, or Saddam Hussein.” She held me tight, but it was like stone hugging stone. “Honey, no matter what you decide, I’m here. Or rather.” She glanced at Dad. “I’ll support you, but I think this is something you need to work out with your father.”
Then, Grandma Adele did the impossible. She left. Our Rock of Gibraltar, the thing we clung to. Grandma Adele never left. Except. She just did. The door clicked closed behind her, making it official.
Dad still gripped the chair. I had my hands planted on the kitchen table. Even that didn’t feel solid enough to hold me upright. On the stove, fragrant steam rose from the macaroni and cheese.
“Are you hungry?” I asked at last. My voice sounded faraway, foreign. I wasn’t MacKenna, but a girl playing her in some movie. “I could make a salad—”
“Don’t bother.” Dad left the kitchen without looking at me. He headed, I knew, for the bedroom and the photograph in its silver frame.
I scooped a plate of macaroni and cheese and forced it down, with no real desire to eat, except I hadn’t all day.
Afterward, I went upstairs and tugged the ammo crate out from under my bed and fished the journal from under my pillow. I lined it all up from the teapot to the any-soldier mail and realized Grandma Adele hadn’t given me everything when she handed over the ammo crate.
My mom’s letters home—not a single one. They were the missing puzzle piece in the picture the journal painted. Without that piece? I’d painted one last, sweet kiss under the desert sun.
With it?
It was a bright day, I decided, the oil well fires spitting streams of smoke into the air. Mom’s cheeks glowed pink, from sun and excitement. I smelled the heat, the sand. I wanted to remember Mom like that, in that one last happy moment. I didn’t want to think of what happened to a Humvee that hit a landmine. I saw the truth of that in Dad’s eyes. He knew and would live with that knowledge for the rest of his life.
I held the journal, Mom’s careful script blurring before my eyes. It was all there, the whole time. Maybe it was the word accident, but even with all the evidence, there on the page, I didn’t see it until now. The mystery behind my mom and how she died. The mystery behind Dad.
I must have fallen asleep that way. At three in the morning, I was still in my clothes, overhead light blazing, my neck aching, journal clutched in my hand.
Deep silence weighed on me, like I was the only one home. I left the light on, tried to keep my eyes open, afraid that if I didn’t, I’d wake up and find the house truly empty.
By seven o’clock Tuesday morning, I was nervous about Dad. As far as I knew, he hadn’t left his room all night. I thought about the guilt he carried. I wished I’d known. Or been smart enough to figure it out, or at least not have been quite so self-centered. In my mind, the accusation I’d thrown at Landon ricocheted, hitting me full on.
Didn’t what? Look past your own issues?
Now, I stood outside Dad’s bedroom door. Part of me wanted to call Grandma Adele. But she’d been right. This was our problem. Part of me wanted to call 911. The silence had an eerie feel to it. Instead, I knocked.
“Dad? I’m heading to school now.”
Nothing.
“Do you need anything?”
Again, nothing but silence.
“There’s coffee.”
I strained my ears, going so far as pressing one up against the door. A rustle of covers? Or merely wishful thinking. I grabbed my backpack from where I dropped it the night before and left.
If I’d been in avoidance mode on Monday, today, it was double. Today, everyone knew. At lunch, I didn’t bother going near the cafeteria. Eating in the girls’ bathroom seemed pathetic—not to mention deeply disgusting. I hid, instead, in the road-less-traveled stairwell, my back to the wall, my Chucks planted on the steps, in case I needed to make a break for it.
I pulled the same stunt with English as I did the day before, sliding into my seat as the bell rang. I didn’t dare sneak a look at Landon. If he looked back, I wouldn’t be able to take it. And if he didn’t look back? I wouldn’t be able to take it. It wasn’t Landon I needed to worry about. Three seconds after I sat down, a pencil jabbed me between the shoulder blades.
“Hey,” Josh said when I didn’t turn around. “What gives?” He stabbed me again, but at least used the eraser end this time.
I cast a glance at him. “Nothing.”
“I’m talking about swimming. It’s totally freaking everyone out. They’re going to have to re-choreograph everything.”
I couldn’t hold in the sigh at that. They would have to re-choreograph the opening and closing numbers, the junior number, the one I swam on as part of Kylie’s publicity team.
“And Constance is about ready to kill you, just so you know.”
And the duet that was suddenly a solo.
“I wish I could tell—” I began, then broke off, because I really didn’t wish I could tell him anything.
“I heard someone say it was drugs.”
At this, I spun in my chair to face him. “Someone? Really? Like Sierra?”
His face fell. “Right. Sorry.”
“So am I.” I turned back to the front of the room in time to catch Patti’s glare. “I’m really sorry.”
The halls were quiet by the time I crept from the third floor girls’ bathroom and slunk down the stairs to the first floor. I needed to make a quick stop at my locker to swap out books. I was cutting it close again, would probably have to jog part way home, but I took Josh’s words as a warning. The longer I avoided Constance, the better, and by now, she’d be at the pool. The risk was worth it.
I was debating the merits of leaving by the school’s back door versus the side door when a force barreled into me. I crashed against my locker, slamming the door shut.
“What the fuck is going on?” Constance yanked me by the shoulder and pinned me against the wall. Books flew from my hands and thudded against the floor. “I—I don’t even know where to start, I’m so pissed. Patti won’t say a damn thing, so you’d better.”
I gulped for breath, pulse racing. I pushed against Constance, but she shoved and my shoulder blades met metal.
“What the hell is going on? Is it Landon? He looks like shit and you look worse.”
“It’s not Landon, not really.” Poor Landon. He didn’t deserve any of this. “He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Okay, you’re making no fucking sense.” She let go of me. “Talk to me. If it turns out I have to kill you, I promise it will be quick.”
I tried to laugh, but nothing came. “I’m grounded.”
“You?” Curiosity and disbelief lit her face. “This I got to hear. What’s the sin? Wait.” She held up a hand. “You. Landon. And the Corvette. Sure, there isn’t a lot of room, but even I’d do it in the Corvette. Your dad catch you two?”
In that moment, all I could think was: it would’ve been so much better if he had. “I was trying for a scholarship.”
“Again, you’re making no fucking sense.”
“An ROTC scholarship.”
Constance raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t your dad Mr. GI Joe?”
“He’s a combat vet.”
She shook her head. “I’m not getting it.”
“My mom.” I took a long, shuddering breath. “She died during the first Iraq war. And I—”
She held up a hand, her features softening as if she’d been a silent witness to yesterday’s fiasco in the kitchen. “It’s okay. I get it now. And you don’t have to, you know, talk about it, unless you want to.”
“Maybe sometime.”
Constance nodded and drummed her fingers against the lockers. “So, how grounded are you?”
“I can go to school,” I said, “and then I can go back home again.”
“Swim practice?”
I shook my head. “No practice, no show. I’m out, at least for the season, if not next.” Dad hadn’t said, but I wouldn’t put it past him, not now, anyway.
“Shit,” Constance said, but she was still drumming. A moment later, she said, “You ever been grounded before? Do something equally heinous like give all your lunch money to kids in Africa?”
“No, and yes, it was for UNICEF.”
She snorted. “That might give us something to work with.”
“Work with what?” I checked my watch, one I’d strapped on this morning since I didn’t have my cell phone to tell me the time.
“Am I boring you?” Constance looked like she could shove me all the way inside my locker and leave me there.
“I need to get home.” I rubbed my eyes. They felt gritty and raw. “My dad’s timing me, and I’m walking.”
“He took away your Jeep, too? Are you sure you didn’t cause some natural disaster?”
“It just feels like it.”
“Listen,” she said, and leaned closer. “I don’t give a shit about the rest of the show, but you will be swimming the duet if I have to hire people to kidnap you and bring you to the pool.”
At least I’d get out of the house. Even as I nodded, I checked my watch again. I couldn’t help it.
“Go,” Constance said. “But remember, you’re swimming. I’ll think of something.”
I crouched to pick up my books. To my surprise, she knelt and gathered the ones on the far side of the hall. We stayed like that, low to the ground. I sensed she wasn’t through, not yet.
“You and Landon?” She handed me my German text. “What’s the deal there?”
“I’m not allowed to see him.” I held the book tight against my chest like that would stop the hurt. “My dad thinks he’s a bad influence.”
Constance laughed. “Well, he is. He’s also …” she trailed off and shook her head.
I knew she wasn’t going to tell me. And maybe that was just as well.