Glass Girl (A Young Adult Novel) (16 page)

“That’s the hard part, though,” I said.

Henry chewed on his bottom lip, making the corner red and swollen. I had blown his mind and I felt horrible about that.

“What’s happened to you, Meg?” he whispered, tucking my hair behind my ears. “What are you hiding?”

Silent tears began and the crushing pain in my chest returned. I hadn’t planned on getting to this point with him yet. I’d let down my guard with thoughts about a God who did or did not let my brother die. Who did or did not allow my mother to drive away from me. Henry had opened himself to me and I’d grabbed hold.

“I’m not ready to tell you,” I said, my voice cracking with the effort. “Too hard.”

He leaned his face close to mine and spoke so softly I could barely hear him. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here. I want you to know that about me.”

He already had enough reasons to run. If he knew, if he read all the details on the Internet, he’d never look at me the same way again. Pity would cloud his perfect eyes.

I leaned into the warmth of his arms and stifled a yawn. I could fall right here and sleep—the kind of sleep that takes over after you’ve cried a long time. The one that’s black, without dreams.

Instead I stared at the fire and held onto Henry. Finally, after a long silence, he said, “Stay.” His voice sounded unsure.

“What?” I whispered.

“Stay,” he said. “I mean…
stay
. Here in Chapin. Don’t move back to Pittsburgh. If that’s being considered, don’t consider it.” His eyebrows pulled together in a pained look. “It’s just….” He shrugged. “Are you happy here? You told me you thought you could get better here. I heard you say that. You denied it, but I know what I heard.”

“I’m kind of a wreck,” I said. “Why would you want me to stay?”

He tilted my chin up to his face and pressed his mouth against my ear. “Because I’ve never felt this close to anyone. It’s selfish, I know.”

Those words were his gift to me and he didn’t even know it. He chose me. My mom hadn’t. Wyatt couldn’t. But Henry said
stay with me because I want you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “I want to be here.”

He pressed his face into my hair. His breath puffed warm on my neck, sending chill bumps scattering down my arms.

I knew that later I’d try to look normal at work and at home and at school. It would hurt and I would suffer a lot and I would miss the days when my family was happy. But I had this new secret treasure—whispered times with Henry. I was known and understood by someone who hadn’t known Wyatt. This was mine.

***

When I unlocked the door to let myself into my house, Henry paused, unsure, behind me. I nodded and said, “It’s okay.” We found my dad sitting in the dark at the kitchen table. I turned on one light so we could see him. I put my hand on his shoulder and he covered it with his own. We stayed this way for a long time. We spoke without words. He said something like, “I don’t know if I can survive losing her, too.” And I said something like, “I won’t leave you.”

“Dad, my friend Henry’s here. He wanted to meet you.” My dad shifted as he moved into his
everything is fine
persona. He stood and held his hand out to shake Henry’s. Henry swallowed hard. He was nervous—probably as much about meeting my dad as about trying to be some comfort to a man who hurt.

“Jack Kavanagh,” Dad said. “It’s nice to meet you, Henry. What’s your last name?”

“Whitmire, sir.”

“Your family must have the Whitmire ranch. I heard it’s beautiful.”

“That’s us. I’d love to show it to you sometime.”

Dad looked tired. I stared at the increasingly gray hair at his temples and the wrinkles I hadn’t noticed before. “I’m glad to know you, son. Are you hungry?”

“I could make grilled cheese sandwiches,” I said, my voice sounding like a stranger’s.

“I need to get back home.” Henry glanced at me apologetically. “Thank you, though. My parents were hoping both of you could come to dinner Saturday night at our place.” The tips of Henry’s ears turned pink.

I smiled and nodded at Dad.

Dad understood my look. “That sounds great. We’d love to. Just let us know what to bring.”

Henry gave Dad another, “Yes, sir,” and then leaned over to give me a friendly hug. “’Night, Meg.”

“’Night, Henry. Thanks again for everything.”

He shrugged through the door that seemed so small when Henry’s frame filled it. I watched him until the headlights of his truck made the turn out of our drive and then turned to Dad, who studied me with interest.

“He seems nice.”

“Very,” I said, nodding. “How about that grilled cheese?”

“Grilled cheese for everyone,” Dad said, like an English noblewoman, raising his finger in the air—a classic Wyatt move. For years, he’d turned every situation into
Monty Python
.

I took the bread and cheese out and started grilling sandwiches, an activity tattooed on my brain and muscles. One, two slices. Butter and a hot skillet. Unwrap the cheese and press.

We sat together and picked at our food. This was who we were and who we were not. Once we were sure we’d made enough of an effort, we cleared our plates and said goodnight. It was a relief to close my bedroom door and sit alone in the dark.

FROM: Meg Kavanagh

TO: Mom

Change your mind. Change your mind. I miss you so much. Please change your mind and come back.

Meg

M
r. Slaten, famous for lecturing even on the days close to holidays when other teachers showed videos, had caved to peer pressure. Because it was the Friday before Thanksgiving, he showed A Periodic Table Feast, a cartoon spoof of Pilgrims creating the first table of elements.

I yawned, cracking my jaw and startling Tennyson.

“It’s like you don’t even care that Squanto introduced them to
flerovium
,” she whispered.

“Really? You don’t read fascination here?” I pointed generally to my face.

Our brains were already on vacation. My mind had exactly two repeating tracks—Henry and my mom. Bouncing between those two extremes made me feel off-balance all the time. I’d sent hundreds of emails to Mom and she’d responded to one, although “responded” may be too generous a word. Really, she’d given me the equivalent of an electronic grunt, with no information about her condition and no guarantee of anything.

Dad and I floated through the house like a couple of ghosts, but he’d decided last night to cut back on his hours at the hotel so he could always be home for dinner with me. I think we’d tacitly agreed to pretend this was enough.

A folded piece of paper dropped into my lap. I picked it up and read Tennyson’s curly cursive.

I see it in your eyes—you’re thinking about him.

I shook my head and mouthed, “No
.
” She grabbed the paper off my desk and wrote a new note.

We’ve all had crushes on Henry. Wish you could’ve seen him in elementary school… sooooo cute. And always with the manners. He hasn’t been the same since the day you got here.

I wrote,
Tell me more
, and snuck the paper back to her desk. Slaten laughed loudly at the video and didn’t notice us.

He’s crazy about you. Watches you when you aren’t looking. You’re beautiful and he wants to m-a-a-a-rry you.

I wrinkled my nose at her and crossed my eyes. No one had noticed me in Pittsburgh because they were afraid of what Wyatt would think. And, after he died, people at school averted their eyes when I came in the room. I’m sure I missed out on the whole rite of passage that should’ve happened at my age—the insane interest in shopping, hair, and makeup that my friends and their moms seemed so obsessed with, and the ramped up comfort level of physical relationships with guys.

Not that I didn’t notice boys. The way they moved and stretched. What they did with their hands when they talked. The lazy way they grinned at girls who weren’t me—the half grins that were so full of ambiguity they made my head hurt. I never could get my voice to work around guys; my words came out in the wrong order…verbal dyslexia.

All my life, I’d wanted to have my mom’s poise and beauty. One time, when Wyatt and I were little, we had to make a quick trip to the grocery store with her. She’d been washing paintbrushes and had taken her wedding ring off, accidentally leaving it at home. We hadn’t been in the store ten minutes before I noticed a nicely dressed man who seemed to be following us around. He stared at her. Finally, in the detergent aisle, he spoke to her. “I’m sorry. I never do this. But, I noticed you when you walked in and I think you’re beautiful. You’re not wearing a ring. Are you single?”

Wyatt and I both laughed out loud and my mom turned a million shades of red.

“No,” she’d said, smiling. “Not single. Happily married and raising these two little ones. But thank you, really, for saying that.”

The video ended and students tripped over each other to get out of the classroom. The rest of the day seemed eternal, but when school finally ended, I walked to the parking lot to head to the bookstore. Henry waited for me at the Jeep. He had his hands in his pockets and he watched me walk toward him.

“Hi, Meg,” he said simply. “Good day?”

He pulled me into him and leaned back on the Jeep. “Better now.”

He laughed. “I got bored in class and drew you a perfect map to my house so you guys won’t have any trouble finding us tomorrow.”

“GPS works, too,” I said. “Or are you one of the unmapped?”

He smirked, and then took the spiral notebook I held, pulling a pencil from its rings. Opening it, he paused to read something I’d written.

Crap.
I felt my entire head heat up while I waited to see how bad it was. He tugged a paper from his back pocket and put it in one of the pockets of the spiral. Before he handed back the spiral, he wrote something on the pocket.

“I’ll see you at six o’clock tomorrow.” He reached for me again. “It’ll take you thirty minutes to get there.”

I put my arms inside his unbuttoned coat and rested my face on his shoulder.

“You should go to work now.” He kissed the top of my head.

When I backed out in the Jeep, I grabbed the spiral and opened it with one hand. Darn my twelve-year-old maturity. I’d doodled
Henry and Meg Whitmire
about a thousand times on the folder where he’d put the map. I’d also named our future babies, because I’m
that
stupid.

Next to the first
Henry and Meg,
Henry had written, “Promise?”

Well, that genie’s out of the bottle and there’s no stuffing her back in.

***

When Saturday evening finally arrived, Dad and I drove out to the Whitmires’ house. He seemed quieter than usual, the muscle in his jaw twitching as he watched the road. Halfway there, he started grilling me with questions about Henry. I was prepared, though.

“How close are you and Henry?”

“We’re close, obviously. We’re dating.”

“Oh.” He seemed a little surprised by that answer. “I guess I haven’t paid attention.”

“It’s okay. He works all the time so we don’t do the whole dinner and movie every week. It’s more like we hang out when we can. But I like him. A lot.”

“He seems more mature than an eighteen-year-old kid.”

“I think it’s because he was raised on a ranch.” I touched the folded map I held. I didn’t need it, but I wanted it with me because Henry had made it and he’d put my name in a heart at the top. “He has three older sisters. That had to be tough.”

“Whew.” My dad chuckled under his breath. “Poor kid. That explains a lot.”

This wasn’t the most comfortable conversation I’d ever had with my dad. He wiped a hand over his mouth.

“It’s okay, Dad. You’ll like him.”

“Is tonight the first time you’ll meet his family?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m nervous.”

“How much does Henry know?”

We were nearing the turnoff to the ranch so I pointed to the sign and the road ahead of us. Dad nodded and turned on his blinker.

“I haven’t told him about Wyatt,” I said. “I haven’t told anyone here. But he knows about Mom.”

Dad looked away from the road for a minute. He tilted his head and scanned my features before sighing. “All right,” he said, turning back to the road. “I’m not sure why you haven’t mentioned Wyatt to the boy you’re dating, but I’m glad to know that ahead of time.” He leaned forward, squinting into the darkness. “I don’t remember night driving being this dark before.”

“It’s the country, Dad.”

Henry’s house appeared in the distance. A small creek curved through the field in front, and there were several barns and smaller cabins in a grouping to the left of the main house. The utility lights on each structure made them glow. Mom would have grabbed her sketchbook and quickly drawn the bones of a painting. Dad slowed the truck and we rolled to a stop. Without looking at me, he reached for my hand, rubbing my knuckles gently. “I love you,” he said.

How could my mother leave this good man? “I love you, too, Dad.”

“You look beautiful, by the way. So much like your mom when I first met her.”

“Thanks.” I’d been so nervous about getting ready for this dinner. I’d straightened my hair, tried out new makeup, and worn my favorite jeans and suede boots. But still I knew, really, I would never be as beautiful as my mom.

“Okay, then, let’s meet the Whitmires.” He hammered on the gas, causing the truck tires to squeal. I held on and smiled with him.

The front door opened as we approached and Henry stepped out with his hands shoved in his pockets. He grinned and met us in the driveway, shaking Dad’s hand, then taking mine in his. “Glad you’re here,” he said.

Mrs. Whitmire, tall and thin like her son, opened the front door and welcomed us.

“Meg!” She held out her arms to hug me. “Henry has told me so much about you, I feel like we’re old friends.”

“Thanks for inviting us, Mrs. Whitmire,” I said. “Everything is beautiful here.”

“Now, you call us Miriam and Clayton, okay?” she said.

They introduced themselves to my dad, who seemed comfortable here. Clayton shook my hand and said, “Henry told us you’re awful sweet.”