Magnolia (9 page)

I find Nan stretched out on the bed, lying on her back with her legs crossed at the ankles. “Jemma, Jemma, Bo-Bemma,” she calls out as I close the French doors behind me and set down my glass of tea.

“Nan, Nan, Bo-Ban,” I answer, my voice breaking ever so slightly on the last syllable. I know it's silly, but it's something we've always done. “How're you feeling?”

“Fine. I'm not dying, you know. I woke up with a migraine, but my meds managed to knock it out.”

“Probably the weather.” I tip my head toward the dark clouds in the distance. “Storm's a'brewing.”

She nods. “That always does it. My head, the barometer.”

“Yeah, mine too. Sucks.” It's one of those things we have in common—migraines. Which makes me wonder if a tumor is in my future too. Maybe it's just a coincidence. I hope so.

“C'mon, lie down,” she says, patting the space beside her.

“Okay, but no more jokes about dying,” I say as I climb up onto the bed. “It's not funny.”

She ignores that. “Did you know that Great-Grandma Cafferty had the same thing in her head? At least, she probably did. It's what killed her.”

“I thought she died from an aneurysm or a hemorrhage or something like that.”

“Yeah, as a result of brain surgery. It was a success, but then she bled to death,” she says matter-of-factly.

My stomach lurches uncomfortably. “That was ages ago. I'm sure brain surgery's come a long way since then. Don't they use lasers or something now?”

“Maybe. Guess I'll find out soon enough,” she says with a shrug. “Anyway, what's up with you? Mama says you're going out with Patrick Hughes.”

“I went out with him once,” I say, rolling my eyes. Still, I'm glad for the change of topic. “It's no big deal. I can't believe she told you.”

“Well, you know how she is. You're ruining her big plans for you and the boy next door. Speaking of, where's he going to play ball next year? Ryder, I mean.”

“How the heck would I know? He doesn't discuss his plans with me. We don't talk at all unless we have to.”

“Well, maybe you should think about rectifying that,” she says with a grin. “You know what I mean?”

I nudge her with my foot. “Hey, I thought you were on my side.”

“I dunno. . . . After seeing him this summer at the beach, maybe Mama's onto something. I mean, let's face it—the boy's hot. You could do worse. Much worse.”

“Yeah, well . . . there's more to it than looks,” I grumble.

“Right. There's also intelligence—check. Talent—check.
Character—check.” She ticks each one off on her fingers. “As far as I can tell, he's got it all—the total package. I mean, okay, so he's the boy next door, and Mom and Laura Grace have been bugging you two about each other since forever. But seriously, what more do you want?”

I sigh heavily. “You want to know what drives me nuts about Ryder? There are no shades of gray with him. Everything's black or white, right or wrong. He's just so . . . so . . . unyielding.”

“Wow, is that one of your SAT words?”

“Ha-ha, very funny. You know what I mean, though.”

She shrugs. “Yeah, I know. He's always been that way. I kind of figured he'd grow out of it.”

“Well, don't hold your breath. That boy's got a stick up his ass, if you ask me.”

“A very attractive one at that.”

“What, the stick or his ass?”

Nan laughs—a rich, booming laugh that makes me smile. I'm so glad to have her home. But then I remember why. . . .

“So, when are you going to Houston?” I ask, sobering fast.

“Probably next week. Maybe the week after. The doctor said we've got to move fast. I guess the tumor's pressing on some important stuff.”

I snuggle up closer, laying my head on her shoulder. “I'm sorry this happened to you, Nan.”

“Yeah, me too,” she says, then falls silent. For a couple of minutes we just lie there quietly, staring at the ceiling.

“I'm sorry I didn't call or text you,” she says at last. “I just . . . you know, kind of retreated into myself. I didn't want to talk to anyone.”

“It's okay. I know how that goes.” Because I do the same thing when I'm stressed out. I retreat. Cut myself off from everyone. I've been doing it this week, letting texts and e-mails slide. Luckily, Morgan and Lucy know me well enough to give me my space. Patrick, not so much. We'll have to work on that.

“You're going to be just fine,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster.

But the truth is, I've never been more scared in all my life.

T
hursday is “History Bee” day in my AP European History class. Think old-fashioned spelling bee, with students standing in a line at the front of the classroom. Mr. Donaldson fires a history trivia question at you, and if you get it right you remain standing for the next round. Get it wrong, and you sit. Last man standing is declared the winner.

I have to admit, it's kind of fun—way more so than listening to a lecture. Plus, the winner gets a Hershey Bar.

“The Ardennes,” I say when it's my turn, desperate for that chocolate.

Mr. Donaldson cups a hand to his ear. “Could you please speak up, Jemma?”

“The Ardennes!” I shout, wishing he'd invest in some hearing aids.

“Correct. You advance to the final round.”

Beside me, Lucy mimes a high five.

Thirty minutes later, she's glaring at me as I make my way back to my desk with the Hershey Bar clutched in one hand. “I'll share,” I whisper as I slide into the molded plastic seat behind her.

“You suck,” she tosses over her shoulder just a second before the A-lunch bell rings. “Thank God. I'm starving.”

“Me too.” I stuff the chocolate bar into my backpack and rise, following the crowd out toward the cafeteria.

As soon as we get our food—something that resembles fettuccine Alfredo—we join Morgan at our usual nice-weather table out on the patio. Mason and Patrick are already there, their trays piled high with multiple sandwiches and bags of chips. Ben and Ryder have B-lunch this semester, so it's a little less rowdy than usual.

Morgan slides to the center of the bench seat, making room for Lucy and me on either side of her. “So?” she asks, one blond brow raised.

Lucy wrinkles her nose in my direction. “She won again. Wench.”

“Chocolate for dessert!” I say, pulling the bar from my bag with a flourish.

Morgan grabs it with a scowl, hiding it beneath the table. “Don't let the boys see.”

“Don't let the boys see what?” Mason asks around a mouthful of unidentifiable sandwich.

Morgan shakes her head. “Nothing. And could you
be
any more gross?”

“Oh, I'm sure I could,” he answers with a grin.

I take a tentative bite of my pasta. Surprisingly, it's not too bad.

“Hey, how's Nan doing?” Morgan asks.

I swallow hard. “She's okay. Mostly just . . . you know, resting. Trying to take it easy.”

They're leaving for Houston next week—Mama, Daddy, and Nan. Even Laura Grace is going. Everyone but me. I can't miss school, they claim. They have no idea how long they'll be gone, and they need me to hold down the fort. I'm not sure if I'm more angry or hurt about it. Probably hurt. Mostly.

“You think she'd mind if Morgan and I dropped by this weekend to see her?” Lucy asks.

“Nah. I'm sure she'd love to see y'all. Come by anytime.”

“Speaking of this weekend . . .” Patrick clears his throat, vying for our attention. “Josh Harrington is having a party Saturday. Crawfish boil on their property, down by the creek. You coming, Jemma?”

I shake my head. “I don't think so. It's really not a good time.”

“Aww, c'mon, Jem,” he wheedles. “I'll pick you up on my
way over, and we'll just stay for a little while. An hour, tops.”

I glance over at Morgan, then Lucy.

“I figured I'd go,” Lucy says with a shrug.

Morgan nods. “Yeah, me too. Not much else going on.”

I exhale sharply. “Fine. But just for a little bit. And I'll meet you there,” I direct at Patrick.

“The DUI thing, huh?” Mason asks, smiling wryly.

“Pretty much.” My cheeks flame hotly. “Sorry, Patrick.”

He eyes me sharply from across the table. “Seriously? That was months ago.”

“Yeah, but . . . you know how parents are,” I offer lamely. The truth is, I wouldn't get in a car with him behind the wheel even if my parents
didn't
know. I'm not that stupid.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Whatever.”

“Hey, I've got an idea,” Morgan says. “Lucy and I should meet up at your house, Jemma. We can say hi to Nan, and then we can ride over together.”

“Yeah, I'll stop by Ward's and get some burgers on my way over,” Lucy offers.

“Wait, you wanna eat burgers
before
a crawfish boil?” Morgan asks.

“Heck yeah. Crawfish are too much work for not enough food. Better to go with a full belly.”

Reluctantly, I nod. “Sounds like a plan.” It's not that I don't want to hang out with them—I do. It's just that I feel guilty
about leaving Nan. Of course, she's spent most of her time alone in her room, listening to music and writing in her journal. I've tried to give her some space, but still . . . it's comforting knowing that she's there, just on the other side of the wall that separates our rooms.

Besides, it somehow seems wrong to go out and have fun while your sister sits at home with a brain tumor, you know?

*  *  *

After school, I head straight to the barn. Daddy's done teaching early on Thursdays, so he's already there in his workshop, stripping the paint off an antique cabinet. A Hoosier cabinet, I think it's called.

“Hey,” he calls out over the blaring music. “You got a date with Delilah?”

“Yup. That kind of day.” Ever since lunch, my head's been a mess. I mean, I said I'd meet Patrick at the party on Saturday. Does that make it a date? Are we actually
dating
? After all, I've kissed him twice now—first at the historical society gala and then again on Friday night, when he'd walked me to my car after dinner. Both had been nice kisses. Keyword “nice”—as in, not earth-moving. No fireworks or anything like that. And besides that one film class we'd taken together, we pretty much have nothing in common. So what's the point, really?

Am I dating him just to have someone to go out with? Or is the attraction real? Honestly, I'm not sure. Maybe it's
the whole bad-boy thing—which I realize is beyond stupid. Besides, he's not
that
bad of a boy. But he is the total opposite of Ryder, which means that going out with him is the complete opposite of what my family wants me to do. Maybe that's it, then—a minor rebellion on my part.

Daddy sets down his sander. “Want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” I say. “I thought I'd take some targets outside today. Down by the creek. Want to come with me?”

“Sure. Just let me put my things away. Can you get my Ruger out of the safe for me?”

“Okay. I'll get you a headset and goggles, too. Meet you outside in five?”

He's smiling now. “You got it, half-pint.”

Ten minutes later, we're down by the water, setting up the targets.

“Hey, did you and Mama ever get a chance to look at the film school stuff I gave you?” I ask as we get everything moved into position. “You know, the NYU catalog and application materials?”

His hand drops away from the target he's straightening, and he turns to face me with drawn brows. “Honey, how can you even think about going off to New York now? With everything that's going on with your sister?”

I swallow hard. “But . . . I wouldn't be going anywhere till next year. She's . . . I mean, she'll be fine by then, right?”

He shakes his head. “I think you need to stick with the original plan, okay? State schools.”

Silently, I nod. I can't argue with him, not now. But I'm not ready to concede, either. I mean, what harm is there in applying? I sigh uneasily. Everything just seems so tumultuous and uncertain right now. Senior year isn't supposed to feel like this. Or is it? It's definitely not what I expected; that's for sure. Somehow I expected all the pieces to start falling into place, the hazy vision of my future to begin to come into focus. Not this—confusion and doubt.

“You ready?” Daddy asks, and my attention snaps back into focus.

I tighten my grip on Delilah and take my place opposite my target. My dad moves beside me. I slip on my goggles and headset before taking a deep, calming breath—in through my nose, out through my mouth.

Arms fully extended, I raise the pistol, my gaze trained on the spot I'm aiming for—a red circle the size of a quarter more than two dozen yards away. I take one more deep breath and manage to find my center, all extraneous thoughts gone from my head. It's just Delilah and me now. When I squeeze the trigger, everything feels somehow
right
.