Summer of Supernovas (2 page)

“Saving me,” I repeat with a bemused smirk. “Which is why you’re the one needing CPR?”

Ignoring my remark, he squints down, pushing the damp hair at his forehead. “Um…It’s really high up here.” The guy doesn’t appear to be trembling anymore but remains less than steady. He slides down to a sitting position against the tower.

“Well, yeah. That’s sorta the point.”

The breeze shifts, plastering my vintage yellow dress to my body. Sure, there was a time I felt self-conscious about my curviness. But the hourglass gene wasn’t something I could alter with diet or exercise. It was simply a force of nature—easier to accept than fight.

His face flushes darker and he quickly looks away. “Look, whatever it is, this
can’t
be the solution. Because if you think jumping off a tower is going to be—”

“I am
not
a jumper!” I cry. “How many times do I have to tell you guys? Sometimes I come up here to think, to clear my head, not…
flatten it.
” My gaze wanders the vista. I don’t need daylight or twenty-twenty vision to know how Carlisle’s homes and businesses align in static rows. Or how the railroad tracks suture the well-to-do east side to the blue-collar west. There’s the hazy outline of the three smokestacks guarding the south, smokestacks that watch everything with winking, tireless eyes. There is place and purpose to every single thing if you’re high enough to see it.

“Being up here gives me a different perspective, you know? Sometimes it’s all a person needs.” I bend to collect my scattered belongings, shoving my papers into my bag before he can question the scrambled charts and lists of signs.

“Whoa, whoa…wait.” His dark brows knit. “You seriously climbed all the way up here just…to think?”

I nod.

He scratches his head; dark hair sticks up every which way. Somehow I get the impression his hair is a serial misbehaver.

“Well, I came to think and for the Milky Way.” I tap the mini telescope in the side pocket of my bag. “I’m referring to the band of stars. Not the candy bar.”

“So I gather.” He gives the ladder a sideways glance and gulps.

“Summer’s the best time for viewing, and up here, it’s easier to see without all the light pollution from the city.” I squint. “Sun should be fully set soon; then it’ll be spectacular. Hey, did you know some Native Americans believed the Milky Way to be a pathway for departed souls? Like a sort of astral skyway they traveled until they found a star to inhabit. And you know what’s even more amazing?”

He shakes his head.

“Some scientists are predicting a supernova will be visible inside the Milky Way within the next fifty years! Can you imagine? Witnessing a star going supernova in our very own galaxy! That moment a star dies, it explodes and emits the most brilliant…” My smile collapses when I find him staring like I’ve just declared the moon made of cheese. “Sorry. I, um, didn’t mean to go all tangential on you. I’m Wil, by the way.” I offer my hand. “Wil Carlisle.”

Yes, the same Carlisle our fair Midwestern city is named for. Some quadruple great-uncle or other founded it back in 1847. Which is reason enough for Gram to live and die here.

He rises before taking my hand in his. “You’re kind of an unusual girl. No offense, Wil.”

I grin. “Yeah, well, I tried ordinary once and got bored.”

“I’m Grant, Grant Walker. And somehow”—he gives his head a small shake—“that doesn’t shock me.” When he finally smiles, it is for real. It shows in his eyes and where his skin touches mine.

My pulse unexpectedly flutters. “So, Grant Walker”—I pull back my hand, wiping my palm down my dress—“mind calling your friend off suicide watch? As you can see, I’m pretty intent on living.” I notice four lines of orangey-brown where the metal rail has left marks across my midsection. I look like a grilled banana. Awesome. I brush at the unmoving lines.

“Yeah, about that. Unfortunately, I think it might be—”

Wee ooh, wee ooh, wee ooh.

The distant wail draws nearer. I jerk my head up.

“Too late,” he finishes with a grimace.

Several police cars and a fire truck barrel down the side road, red lights whirling, sirens screaming. Rocks spray, ricocheting off the base of the tower as the truck screeches to a halt. I watch in horror as firemen and emergency personnel spill from their vehicles. They’re barking orders while unfurling a large trampoline that bears a striking resemblance to the Japanese flag.

This. Can’t. Be. Happening.

A nasally voice projects over a loudspeaker.
“Wah-wah, wah-wah-wah. Waaaahhh!”

I can’t make heads or tails of what’s being said because the guy is smothering the mic with his mouth. I’ll assume he’s telling me not to jump.

I bury my face in my hands, sending my glasses askew. All I wanted was a little peace and perspective. Instead, I get a circus. My only consolation is there aren’t any clowns.

Stars in heaven, Gram will kill me.
Kill
me. I’ve gotten myself in some pretty bizarre twists, but this one’s a cake-topper.

“Damn!” Grant rakes his hand through his hair. His expression offers the apology his mouth doesn’t deliver. Giving his hair a rest, he asks, “So what do we do now?”

I shake my head and blow out a breath. “Now we go down there and explain what a huge misunderstanding this was.
Is.
”

Grant starts inching over to the steep ladder, back flat to the tower’s surface. The color has completely drained from his face.

I stand beside him, following his line of sight down the hundred-plus rungs. “Grant?”

His eyes are unfocused. “Huh?”

“Are you…are you that afraid of heights?” There’s an affirmative bob from his Adam’s apple. “Well, what on earth
possessed
you to come charging up here?”

“Adrenaline,” he snaps. “I
thought
you were about to jump. And you were pacing. And
you
”—he points—“you wouldn’t respond to anything we said!”

“I had earbuds in!” I cry with a flap of my arms.

“Ooh, well,
now
I know you’re a music aficionado!” Grant shouts mockingly over the whooping sirens. He holds up a hand. “Sorry…I’m sorry.” Working to unkink the lines of panic on his face, he adds, “Look, I’m not phobic or anything. Heights just make me a little”—he sways—“uncomfortable.”

I take his arm to steady his teetering form. “Easy there. Hey, look at me.” I give him my most reassuring you’ll-live-to-see-another-day smile. “Stay with me. It’s gonna be okay, Grant. I promise. I’ve been up and down this ladder more times than I can count. We’ll just take it one step at a time. I’ll even go first. All right?”

The nasally fireman is making out with the mic again. I wish he’d stop. It only agitates Grant.

“No,” he says, sliding his hands up and down on his jeans. Grant grips the top rung as his nostrils flare with determination. “I’ll go first.”

I pat the tense muscles of his back, doubting there’s a soft spot on him. “Okay, you’ve totally got this. You can do it.”

His mouth twists in a grim line. “Yeah.”

I wait until he’s made decent progress before I climb on. He’s moving, slow and steady…well, steady enough.

“You’re doing great!” I holler. We clamber down the ladder as I continue to shout random encouragements. I’m not sure if it helps. Grant’s been funeral-procession quiet for a while now. I squint, trying to assess the remaining distance. “Almost halfway there!” I report. Give or take.

The breeze, which had the civility to die down, notches up again. My dress flutters. I’ve been so preoccupied with keeping Grant from full-on freak-out that it doesn’t sink in. It takes me all of four rungs to realize why I feel so airy.

No.
I freeze.

Why? Why today? Because it’s laundry day,
that’s
why. And I was out of clean bikinis. So I had to opt for the scrap of beige lace balled in the back of my drawer. Emergency use only.

A thong.

An effing thong.

My forehead thunks to my arm. When I consulted my daily horoscope, it said to consider new prospects for current obstacles. Nowhere, repeat,
nowhere
did it tell me to consider my prospect in undies!

“Wil? What’s wrong? Why’d you—”

“Don’t look up!” I shriek.

“Why, what’s…” Silence.
Blaring
silence.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “If you’re finished with your study of my backside, can we keep moving?”

“I, uh…” Grant clears his throat, snapping his head down. “I don’t know how to answer that without being offensive. But thank you,” he says over the resuming creak of the ladder.

“Don’t mention it. Seriously. Ever.”

“No, I just mean”—he chuckles nervously—“for a second there I almost forgot my fear of—”

CLUNK!

“Grant!” Twisting my neck, I see he’s missed a rung completely and has slid down to the next. There’s a groan of rusted metal giving way. Part of the ladder is breaking. I scramble to close the space between us, to try to catch his flailing arm. “Grab my hand!” Knees slightly bent, I lean back. All my muscles quiver as I strain to reach him from above. “Grab it!”

Shouts erupt. Sirens woot. The firemen jostle to position.

Grant’s brown eyes are wide and terrified as his grip loosens. In sheer panic, he reaches out. His hand clamps around my ankle.

I am not prepared for that.

The bottom of my ballet flat slides, slipping effortlessly beneath me. Corrosion scrapes my palm. My knee gongs against the metal. I scream.

And Grant is falling.

Correction…
we
are falling.

We sink like graceless stones through darkening sky. My yellow dress flaps—useless, broken wings at my sides. For a nanosecond, I wonder if I’m flashing the world my full moons. Butts aren’t meant to be seen moving at this velocity.

Then it hits me. I could die!

And here I am, traveling at the speed of ass, and I can’t form a single profound thought. Pray. Yeah, I should pray….

Dear God, please don’t let me die. I promise to be a better person and be more efficient with my laundry and…and to never wear these devil’s panties again.

“Aaameeennnnn!”

Grant yells, too, but I doubt he’s bargaining with God over his choice in Skivvies.

He touches down first with a muffled thud.

My impact closely follows.
“Uuuhhh!”
The trampoline stings my skin; all the air is slapped from my lungs. I bounce and my head strikes something hard.

I see stars. I blink to clear my vision.

Faces hover in a frantic circle above, red lights streaking across them. Mouths are moving, but I don’t hear what they’re saying over the ocean in my ears. A fireman with a push-broom mustache is directly over me. He spittles when he talks. He needs a bigger mustache.

If this is heaven, I want my money back.

There’s a dip in the fabric as someone moves. His face appears inches from mine. Full lips, prominent straight nose, and those striking brown eyes all volley for my attention.
Lush.
If Webster gave me only one word to describe Grant’s features, that’s the one I’d pick. Did I notice that before? Yes. No. Maybe. My head is fuzzy. It’s made fuzzier by his concerned gaze. His lips compress in a tight line. I want to tell him not to worry. I’m alive. Honestly, I’ve never felt more so. And my heart is slamming so hard, I’m sure it registers on a Richter scale somewhere.

“Wil?” My name tumbles from his lips; it is the only sound I hear. Like sound didn’t exist until this very moment. “Wil? Are you hurt?” He brushes back the hair at my cheek, inspecting my temple.

The grin on my face feels crooked, like a picture frame you tap this way and that, impossible to level. “Grant…”

He leans closer, eyes searching. I can smell the fabric softener and summer on him. His fingers continue to linger on my face. “Can you hear me? Are you hurt?”

“I hear you, Grant…Parker.”

His shoulders drop as he lets out a shaky laugh. “It’s Walker, actually.”

“Whatever,” I mumble.

The earth spins faster and faster, blurring the people and commotion around me. Dark clouds mushroom my vision, leaching color from the world.

I must be falling.

But how can you fall when you’ve already hit the ground?

“W
hat do you mean, ‘There was an incident at the water tower’?” Gram’s got a shriek that rivals the sonar system used by bats; I instantly cringe. “Where’s my granddaughter? I demand to know her condition!”

Letting out a soft sigh, I sink back into the flat-as-a-pancake hospital pillow. I know, without moving my blue privacy curtain a centimeter, that the lines on Gram’s face have just carved themselves deeper. And I’m certain the silver hairs on her head are now outnumbering the black ones. She’s probably even clutching the crucifix that rarely sees the light of day because it’s buried in her cavernous bosom.

How many times have I been the reason for Gram’s hold on the cross? Sadly, too many to count.

My fingers gingerly probe the lump on my head. It isn’t
so
bad. At least, my hair provides a nice camouflage. Except for the dull headache—which I attribute less to the lump, and more to the suffocating lemon-scented hospital disinfectant—I really can’t complain.