The Survival Kit (11 page)
Authors: Donna Freitas
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Social Issues, #Death & Dying, #Love & Romance
I STAND CORRECTED
My second time in Will’s truck turned out to be a lot less silent.
As we crossed the parking lot and Will unlocked my door, I realized I was nervous to be alone with him. It felt as if something was shifting between us. By the time I put my seat belt on, he had the engine running. The darkness made me aware of everything Will and I did, each step, each movement. His iPod was lying on the bench between us, and while the truck idled, he fiddled with the wires attached to the contraption rigged into the dashboard. His hand brushed the leg of my jeans. When the screen lit up and the sounds of Radiohead came from the speakers, I didn’t even feel the urge to ask that he turn it off. Will put his arm across the seat so he could look behind him and back out. “What?” he asked, when he saw I was staring.
“Radiohead?” I asked.
“You don’t like them.”
“No, that’s not it. I just imagined you’d have different musical tastes.”
“You’ve been imagining my musical tastes?”
I’d left myself open for that one. “
No
. But if I took the time to predict your listening habits, Radiohead would not make the list.”
No
. But if I took the time to predict your listening habits, Radiohead would not make the list.”
“So what would?”
We waited at the light to exit the parking lot. “I don’t know. Something metal probably.”
He looked left before turning down the street. “You think I’m a metalhead,” he said with some offense.
“I didn’t say that. But … it’s just … you’re …” I stopped.
“I’m what?”
“You have this way about you,” I said, immediately wanting to backtrack again. “Scratch that. It has something to do with how you play hockey.”
“And how do I play hockey?” He tried to sound casual but I could hear the curiosity in his tone.
My fingers tapped the seat and I thought through what I wanted to say this time. “You’re kind of brutal out there.”
He laughed at this assessment. “Brutal?”
I thought about the version of Will I saw on the ice, versus what I knew of him elsewhere. “During a game you’re different from how you act outside the rink. Don’t get me wrong—it’s a good thing. It scores you goals and wins and all that stuff.”
“Not tonight.”
“Well, maybe not every time,” I said. “Anyway, I would’ve picked different music to match that feeling I get when I’m watching you play.”
“You get a feeling?” A smirk appeared on Will’s face as he drove and there was laughter in his voice. “What sort of feeling?”
I glared at him. “I get a feeling that you’re a metalhead.”
“There’s some classic rock on there,” he admitted, and picked up his iPod again, clicking through the menu until the sounds of Van Halen blared from the speakers.
“You’re kidding me,” I said. “Please.”
Will grinned and turned it down. “I only listen to this stuff upon request.”
“I did not request Van Halen.”
“I think you did.”
He tapped the outside pocket of my bag. The iPod was visible. “So what’s on yours?” he asked.
I thought about it for a moment and realized at least a small part of me wanted to share it with him. “So far a lot of Nina Simone and some Ella Fitzgerald. That’s all I know at this point. I haven’t listened to everything yet.”
“What do you mean? How do you not know what’s on it?”
“It’s a long story,” I said. He glanced at me, his eyes a question. “Someone else uploaded the songs,” I explained.
“It was a gift.”
“You could say that.”
“From Chris Williams,” he guessed.
“Definitely not,” I answered quickly. “So here’s the deal: I don’t listen to music. Not since April, at least.”
“Not at all?”
“Well, technically we’re listening right now.”
“You know what I meant.”
“I haven’t chosen to,” I clarified. “I used to be obsessed with every new band and making the perfect playlist and that sort of thing, so I’m trying to get over the aversion. And I will, I mean, I already am.” I pulled out the iPod from my bag and stared at it. “It’s been hard, though.”
“Because of your mother,” he guessed.
I nodded. “Lots of things make me sad, but music makes me really sad, and I don’t want to get emotional all the time anymore so I cut it completely out of my life. But my friend Krupa has me on a recovery program of sorts. We listen to one song per day together.”
Will reached for his iPod and pressed
pause
. The screen went dark so the only noise left was from the engine revving up and slowing down as we passed through stop signs. Eventually the town square came into view. It wasn’t even Thanksgiving and everything was already lit up for Christmas. Long strands of tiny white lights were wrapped around lampposts and strung across the front windows of the stores and restaurants. Even the long row of bushes that circled the center green sparkled white. Despite how pretty it was, I couldn’t help wishing the holidays would pass unnoticed this year. “You didn’t have to do that,” I said as the lights receded behind us.
pause
. The screen went dark so the only noise left was from the engine revving up and slowing down as we passed through stop signs. Eventually the town square came into view. It wasn’t even Thanksgiving and everything was already lit up for Christmas. Long strands of tiny white lights were wrapped around lampposts and strung across the front windows of the stores and restaurants. Even the long row of bushes that circled the center green sparkled white. Despite how pretty it was, I couldn’t help wishing the holidays would pass unnoticed this year. “You didn’t have to do that,” I said as the lights receded behind us.
“Do what?”
“Turn off your music. Besides, it’s not as bad when I listen with somebody else.”
“It’s okay. Besides, we’re here anyway,” he said as he pulled up in front of my house and turned off the engine.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said.
“No problem. Even though we lost, I’m glad you came to the game.”
“It was fun. I think I’m officially a hockey fan.”
He looked at me. “After Thanksgiving the season really picks up.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I could tell he wanted to say something else and I knew I should open the door and get out. “Then I suppose I have a lot to look forward to.”
Will bit his lip. He took his hands off the steering wheel and then put them back again, as if he wasn’t quite sure where they were supposed to go. “Maybe I could help you listen to music again sometime, you know, on the way. If you wanted.”
“On the way?”
“To my next game. Since you’re officially a fan.” His words hovered in the air, along with the fact that he’d just asked me out, or something like it.
“Okay,” I told him.
“It’s the Saturday after Thanksgiving.”
“I’m free that night.”
Will’s eyes were fixed on the windshield. “I’ll pick you up at six then.”
“It’s a plan,” I said, and knew it was time I got out. I was feeling shy and nervous about what might happen if I stayed, so I opened the door and hopped to the ground, ready to leave, when at the last second I turned back. “So, if I don’t run into you at school next week, have a good holiday.”
“You, too.”
“Thanks again for the ride.” The groan of the door closing was loud in the quiet of the neighborhood, the trees shadowy in the moonlight. Will started up his truck and I listened to it idling as I walked up the brick path toward the house. He pulled away only after I’d turned the key in the lock and was safe inside. When the latch clicked shut I leaned against the door, closed my eyes, and sighed.
BOTTLE IT UP
“Who was that?” demanded a voice in the darkened house, and I almost jumped a mile. My eyes adjusted to the dim light and I could see the thin, straight outline of my grandmother.
“Grandma Madison,” I exclaimed. “You’re here already.”
She flipped on a light. “Well, obviously,” she said, annoyed. The edges of her sleeves and pants were perfectly tailored, ending at her wrists and brushing the tops of her shoes. “Are you going to answer my question or keep me in suspense all night?”
“Sorry, what did you want to know again?”
She glared. “Who dropped you off?”
“Oh. Nobody.” I moved toward her. Somebody needed to make a gesture of hello to cut the awkwardness in the room. I tried to kiss her on the cheek but she stepped out of the way.
“You’re telling me that was an invisible truck with no driver.”
“Nice to see you, too,” I said, and forced her into a hug before heading off to the kitchen. Her soft footsteps padded against the floor behind me. I opened the fridge to stare at the shelves in case anything tempted me and saw that it was stocked with
food and for the first time I hadn’t been the one to do it. Grandma Madison must have brought a carload of groceries. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all. “It was just a friend,” I said, and took out a yogurt, kicking the door shut. “Don’t worry about it.”
food and for the first time I hadn’t been the one to do it. Grandma Madison must have brought a carload of groceries. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all. “It was just a friend,” I said, and took out a yogurt, kicking the door shut. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Do you sigh like that when all your friends leave you at the door? And don’t try to tell me it was that football player,” she added before I could respond. “Jim spilled the beans that you broke up.”
I pulled out a kitchen drawer and grabbed a spoon, plunging it into the yogurt. “So you already know everything, then, Grandma. Stop being so nosy.”
She harrumphed. “Stop being so obvious then, Rose,” she said, and gave me an accusing look before walking away toward the guest room. She pulled the door shut with a forceful thud behind her, and for once I was thankful to be alone again.
Maybe Grandma Madison actually was the perfect antidote to the pain of enduring our first big holiday without Mom. She didn’t tolerate sentimentality and provided a constant stream of sarcastic commentary that almost instantaneously dispelled whatever emotion was in the room.
On Monday after school as I was hovering near the oven, distracted by the delicious smells wafting into the kitchen, I became
nostalgic and started to say, “I remember when Mom used to—” when Grandma immediately interrupted.
nostalgic and started to say, “I remember when Mom used to—” when Grandma immediately interrupted.
“Damnit, Rose!” she barked. “What did I tell you about leaving that meat loaf in the oven longer than fifty minutes? It will dry out!”
“Sorry, Grandma,” I droned, any trace of wistfulness sucked away by her harsh attitude. I grabbed an oven mitt. “Calm down.”
Then on Tuesday when I heard Jim’s car pull up in the driveway I was so excited I dropped everything and ran out to hug him and help with his bags. When the two of us came inside dragging laundry and several suitcases, instead of offering to help or even greeting Jim, the only thing Grandma managed to do was yell at me for leaving the soup unattended on the stove.
And on Wednesday, when I was in the kitchen mashing the potatoes by hand, I started to tear up—Mom and I had always loved pushing the ricer down into the mixture of milk, butter, and potato, watching as lines snaked up through the wafflepatterned holes—and suddenly mashing potatoes became a sad, significant experience rather than just another dish to get through on the Thanksgiving checklist.
“Don’t go snotting into the food, Rose,” Grandma snapped when she noticed me sniffling over the bowl.
After that I kept my tears out of the kitchen.
On the brighter side, Grandma Madison’s blunt, ongoing remarks came in handy where Dad was concerned, specifically with regard to his drinking.
“We’re having a dry holiday tomorrow, James,” she announced in that commanding I’m-your-mother voice she always used with him.
The four of us were sitting around the kitchen table, Jim, Dad, and me wolfing down roasted chicken and tiny hills of mashed potatoes—Grandma almost hadn’t let us take any since she claimed they were the “Thanksgiving mashed potatoes” reserved for Thursday.
Dad paused, his fork midway between his mouth and plate. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” Grandma said, slamming her water glass against the table, making everyone jump. “Dry, James. As in
no
alcohol. No wine. No hard liquor. None.”
no
alcohol. No wine. No hard liquor. None.”
“Ma,” he said, dropping his fork, and it clattered against the dish.
This wasn’t going to end well. I got up and rushed over to the fridge to refill my glass so I was out of the way in case silverware started flying.
“James, this is not up for discussion. It just is. You take one sip of anything other than soda or water or whatever nonalcoholic beverage you want to drink this holiday weekend and you are out the door—”
Now here, Grandma impressed me. I was sure she would say
she’d
be out the door and not the other way around, that she’d be swayed by my father’s reaction, but she stood her ground.
she’d
be out the door and not the other way around, that she’d be swayed by my father’s reaction, but she stood her ground.
“And we’ll just have our Thanksgiving without you,” she finished.
“Ma—”
“Don’t
Ma
me,” she said, standing up and leaning forward over the table. She wasn’t a big woman, but she was still intimidating. “That’s it. End of story.”
Ma
me,” she said, standing up and leaning forward over the table. She wasn’t a big woman, but she was still intimidating. “That’s it. End of story.”
Dad’s mouth closed. He stared at her in something like disbelief. I, on the other hand, took my seat again and studied the chicken on my plate, trying to hide the relieved smile on my face.
Thanksgiving was awkward and relatively quiet, almost silent, even though Grandma was with us. “Can you pass me the sweet potatoes?” was about the extent of the dinner conversation.
Mom’s absence loomed over everything. She wasn’t there to carve the turkey, or say which dishes came out the best, or to make a toast or even entertain us with funny stories about her kids. The bottom line: Mom wasn’t there, and we all felt it. Occasionally, Jim tried to fill the hush with gossip from his first year at college, but even when he said, “So I met this girl in sociology class. She’s really cute,” nobody bit. There was only silverware clinking against plates and a single comment from Grandma Madison.
“You’re not going to major in sociology, are you? You’ll never get a job.”
There was one bright spot, though, for which I was incredibly grateful. Grandma held Dad to her no-drinking rule. It made
me wish that I, too, could have that power over Dad. But for now I’d take the help from wherever it came. While Jim and I cleared the table that night and Dad was in the kitchen with Grandma putting away the leftovers, I gave thanks for this reprieve because sometimes you have to be grateful for the little things when the big things get to be too much.
me wish that I, too, could have that power over Dad. But for now I’d take the help from wherever it came. While Jim and I cleared the table that night and Dad was in the kitchen with Grandma putting away the leftovers, I gave thanks for this reprieve because sometimes you have to be grateful for the little things when the big things get to be too much.
The next morning Jim and I went out for breakfast, just the two of us. It was tradition, and this year, more than any other, we needed at least one holiday ritual to stay the same.
I smirked at my brother from across the table and grabbed his menu so he couldn’t hide behind it. “Tell me about this girl from sociology.”
Jim yanked the menu back and studied the breakfast selections even though we always ordered the same thing: blueberry pancakes with extra blueberries on top. “There isn’t a girl—I made her up,” he explained. “I was willing to say anything to break that awful silence yesterday.”
“You mean Grandma’s snide remarks don’t count?”
“Let’s make this a Grandma-free breakfast. From now on we won’t even say her name.”
“Okay,” I said, and propped both elbows on the flecked Formica table, wrinkling the place mat without any fear since Grandma wasn’t here to correct me. “I second that.”
“Rose,” a voice said from behind me, and I watched as my brother’s eyes got big and then dreamy. Kecia waltzed up to our table and pulled me from the booth and into a hug. “It’s so good to see you,” she said.
I smiled. “It’s good to see you, too. Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?”
“It was fine. You know, the usual. My family always has to make everything a big production.”
Jim cleared his throat. “Rosey.”
“Oh, sorry. Jim, this is Kecia, and Kecia, this is my brother, Jim. He’s home from college.” To Jim I explained, “Kecia and I used to cheer together.”
“I know, I played football, remember?”
Kecia extended a slender, perfectly manicured hand to my brother. “But we’ve never officially met until now.”
I worried Jim might kiss her hand, or not let go. Happily, he took it only briefly.
“Likewise,” he said, his eyes glued to hers. “So you remember me?”
“I do,” she admitted.
Jim smiled upon hearing this and I was sure he was about to embarrass me so I changed the subject. “Are you going to the game tomorrow?” I asked Kecia.
“Of course. Are you?”
“I am. Will you save me a seat?”
“Definitely,” she said, and turned back to my brother, whose
face registered joy at the attention. “I’m trying to turn Rose into a hockey fan. It’s working so far.”
face registered joy at the attention. “I’m trying to turn Rose into a hockey fan. It’s working so far.”
“Rosey at a hockey game?” Jim gave me a quizzical look. “Interesting.”
“She loves it—ask her,” she told him. “Listen, I should go. I’m picking up takeout and my dad is waiting in the car outside.” Kecia glanced out the window. “But I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
“Bye, Rose. Bye, Jim.” Kecia gave us a wave before heading up to the register.
Jim’s eyes followed her the entire way.
“Oh my god,” I said, but this wasn’t enough to get Jim’s attention. I snapped my fingers next to my brother’s cheek. “Jim. Hey, Jimmy!”
“What,” he said, picking up his mug of coffee, his eyes watching me from above it.
“She’s not an object to ogle at,” I pointed out.
He grinned. “Oh, no, she’s clearly much more. I absolutely remember her, too, but I don’t quite remember her looking like
that
.”
that
.”
“Please spare me the details running through your brain. She’s my friend.”
“Well, lucky you,” he said, and turned away again to take in Kecia one last time as she headed toward the exit, takeout bag in hand. The chime attached to the top of the door jingled as it opened and shut and she disappeared from view. The waitress
came over to take our order, then hurried away, shoving the pad and pen into the pocket of her apron. “So tell me more about hockey.”
came over to take our order, then hurried away, shoving the pad and pen into the pocket of her apron. “So tell me more about hockey.”
“It’s nothing. Just something to do.”
“But it’s a new thing, right? I mean, I’m glad you’re going out and doing stuff, especially if it involves her.” Jim wiggled his eyebrows and I rolled my eyes.
“Stop being creepy,” I said.
I waited for him to go on, but instead he said, “I guess everyone wants pancakes this morning,” and got up from our booth. “Chris, great to see you.”
My pulse quickened, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Chris Williams and my brother shake hands.
“Hey, Jim,” he said. “We’ve missed you this year out on the field.”
“Yeah, well, my body doesn’t miss it.”
“I bet.”
I felt Chris’s gaze.
“Hi, Rose,” he said.
I looked up, expecting to feel the usual mixture of pain, regret, and hope that came with seeing Chris since our breakup, but what I felt instead was nothing much at all. Maybe I
was
getting over him. “Hi, Chris,” I said, and managed a smile. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
was
getting over him. “Hi, Chris,” I said, and managed a smile. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“I thought about you guys a lot yesterday. You know, first big holiday without your mom.” Chris’s eyes never left my face.
“Thanks,” Jim said. “That means a lot.”
“It does,” I said, and tried to read the expression in Chris’s eyes. It looked as though he wanted to say something else, but our waitress arrived at the table with a series of plates balanced up her arm. She placed a stack of pancakes in front of me and another in front of my brother.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you later,” he said with some hesitation, and strolled off toward the booth in back that the diner kept reserved for Lewis football players.
Jim stared at me through the steam rising between us from the pancakes. “I still can’t believe you guys broke up.”
I began cutting a section of my pancakes into bite-size pieces. “Well, we did.”
“But he’s obviously still into you.”
I stabbed my fork onto my plate and raised a wedge to my mouth. “If he was, don’t you think he’d tell me?”
“Would you get back together if he wanted to?”
At first I responded without thinking and said, “Yes,” but a second later, I changed my mind. “Actually,
no
, I don’t think I would,” I said, and took a bite full of blueberries.
no
, I don’t think I would,” I said, and took a bite full of blueberries.
“I liked your first answer better.”
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