There Will Come a Time (4 page)

The school's not perfect. They still allow some assholes to attend, but overall it's cool.

Before first period, students stand in clusters, most of them according to disciplines. The theatre peeps hang near the auditorium. Musicians, my usual tribe, with their instruments in all shapes and sizes enclosed in black cases, lean against the doors of the music room. Fine artists have claim to the benches in the quad. Dancers get the spot underneath the huge tree at the top
of the quad. Newbies wander and mix with the interdisciplinary students, who tend to move from group to group. Nothing has changed. Everyone's high-fiving and hugging and greeting one another as if a summer away has been hardly any time at all. For me, it seemed like an eternity.

“I'm that way.” Sebastian points in the direction of his class. “You all right, man?”

“Yeah, see you in theory.”

We part ways, and I head in the opposite direction.

“Santos!” Pete skates up behind me and smacks my head. “Glad to have you back!” he calls as he continues down the hallway.

I yell, “Punk!”

Pete's wearing a gray suit and pink bow tie. His long black hair is up in a bun on top of his head. His rollerblades make him, like, 6'4". Last year he experimented with a retro 1980s style; this year it looks like it'll be the '40s. He likes to think of life as performance art. The teachers don't seem to mind. Other than Sebastian, Pete was the only other friend I saw over the summer. A week after the accident, Pete and Sebastian sat on beanbags on the floor of my room with me, playing video games. The second time he brought some fried chicken and waffles and we watched a movie.

Two minutes. I walk down hallway and head for room 207.

“What's up?” I greet the guys waiting outside as if we just saw each other last week.

“Not much,” Levon says. He's a talented dancer who can do it all: ballet, hip-hop, modern, and tap. Out of all the kids here, I expect to see him on TV some day.

“You have Mrs. Yenella for history?” I ask.

He nods. “I hear she's funny, but she makes you write research papers.”

“See you inside,” I say.

I open the door and enter the room. A short Latina woman is writing on the board. I head for an empty seat in the back corner before she can offer a greeting.

The bell rings.

I relax. I do the math. I only have 270 days. 6,480 hours. 388,800 minutes to go. I remember what Hanna said as I watch the clock. 388,799 minutes.
Here's to the lasts
.

T
he brown box is beat-up and held together by a botched tape job. I can't tell if someone opened it and closed it back up or if it was tossed and abused on the journey to my house. The return address is the police station. Instead of opening it, I sit down next to it on the porch steps. Jenny's out somewhere with Fern and it's too early for Dad to be home, so I'm alone. It's just me and the box. I eye my skateboard leaning against the house and think about going to the park.

A door slams across the street and Hanna heads for our yard. I can tell she's pissed by the way she walks, with her head down and little, quick steps.

She plops next to me and pulls her cap low. Her sulking
effort is not lost on me, but it makes her look cute instead of seriously angry.

“Hey,” I say.

“How was your first day?” she asks.

“I survived.” People were a little weird, but I kind of expected that. Levon was right about the papers for my history class. There's one due in three weeks. My English teacher has decided to torture us right at the start with
Frankenstein
. I thought it'd be cool, but after flipping through the first pages I can tell it's going to be slow reading. I have a stack of new music for orchestra and jazz band. “You?”

“Okay. Are you locked out?”

“No.”

“What're you doing?”

“Nothing.”

She takes off her hat and lets her brown hair fall just past her shoulders, combing it with her fingers. I reach out and fix a section for her. Her hair is so soft. I let my hand linger a little, but drop it when she starts speaking again.

“Mom wants to talk with me later about Steve. But I already know what she's going to say.”

“What?”

“She wants him to move in with us.”

I wait for her to continue, not sure how to respond. I try to
think of what Grace would say if she were here. Would she nod her head? Give Hanna a hug? That could get awkward or interesting. Maybe Grace would tell her what a bastard Steve is? No, she'd let Hanna talk.

Grace was a great listener. She wasn't an “uh-hum” or “yes” or “right” commenter throughout your story. She didn't wait until you took a breath, then immediately start speaking. She'd wait until you were completely done, look you in the eye, and say something profound, like
Tomorrow will be better than today
. So I wait for Hanna.

After a moment, she continues, “Steve's decent. I mean, he could be a complete asshole, but he's not. He always asks me about what I'm doing. Last week he brought me a bag of Skittles, not the regular kind, but the sour ones. You know, the ones I like. He remembered me talking about them. And he makes Mom happy. But moving in. That's serious. That changes things. He'll be living with us, as if we're a family. I don't know. Maybe I just need to get over myself, but . . .”

“But he's not your dad.”

“When they first split, I used to imagine all these scenarios of them getting back together. Did you do that?”

I shrug. “I can't remember. Maybe. My mom left when I was a lot younger.”

Grace was the one who would talk about Mom coming
back. She made up some story about how Mom was kidnapped and how we'd have to wear disguises and go and rescue her, like she was a princess in one of Grace's stories. She thought Mom must be scared. Why else wouldn't she have taken us with her? That had to be the explanation, because the other option was too painful. Over time Grace stopped talking about it.

“What's that?” Hanna asks, glancing at the box.

“A package.”

“I can see it's a package. What is it?”

I shrug again.

She gets up and looks at the label. Behind me, I hear her open the door, and after a couple minutes she comes back outside with a pair of scissors. She sets the package between us.

After the accident, our car was taken as evidence and impounded. Supposedly the police collected our personal belongings from the car and mailed them to us after the settlement, but we never got them. Dad tried to follow up, and I remember him yelling into the phone after the package had gotten lost in the mail.

I don't make any effort, so Hanna cuts and rips through the packing tape. It takes some moments before she gets it open and when she does, she slowly removes each item and lays it out on the porch: one of my black T-shirts, Grace's purse, a small plastic
bag with the car's registration and insurance, a pink flip-flop, my backpack from last year, some pens, a pack of gum, another small bag with change, Grace's phone. We stare at them. The last belongings associated with Grace.

I wonder where the other flip-flop is.
Was she wearing flip-flops that night?
I can't remember her feet. I suddenly need to get out of here. Hanna opens Grace's purse, and I want to grab my skateboard and bail, but Grace is my sister, not Hanna's. I can't let Hanna be the one rummaging through her stuff alone.

I pick up the phone and try turning it on, but the battery is dead. Dead like Grace. I place it back on the porch. The pack of gum is missing one piece. Opening a stick, I place it in my mouth. Cinnamon burns my tongue, but I keep chewing.
Was this her last taste before she died?

Hanna pulls one of Grace's journals from the purse. Grace always preferred small notebooks that she could keep hidden away. I thought she should just use her phone. She said you couldn't write poetry and personal thoughts on phones. They required paper and pen.

Hanna looks at me, her eyes asking if she can read the journal. Part of me hesitates. Grace was always private about what she wrote, which is partly why I haven't gone through any of the journals in her room. Would this make Grace uncomfortable? Would she want us to know her real thoughts? It's dangerous
reading someone's secrets. You could learn something that can never be unknown.

But if I read Grace's words—Grace's last entries—maybe they would replace the sound of the last word she spoke: my name. She didn't yell it. She said it as if I would know what to do, as if saying my name would make everything all right.

It didn't.

The oncoming car slammed into us, and then she was gone. She trusted me completely, and I failed her.

I nod for Hanna to go ahead, and she opens the journal and turns the pages slowly, with a kind of reverence, as if it's a book of scripture. I don't look at the words on the page. I can't bear to see Grace's handwriting, the way she combined printing with cursive. I watch Hanna's face, waiting for the tears, but they don't come. Instead, Hanna smiles.

“ ‘Top Five Things to Do This Year,' ” Hanna reads.

Grace was always making these Top Five lists, which she usually shared. Top Five Places to Eat. Top Five Places to Get Your Nails Done. Top Five Things Not to Do on a Friday Night. Top Five Guys to Avoid. Top Five Ways Not to Break Up with Someone. That last one had made me laugh. The number one reason was by text. I knew Grace got that from Hanna after Mike Salvatore dumped her in the ninth grade. His text message had read:
My mom said I'm too young for this relationship. LOL. Don't be
mad. See you around.
Hanna didn't tell me, but I heard it from Grace, who pretty much told me everything, especially when I pestered her about it. I thought it was hilarious, but I never said anything to Hanna, who moped around for two weeks after that.

Hanna reads the list. “ ‘One: Train and run in a 5K. Two: Go bungee jumping. Three: Learn to surf. Four: Perform spoken word at a club. Five: Hike to the top of a mountain and watch the sunrise.' ”

I'm not completely surprised by the list. I know Grace wanted to run. She started a couple of months before she passed. I thought it was because of River, though, this guy she was dating. He was a runner at her school, and I teased her about trying to impress him. But I can't see Grace standing in front of a mic reading her poetry. She was terrified to speak in front of people. She also hated the ocean. And bungee jump? She was scared of heights.

The list makes me wonder what else Grace kept from me, and I feel a twinge of betrayal that quickly morphs into sadness because she died before getting to do any of these things.

The night of the accident, Grace was pressing me for my own kind of wish list. I told her I don't think like that. I take life as it comes. She didn't believe me.

“You're way too driven, Mark,” Grace said. “Come on, what's something you wish you could do, but you haven't yet?”

“I don't know.”

“Tell me,” she whined.

I let out a secret because it was Grace and Grace was good with secrets. She was also the one I wanted to tell first. Sharing things with Grace made them real. “I want to go to Berklee.”

“In Boston?” Her tone was serious, as if she were thinking through the implications.

“Yep.”

She was quiet, and I drummed along to the music on the steering wheel. She was processing. Boston was three thousand miles away. We'd never been that far apart before.

“Do it!” she said suddenly. The words came out in a rush. “You totally need to do it. I could go to Harvard, and we could be roommates.”

“Harvard's in Boston?”

“Yes, Mark.” She laughed at me like I should know these things.

“I don't think I should live with my sister in college. You'll scare away all the ladies.”

She laughed even louder. “Yeah, right. Besides, what about Hanna?” She poked me in the ribs.

I stopped drumming and shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “What about her?”

“Oh please, she's, like, at the top of your wish list.” She leaned her head against the passenger window and smiled.

“I don't have a wish list.”

“Maybe not number one, but for sure, she's number two,” Graces said right before I decided to take the route that led us to the bridge.

Usually I would have taken the freeway, but I knew how much she loved that bridge and how it was all lit up at night. I turned right.

The decision took less than a second. The neurons fired in my brain and my hands turned the wheel; that's how long it took. One small decision. But if I could take it back, I would.

“Mark?” Hanna asks.

I look at her in confusion because my thoughts are still with Grace. I stare at Grace's belongings on the porch and try to pull some meaning from them. On their own, they're insignificant: loose change, a matchless shoe, ID. When I try to string them together, they shout the glaring truth—that Grace is gone. I'm still here. And no matter how I try to arrange the fragments that Grace left behind, they'll never add up to anything whole again.

“I know it's crazy, but I think we should do it,” Hanna says.

“Do what?”

“The list.” She places her hand on the journal. “Grace's list.”

I suck in my anger, wanting to control it because I know Hanna isn't trying to hurt me. “I don't know,” I say, letting the air out slowly and counting to ten in my head.

“I know we were all supposed to say good-bye to Grace at the memorial when everyone said what they loved about her, but reading these words,
her
words . . . It's like she wanted us to find this.” Hanna runs her hand over the journal. “I've wanted to do something for a while now, to honor Grace. And I want you to do it with me.”

Even with me trying to be calm, my first impulse is to say no, throw everything back into the box, and trash it. Maybe I could put it back in the mail and it'd get stuck in some UPS loop. Part of me likes the idea of this package traveling—Singapore, New Zealand, Tibet, wherever, just as long as it keeps going.