Waiting (12 page)

“Oh really?” Another joke.

Again Lili turns to me. She’s dead serious. “She was
all

over him that
very
first day we came to school. Like
all
.”

I nod because I’m not sure what to do or say. At last I get out the words, “He’s pretty damn hot.”

“Sure,” Lili says, wrinkling her nose. “Sure he is.” Then, “Ready?”

I nod.

I want to say, “I’d be all over him too.” But I don’t. I just follow her out the door.

Lili gives me
this face/look when the three of us get in the van. It’s like a wink without the wink.

“Take London home after you drop me off,” she says.

She pats my hands that I’ve folded in my lap.

“You are such a weirdo,” Jesse says. He glances at us in the rearview mirror. “My little sister is weird,” he says to me. Then he zooms off toward I-4.

Lili starts talking and doesn’t stop until we’ve pulled into the Xtreme Dance Studio. A guy with auburn-colored hair leans against the wall, but when he sees our van, he puts this smile on his face. He saunters toward the parking lot and the stall where we pull in. And I’m not kidding about saunter. He really does.

“Oh great,” Jesse says. “Little Lord Fauntleroy’s waiting for you.”

“Jeffrey’s a gentleman,” Lili says, and she looks at me and raises her eyebrows. “That’s Jeffrey O’Rourke. He can really move. And he hasn’t groped me even once though I want him to.”

“I’ll break his face if he gropes you,” Jesse says, and I can tell he means it.

“I’m sure you will,” Lili says. She pops out of the van, leans in the window. “I’m off to be groped.” Then she skips over to Jeffrey, her dance bag swinging from her arm. He tucks his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels, smiling like all get-out.

“Right.” Jesse throws the van in reverse. “I’ll be back for you,” he says to Lili, who turns, waves at me, calling, “See you later. Thanks for the sleepover. Love you, London!”

Love you, London!

Love you!

“Come up front,”
Jesse says.

I can’t move.
Love you, London.

He looks at me over his shoulder.

“Okay.” And just like that, I can’t get the image of him shirtless out of my brain either. I don’t look at his face as I move forward, fasten my seat belt.

Love you, London.

We’re quiet for a few miles.

I stare out the wide-open window, the wind blowing in.

I’m a little cold, and I roll it closed.

Don’t look at him,
I think.

Remember Taylor, so blond. So tender to me.

Think of Zach with Rachel.

They’re so connected.

Zach and Taylor and Rachel. They’re all together in my head and heart. Almost one.

ZachTaylorRachel

and me

with them.

And this Jesse.

With Jesse, there are no memories.

He’s free and clear except for Lauren.

Jesse says, “What are you thinking, London?”

Outside, the morning tries to get warm. The sun’s so bright I squint.

“Nothing,” I say.

“Not thinking about me?”

I can’t find my tongue for a moment. When I do, I stumble over it. “Lauren’s my friend. I mean, she used to be my friend.” I glance at him.

His grin is wicked. “She doesn’t own me,” he says.

We pull up in front of my house.

In one glance I see that Mom’s home. There’s her car and Daddy’s, too.

Jesse parks the van. Turns off the engine. He unbuckles his seat belt and then unbuckles mine.

With his fingertips, he turns my face to his.

His hand cups my chin, and he kisses me. Nothing big deal, that kiss. Except it
is
a big deal. His lips taste like syrup, but I know he didn’t have pancakes for breakfast.

He didn’t have waffles, either. He ate Cap’n Crunch with his brothers.

His fingers leave burn marks on my cheek.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since English class that first day.”

“Oh,” I say. I can’t look him in the eye. If I look him in the eye, I might kiss him again. No, I
will
kiss him again. “Well, thank you.” Somehow, I open the van door and stumble out onto the green, green grass of our lawn.

I am the
stupidest girl at Smyrna High.

I am.

Daddy is in
the kitchen.

Has he watched me from the window? He stands at the sink, coffee cup in hand, eyebrows knit together.

I try to glide past, but I’m on shaky feet.

“You know what Jesus says about fornication,” he says.

“Excuse me?” I slow.

“You know what He says.”

“Ummm.” Coming in from outside makes the house seem darker than usual. Why hasn’t he opened the curtains? He knows they’ve been closed for months. Or maybe there’s something wrong with my eyes.

“You didn’t come home last night.”

I look him straight in the face—no problem looking at

him
—and say nothing. What does he care, huh? What.

Does. He. Care?

“First your brother and now you,” he says.

My daddy knows I promised to wait to have sex. To wait until I’m married.

“I can’t watch you do the same things he did. Destroying our family. Destroying himself.”

Here’s my voice. I find it now. “Don’t you dare say anything about Zach.” I clench my hands into fists. “Don’t you dare.”

I find my feet, too. I turn around and go right back outside.

His lips were
so soft.

Love you, Lili.

I just walk.

There’s no place to go, really.

But when I get to the cemetery, I know I’ve been out a long, long time. We live a good ways from the cemetery.

Zach’s burial site is on the east side, because Daddy wanted him closest to Jesus when He comes again. “He’ll come from the east,” Daddy has said. Is that Scripture too? Like fornicating?

Daddy’s written about both and preached that to the little congregations everywhere we traveled. But that’s not what he said in Africa or South America or Mexico.

There he said, “Charity never faileth.”

I walk to the farthest, most eastern part of this plot of ground. The sky looks like it’s been covered in marshmallow fluff, there are that many clouds. Every once in a while one creeps over the sun, and for a moment I feel colder.

Then there it is. His tombstone.

ZACHEUS LEE CASTLE
GONE TOO SOON
DEAREST SON AND BROTHER

I lie on the ground, right where I think his casket might be. I wish I could put my arms into the earth, put my arms around Zach, just one last time. The grass isn’t soft, but tough, strong, Florida grass.

“Dear Jesus, dear Jesus.” This is a sincere prayer. “Please let my brother hear me.”

I tell Zach everything. It’s a repeat, these words, a cry of loneliness.

How I miss him.

How I’m starting to feel alive again, but only a little bit alive. Sort of zombie-ish.

How I’m scared to death (no pun intended) to do this alone.

Without him.

This wasn’t part of my plan.

Part of his? Maybe.

But not mine.

“Why did you have to go so early, Zach?”

I wait for an answer. Sometimes—and this is the God’s honest truth—sometimes I know he’s near. If only for a moment. But not this time.

A bit of breeze moves past, and even though my eyes are closed, I imagine that the grass is bowing before that wind.

Maybe bowing to Zach.

My brother.

Once, when I
was little, really little, something awful happened.

We were in South America, the whole family. And Zach and I, we couldn’t have been more than four and five. We lived in this village, helping to dig wells, when this sickness went through and everyone died. Like, I mean,
everyone
.

I still remember.

I remember Daddy came into the place we were staying and said, “We’ve got to go. Now.”

We left.

Everyone else stayed.

And died.

Including a little girl and her twin sister that I was friends with. Those two had thick, thick brown hair. Always braided. And tiny white Chiclet teeth. I remember.

Afterward I heard Daddy talking to Mom.

Heard Daddy telling some officials.

And Zachy got sick.