It’s my parents and my friends. More than Todd, Jeff, Brad and Cooper. Other guys I’ve hung with over the years are here, too. A couple of guys from Todd’s basketball team. A couple from Jeff’s football team. A few girls are mixed in. Some are girlfriends of the guys. Some people I’ve known since kindergarten. Crap—two exes skulk along the periphery. All of them are people I have spent time with, but not people I prefer to see today.
Or even tomorrow.
My mind jumps back to Stella, the cemetery and the brief few minutes of peace I had while sitting under the shade tree next to a dead girl named Lydia. I’d give everything to have those moments now.
Martha grabs my hand and shoots me a weird look, possibly because of the clammy condition of my skin. Instead of acknowledging it, she smiles and announces to the crowd, “He’s here!”
And they clap. All of them. Some shout my name. I step back and a hand slamming onto my shoulder blade keeps me from withdrawing into the garage. I spot Dad behind me. He’s the older spitting image of me, and he’s smiling from ear to ear. He pats me on the shoulder again. “You should have told us.”
“Told you?” I echo.
He holds balloons and they bob as he yanks them through the door. Then I notice the other helium balloons in the kitchen and the sign hanging from the archway into the dining room: We love you, Jonah!
I run a hand over my face. “It’s not my birthday.”
“Duh,” says Martha as she finally lets go of me and wanders over to Cooper. He cups his hands over his mouth and shouts my name, which brings on another round of applause. The sound thunders in my head like I’m being trampled in the middle of a stampede.
A wave of dizziness crashes into my head and it takes everything I have not to bend over and hold myself up by pressing my hands to my knees. What the hell is going on?
In her Sunday best, Mom walks through the crowded kitchen with a huge smile on her face. The type she reserves for the priest after service or for Martha when she gets straight As. “We are so proud of you, Jonah.”
“Proud?” It’s like I’ve morphed into a parrot, only able to repeat what’s been sa St, Jonah.id.
Mom tosses her black hair over her shoulder before looping her arm through mine. She’s gesturing to someone I never wanted to meet again: a woman, mid-twenties, with golden hair in two thick braids. She abandoned James Cohen and me after she said the sight of blood made her queasy. Seeing her again makes me want to vomit.
She shifts under my glare and a refined woman with her hair slicked back into a bun whispers something to her.
“Who’s that?” I jerk my thumb toward the woman in the business suit.
“That’s Mrs. Sawyer. She’s a reporter,” answers Mom. “And you know the other woman, Sonya. She told us what happened at the accident scene. And she also told Mrs. Sawyer. They think, like we all do, that what you did that night was inspiring. The world should know what a great man you’ve become.”
Another round of cheers drain the blood from my body. I look down expecting to see a puddle of red on the floor.
“Everyone knows?” I whisper, but my mortification is easy to hear.
Mom’s eyebrows pull together. “Yes. Is that a problem?”
The world circles and I push past Dad and suck in air the moment I hit the garage. I grab on to the tool bench and sag, hoping this is a dream. I can’t do it. I can’t go in and discuss James Cohen. I can’t talk about how I did what he asked when no one else would—how I held the hand of a man and talked to him while he bled to death.
5
Stella
Joss bought me a small package of chocolate donuts, a purple glitter pen, a folder with a picture of fluffy white kittens in a basket on the front and a Monster High notebook. The one with the vampire chick, in fact. Her note said the chick’s hair reminded her of mine.
She must have purchased it at the twenty-four-hour Walmart on her way home from work. I heard her roll in this morning around 4:30 a.m. She smelled of smoke, whisky and that weird combination of body odor and sex. For her sake, I pretended to sleep through her entrance. Joss doesn’t like to talk after a night at the club. She prefers to take a shower then cry in bed.
With our morning ritual intact and my new presents sitting on my desk in the back corner of class, I have to acknowledge that American Literature seems to have absolutely no point. Joss went to this high school. When she saw my schedule, she admitted to taking the same classes. In other words, American Literature and the picture of Edgar Allen Poe glaring at me from over the white board at the front of class didn’t change the course of her life.
My stupid stubbornness in clinging to hope appears rather futile.
A gaggle of girls walk in huddled together as if they are sharing the most important secret in the world. Next period will be better. Victoria’s in there and the two of us get along just fine.
The girls file in, and a few steps behind, Jonah fills the entire door. His light brown hair is cut close on the sides and is a little longer on the top. I like it. More than I should. The moment his blue eyes catch mine, I direct my gaze down to the kittens falling asleep in the wicker basket.
The desk to my left screeches against the floor as someone settles into it, and my heart pounds hard when I spot Jonah in the seat g Vt, that Ameawking at me. I tap the glitter pen against the top of the desk, and the top pops off and bounces onto the floor. Just crap.
I shift to reach for it, but Jonah’s faster and his massive hand holds the cap to me. “Here.”
I suck in air and inhale the scent of his cologne. It’s not overwhelming, it’s just right, and it makes my mouth water. I swallow before retrieving the top of the pen. “Thanks.”
The cap doesn’t move from his grip, and when I pull like I’m playing tug-of-war, my eyes flash to his. Oh heck, those are some beautiful Siberian husky eyes.
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he says.
And he had to go and ruin the moment by speaking. I yank hard and the top slips from his fingers. I snap it back on the pen and fix my line of sight straight ahead. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.” I glance around the room and note the number of other open seats he could have chosen. More importantly, two guys from his group are doing the same room scan and notice the vacant seat next to them.
Cooper, a blond who is the bane of my existence, stretches out his arms in a what-the-heck motion. “Jonah, you blind, man? Your seat’s here.”