Magnolia Page 4

  Wordlessly, Ryder rises from the table and stalks out of the dining room. I follow behind, my sandals slapping noisily against the hardwood floor.

  “Do you want water or not?” he asks me as soon as the door swings shut behind us.

  “Sure. Fine. Whatever.”

  He turns to face me. “It is pretty hot out there.”

  “I near about melted on the drive over.”

  His lips twitch with the hint of a smile. “Your dad refused to turn on the AC, huh?”

  I nod as I follow him out into the cavernous marble-tiled foyer. “You know his theory—‘no point when you’re just going down the road.’ Must’ve been a thousand degrees in the car.”

  He tips his head toward the front door. “You wait out on the porch—I’ll bring you a bottle of water.”

  “Thanks.” I watch him go, wondering if we’re going to pretend like last night’s fight didn’t happen. I hope that’s the case, because I really don’t feel like rehashing it.

  I take off my sweater and make my way outside to sit in one of the white rockers that line the porch. The sun is just beginning to set, casting long, reddish orange swaths of color between the enormous oaks that line the driveway. The air is warm and thick, feeling somehow sinuous against my skin. The barest of breezes ruffles the thick canopy of leaves and lifts the hem of my sundress, but it does nothing to cool the air.

  More than anything, I wish I had my video camera with me so I could film the sun’s slow descent, the deepening of the sky from pink to lavender to violet, the moon casting silver light across the scene before me.

  “Here you go,” Ryder says, startling me. He holds out a sweating bottle of water, and I take it gratefully, pressing it against my neck.

  “Thanks.” I glance away, hoping that he’ll take the hint and leave me in peace. His presence makes me self-conscious now, but it wasn’t always like this. As I look out at Magnolia Landing’s grounds, I can’t help but remember hot summer days when Ryder and I ran through sprinklers and ate Popsicles out on the lawn, when we rode our bikes up and down the long drive, when we built a tree fort in the largest of the oaks behind the house.

  I wouldn’t say we’d been friends when we were kids—not exactly. We had been more like siblings. We played; we fought. Mostly, we didn’t think too much about our relationship—we didn’t try to define it. And then adolescence hit. Just like that, everything was awkward and uncomfortable between us. By the time middle school began, I was all too aware that he wasn’t my brother, or even my cousin.

  “Mind if I sit?” Ryder asks.

  I shrug. “It’s your house.” I keep my gaze trained straight ahead, refusing to look in his direction as he lowers himself into the chair beside me.

  After a minute or two of silence but for the creaking rockers, he sighs loudly. “Can we call a truce now?”

  “You’re the one who started it,” I snap. “Last night, I mean.”

  “Look, I’ve been thinking about what you said. You know, about eighth grade—”

  “Do we have to talk about this?”

  “Because we didn’t really hang out in middle school, except for family stuff,” he continues, ignoring my protest. “Until the end of eighth grade, maybe. Right around graduation.”

  My entire body goes rigid, my face flushing hotly with the memory.

  It had all started during Christmas break that year. We’d gone to the beach with the Marsdens. I can’t really explain it, but there’d been a new awareness between us that week—exchanged glances and lingering looks, an electrical current connecting us in some way. The two of us sort of tiptoed around each other, afraid to get too close, but also afraid to lose that hint of . . . something. And then Ryder asked me to go with him to the graduation dance. There was no way we were telling our parents. Instead, we made plans to meet up near the rock on the edge of campus on the night of the dance.

  I’d headed toward the rock at the agreed-upon time, my hands trembling with nervous excitement as I smoothed down my brand-new emerald-green dress. A dozen or so feet away, I stopped short at the sound of voices. Confused, I ducked behind a cluster of trees. Peeking out, I saw that Ryder was there, waiting, just as he said he’d be. But Mason and Ben were there, too. That hadn’t been part of the plan—we were supposed to meet up alone and go into the dance together. I hesitated, not quite sure what to do.

  “Wait . . . let me guess,” came Mason’s voice. “It’s Jemma, right? You’re taking her to the dance. That’s why you’re all prettied up.”

  “No way,” Ben had said, his voice laced with incredulity.

  “Oh my God, are you wearing a bow tie?” Mason shrieked. He was doubled over, laughing. “Seriously, man? You must really want her.”

  “Look, my mom made me ask her, okay?” Ryder said. “She felt all sorry for her ’cause no one else had, and, well, you know how that goes. Our moms are best friends and all that. Trust me, I do not want to go with her.”

  Mason was still laughing. “Aww, admit it, man. You want to feel up Jemma Cafferty!”

  “Feel up what? Jemma’s flat as a board. Anyway, I just said I’d dance with her once or twice, that’s all. No big deal.”

  “Well, why are we standing out here, then?” Ben said.

  Mason slapped Ryder on the back. “Yeah, man. Let’s go have some fun.”

  They took off then, the three of them. I saw Ryder glance back over his shoulder once before following them into the gym, and that was that.

  As soon as they were gone, I ran over to the basketball courts and hid in the shadows, crying my eyes out. Once I’d finally managed to dry my tears, I made my way over to the gym and peeked in. There was Ryder, right in the middle of the dance floor, dancing with Katie McGee—who was decidedly not as flat as a board. Mason and Ben were there too, dancing with some of Katie’s friends. They were all laughing and smiling, having a great time. I’d turned and fled then, fresh tears dampening my cheeks. I went back to the little cluster of trees by the rock and stayed there till it was time for Daddy to come and pick me up.

  I never told a soul what happened. Lucy and Morgan assumed I’d gotten sick or something and hadn’t come, and Mama and Daddy thought I’d gone and had a great time. The truth was way too embarrassing—that Ryder had humiliated me, made a complete and total fool out of me.

  Never again.

  “So, are you going to tell me what I did to piss you off that year? Because I’m coming up totally blank.”

  I turn on him. “Seriously? You’re coming up blank?”

  “Why don’t you help me out here?”

  I just stare at him uncomprehendingly.

  “C’mon, Jemma,” he taunts. “Use your words.”

  I rise, my hands curled into fists by my sides. “Oh, I’ll use my words all right, douchebucket. Remember the eighth-grade dance? Is that ringing any bells for you?”

  He scratches his head, looking thoughtful for a moment. And then . . .“You mean the graduation dance? If I remember correctly, you didn’t even show up.”

  “Is that what you think? That I didn’t show up?” I almost want to laugh at the absurdity of it—Ryder trying to act like the injured party, as if I’d stood him up.

  “You got a better explanation?” he asks.

  “I shouldn’t have to explain it to you. Jerk,” I add under my breath. And then, “I’m going for a walk.”

  He rises, towering over me now. “So you’re just going to storm off? Really, Jem?”

  “Yes,” I say, nodding furiously. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. How clever of you to figure it out.”

  I can feel Ryder’s eyes boring a hole in my back as I flounce down the stairs and hurry down the drive with as much dignity as I can muster.

  ACT I

  Scene 5

  I close my locker and lean against it, waiting for Lucy and Morgan to catch up. Seventh period just ended—a class I share with Ryder, unfortunately—and I’ve got cheerleading practice in fifteen minutes. I don’t kno
w why, but I’m not in the mood. The gym is hot. Loud. I’m fighting a headache, probably because I didn’t get much sleep last night.

  “Hey, Jem.”

  I look up to see Patrick headed my way, a lopsided grin on his face. Great. Just what I need right now. My mind flashes back to Saturday night, to Patrick pressing me up against a tree, kissing me softly.

  “What’s up?” I ask him.

  “Same old.” He leans against the locker beside mine. “Hey, I was wondering if you want to go out Friday night after the game. Maybe get a pizza or something.”

  “You mean . . . just the two of us?” I ask dumbly.

  “Yeah. I mean, I was thinking . . . Saturday was nice. You know?”

  My mind is racing, casting about for an excuse. But then I see Ryder out of the corner of my eye, at his own locker. I remember the way he chided me about blowing off Patrick, as if I’m some kind of tease—which I’m not. Besides, Patrick’s right—kissing him was unexpectedly nice.

  “Sure,” I say. “Why not?”

  “Cool,” he says, affecting total nonchalance. “Well, I’ve got to get to practice. Later, okay?”

  I just nod, shocked to realize that I’ve just agreed to go on a date with Patrick. What am I going to tell my parents? With his driving record, there’s no way in hell they’ll let me go anywhere with him behind the wheel. I guess I’ll just have to meet him wherever we decide to go. Actually, that’s not such a bad idea. It’ll somehow make it seem less like an official date and more like two friends hanging out.

  I watch him walk off, a swagger in his step now. Or maybe it was always there. Who knows? Either way, I’m about to be late to practice. Luckily, Lucy and Morgan finally show, passing Patrick as he rounds the corner.

  “Hey, you ready to head over to the gym?” Morgan asks.

  “Ready as ever,” I say glumly, leaning against my locker.

  “Uh-oh. Why that face?” Lucy glances back over her shoulder. “Did Patrick say something to you?”

  I take a deep breath before answering. “He asked me out. I said yes.”

  “You what?” Morgan shrieks.

  “I know, right?” I push off the locker. “I don’t know. I just figure . . . after Saturday night, I kind of owe it to him.”

  Lucy shakes her head. “You don’t owe that boy anything.”

  Morgan nods. “Besides, your mama will have a hissy fit. I mean, two DUIs? If it weren’t for his daddy—”

  “I know. But still . . .”

  “But still what?” Lucy asks. “Okay, so you kissed him. No big deal—we all make mistakes. But you can’t actually go out with him.”

  “Why not?” I shoot back. “He’s not that bad, once you get him alone.”

  “You hear yourself? Not that bad?” Morgan shakes her head. “You’ve got to set your standards higher than that.”

  “Yeah, just wait till next year. College boys!” Lucy waggles her brows. “Why bother with the slim pickings we’ve got here? Not worth the trouble, if you ask me.”

  Morgan shrugs. “Well, what about prom?”

  Lucy is undeterred. “Prom is eight months away! Anyway—”

  “Yo, Morgan!”

  All three of us turn toward her brother, Mason, who stands half a hall length away.

  “I’m cutting out of practice early and taking the car,” he calls out. “Can you get a ride home?”

  She waves one hand in his direction. “Sure. Whatever.”

  “Thanks. Hey, good work, Jemma! I heard you and Patrick are going out on Friday.”

  What the heck? I’d said yes only about three minutes ago. Talk about news traveling fast.

  “Let’s see . . . Patrick tells Mason. Mason tells Ryder. Ryder tells Ben.” Lucy ticks it off on her fingers. “Before you know it—”

  “Yeah, thanks, Luce. I get it. The whole world knows by sunset. Great.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who agreed to go out with him,” Lucy answers with a shrug. “You know how it is—small town, small school. When Jemma Cafferty goes on a date, it’s going to be news. Seriously, when’s the last time you actually went out with someone—when it wasn’t a group thing, I mean? Tenth grade?”

  I just shrug. She’s right, of course. Drew Thompson, sophomore year. It lasted all of two months before kind of fizzling out. Since then, it’s just been me and my friends hanging out with the usual guys, without any hint of pairing up.

  Lucy reaches for my hand. “Anyway, we really are going to be late. C’mon, let’s go.”

  * * *

  Practice is exhausting, just as I imagined it would be. Somehow, I manage to slip during a stunt and whack the side of my head on the mat, which doesn’t help any. When I finally make it home, my head is aching and I’m feeling a little queasy. Lucy tried to get me to stop at her mom’s office on the way home so she could check me for a concussion, but I’d been in such a rush that I’d refused. Now I’m wondering if maybe I should have listened to her.

  When I pull up and park my little Fiat at a quarter to five, I’m surprised to see my mom’s car in the driveway. The library doesn’t close for fifteen more minutes, and Mama’s like clockwork, always arriving home at 5:25 on the dot. I mean, it’s not like we’ve got traffic in Magnolia Branch. So yeah, the sight of her car makes me slightly uneasy. Something’s up.

  As soon as I step inside the house, I hear voices coming from the kitchen. I drop my bag and hurry down the hall, pausing in the kitchen doorway. Mama’s on the phone, leaning against the counter, her eyes red and swollen. Daddy sits at the table across from her, raking a hand through his hair.

  “What’s going on?” I whisper to him.

  “Shh,” he says, waving me off.

  “A cholesterol granuloma,” Mama tells Daddy, enunciating carefully. “Write that down, Brad. Wait. What did you say, Nan? The petrous apex.” She motions toward my dad again. “Write that down too.”

  “Can you spell it?” he asks her.

  She does. And then, “Honey, I want you home. I don’t care, this is way more important than school right now. We need to get a second opinion, do some research. And you . . . you need to take it easy. Get some rest.”

  “Let me talk to her,” Daddy says, reaching for the phone. Mama hands it to him. “Nan, honey, we’d all feel better right now if you were here, not four hours away. I can get someone to cover my classes this week and—yes, I know. Are you sure? Wait. What, honey? Slow down.”

  Even across the room, I can hear Nan’s raised voice coming through the phone as Daddy listens, his brow furrowed.

  “Fine,” he says with a sigh. “What time’s your game? Okay, then we’ll expect you by dinner on Saturday. Here. Mama wants to say good-bye.”

  He returns the phone to my mom.

  “What’s going on?” I repeat, my heart thumping noisily against my ribs. “Daddy?”

  He swallows hard. “Just give me a minute, okay, half-pint?” His voice is thick, and I swear I see tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “Why don’t you go on upstairs and wash up? Let me talk to your mom, and then I’ll be right up.”

  My pulse skyrocketing, I do as he asks. My head is still pounding and my mouth is dry—too dry—as I make my way upstairs to my room. I head straight to the bathroom I share with Nan and fill a paper cup with water from the tap, gulping it down noisily. The face staring back at me in the mirror is pale, pinched with worry.

  I don’t understand what they were saying—a cholesterol something and other equally unfamiliar words. They mean nothing to me. A cold knot of fear lodges in the pit of my stomach. It’s obvious that something is wrong with Nan—something bad, judging by the looks on their faces. How long are they going to leave me up here alone, wondering? Worrying?

  I shuffle back to my room, not quite sure what to do with myself. There’s no point in starting my homework—I’m way too distracted. But I’ve got to do something while I wait for Daddy, or I’ll go crazy. I grab my laptop and settle myself on my bed, opening up my editing softwar
e. I have to force myself to focus—to think about my film school application instead of my sister. It’s the only way to stay sane right now.

  I need to take a look at the footage I filmed over the summer—a mishmash of vacation, cheerleading camp, and random stuff—and see if there’s anything I can use for my application project. Some sort of connecting theme, a narrative thread. Anything.

  Originally, I’d thought about doing something on local history—kind of a Faulkneresque, “this is the real Yoknapatawpha County” kind of thing. But then I’d decided that that seemed a little stuffy and academic, too documentary style and not artistic enough.

  On the other hand, it might make me more memorable and identifiable to the admissions committee—as in, “that girl from north Mississippi.” Maybe it’s not such a bad idea, after all.

  But a quick glance through my video library reveals that I don’t have enough relevant footage. I’ll need to shoot more, several hours’ worth, at different locations and times of day. I let out a sigh of frustration, realizing with a start that I’m chewing on a fingernail, a habit I kicked several years ago—or so I’d thought.

  Distracted now, I cock my head and listen intently. I can just make out what sounds like muffled crying coming from downstairs. It’s my mom, I realize, sobbing her heart out. My stomach lurches, and for a moment I think I’m going to be sick.

  I reach a hand to my temple, trying unsuccessfully to massage away the throbbing pain. What’s taking Daddy so long? And then I hear his footsteps, heavy and plodding on the stairs. I close my laptop and push it aside, making room for him beside me.

  As soon as he steps into my room, I know that, whatever it is, it’s bad. I can see it in the set of his jaw. He produces a Peach Nehi and holds it toward me. “Here. You look thirsty.”

  “Just tell me,” I blurt out, taking the bottle and setting it on my nightstand. “Don’t beat around the bush, okay?”

  He nods. “Your sister has a benign brain tumor—a cholesterol granuloma, it’s called. It’s probably going to require surgery, because it’s pressing on her carotid artery and on her auditory nerves. Apparently, it’s already caused some hearing loss in her left ear.”