Wake Page 4

  Willa fills in the awkward blank: “Jem’s in my Social Studies class.”

  “Yeah? You guys working on homework?” I haven’t turned in a piece of homework since last semester.

  “Yeah, our term project,” Willa says.

  “I’ll keep the TV down.”

  “Can we work upstairs?”

  Frank looks over at me under his lashes and clears his throat. I guess he has a rule about no boys on the second floor, or in the general vicinity of his sister altogether. But Cancer Boy isn’t a threat. Who would want to fool around with him? And surely he’s too weak and pathetic to force himself on her.

  Stop talking about yourself in the third person, you twit.

  “Okay. Not too late, though.”

  *

  Willa’s room isn’t quite messy, but it isn’t clean either. There are shoes and books scattered all over the floor and her desk is buried under paper. It’s the only part of the house that looks lived-in. She leaves the door ajar and invites me to sit wherever.

  “If you feel sick, the bathroom is the next door down the hall.”

  “I’m all right.” The soup is sitting comfortably, even after two helpings. I feel full for the first time in awhile, and it’s not painful like it used to be. Frank even remarked on my appetite over dinner. It didn’t occur to me until he said something that I was eating at an embarrassing speed.

  “Where’d you learn to make that stuff?”

  “I had the recipe lying around.” Willa takes a seat at her desk chair and puts her feet up on the footboard. Her socks don’t match. They’re also the only colorful thing I’ve seen her wear besides the gloves, which she never takes off. Today’s pair is pink.

  “Could I get the recipe?”

  “If you want.” Willa takes a pad of paper out of her desk drawer and locates a stray pen amid the mess. She writes it all down for me quickly and tears the page out.

  “So why’d you come here?” Willa folds the paper carefully, taking her time. Aw, hell, she’s ransoming the damn thing.

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “So you said.”

  “You kept changing the subject.”

  “Talk now.”

  “It’s about something you said last week.”

  “Just say it, Harper.”

  I take a deep breath. “Suffice it to say, I like ripping on you. And I’m pretty sure you like ripping on me. We wouldn’t have anything to say to each other if we didn’t.”

  “Now say something interesting.”

  “There are things that are off limits, Kirk.” She makes a prompting hand motion to show that she’s listening. “We can only rip on each other for stuff we can control, all right?”

  “Is this about the lime Jell-O?”

  “No, it’s about you calling me Uncle Fester.”

  Willa smiles and I ask her what’s so damn funny. “You spent four hours here trying to work up the nerve to tell me not to razz you for being bald? Jeez, save yourself the effort and just text me next time.”

  “We’re agreed, though? No more insults about stuff we can’t control?”

  She hands over the soup recipe. “Agreed—unless you really tempt me.”

  Sunday

  I have zero energy and my joints ache, but for the first time in a long time, I’m excited to get out of bed. I’m eager to get down to the kitchen and eat—when was the last time that happened? Soup can be a breakfast food, right?

  Mom is the only one in the kitchen when I get downstairs. Dad is still at the hospital and my siblings aren’t awake yet. She has the Sunday paper spread out in front of her and a steaming mug of coffee in her hand.

  “Morning, sweetie,” she says.

  “Morning.” My cheerful tone throws her and she looks up to see me taking carrots and peas out of the fridge. “Do we have any honey?”

  “You want food?” She says it like the notion is absurd to the nth degree.

  “I found a recipe that doesn’t upset my stomach.” Mom leaves her paper and comes to look over the recipe. She quietly assembles the rest of the ingredients while I wash and peel carrots.

  “What’s this?” Mom points to the last ingredient on Willa’s list. It’s simply The Secret Ingredient. Damn it.

  I take the page from Mom and get the phonebook out of the desk. I find the Kirks’ listing and dial. It doesn’t occur to me until the phone rings that her brother might not take kindly to being woken up early on a Sunday.

  Willa answers the phone with a tired mumble that passes for ‘hello.’

  “What’s the secret ingredient, Kirk?”

  “Who is this?” She clears her throat of sleep.

  “It’s Jem. What’s the secret ingredient?”

  “Any excuse to call me, eh Harper?”

  “Don’t be difficult. Just tell me so I can eat.”

  “Meditate. It’ll come to you.”

  “You enjoy screwing with me, don’t you?”

  “Nah, you’re too boney. Screwing with you might cause a fire.”

  I curl my hands into fists and count to ten very slowly. “Please, Kirk.”

  “It’s fresh ginger. Or dried, if you don’t have fresh.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Would I screw with you?” Evidently not.

  “Why didn’t you just write that?”

  “Your frustration amuses me.”

  “You’re sick.”

  “We match.”

  I hang up on her. Another second of that and I’d be tempted to commit a very messy homicide.

  It’s not like I want to screw her either.

  Is that so?

  Monday

  I wonder what Chris Elwood sees in Willa. She’s such a bitch. And yet there he is, flirting with her again and again no matter how many times she shuts him down. I guess she’s polite about it, but still.

  I wonder what she doesn’t see in him. He’s good looking, I guess, and popular. Hell if I understand why. I don’t think he’s funny and he’s not all that bright or good at sports. I guess he’s the mediocre everyman. Apparently Willa doesn’t like that.

  She’s too quick for him anyway. He couldn’t handle her. Getting involved with Willa is like playing with fire.

  Social Studies is simple today. I don’t even have to talk to Willa. Mrs. Hudson puts on a movie for us. It’s a documentary about international development projects in Africa. The lights go off, my head goes down, and I doze. The scraping of chairs across the floor wakes me up at the end of class, and I trudge off to English.

  Elise catches up to me outside the languages wing after the final bell. She puts on her sweet voice and tries to borrow money from me.

  “What did you blow yours on?”

  “Nothing. I’m trying to put together enough to buy an outfit for winter formal.”

  “So ask Mom.”

  “I did. She suggested that I just alter the dress I wore at Christmas.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.”

  She rolls her eyes at me with a long-suffering sigh. “You’re such a guy.”

  We’ve got a bit of a wait for Eric, so Elise and I chill in the car while the parking lot empties around us. This is a great vantage point to people-watch, but the most interesting specimen is sitting in the seat directly in front of me. A group of seniors walk by and Elise leans forward, craning her neck to keep them in view until they’re gone. Could she be a little more obvious?

  “Do seniors ever think about dating juniors?” she says. I reach over the front seat and pat her spiky, over-gelled head.

  “Keep dreaming, jail bait.”

  Tuesday

  I balance my notebook on my knee and try to find something non-boring in this textbook. Willa did all the work of watching yesterday’s movie and writing our report on the subject, so it’s my turn to contribute and prepare our proposal for the term project. Mrs. Hudson wants us to design an in-depth analysis of a social issue in our community and prepare a mock grant proposal for imaginary study fu
nding. “No, you will not actually get paid for this,” she told the class. The cretins in the room laughed. Willa was one of them. Suck up.

  The nurse makes her round of the dialysis patients, checking connections and equipment. I’ve got another hour here before I can go home. I want to finish this proposal in that time so I never have to look at it again.

  I hear the squeaky wheels of the book cart coming down the hall beyond the curtain that divides me from the patient in the next recliner. The hospital has volunteers walk up and down the place, offering magazines, reading material, and chewing gum to patients. The volunteers are always either old people (visiting their friends or staking out a bed for when they end up here), or they’re students trying to earn enough volunteer hours to merit a scholarship.

  The squeaky cart stops in front of me. “Harper.”

  I look up. It’s Willa, wearing a green volunteer vest. “What the hell are you doing here?” Must I see her smirking face everywhere? Must she see me hooked up to a machine like some sort of freak?

  She taps the volunteer tag on her vest in answer. “Care for something to read?” she says, and looks at the textbook on my knee. “How’s it coming?”

  “Boring as hell.”

  “Just pick one of the chapter questions and design a topic around that.”

  “Is part of your job to harass patients?”

  “It’s just one more service I offer.” She starts to push the book cart away to the next cubicle. “Later, Harper.”

  Wednesday

  I am awesome. Mrs. Hudson approved my proposal and told five other groups to refine theirs. Okay, so it’s our proposal, but it’s my genius.

  “Soil pollution and pesticides? Really? There’s so much other cool stuff we could have done with this. And why’d you pick snapdragons as an experimental model?”

  “My mom grows them. The sample group is in her planters. The project is half-done already.”

  “I underestimated your laziness.”

  “It’s pronounced intelligence, Kirk.”

  Thursday

  “You should think about going,” Elise says. I slouch in the chair outside the fitting rooms and ponder insanity. Mom roped me into this shopping trip. She said she’s tired of seeing me walk around in clothes three sizes too big. I told her that I don’t want to waste money on clothes that will only fit until I gain the weight back, but she managed to bully me into buying one shirt and one pair of pants, which is how I ended up in the chair outside the fitting rooms, waiting for Elise to choose a dress for the stupid winter formal.

  “Not going,” I reply.

  “You don’t have enough fun.” She opens the changing room door.

  “That dress is way too short.” Mom comes back from browsing the racks just in time to undermine my opinion.

  “Ooh, sweetie, turn around. That looks great on you.”

  Damn it, I don’t want to see my little sister’s legs. No one else should want to either. As far as I’m concerned it’d be better if she went to this dance in a nun’s habit.

  “Can we go yet?”

  “Just be patient.”

  “If I vomit, can we go?”

  Willa: February 7 to 14

  Friday

  Paige asked Chris to winter formal. I couldn’t possibly care less, aside from the pleasant bonus of having an excuse not to see him before or after ‘visiting my grandma.’ Unfortunately, Chris has to ambush me by my locker at the end of lunch. He tries to talk me into joining a group to attend winter formal together. I guess he doesn’t want to be tied to Paige all evening. Can’t say I blame him. Paige can be a little needy.

  “Yeeeah, Grandma’s birthday is sort of a non-negotiable date.”

  “I get that. It’s just…maybe I’ll see you at an after-party? A bunch of us were going to go to Joey’s place and hang out.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Maybe I can get Luke to come along as a friend-date. That might spare me from being hit on. Chris promises to send me an invite to the Facebook event, and I gladly slip away to go to class. Jem is already at the worktable when I slide into my seat. He’s staring out the window again, too absorbed in the view of the parking lot for a hello.

  “You look different.”

  “Do I?” He doesn’t care what I think, but to hell with it.

  “Yeah, your clothes fit.” I can actually see where his shoulders are and his pants fit all the way down his leg, not just at the waist where his belt cinches. I can even see the line between his ribs and hipbone. He’s so thin, but it’s nice to see the real shape of him. Even emaciated and pale, he’s still sort of good looking.

  Without thinking I touch the line between ribs and hip. Jem looks down at my hand and then gives me the strangest look.

  Don’t touch me.

  What are you doing?

  Why are you touching me?

  You’re touching me!

  Piss off, Kirk.

  You haven’t let go yet.

  Don’t push your limits or I’ll push mine.

  Please push your limits.

  I let go and turn to my book. Man, that guy’s got penetrating eyes. I can still feel him staring at me with that weird look that makes me feel like a circus freak.

  “Books away! Pop quiz!”

  Thank God—I won’t have to talk to him.

  Saturday

  My brother has always been the helpful sort. That’s why he became a paramedic. Today, he decided to ‘help’ me make friends by accepting Paige’s invitation to go shopping on my behalf. Apparently he can’t just take a phone message like a normal person. This was not how I wanted to spend my Saturday, helping Paige and Hannah choose outfits for winter formal.

  I leave the fitting room area to browse the cottons section. There’s a sale on cotton undershirts, and I know Frank could use some. I’m going through packs of Fruit of the Loom looking for Frank’s size when an annoyingly familiar voice appears at my shoulder.

  “Boxers or briefs?” Even for Elwood that’s a lame pickup line.

  “I don’t think much about what my brother keeps his bits in.” I grab a pack of medium undershirts from the back of the rack. Elwood is still smiling. He has a dress shirt in his hand. I guess he’s shopping for a formal outfit too.

  “You’re here alone? I thought girls always shopped in groups.”

  “Paige and Hannah are trying on dresses.” I gesture vaguely in the direction of ladies formalwear.

  “What about you? Still thinking about coming after you visit with family?”

  I deliberately didn’t respond to the Facebook invite. It would mean too much to Chris. “I’ll come to the after party at Joey’s.”

  “Sweet.” Man, I hate that grin. There’s something so grasping and affected about Elwood that I can’t help but dislike him, even when he’s being friendly. Then I feel guilty because I know he doesn’t deserve to be disliked. He’s trying to be nice, and it’s not Chris’s fault that I can’t see him as anything other than the pudgy dork he used to be. He pats my shoulder and says he’ll see me at school.

  It’s unfair of me to expect my old friends to have changed the same way I have, but it’s still disappointing.

  Sunday

  Frank’s house might look barren, but that doesn’t mean it’s clean, and that becomes my project for the day. I start with my room and when that’s done, I break for breakfast. Next on the agenda are the kitchen cupboards. I’m sure there are cans of soup in there that my brother bought when he first moved in. Frank notices my activity and takes a crack at the garage. When I go out there with sandwiches for lunch I can tell exactly where he got bored and quit to wash his car instead.

  If Frank can take a break, I can too. I take my lunch in front of my computer and write an email to my mother between bites.

  I tell Mom about school and my new/old friends, and about Luke and Doug and living peacefully with Frank. I tell her about my project partner, and about the term project and gardening.

  Her reply email consis
ts of one sentence: This project partner, is he cute? That’s a loaded question. She knows I’ve sworn off dating. Maybe she’s just trying to judge my level of temptation—there is none where Jem Harper is concerned.

  After lunch I make a surprise visit to Oma Elsja’s house. She tells me how grown up I look. I tell her that she still looks good; for a sixty-eight-year-old smoker, she does. She lights up over coffee and doesn’t say anything when I join in the activity. That’s what I like best about Oma: she doesn’t ask questions. We don’t have to talk about family or school or my plans for the future. We chat about her garden (‘Always plant your seeds on Good Friday’), the cost of heating, and whether I’ll go to Ottawa for Winterlude.

  Finally, she asks, “Is it easier, being back here?”

  I shrug. “Not really, it’s just different.”

  “You weren’t wrong,” Oma says levelly. I want to get off this topic. Every time it comes up I’m sure she’s going to ask me to make the same mistake twice.

  “I should go. Homework and stuff.”

  “Mmmm. Smart girl.” I’m really not. I wouldn’t make such bad decisions if I were.

  Monday

  I have to hide behind my textbook during at lunch. My friends are talking about pooling the cost of a limo or, failing that, carpooling to the dance and then to Joey’s. I scribble a memo-to-self on the back of my hand: Call Luke—Sat. JM’s @ 11 pm. I don’t think to hide it and Chris sees the note. I’m going to pay for that later.

  With his supernatural annoying powers, Jem grabs my wrist the second I sit down in Soc and reads the memo on the back of my hand.

  “Luke? You got a boyfriend, Kirk, or is that just to crush Elwood’s ego?”

  I yank my wrist out of his grip. “None of your business, Harper.” He chuckles at me.

  “He’s not going to give up easily, you know. If he thinks you’ve got a boyfriend he’ll only see it as a challenge and try harder.”