Vivid Tennessee, Seventeen Years Old
Vivid
Tennessee, Seventeen Years Old
Paloma drives a Civic with a University of Southern California sticker adhered to its back window. I’m out the front door and sliding into the passenger seat before my parents have a chance to ask questions.
“Go Trojans,” I say, buckling up.
She pulls away from the curb and heads out of The Glens. “USC is the only school I’m applying to. My parents can’t wrap their heads around the risk. They keep going on about eggs and my singular basket.”
“Well, it’s a very good basket.”
She grins. “Where’re you applying?”
“CVU. Probably William and Mary. Ole Miss because my parents are alums.”
“No Tennessee schools?”
“Maybe UT. Maybe Austin Peay.”
“Megs and Soph are aiming for Austin Peay. Together, of course.”
“Of course,” I echo without judgment. I, too, had grand plans to attend college with my significant other. Last year, higher education without Beck by my side was unfathomable. It’s still unfathomable. I tell Paloma, “Commonwealth of Virginia University is where I really want to go.”
So much so, I’m seriously considering applying early decision. Mom and Dad don’t want me to go to CVU, but Beck and I had a plan. We’d attend college in Charlottesville, where he’d chase a civil engineering degree and I’d major in early childhood development. Then he’d get a job in city planning, and I’d work with kids. We’d be together, forever and always.
I will not abandon the plan.
“Happy to help you compare schools,” Paloma says. “My brother ended up super stressed trying to decide on a university. That’s when I stepped in with a level head and a Venn diagram app. I got pretty good at weighing the pros and the cons, which is how I know USC is where I want to be.”
“Where does Liam want to go?”
She flashes a sheepish smile. “USC.”
She swerves into the driveway of a tidy two-story in a neighborhood that looks a lot like The Glens. Sophia comes skipping out the door, with Meagan close behind. They buckle into the backseat, and then we’re on our way to The Shaggy Dog. The girls chatter as Paloma drives. I try to listen, to participate, but my guilt-ridden brain keeps regurgitating those brief but bewildering seconds in the library earlier, when my heart stirred in response to a boy.
A different boy.
As Paloma turns into the parking lot of The Shaggy Dog, my phone, tucked into the pocket of my denim jacket, begins to ring. I slip it out to find Bernie’s face lighting the screen.
It’s as if she knows.
I silence the call and drop my phone in my lap.
Paloma’s circling the lot, looking for an empty space. “Your mom?”
“No, her best friend.”
Bernie’s been calling since before my parents and I moved to River Hollow, though I hardly saw her in the months before we left Virginia. With Beck gone, I couldn’t bear to go to the Byrnes’ house. And when they’d come to ours, I’d hide out in my room. It’s impossible to listen to Bernie’s infectious laugh, or hear one of Connor’s sardonic jokes, or see Norah and Mae’s paint-spatter freckles without being knocked off my feet by a tsunami of missing.
“She’s so pretty,” Sophia says, leaning forward to peer at my phone. Bernie’s call is still trying to connect.
“If she’s your mom’s friend,” Meagan asks, “why’s she calling you?”
Finally, Bernie gives up. The screen goes dark.
“Her son and I…” I start, but the words snag on one another like burrs.
I’ve gone nine months without speaking Beck’s name aloud.
Paloma’s scored a parking spot, but no one’s made a move to leave the car. Instead, we sit in front of a brick building with a neon The Shaggy Dog sign, my preamble unfinished. The girls’ attention feels like sandbags atop my shoulders. Paloma glances at me, brown eyes glinting with curiosity.
Beck whispers, Don’t bury my memory.
“Bernie’s son and I grew up together,” I say, because I want Paloma and Meagan and Sophia as friends—I sincerely like them. And because I want Beck to be known. “He died suddenly, two hundred forty-six days ago.”
It’s the sort of announcement that sucks the air from a space. The car’s interior is so quiet I can hear my hurried heartbeat, and I wonder if I should’ve kept Beck to myself. But then Paloma exhales, letting go of the steering wheel to take my hand.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “What was his name?”
“Beck. Beckett Byrne.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile. “You must miss him so much.”
“You’ve had a hell of a year, huh?” Meagan says.
I nod, not sure I can trust my voice to remain steady.
“But you’re here now,” Sophia points out.
“Yeah,” Meagan says. “At The Shaggy Dog, where the bread pudding’s to die for.”
Sophia gasps.
Paloma’s eyes go big with horror.
“What?” Meagan asks, looking between the two of them. “What’d I say?”
She reminds me of Bernie, the way she speaks with conviction, without contemplation. She knows loss. And so, to my surprise perhaps more than anyone’s, I give in to a fit of hiccup-inciting giggles and, God, it feels good.
The girls laugh too, and I’m overcome by a rush of warmth.
In a day’s time, they’ve reminded me how good it feels to be part of something.