Chapter Twenty-nine
Over breakfast Monday, Mom announces that I am on laundry duty—my assignment toward getting Gretchen and all of her stuff ready to move back in to her sorority house, where we deliver her that night. Once she’s moved in, we do a quick check on Ryan and Danielle’s apartment before driving home.
I climb into bed, exhausted. Just as I’m closing my eyes, Mom knocks on my door, delivering the happy news that there is a fresh list of chores waiting for me on the breakfast table. Lovely. I set my alarm for seven-thirty.
Tuesday morning, I expect Mom to head to work and give me some breathing room in which I can attend her list in peace, and maybe have a chance to call Noah, even if only long enough to say the words I neglected after my voice lesson.
But when Mom wakes me up at six, she announces a change of plan.
She’s taking me to school registration this morning.
After that, I can use the rest of the day to complete my chores.
Oh, joy.
At school, we file through lines, fill out forms, and Mom pays the various activity and book fees.
I really don’t see why my presence is necessary.
Honestly, her presence isn’t necessary either, since all of this can be done on the school’s website—a fact of which I reminded her on the drive, after I was awake enough to access to my brain.
“It’s tradition,” she said.
I remember her doing it this way with Gretchen even before I started school, so . . . okay. Whatever.
Finished at last, school supply list in hand, we’re about to leave when the volleyball coach beckons Mom from the door of the gym.
As we head that direction, the coach turns, blows her whistle, and yells, “Take a fiver, ladies!”
“Good to see you!” Coach Morehouse says to Mom and then turns to me. “Excited for the new school year, Faith?”
I shrug. “I guess.”
“Good, good. Janet, I got your message late last week but just remembered it now, when I saw you. Sorry about that.”
“No problem. We were out of town at Ryan’s wedding this past weekend.”
“Oh, right! I think I saw his engagement announcement in the paper a while back. What can I do for you? Please tell me you’ve finally talked Faith into joining the team.” She smiles at me. “I could sure use some of that Prescott power this year.”
“I’m afraid Gretchen was the last volleyball star in this generation of the family. I was calling you about something else. Is it okay if Faith visits with Jenna while the team is on break?”
“Go ahead.”
Thusly dismissed, I enter the gym and locate Jenna, who is chugging water. “Hey.”
“Look, Prescott. If you’re playing on the team this year, you’re gonna need to dress out,” Jenna teases.
“Right. As if you’d want me.”
“Well, there is that.”
“Don’t tell me. Tell your coach. Morehouse thinks I’ve got ‘Prescott Power’ or something.”
“Ha! The only power you have on the volleyball court is the power to make us lose.” Jenna grins and takes a long drink from her water bottle. “How was the wedding?”
“Pretty. Nice.” I sigh. “Honestly? It was torture.”
“Because . . . ?”
“All I could think about was Noah. He’s leaving tomorrow, Jen.”
“That sucks. But hey, maybe your mom will finally get off your back.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“Two minutes, Slade,” a voice calls from behind me. “Quit gabbing and start hydrating. You won’t have another break for—oh. You.”
Gretchen’s former teammate, Fellowship Community choir member, and all-around sweet Christian girl—barf—Kaitlyn Roscoe moves into my line of sight. She crosses her arms over the whistle hanging around her neck. “What are you doing here?”
“Registration.” I have to work hard to keep from adding the duh that’s on the tip of my tongue. “What are you doing here, Kaitlyn? Shouldn’t you be off at college or something?”
“I took this semester off. I’m volunteering as one of the team’s assistant coaches this fall. And by the way . . .” Kaitlyn visibly smacks her bright green gum, which is almost as gross as her condescending tone. “The girls are supposed to call me Coach Roscoe.”
“Well, I’m not on the team, Kaitlyn. So I guess that rule doesn’t apply to me.”
“From what I hear, you think a lot of rules don’t apply to you.”
I hold her stare until she looks away.
“Noah says you’re not like your sister,” she says, after an uncomfortable pause, “so I guess that includes volleyball, huh?”
“For real.” Jenna laughs, but it sounds forced. “If Faith wasn’t such a brainiac, I’d be surprised if she could even spell the word volleyball.”
“Too bad. The team could use someone with your sister’s talent this year. Her talent on the court, I mean.” Kaitlyn blows up at her bangs. “We missed you at Noah’s going away party Sunday night.”
“Did you? Since I wasn’t invited to the party you threw for Noah, I thought it would be kind of tacky to show up.”
“Hmm. I must have overlooked you. Sorry.” Her wide eyes and pouty lips reek of falseness. “But you’ll be happy to know we prayed for you. At Noah’s request, of course.”
The joint of my jaw twitches.
Kaitlyn Roscoe, ladies and gentlemen. The perfect example of a ‘nice Christian girl.’
Not wanting to stoop to her level, I seal my lips against the Tony-award-worthy soliloquy gaining script in my head.
“Um, Faith?” Jenna fidgets uncomfortably. “I think your mom’s trying to get your attention.”
“Right. See ya later, Jenna.” I don’t spare a parting word for Kaitlyn Roscoe.
I climb into the front seat of Mom’s car, which is already stifling from the August heat even though we were in the school for less than half an hour.
Mom cranks the air. “I thought we’d go shopping this weekend. Get your school supplies and stuff. Maybe start scoping out some homecoming dresses?”
“Sure.”
“Try to contain your excitement, Faith.”
“Sorry.” I try to inject a little more enthusiasm into my voice. “Shopping. Sounds like fun.” But how can the mundane prospect of new pencils and notebooks excite a brain concentrating on the objective Gretchen planted in my brain? I have to find a way to see Noah one last time.
But how?
Numbness steals across my chest as I fasten my seatbelt. How is Noah spending his last full day in Iowa? Is he packing? Visiting friends? Working a final shift at the restaurant?
Mom pulls out of the parking lot and onto the street. “Don’t forget about your chore list. It’s on the table. And there’s a casserole in the refrigerator. Throw it in the oven around five or so. That way you and your dad can eat at six, as usual.”
“Sure.”
“I’ve got a late meeting with a client at the Sommerton office tonight, so I’ll grab a quick dinner in town. It’ll be at least nine, maybe ten, before I get home tonight. And you know your father and his schedule.”
“No problem. Can I turn on the radio?”
“Fine. But no rap. Not even that historical Broadway rap stuff.”
“I’ve never heard Hamilton on the radio”—but that would be ah-maze-ing!
—“so I think you’re safe.” I push the knob.
“AM? Really?” I change to FM. “And in sports—” I hit the seek button.
Classical music . . . doesn’t really fit my mood.
The next stop is the shout of a Southern-accented preacher, so I hit the button again.
“. . . I’ve got faith in us, and I believe in you and me. So hold on . . . to me tight. Hold on, I promise it’ll be alright . . .”
My heart stutters as Michael Bublé’s velvety-smooth voice croons through my mom’s car radio.
Noah sent me a link to this song within an online playlist he made for me.
For us. He sang it to me once, in a spot-on impression of Mr. Bublé, too.
But I don’t think I’ve ever heard it on the radio before.
Or maybe I have, back when it was new. But not since Noah . . . since we . . .
I suck in a breath, lean back in my seat, and close my eyes against the burn.
The song ends, but the refrain is a familiar sentiment, replanted in my mind.
I know exactly where Noah Spencer would want to spend his last day in Iowa. He probably isn’t there yet, but—
I steal a look at Mom. Her attention is riveted on the road, but I know her mind is probably calculating the columns of numbers she’ll pour over today in preparation for her meeting tonight.
Her late meeting. Tonight.
Mom won’t be home until nine. Maybe ten. And if I’m right about Noah . . .
A twinge of guilt pokes my conscience. Just this one last time. I just have to see him long enough to say goodbye.
Mom drops me off at home and heads in to work.
I speed through my list of chores. At six on the dot, Dad and I eat dinner in the living room, watching the local news.
I barely taste the tuna casserole, even though it’s my favorite—a rare, fat-filled taste extravaganza of only a little bit of tuna, but tons of gooey is-it-really-cheese-if-it-comes-in-a-box?
deliciousness with crushed crackers and melted butter on top.
After dinner, I wash and stack the TV trays and load the dishwasher.
It’s only 6:30. Every chore is checked off my list, and there’s plenty of daylight yet.
Plenty of time to take a walk to the waterfall.
I chuck a detergent pellet into the dishwasher and start the machine. After washing off the counters, I head back to the living room.
Dad is already half asleep in his recliner as the local news gives way to an episode of Entertainment Tonight. With a derisive snort, he adjusts his position in the chair, reaches for the remote, and begins the evening’s ritual channel surfing.
“Hey, Dad?”
“Mmm?”
“Is it okay if I take Janey for a walk?”
“Mmm.” He scowls, but I assume it’s at the television, because his eyes never leave the screen. “Sure. Where are you headed?”
“Um, I thought we’d visit the waterfall. I haven’t been there for a while.”
“Be careful. Take your phone, just in case something happens.”
“Okay.” I’ve never gotten more than a bar of reception at the waterfall, but if it makes him feel better . . .