11. In Which Aiden Does Some Digging #2
A little cloud of dust erupts into the air when Juniper pulls the yearbook down. She blows on the top, sending another puff of dust everywhere. Then she sits back down, her eyes never leaving the book in her hands.? *
And for a moment she just stares at it. Her hands are reverent as she runs them over the cover, almost caressing, but they’re hesitant, too, and I can see it in her eyes—she’s still deciding if she wants to look inside. She’s still deciding if she wants to see her mother as a young woman.
“A library, a cathedral,” she murmurs, and it seems more like she’s talking to herself than to me, so I keep my mouth shut.
“A sanctuary of knowledge. But this corner is different. Pews made of paper, altars of memory—on my knees in front of the ones who came before me.” Her voice is barely audible now; she’s definitely talking to herself. This is not meant for me to hear.
And yet…I listen anyway. Because something about her words is enthralling, a wandering lilt that tells me what I’m listening to is pure stream of consciousness. Mazes of words, riddles unfinished and trails she follows without knowing their end.
Even though I have no right to observe such an intimate part of this woman, I’m utterly captivated, waiting to hear what will come out next. Is this what her writing is like? Meandering, vivid, nonsensical and poetic?
I want to read her books. I want to capture that beauty in a jar and tuck it into my pocket.
I blink, squeezing my eyes shut as tightly as I can and shaking my head. I’m thinking crazy thoughts. Crazy, stupid thoughts that will get me nowhere.
And anyway, Juniper’s beauty isn’t the kind you can capture in a jar and save for a rainy day. It’s not a conventional prettiness. It’s the type you have to experience, the type that doesn’t really reveal itself until you understand her a bit better.
I fix my gaze to the floor and swat away those pesky thoughts like they’re mosquitoes buzzing around my head. It takes a second for me to feel more clear headed, but then I’m back on track.
“Gonna open it?” I say, letting myself look at her again. “Or still deciding?”
She hums thoughtfully. “Gonna open it, I think,” she says after a second. Then she nods more decisively. “Yeah. I’m opening it.”
I gesture at the yearbook wordlessly.
With one deep breath, Juniper cracks open the spine of the yearbook. In my head I picture any number of scenes from childrens’ movies, where the kids open a book and then topple into its illuminated pages, landing in a whole new world full of magic and adventures.
I don’t know what Juniper will find in these pages, but I don’t think it’s magic. I don’t think it’s adventure.
It takes me a second to realize I’m holding my breath. I’m nearly as tense as she is. Her posture is stiffer than it was a moment ago, and her hands are clasping the book tightly. She turns page after page, though, almost mechanical in her timing, until she finally reaches what she’s looking for.
I know she’s found it because the page turning stops, but also because a little sigh escapes her.
“There,” she breathes. “There she is. Nora Bean.” She points, and I lean closer, noting that sweet citrus scent of hers again. It seems to be stronger when her hair is wet.
“Oh, I see,” I say once I’ve focused. The photos in the yearbook are small, and they’re in black and white, but still I can kind of make out the features. The girl is smiling, with blonde hair .
“And here,” Juniper says, pointing at another photo, this one larger, part of a collage. It’s a blonde girl surrounded by three guys, all of them smiling.
“Wow,” Juniper says, her voice cracking. “She looks so…happy.”
She does look happy. The girl in the photo is beaming at the camera, a beautiful, carefree smile that has the attention of more than one of the other guys—the boy to her left and the boy on the far right are both looking at her rather than at the camera.
“You could be twins,” I say. Even though the photo is black and white, I can tell that Nora’s hair is the same blonde as Juniper’s was when I was tutoring her.
There’s something about Nora’s smile that reminds me of her daughter’s, too—an untamed, almost reckless quality that promises mischief or even trouble. ? *
“Yeah,” Juniper says. “People told us that all the time.”
When I hear the thread of bitterness in her voice, I realize I’ve said the wrong thing. It’s too late to take it back, though, so I change the subject instead.
“Maybe these are the friends your brother’s dad mentioned?” I say, pointing to the guys surrounding Nora.
“They are,” she says. She points to the caption, reading out loud. “Laughter at lunch time for the Elite group of friends. Left to right: Cam Verido, Thomas Freese, Nora Bean, Lionel Astor.” She snorts, shaking her head and looking at me. “The Elites. What a stupid name.”? *
I nod. Then I frown as something she’s just said registers.
“Hang on, let me see that,” I say, leaning in.
She tilts the yearbook so that I can see it, and I squint, checking the caption to the photo. Sure enough, there it is: Lionel Astor .
“That’s Rocco’s brother,” I say, blinking in surprise.
“Rocco…” Juniper says slowly, like she’s trying to place the name.
“The gym teacher you met at the dance,” I say. I point at the boy in the photo. “That’s his brother. He’s a bigshot now, running for governor.”
“Oh,” Juniper says. She looks at me, her face displaying some of the same surprise I feel. “I knew Rocco looked familiar. He looks like this guy—Lionel.” She points. “I’ve seen Lionel’s commercials—the Home-grown Man commercials. With the corporate hair? That’s this guy?”
“The black hair, yeah,” I say, nodding. “That’s him. He lives here, over in the Heights.” I look more closely at the picture; Lionel is shown in profile only, his head turned to look at Nora. I wouldn’t have recognized him if I didn’t hear the name.
And holy crap.
If what Nora told her ex was true, Lionel Astor could be Juniper’s father.
She seems to be coming to the same conclusion. “He—he could be—he might be?—”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. I gesture to the photo. “Any of them could, if your mom was telling the truth.”
We let that sink in for a moment, both of us silent as we stare at the four smiling students.
“You know, it’s weird,” Juniper says. She’s still looking at the photo, but something in her gaze seems lightyears away now.
“I’ve never really thought about what my mom’s life was like before I came along.
I mean, I asked her a few times—just random questions about growing up or whatever, but she never really answered.
” She touches the picture, one pink-nailed finger resting on her mom’s beaming face.
“She was never this happy when she was with me.”
They’re heavy words, the kind I can’t even begin to answer, and I have no business trying. Nor can I offer meaningless platitudes.
“I think…” she says slowly, still staring at the picture. “I think I’m actually feeling sorry for her right now. It’s sad that she used to look like this and yet changed so drastically.”
“It is sad,” I say, and I mean it. I’m starting to think bringing Juniper here was a bad idea, though. She doesn’t look so good. “But I need to get going. I have a class in twenty minutes.” I pause, debating, then say, “Do you want to take a picture of this before I put it away?”
“Yeah,” she says, and she sounds more like herself now.
She snaps a quick photo with her phone, staring at it briefly.
“Very weird to think that my mother and my father might be in this shot.” Then she closes the yearbook and replaces it on the shelf.
“I’ll see myself out,” she says, turning her gaze back to her phone. “You go on ahead.”
I nod, mostly because I’m getting the feeling she wants to be alone. “I’ll see you later, then.” I don’t wait for her to respond; I just stand up, shaking my legs to get the blood flowing again and then heading back to my classroom.
The class hour inches by at a glacial pace, and I find myself in possession of significantly less patience than normal.
It’s not even noon yet, but already I’m itching to get out of here.
It could be because I’m running on decreased sleep, or it could just be because my head is swimming—with names and flashes of black and white photographs, with smiling faces frozen in time.
With the note of hurt in Juniper’s voice as she questioned why her mother was never that happy when she knew her.
A pulse of shame hits me somewhere behind my belly button when I think about how good I’ve got it. My parents are alive and well, healthy and happy and living not thirty minutes from here, in Sunshine Springs. There’s nothing shameful about that, of course, but how often do I take it for granted?
I should go see them soon, I think grudgingly as I watch a senior in the front row sleeping soundly with his head nestled in his open book. Hemingway isn’t for everybody. And to be honest, I’d love to be sleeping right now.
At very least, though, he needs to be respectful.
“Macintosh,” I bark at him. I stroll over to his seat and tap him on his shoulder.
He startles awake, sitting bolt upright and blinking blearily up at me. He looks beyond exhausted. Some of my sharp, irritable corners soften.
“Sleep at home,” I tell him. Then I return to teaching, so that I don’t draw any more attention to him or embarrass him in any way.
I ignore the snickers from his friends and continue droning on about symbolism that only maybe was intended by the author.
I don’t like the way we teach objectively things that are so subjective.
One person might read the same book five times and come away with five different interpretations, based solely on what they were going through each time they read the book.