Chapter 24
twenty-four
Dylan
We hear the news of Greta’s passing the following week at school. Principal Clayton makes another announcement, though he needn’t have bothered—everyone already knew. If her accident and coma had left the students and faculty at Banton High bereft, her passing hits them even harder.
With how outgoing she was and her eagerness to help, Greta had no shortage of friends. I find Leo, the boy she’d gone to Emily’s party weeks ago to protect, sobbing in the bathroom between classes and do my best to comfort him. But what can you say to make a loss like that any better?
Then, there were all the people whose lives she’d touched in one way or another.
Ash hadn’t been the only student in need she’d reached out to.
It feels like everywhere I go in the days after her passing, someone has a new story to share of that time Greta kept them from flunking their Geometry midterm or took them out for ice cream after a bad breakup.
My friends and I do the same, each of us quietly recounting our own Greta-influenced saves.
It helps ease some of my sorrow, knowing how much she’ll be missed. That so many people cared about her as deeply as she deserved. Still, I’ll always regret not spending more time with her when I had the chance. My regrets, however, pale in comparison to Ash’s.
Her death hits him hard. While my other friends share in their grief, Ash only seems to retreat deeper into himself, like a flower wilting before it can fully bloom. Despite my pleas to reconsider, he starts taking his sleeping pills again, putting our dreamscape escapades on permanent hiatus.
We don’t attend Greta’s funeral. A sniffling Alexis tells me afterward that it was a beautiful service, and I’m sure it was.
But Ash refused to go, and I opted to stay home and keep him company.
No matter how much I reassure him that what happened wasn’t his fault, I can tell he blames himself for her death.
For not finding a way to use his power to save her.
My sole comfort is that he doesn’t pull away from me like he does the rest of the world. We continue to spend most afternoons after school at his aunt’s house, doing our best to forget our shared sorrow. Because even when it sucks, even when it hurts, life goes on.
The Krantz household is always a madhouse on the weekends, but holidays are even worse. And Thanksgiving? That definitely takes the cake.
I silence another timer—the third that’s gone off this hour—desperately trying to recall what it went to. Splashing water hisses from the stovetop, and my eyes widen.
Right, the potatoes!
I bolt over to the stove, flicking off the burner and hoisting the heavy pot out of the way so the boiled potatoes can cool enough for me to mash them. That handled, I make another frantic sweep of the kitchen-turned-warzone.
The turkey’s already in the oven—it’s still got another hour.
Mom made her green bean casserole last night, so once the turkey’s done, I just need to put it in for a few minutes to reheat it.
Cans of cranberry sauce are sitting by the sink until it’s time to serve.
The candied sweet potatoes are simmering on the stove since there wasn’t room in the oven. What else…
The stuffing!
I head for the pantry and almost collide with Patrick, who’s cracked open the oven door to peer inside. “Patrick, keep that shut! You’ll let all the heat out and throw off the cooking time.”
“I just wanted to see how the turkey was doing. I finished chopping things for the salad, just like you asked.” He waves at the table where a massacre of shredded lettuce and mauled vegetables lie strewn haphazardly across the cutting board.
I summon the depths of my frazzled patience. “Thanks, Pat. Why don’t you go watch some TV with Tommy while I finish up in here?”
He glances toward the living room and the blare of football, then shrugs. He’s never cared as much about other sports as he does soccer. “That’s all right. I don’t mind helping. What else can I do?”
“Umm…” I’m trying to think of the dish he’ll be least likely to screw up when my phone rings. Grateful for the momentary reprieve, I take it out of my pocket and answer. “Hello?”
“Hi, honey.” Mom’s voice is hard to hear through my phone’s speaker thanks to all the background noise on her end. “How are things at the house?”
Another timer beeps, and I hurriedly silence it. “Great,” I say, checking on the sweet potatoes. “Everything’s totally under control.”
“Uh huh.” Mom sighs. “I’m really sorry I’m not there to help. But the diner was short-staffed, and you know how good the tips are today.”
“It’s fine. I understand.” I glance at Patrick, who’s helpfully scooping the cranberry sauce into a bowl while not-so-helpfully splattering some on the counter. “Like I said, we’ve got it handled.”
“That’s so good to hear. I know I don’t say it enough, honey, but I really appreciate everything you do. It’s more than any teenager should have to.”
“Of course, Mom. Whatever I can do to help.” I stir the boiled potatoes and stick a fork in one, checking to see if it’s properly cooked. “Dinner should be ready in about an hour. When do you think you’ll be home?”
There’s silence on the line save the crackle of static. “Mom?” I ask, my heart sinking.
“I’m so sorry, honey, but Anita called out sick, and the diner got even more customers today than last year. They really need me to stay on a while longer. It might be better if you go ahead and eat without me. But I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can. Is…is that okay?”
Patrick shouts in surprise when cranberry sauce somehow ends up spraying over him and the floor. My temple throbs. How he ever manages the coordination to kick a soccer ball into a net, I can’t fathom.
“That’s fine, Mom,” I say, straining to keep the stress out of my voice. “Whatever you’ve got to do. I’m sure the three of us can manage on our own for another few hours.”
“Okay. Thanks again, honey.” Someone shouts her name in the background, and she calls back, telling them she’ll be right there. “I’ve got to go.” She huffs a harried-sounding laugh. “I bet you can’t wait until next year when you’re at college and can just focus on yourself, huh?”
My gut roils at the mention of college. “See you soon, Mom. I love you.”
“Love you too, baby. And make sure you say the same to your brothers. I’ll be home before eight, I promise.”
The line clicks closed. I stare at the black screen for a long moment, gathering my thoughts. Tommy and I have managed to be cordial to each other so far this Thanksgiving break, but that’s mostly thanks to Mom keeping the peace. Dinner without her sounds like a powder keg waiting to explode.
Well, you’ll just have to make the best of it.
Taking a deep breath, I plaster on a smile and turn to Patrick. “Hey, Pat, you want to help me mash these potatoes?”
His eyes light up as he sets aside the mostly emptied cans of cranberry sauce. “Sure!”
I focus on my work, losing myself in the prep and cooking as I try to pull an entire Thanksgiving meal out of my ass. Patrick might be a walking disaster in the kitchen, but without his enthusiastic ‘help,’ I don’t know how the hell I would’ve gotten it all done.
At least, things don’t become desperate enough to ask Tommy to pitch in.
I’d tried that earlier in the day and gotten an angry response about how he’d worked a late shift the night before and had an early shift tomorrow morning, so I could pull my own weight for a change.
As if I don’t have plenty of my own shit to deal with right now.
As I work, my thoughts inevitably turn to Ash. His inability to save Greta had affected him just as deeply as I’d feared, and while a couple weeks of distance have helped ease some of his guilt, I hate not knowing how to make it all better.
Not that my own life isn’t its own special brand of disaster.
I still need to tell Mom about my plans for school next year.
I’d intended to do it over break, but the timing hasn’t worked out.
Case in point—her taking on an extra shift today.
Maybe after she gets home tonight…or this weekend for sure.
Or maybe it can wait until Christmas, I think with a sigh as I carve the turkey. No sense having that awkward discussion any sooner than I need to.
Once the turkey’s cut, the potatoes are mashed, and the green bean casserole’s warmed, I set everything out onto the table. “Dinner’s ready!”
Tommy turns up the TV loud enough to hear the game from the kitchen and strolls in, nursing his beer. He takes a seat at his usual spot, his eyes narrowing as he glances about the kitchen. “Where’s Mom?”
“Still at the Red Rocket.” I set the plate of turkey down in front of him. “She said to eat without her, so that’s what we’re going to do.”
“You know, you could at least pretend being stuck with us isn’t a punishment,” Tommy says, shoveling turkey onto his plate.
“And how else am I supposed to act?” I reply as I take my own seat as far away from Tommy as I can get. Patrick sits silently between us, ducking his head as though to avoid any friendly fire. “You want me to pretend we actually like each other?”
“Not being such a little bitch would be a great start.” Tommy scans the table laden down with dishes and scowls. “What, no gravy?”
Shit. I squeeze my hands together in my lap. I’m tempted to tell him where he can stick his gravy, but then I notice Patrick’s tensed back and take a soothing breath. For his sake, I can make it through one family dinner without it devolving into a shouting match.
“Hold on.”
The other two eat in silence while I grab a packet of instant gravy and get it heated on the stovetop. When it’s ready, I pour it into one of Mom’s cracked gravy boats and set it down on the table near Tommy. “There. Happy?”
His sullen grunt suggests otherwise.
As I slide back into my seat, Patrick clears his throat. “M-maybe we could all go around the table and say something we’re thankful for.”