Wing Jones(58)

Granny Dee hobbles over, not to be outdone. “You want to have some good cookin’, you should try my apple pie. Monica, tell them!” It’s a while before Eliza and Annie and Monica are able to get out the door.

Aaron stays the latest, even helping to carry dishes to the kitchen. We’ve stayed so late that my mom sent the waitstaff home, so it’s just me and Aaron loading the bowls into the industrial dishwasher.

“I’m sorry I don’t have a present for you.” Aaron looks down at the bowl in his hands.

“My Riveo shoes were a good enough present for Christmas and my birthday! And I didn’t want you to get me a birthday present. I just wanted—”

I stop. The word want has come out of my mouth in big neon letters. WANT WANT WANT. I want so much. I hope Aaron can’t see all my want. Although he’d have to be blind not to.

“What do you want?” he asks, looking up at me, and it’s like there’s a little thread inside me that I didn’t know was there, and he has the other end, and I don’t know how that happened, and it is fragile and thin, but when he tugs, I feel it, and I feel like I shouldn’t have to tell him what I want, that he should already know.

“Wing?”

“I … I wanted you to come to my birthday dinner.” I drop my end of the thread. “Because you do every year. I thought … I thought it would make it less hard. Having you here.”

He nods, and I know he’s dropped the thread too. It lies between us, unbroken, but with no one to pick it up, it’s limp and sad on the floor.

“I’m glad I got to be here,” he says. “Happy birthday, Wing.” He leans toward me so slowly, oh so slowly, and presses his lips against my face. It isn’t quite my cheek. It isn’t quite my mouth. It’s the corner of my lips, where lip meets cheek. He pulls away far too quickly and I wonder how I’m supposed to restart my heart, how I’m supposed to teach my lungs to breathe again.

“Happy birthday,” I say. He smiles, only one corner of his mouth going up, and oh, I want to kiss that corner the way he just kissed mine. Or was it my cheek and he made a mistake?

“My birthday isn’t till August,” he says, still smiling his one-corner smile, but as my brain processes his words, my brain that isn’t really doing its job, I don’t think any of my body parts are doing what they’re supposed to be doing because lungs are supposed to be better at breathing and hearts are definitely not meant to beat this fast and lips aren’t supposed to tingle, and brains are supposed to work… DID I JUST SAY HAPPY BIRTHDAY?

“I know!” My words sputter out of me. “I meant thank you. Thank you!”

He shakes his head, laughing softly, his bumblebee laughter surrounding me.

“Proud of you,” he says, still smiling, “for today. You were great. Marcus would be proud too.”

The mention of Marcus reboots my system. It reminds me that I shouldn’t be so giddy, because even though it’s my birthday, even though I won all my races today, even though I think Aaron almost just kissed me (maybe), Marcus is still in the hospital. And happiness doesn’t fit with that.

But my happiness is a squishy kind of happiness, squeezing itself in where it can fit, pushing around all the sadness and the stress and the pressure, finding any empty spot, any crevice, and filling it. Don’t mind me, it says. I won’t bother anyone. I know this is a room for sadness, but I just need a little corner. I try to kick it out, because it isn’t welcome here, it didn’t even come wearing black, but it won’t go. It’s a stubborn guest. One that I secretly want to stay.

“He’ll be here for your next birthday,” Aaron goes on. “Hell, maybe even your next race. He won’t wanna miss his baby sister kicking so much ass.”





CHAPTER 39


I don’t remember the last time I went to the mall. I hate the way the mannequins stare at me. I feel like they’re judging. Telling me I won’t fit into what they’re wearing, and even if I could, it wouldn’t look good. Not that I can afford to buy any of it.

But Eliza wanted to go today to look at prom dresses. Three months before prom. When I pointed this out and told her I didn’t think I’d be going to prom, she just laughed and told me to get in the car. I guess it doesn’t cost anything to look. And it’ll be fun helping Eliza pick something out.

We’re on our way to the dress store Eliza wants to go to, Trumpet Gowns, when we pass the Riveo store. We both stop, lingering by the doorway.

“Everything in this store is so damn beautiful,” says Eliza.

“I thought we were here to look for dresses,” I say, nudging her with my shoulder.

“We are! We are! Can’t a girl appreciate some fine running shoes and some satin and tulle?”

“I bet you would wear a ball gown with Riveos,” I say.

“Hell yes, I would. And you know what? I’d match the dress to the shoes, not the other way around. Come on, let’s go look at some of these beauties before we go to Trumpet.”

“What does Annie think of that? Of wearing Riveos under your dress?” I ask as we step into the brightly lit Riveo store. The whole place is practically pulsating with color. Shoes resplendent in yellow and oranges and hot pinks line one wall. And in case anyone wants to match the Olympic team this summer in their patriotic finery, the other way is a sea of red, white, and blue. Everyone’s got Olympics on the brain, what with it only a few months away, and gonna be here in Atlanta. Coach Kerry got tickets for us all to go to one of the track and field events. I don’t know how she did it, but it’s enough to make me forgive her for putting us through hell in training.