Honey Girl(62)

There are many things in space Grace Porter wants to explore. Galaxies and voids and formations and births.

This is not one of them. A supernova is a silent and resounding and terrible thing. She does not feel brave enough, strong enough, Porter enough, to linger in its wake.



Fifteen


Florida feels unfamiliar and alien after a summer in New York.

She stumbles outside Miami International Airport, about an hour from Southbury, and crouches down to watch the cars and taxis. She doesn’t know what kind of car Mom drives now. It used to be a hand-me-down pickup truck. Grace hopes she upgraded to something more comfortable.

The conversation in the hours leading up to her flight were quick and messy. It was held in whispers, Yuki’s door locked to keep her roommates out even as they knocked persistently and tried to coax Grace out. We’re your friends, too, Porter, they said. Are you seriously going to leave? Wait for Yuki to come back. Just stay. Just talk to us, Space Girl. It was Grace, struggling to speak as she packed up her bags, throat tight as she told her mom she was coming down.

Please, Grace said. Please, Mom, I just need to get out of here. No, not Portland. Can I just tell you when I’m there?

Eventually, it is a pickup that comes to idle in front of her. It’s not the old rusty thing that Grace remembers, but a newer, gunmetal-gray truck. A young white guy gets out, hair pulled into a bun and torn jeans and a flannel shirt. With his sleeves rolled back, she can see he has tattoos all the way up his arms and creeping up his neck.

Grace is leaning against the wall by Arrivals, shoulders hunched and eyes down. His eyes find her anyway, and he takes a few steps closer. “Hey,” he says, a Southern accent drawing the word out. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting,” she says shortly. She is used to the aggressively liberal white people of Portland. In Yuki’s small corner of Harlem, no one talked like this. No one looked her up and down, as if they were trying to figure out where she belonged. “I’d like to get back to it, if you don’t mind.”

She knows her eyes are red and swollen and puffy. Her hair, only half contained under Yuki’s cap, has frizzed up under the humidity. She doesn’t want to have to remember all of Colonel’s lessons. Stand up straight. Meet their eyes. Talk clearly. Don’t back down, but don’t be too aggressive.

Grace is tired. She doesn’t want to fight. She wants to be left alone.

“You don’t recognize me, huh?” he asks, coming closer. She leans back. “I’m Kelly. I guess people really do look different over a video.”

She eyes him warily. “Mom sent you?”

He smiles, putting his hands in his pockets. “She did. You know, video didn’t really do your hair justice, either. Gold as anything.”

“Yeah,” Grace says. “Okay.”

In the car, Grace damn near breaks her neck keeping her eyes trained out the window. Kelly fiddles with the radio, going from country to pop to some old-school jazz. She can feel his eyes on her.

“Mel talks about you all the time,” he tries eventually. “She spends more time taking pictures to send to you when we’re traveling than she does looking at things herself.”

“Cool.”

He clears his throat. “You know how long you’re staying?”

“Nope.” The scenery passes by in a blur. Trees and earth and blue skies. “Sorry.”

He makes a surprised noise. “Don’t apologize. It’s your home.” He looks a little older up close. Not by much, but there are laugh lines by his eyes and mouth and little wrinkles in his forehead. She noticed gray around his temples when he leaned down to get her bag. “Mel and I are glad to have you here.”

Grace closes her eyes and doesn’t answer.

They don’t talk the rest of the ride.

She doesn’t open her eyes again until the truck comes to a stop. Kelly turns the engine off, and she peers out the window. Somehow, she expected the house to change just because she has. But it looks the same, nestled behind big green trees.

The orange grove trees line up in neat rows. They spring white flowers and orange starbursts that will soon be ripe enough to pick. It’s almost harvest season, and Mom and all the seasonal workers will be out in the sun for hours. Grace is too old now to watch from the tops of the branches. She is too old to hide between the leaves and brambles.

The front door to the house swings open, and Mom comes running down the steps. “Grace Porter, you had me worried sick!”

Grace is enveloped in strong, tanned arms. Mom smells like citrus and weed, and Grace relaxes in the hold. She leans into it, inhaling deep, and she doesn’t want to let go.

God, it shouldn’t feel this good just to get a hug.

“Kelly, take my kid’s stuff up to her room,” she murmurs, still not letting go. “Don’t just stand there.” She huffs when he disappears into the house. “He better not touch anything on that stove while he’s in there.”

Grace laughs softly into her mom’s bright blond hair. It feels like coming home. It feels like all the memories have sprung to life. It feels like she is skidding to a stop, and she can take that breath.

Mom rubs her back, and Grace squeezes her eyes shut. “You haven’t turned my room into an office or something?” she asks, her voice soft. “I don’t visit enough to keep it.”