The Start of Something New

Chapter One

Of all places to have something memorable happen to you, Oakhurst, Indiana, has to be the worst. Our town was too big for people to know everything about you, but small enough for them to clench down on one defining moment. Won the spelling bee in fifth grade? You are Dictionary Girl forever. Laughed a little to hard in sixth grade? You are The Guy Who Peed His Pants.
And I was the Girl Whose Boyfriend Drowned.

The day before junior year began, Abi sat across from me in our booth at Alcott's Books and Beans, reading while we hid from the August heat. I sucked down the last of my iced coffee and leaned back.
"I'm gonna look around before we go", I said.
"Okay." Her nose still stuck in the book. Her skin had soaked up the summer sun so that she glowed from the inside out, tan skin disguising the only feature we shared—our freckles. Mine were more visible than ever, scatters of pinpoints against my still-pale skin.

I glanced back over each shoulder as I scanned the shelves for TV Writers' Boot Camp. No one but my grandmother knew I'd been slowly but surely writing a script for my favourite show, The Mission District, about a bold father-daughter duo running a diner in San Francisco. The script occupied the small, secret spaces of my days, though I'd never planned to do anything with it. At least I hadn't until I discovered a summer screen-writing program at New York University. There are a hundred reasons why I shouldn't apply—too expensive, too unlikely that I'd get it, and too impossible that my mom would agree to it before next summer. Still, I kept editing the script, almost irresistibly.
Moments before flagging down an employee to help me find the book, I noticed a woman  hustle towards me. I recognised her—the mom of someone in my grade, though i couldn't remember who. By the time she made eye contact with me, it was too late to run off. And to make matters worse, I could sense someone on the other side, surveying the plays and poetry section—someone who would witness every awkward moment heading my way.
"Hello, Jess. How are you?" Adjusting the purse on her shoulder, she gave me That Look, full of pity. You'd think that we would have come up with multiple facial expressions for sympathy. But no. There's one: eyebrows and mouth downturned, head tilted like a curious bird.
That's all it took. Aidan's grinning face flashed in my mind, an expression that meant he was up to something. The ache of his absence throbbed in the centre of my chest, as real as any physical pain I'd ever felt. Just as quickly, the guilt entered my bloodstream like a toxin. There I was clinging to the scraps of happiness that I could finally feel again: coffee and books and an afternoon with my best friend.
"Fine, thank you", I said. I'd seen That Look in hundreds of faces the year that Aidan died. People had no idea what it did to me, how it brought back feelings in sharp pangs.
The woman forged on with that grim-but-caring smile. "I heard school built a garden to remember Aidan. That's so nice. I read an article in the paper that..."
She kept talking, but her voice fuzzed over as i fought off memories of the garden dedication ceremony, the smell of springtime. The whole sophomore class was herded outside for it last April. Abi, Amy and Amber stood tightly around me, like they could physically shield me from all the stares. Aidan's parents and brother shook hands with the school-board members and tabbed at tears. The principle said a few words. He'd asked me to speak as well but i said it should be Jack Grazer, Aidan's best friend.
"...a fitting tribute, i think," the woman concluded, finally.
"Yes," I said. "Very fitting."
"Well, tell your mom i said hello."
"Will do." This fib seemed more polite than asking her name. I forced a smile as she walked away.
As always, I felt like a fraud, accepting sympathy from strangers. Aidan Gallagher and I met after my fifteenth birthday, and we went out for two months, compared to his parents and friends, I hardly knew him. I knew the good things—how he did goofy stuff just to make me laugh. How he used to lace our fingers together as we walked, squeezing my hand as he got excited about something. And he was always excited about something. Of course, he's probably grumpy sometimes. I just didn't know him long enough or well enough to see it.
I mourned for his life, but i also mourned, selfishly, for myself. The first boy to really noticed me, drowned in a freak accident, and i would never know the whole of him. The idea of us still hung in the air, by we'd never be more than just a few golden memories or a bundle of what-ifs. How do you find closure in that—especially when strangers treat you like a widow to a loving husband? In post-mourning anguish, I was stuck like the hardened gum under our booths table.
And that's when I glanced to my left.
The person standing there—the guy who'd heard that whole exchange—was Finn Wolfhard. My ultimate, since middle-school dream of a crush. I hadn't seen him in months, and he'd since become a special brand of hot over the summer. Tan skin, dark brown, curly hair, lightened a tad by the sun. Standing this close, I realised we'd probably be the same height if I was wearing heels, but I didn't need to be tall.
I jerked my head away, mortified. I told myself he hadn't heard that woman talking, but he stepped closer to me and said quietly, "Hey. You alright?"
I didn't think Finn Wolfhard even knew who i was, but of course he did, Jess King, the Girl Whose Boyfriend Drowned.
"Yeah." Heat pulsed in my cheeks like a heartbeat. If I turned all the way toward him, he'd think I was sunburnt. "Fine. Thanks."
"It sucks," he said. "The sympathy, I mean. Because it's mostly for them—so they can pat themselves on the back for being caring."
"Yes!" I turned to him, accidentally baring my fluorescent face. "That's it exactly."
He nodded. It was such a serious topic, but he smiled pleasantly as if we were talking about puppies or cupcakes. "My sister had cancer a few years back. She's okay now, but we became pros about talking to total strangers about it."
I knew this, of course. He was The Boy Whose Sister Had Cancer until he started going out with Millie Bobby Brown freshman year, then he became: Finn Wolfhard, The Boy Everyone Wanted to Date. But my crush on him started way before that—when his sister was sick, in fact. It started in the bread aisle of Target, where he did the sweetest thing I'd ever seen a boy my age do.
A comment popped into my head. I wasn't sure if it made sense, but I'd been silent for too long already. So I blanked, "I guess I'm minor league in terms of pity acceptance. But I'm hoping to go pro this year. Hey, maybe that lady was a scout."
Finn Wolfhard laughed. I mentally thanked my dad for all his years of complaining that Indiana doesn't have a Major League Baseball team.
"So," Finn said. "You picking up books for school tomorrow?"
"Yep," I replied.
"Me, too. There was a lot of summer reading for English, and I just realised there was one i didn't get to. Guess I'm cramming already."
"Do you have fourth period English?"
"Yeah! You too?"
I nodded.
I share a class with Finn Wolfhard. Who laughed at something I said. Never mind that he has a girlfriend of two years.
"Cool. Well... I should buy this and get started." He held the play in his hands.
"Yeah, I should get back to my friend," This was code for: I have friends, I swear. "So... I guess I'll see you in class tomorrow."
"Yeah," He said, flashing the heartbreaker smile. "See you tomorrow, we'll make it a good year."
My heart tried to skip a beat right after him.
And then, just like that, it came crushing down. The guilt, as always, started low, rumbling rumbling in my stomach. It rose like lava, hot across my chest until I felt sweaty. After a random woman reminded me of how painfully gone Aidan was, I turned around and swooned over Finn Wolfhard?
No, I commanded myself. You have to stop this.
I've done this for months now—the dizzying dance between grief and normalcy and the guilt I felt in moving between the two. I talked about a lot during my year of therapy, though nothing the therapist said, at the time, seemed to help.
But I'd finished my last-ever session a week before and realised: I'm on my own now. I'd have to cope in the moment—and not wait until my appointments. The therapist had encouraged me to address my feelings head-on. And the truth was, sometimes pretending to be brave eventually made me feel brave.
So I lengthened my spine, shoulders back. I summoned the flecks of courage in me—little zaps from somewhere in my bloods stream. Not many, but enough. Enough to stand up tall as I strode back to the corner booth. We'll make this a good year. Yes, Finn Wolfhard, we will.
I plopped into our booth, determination coursing in me like caffeine.
"Everything okay?" Abi asked, looking up.
"Yes," I said, reaching into my bag. "Well, it will be. The whole... stranger talking to me about Aidan thing happened."
She snorted angrily. She'd stood beside me during so many uncomfortable interactions—near piles of apples at the farmers' market, while buying sodas at the gas station l, in the allergy medicine section of the store.
"It's fine," I said. "Because I've realised I just need a plan."
I thumped my planner down onto the table, as aggressive as I'd ever been with it.
When Abi bought me the planner a few Christmases ago, I knew she was kinda of teasing me about what she called "type A tendencies." But i didn't care. It was love at first sight: lavender leather with my initials embossed in the corner of the pages of clean white paper. Separated into weeks and months.
"A plan for what?" Abi asked. "Avoiding the pity brigade? I guess we could wear masks. Masquerade ones. With feathers."
I almost smiled, thinking of us in peacock pines and gold sequins. "No. A plan to have a better year. Proactive things."
"Oh." Her magazine dropped to the table. "Great. Like what?"
The notes section in the back of my planner already had lists on it. But there, after my packing list from our summer family holiday and lines of school supplies I'd purchased and checked off, I found a new page.
"Well, Technically, Ive only thought of one thing so far," I said, and I wrote it in neatly and the top: 1. Parties/social events. "I'm going to Sadie Sink's party next weekend."
Abi pursed her lips—not quite a frown. "Are you sure you want to start so big? We could reintroduce you to a high school society somewhere less... overwhelming."
"I'm sure." Every year the class president throws a back-to-school party and invites everyone in our grade. I'd missed the last heard one, of course, since it was only two weeks after Aidan died. That period blurred like one dark shadow in my mind—the numb days holed up in my room and the jarring return to school. Amber insisted on painting my nails every weekend while we marathoned Netflix shows. It seemed so silly, so pointless.
Abi nudged my arm. "I've got one. You could rejoin one of the groups you did freshman year. Choir or French club or something?"
"Perfect. Yes." I couldn't handle my extracurricular activities last year, between the therapy appointments and everything else. "Although. that's ironic, coming from you."
"I'm involved. I go to yoga and the Carmichael."
Abi was the only person in the history of the world with a fake ID and no interest in drinking. She had to be 21 to get into the Carmichael to see all the best indie bands perform. She rarely invited me or anyone else. Those shows weren't social events for Abi. They were personal: between her and the bad onstage.
"Exercise and concerts are not cocurriculars."
"They are if you want to work for a record label and teach yoga on the side," she said. "You know, what you're doing is kind of a yoga thing. Well, technically I think it's a Buddhist thing, but I learned it from a yogi: beginner's mind."
I made a face like she'd suggested a juice cleanse—which she had, for all i knew. Yoga wasn't for me. I'd tried a few sessions when she first discovered it, until my King Pigeon pose turned into a Pretzel Who Fell Over onto a Nice Older Lady. "What does that mean?"
"It means trying to approach new experiences with no preexisting judgements. You always go in as a beginner, even if you're not. That way, you're open to anything that happens."
"Yes," I said. "Exactly."
Join a group at school and go to a big party—seemed manageable enough. But two items made for a pretty anemic plan. I would need more.
"I should probably get home," I said, glancing at my phone. "My dad's picking me up at six."
My parents didn't compromise at all while they were married, but they somehow managed to be flexible with custody—arranged around our variable schedules this week, Wednesday and Sunday were highlighted yellow in my planner indicating dinner with my dad.
Abi gathered her things. "What's he making?"
"Spinach and feta lasagna, I think." Since the divorce, my dad has developed a flair for creative cuisine, with his successes equaled by mighty failures. This delighted Abi never knowing what would be served or how. It was less funny to me since those were my odds for two out of seven dinners a week.
"Elizabeth won't like that," Abi said. There was nothing I knew about my own sister that Abi didn't also know. My younger sister was infamous for her aversions—to green vegetables dairy and acting like a rational human being.
"Tell me about it. You could come over, if you want."
"Wish I could, but my parents are coming home." Abi said, walking to her car. Her blonde hair absorbed the sunlight into its white-gold waves. "For three whole days."
Abi's parents owned an international chain of boutique hotels called Maison. They moved to Oakhurst when Abi was in elementary school but they frequently travelled for business. Abi had what I considered my dream life: limited parental supervision, fabulous vacations, and a massive house. Her grandmother lived with her, but now that Abi is old enough to drive, her Gran spent more than a few long weekends at Mason Boca Raton on with her "man-friend". Even when she was home, Abi's grandmother was always flitting off to the country club, meeting friends for bridge or attending fundraisers.
We climbed into Abi's car as always because I didn't have my own. I'd gotten my license earlier in the summer on the exact day of my 16th birthday. Unfortunately for me, my mom's car broke down a mere week before my drivers test. $8000 later, my hope for inheriting her car sat in the junkyard next to a blown piston, whatever that was.
"I know it's the last day of summer nostalgia talking," Abi said, opening the windows. "Buts it's kind of beautiful here, every once in a while."
Framed by the car window, the tree lined streets became a blur of deep greens and broad branches. These wide oaks announced every changing season, sprawling from the WELCOME TO OAKHURST sign to the oldest section of town. Along the main drag, new restaurants and shops popped up every three months, but the trees made the Townfield charming and contained.
"Tell your dad hi from me." Abi said, as she pulled into the driveway. "Pick you up tomorrow morning at seven?"
"Great." I tried to sound casual, but the first day of school nerves sparked inside me as I made my way to the door.

[ 2786 words ]