Those days had a magic to them that I think came from him being free from the weight of expectation, and happy to be out in the fresh air with me, soaking up life instead of watching it from his office window. Until my mom would walk back through the door and see that he’d spent the day playing with me instead of writing his next award-winning poetry collection. Then the feeling would dissolve, and her silent disapproval would send him back to his office to “work,” and me up to my room to “read,” and we’d be back to the routine realities of life.
The knock at my bedroom door does the same thing. Before I can say come in, my mom does, bringing with her a cloud of perfume. Of course she’s already dressed, made up, and accessorized. If you want to sell expensive clothes to tourists, you have to look the part, and she does, all in black with her dark hair pulled back into a low bun. She wears sophistication well.
“Parker, you awake? No school today. I’m going to walk over to the shop and get some inventory done. You want to come with? We could go over your speech some more. I had a few thoughts—did you get a lot done last night?” She stops talking long enough to take a sip from her leather-bound travel mug, then glances meaningfully at my desk.
“Yep,” I lie, “I did.” It’s too early for the lecture I’ll get if I tell her I haven’t started yet.
Her face brightens and she steps fully into my room. “Want me to take a look at what you’ve got so far?”
“No, no, not yet,” I say, too quickly. I hop out of bed and put myself between her and the desk, swooping up my Robert Frost book in the process. “It’s really rough still. Mostly just notes. I’m actually thinking of working in a poem if I can.” I hold the book up like a shield, hoping the Post-its sticking out from every direction are evidence enough I really have gotten started. “Dad has all the best ones marked in here.”
Her smile falters, almost imperceptibly. “Oh. Well that’s . . . good. That’s fine.”
Immediately, I feel guilty. I’ve just pushed a button I didn’t mean to. The one where she somehow thinks I value his opinion over hers, like it’s a competition. Poetry over pragmatism. “Actually,” I add quickly, “I’m really excited, because I think I can find one that ties in perfectly with all the things you were talking about last night.”
She clears her throat and ignores my attempt to smooth things over. “I put a roast in the Crock-Pot for dinner. Keep an eye on it and if the liquid gets too low, add a little broth. I’ll be home around five.”
“Okay,” I answer. Without another word she steps back into the hall and reaches for the knob to close my door.
“Hey, Mom?” It surprises me when I stop her, but something in me wants to ask a question I thought about all night after reading Julianna’s journal.
“Yes?” She raises her eyebrows expectantly.
I want to ask if she ever let go of something she dreamed of or hoped for. If she had things she used to want to be, or do, that she never got to. Instead I say, “It’s sad that they died so young.”
She gives me a quizzical look.
“Shane Cruz and Julianna Farnetti, I mean. They missed out on so much.”
My mom’s face softens a touch. “They did,” she says, nodding. “It was very sad. And that’s why the family offers the scholarship every year—to give other young people a chance at everything the two of them missed out on.” She pauses and looks at my desk again. “Maybe that’s something you should keep in mind as you write your speech. You deserve that chance, Parker. Work hard today, okay?”
“Of course,” I answer. And I promise myself that I will.
The stillness of the house when I get out of the shower is both heavy and familiar. My mom’s boutique has demanded her time as far back as I can imagine, so I’m accustomed to being at home alone. Lots of times, I actually prefer it. But this morning it’s unsettling. Julianna’s journal is still sitting right there in my bag, and no one in the world knows I have it. No one in the world would know if I opened it up and read more about who she was and what she wanted, and all the things she missed out on. But I can’t, I tell myself. Or rather, I shouldn’t.
What I should do, what I need to do, is actually get started on my speech. A week and a half isn’t a lot of time to write something that so much depends on, so I sit down at my desk and turn on the computer. While it powers on I crack my window to let the fresh air in, and I light the vanilla candle on my desk, both of these things part of my work ritual. And then I take a deep breath, open a new document, and close my eyes a moment to focus. How to begin? A strong opening line. I open my eyes and the cursor blinks impassively on the blank page. I think of Julianna’s handwriting.
“Tell me, what do you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?”
I type the question and let it float there in black and white. Wonder for a moment what my most honest answer would be, if it were all up to me. Then I delete it and the blank page seems fitting. I really don’t know.
Downstairs I pour a bowl of cereal and eat it at the counter in front of my mom’s laptop. It’s open to her e-mail, which I close before checking my own. Nothing. I try Facebook, hoping maybe Kat sent me one of her slightly inappropriate messages there. Again, nothing. Just for the heck of it I type Trevor Collins’s name in the search box and click on his page when it comes up.