Candy Colored Sky, стр. 33
I fold the paper and toss it on the pile of sections we’ve already read, then lean forward to rest my elbows on the table and shove my fingers into my morning-crazed hair.
“Damn.” It’s the only appropriate response.
“Uh huh,” Grandpa mutters in agreement. “You know that’s all that poor girl is thinking about—all of the things she doesn’t remember, things she should have done differently, or stuff she maybe should have said.”
My head feels heavier in my palms and I shift a little to press them into my squeezed shut eyes. It’s probably selfish to correlate all of this to my own experience, but I do it anyway. I do it because for me, it has never been the things I wish I did or said, but more the one thing I wish I hadn’t before my dad was gone forever. I was in a mood, and dad was leaving for work in a rush. He was always in such a hurry to get back to that job that didn’t appreciate him. I don’t even fully remember what he was promising me to look at when he got home that night. It might have been a paper, or maybe it was a college program I was considering. All I know is in that minute I didn’t believe he gave a shit about me and my future at all, and for once in my life, I said my inner thoughts out loud, just loud enough. He died about two hours later.
In a rare bout of spontaneity, I hurry from the breakfast table, pulling my phone from the pocket of my well-worn navy blue sweatpants as I rush up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I throw my gray hoodie over my Harvard Math Dept. tee shirt and shove a beanie on my head to tame my hair. Before I chicken out, I punch a quick text to Eleanor with my thumbs while I work to stuff my socked feet into my gym shoes without untying them. The heels get bent under my feet but the shoes are on enough to hobble down the stairs as I press send.
ME: Hey. Are you awake? If so, do you wanna get out of here?
It was a gamble when the idea sparked in my mind. After the way Morgan tore her sister away last night, Eleanor might be on family lockdown, despite the fact she’s already eighteen. She might also really be sleeping all the time, and asleep right now. But I went with my gut, and my gut said she was lying in her bed staring at nothing and torturing herself with all of those words her sister wrote in the paper—especially the last dozen or so.
A blast of cold hits my face the moment I swing open our front door. I puff out a short smokestack of fog from my mouth and clap my hands together a few times to bring blood to the surface. The act is also a bit of a bolster for my confidence as I shuffle down our driveway, shoving my toes in with every step until the heels of my shoes right themselves. By all accounts, I’m wearing nowhere near enough for this morning’s chilly forty-one degrees, according to my phone app that’s about as reliable as the Cubs pitching rotation last year, or so Grandpa Hank always says. It may very well be colder. It doesn’t matter, though, because I’m doing this, and there is no backing out now that Eleanor is rushing down her driveway to meet me in the middle of the street. She’s wearing an equally hurried outfit.
“Thank you for rescuing me.” That’s how she greets me, eyes wide and relieved. I hope she’s as enthusiastic when I tell her I don’t have a working vehicle to take us anywhere.
“Metra ride?” I hold up my all-day pass and the rider card my Grandpa uses that I’m sure is good for at least a dozen more trips.
“Yes, please!” Eleanor takes one of the cards from my hand and pockets it, practically skipping through the middle of the street in the direction of the closest station. “We better hurry if we want to catch it on the hour.”
I shrug and pick up my pace to match her, and we both even out into a decent-paced jog. While a mile-long run isn’t much for Eleanor, it has me panting pretty hard by the halfway point. On the bright side, I’m not cold anymore. We pick up our pace when we see the train pulling up at the Oak Forest station, and we get through the gates and board the train in what feels like the nick of time. On instinct, I take a seat with my back to the window and Eleanor does the same, plopping down in the space next to me.
As the train chugs forward I snicker, the last ten minutes catching up with me all of a sudden.
“What’s funny?” For some reason, seeing the dent between her brows when she asks me that question makes me laugh even harder. I hold out a finger while I catch my breath, both from running and from laughter.
“Morgan is probably going to kill me,” I finally manage to say.
Eleanor sits back in her seat and unwraps the thick yellow scarf from her neck while she seems to stare out the opposite side of the train in thought.
“Hmm, no. You’ll be fine. Me? Oh, I’m dead.” She swivels her head until our eyes meet and holds a serious expression in place for about two full seconds before we both spit out in laughter.
We’re near the front of the train, so the conductor checks our passes first and we spend the first stop getting comfortable. I take my hat off for a few minutes to