Candy Colored Sky, стр. 45

I tap on the table with my fingertip to get her attention and when she glances up I shake my head and take the fork from her hand. Because I know she’ll feel bad, I take three bites of the eggs for her, doing my best to swallow them without so much as letting them pass over my taste sensors. I silently gag a little, then put the fork down on her plate. The entire scene pushes her mouth up just a tick, the slightest hint of a smile.

I repeat this process with my plate of eggs, impressed when Eleanor knows to play along, telling my grandpa the eggs were great but she’s not very hungry. I clean our dishes and check my phone for the time, struck with a touch of panic when I realize Jake should be at my house in less than five minutes.

“I really can stay home. I don’t mind,” I say to her.

“I know it sounds weird, but that would actually make me feel guilty.” She twists her lips and as crazy as her reasoning might seem to most, I do understand. She doesn’t want the attention, not about her reality anyhow. That’s part of the reason she’s over here and not in her own house.

“I’m not going anywhere. Was planning on working my way through the Sunday puzzle that I never finished, then Dale might come by and take a look at the Bronco. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want,” Grandpa says.

Eleanor looks to me, I think for a blessing, so I shrug to let her know it’s up to her. Dale offered to poke around the truck for me last night, sometime after I took a huge pot from him. I think I earned a little respect from my grandpa’s crew.

“I should probably check in at least,” she finally says, leaning her head in the direction of her house.

“Suit yourself,” Grandpa says. I’m glad his tone is normal. If I were Eleanor, I don’t know that I would want everyone treating me as though I were fragile, regardless how absolutely delicate I might be.

I meet Eleanor’s gaze one last time, trying to read whether or not she’s ready to go home or just trying not to be a bother. The dim light that’s shown in her eyes a few times over the last few days is completely out this morning. Her sense of hope seems to be history, as is the stupid fight we had. When she appears determined to go back to her house, I rush up the stairs and switch out my shirt for a new one and throw on a thick flannel before running my hands through my hair. It’s a wild mess up there, so I shove my Sox cap on and hope things flatten out enough by fourth hour, when Mrs. Dahl will undoubtedly make me take it off. She’s a Cubs fan.

Eleanor is gone by the time I get back downstairs, so I use the few minutes I have before Jake arrives to fill my grandpa in on what he missed while he was sleeping. As tough of a soul as he is, the man possesses a great deal of empathy for people dealing with loss. I remember him talking to my mom right after Dad died about how there’s a unique ache that accompanies burying one’s child. He was never supposed to outlive my dad. Just like Eleanor was never supposed to lose faith that her sister would be around to follow in her footsteps on the cheer squad.

When Jake picks me up, I go through everything that happened last night again, leaving out some of the details like the way it felt having her come to me, how I held her until I was sure she was asleep. He’d focus on my shit when the important part is that Eleanor is not okay. He must have filled in Gemma because by the time the lunch hour arrives, the two of them act as if they were there with her all night and I am just now learning about everything.

It’s easier to let them dominate the conversation, and since only a few of Eleanor’s closer friends are around, I decide not to interject and stop them from gossiping. It doesn’t keep my arm from remaining flexed and primed to take a swing at anyone who says something inappropriate, though. Not that a punch thrown by me would have much of an effect, but it would be enough to get Jake on his feet with a few follow-up rounds.

No matter how many times I replay the last twenty-four hours in my head, I can’t make sense of them. Nothing that is happening feels fair. How could it, I guess?

I’ve texted Eleanor twice so far today, just to make sure she’s holding it together. She hasn’t written back, which only heightens the visuals in my mind of her walking around her dark house like a zombie with no one willing to talk to her. By the time my last hour is over, I’ve convinced myself to sprint home and break my way into her house to make sure she’s all right.

“Dude, what? Are you ditching me too?” Jake catches me halfway through the parking lot and pulls up beside me. I note that Gemma isn’t in the car with him and scrunch my brow.

“Gemma skipped last hour. She faked menstrual cramps and you know Mr. Donellan,” Jake says.

“Let me guess, he plugged his ears and said lalala.” Mr. Donellan teaches computer science and is basically afraid of human interaction and uncomfortable conversations. When my dad died, Mr. Donellan actually said the words, “There, there” to me while flat-palming my shoulder twice when I came back to school. The mere mention of the word menstruation probably made him want to dive into a cave and never come out.

“I’m headed straight home, so hop in,” Jake says.

I glance around and decide that’s a lot