Gracefully Grayson Page 4

  We walk down the long hallway to Grandma Alice’s room. Inside, everything is the same as it has always been, only this time instead of sitting in the rocking chair next to the window, smoothing out the blanket on her lap over and over again, Grandma Alice is in her bed. The back is propped up, and someone attached the metal rails to the sides. Her eyes are open but I can tell that she’s not looking at anything.

  Uncle Evan and I stand next to her for a minute. “Hi, Grandma,” I say, but she doesn’t answer and Uncle Evan puts his hand on my shoulder again. Adele reaches over and gently picks up Grandma Alice’s arm so she can wrap the blood pressure cuff around it. She takes her blood pressure, writes something on a clipboard, and then she and Uncle Evan start to talk.

  I wander around the room. “She still hasn’t eaten….” I hear Adele start to say. I try to ignore them, but it’s hard to in such a small room.

  I look at the pictures on Grandma Alice’s dresser. They’re kind of dusty and I wipe them off on my shirt one by one as Adele keeps talking to Uncle Evan in a hushed voice. “Her symptoms definitely point to pneumonia,” she’s saying. Grandma Alice has the same photo as I do of our blue house in Cleveland. Mom and Dad met in Chicago and moved to Cleveland just before I was born so Mom could take a job teaching at the university. I wonder again what my life would be like if she hadn’t gotten that job and they’d stayed in Chicago. And I wonder again about the house, if it’s still blue.

  I pick up a picture of me with Grandpa Lefty. He died when I was two. I’m sitting on his lap on the front porch of their old house in just a diaper. There’s a black-and-white picture of Grandma Alice when she was a baby with dimpled cheeks, short bangs, and a round belly, and one of Grandma Alice and Grandpa Lefty on their wedding day.

  Then I pick up my favorites: Mom riding a bike when she was about my age, her eyes squinting in the sun and a shirt tied around her waist, floating behind her in the breeze; Mom and Dad kissing in front of their wedding cake; and the one of me as a baby, mostly hidden under a blanket, lying on Mom’s chest.

  “I don’t think it will be long now, but you know Alice—she’s a fighter,” Adele says as I drift back over to them. Grandma Alice is sitting in the same position, but now her eyes are closed, and she’s breathing deeply and kind of raggedly.

  “Well,” Uncle Evan says. Gently, he straightens the blanket on Grandma Alice’s lap and doesn’t say anything else. A clump of her white hair has fallen over her face, and I braid it loosely and tuck it behind her ear so it won’t unravel. I can feel Uncle Evan watching me as I pick up her soft, bumpy, paper-thin hand. The skin droops between the bones, like a row of tiny bridges. Mom grew inside of her, I think to myself, and I replay the feel of her skin on my hand the whole way home.

  IT’S DREARY on Monday morning. Finn is standing in front of the windows, trying to start a discussion as gentle snow swirls outside behind him. I watch him, my chin resting in my hands. Amelia is doodling lazily on the cover of her notebook next to me, and I’m thinking of Grandma Alice’s room—of the dusty pictures and the hospital bed. And of what Adele said.

  Finn keeps asking the class questions, but nobody’s talking. “Okay,” he finally sighs, “enough of this! You obviously don’t want to talk to me. Everybody, stay with your partner and pair up with another group to make a foursome. You guys can discuss the passages from the book in small groups. Remember, next Monday I’ll be assigning your big papers, so stay focused!”

  Everybody, including Amelia, starts looking around nervously.

  “Go ahead,” Finn says, hoisting himself up onto the window ledge, looking amused. “Let the mad dash for partners commence!”

  I pick up my book and backpack, and follow Amelia’s lead. Her eyes are fixed on Lila and Hailey across the room, and she walks quickly over to them. I feel like a dog on a leash following her.

  “Hey, guys,” she says, approaching them. “Can we join you?”

  Lila glances across the room to where Meagan and Hannah are already sitting with two other girls, their backs to us. “Sure,” she says, after a second.

  “Pull up Jason’s and Asher’s chairs,” Hailey adds, smiling. We sit down, and I turn my chair so I don’t have to look at Ryan and Sebastian, who are at the desks right next to us.

  “So, what do you guys think of these passages?” Lila asks, looking at the three of us. Of course she wants us to do all the work.

  “I thought the second one Finn was talking about was the most interesting,” Hailey says, flipping back in her book to find it.

  I watch her as she searches through the pages. The summer before third grade, I did art camp with her and Hannah. I remember stringing beads onto pieces of elastic with them at the playground. By then, Emma was already gone. I suddenly wonder why I didn’t stay friends with them once third grade started; I suddenly wonder why Emma was the only one.

  “Here it is!” Hailey says. “Page fifty.” I flip to it in my book. She starts to read but I barely listen.

  At art camp, sometimes we’d go to the park with our little easels and paints. I remember kids making paintings of the swing set, the giant trees, and the flowers and vegetables that some other camp groups had planted. This one time Hannah and Hailey and I were painting together at the edge of the garden. I was trying to make a gigantic orange tiger lily with watercolors, but both of them just wanted to paint these little sprouts that were poking through the dirt.

  I look at the tiny freckles on Hailey’s nose as she finishes the passage. When she’s done, she takes off her turquoise headband and runs her fingers through her light brown hair. Then she puts it back in, making tiny, delicate comb marks, collecting the wisps.

  I touch my sweatband on my forehead and take it off as Amelia starts writing down notes in big, loopy handwriting. I turn the sweatband around in my hands. It’s grayish-white with sweat stains. I try to imagine it’s turquoise, but it’s still grayish-white and disgusting.

  I think back to fifth grade when all I had to do was pretend and everything would be okay.

  Outside the window, the powdering of snow is still making its way down to the ground, and Finn is still perched on the window ledge. His eyes wander to the sweatband in my hand. He smiles gently when our eyes meet. I look away and put it back on. Finally, he hops down and makes his way around the classroom to listen in on everyone’s discussions. When the bell rings, we pack up our stuff. “So,” Lila says, looking mostly at Amelia, “you should sit with us at lunch.” She stands up and straightens her pink shirt under her backpack straps.

  I look to Amelia quickly. “Okay, great!” she says, smiling up at Lila.

  I swallow hard and Lila looks at me. “You, too, Grayson,” she adds. “If you want.”

  I look from her to Amelia, nod and smile. “Okay,” I say.

  “Great,” Amelia adds, beaming. “We’ll see you fifth period.”

  At lunchtime, Amelia and I sit with the girls in the middle of the table. We spread our lunches out in front of us. The tabletop is crowded with water bottles and half-filled plastic bags. Hannah takes a rubber band off her wrist and gathers her curly brown hair into a ponytail. She glances at me for a second and smiles. I wonder if she still paints, and I almost ask her, but I don’t. Amelia rests her elbows on the table next to me as she talks to Lila. Meagan bounces her knee across from mine. She almost seems a little bored. Even though I’m happy to be sitting here, I can’t stop thinking about how weird it must look from the outside—five girls and a boy.

  We sit with them every day that week, but I hardly say anything. It kind of surprises me to hear all of them, but especially Lila and Amelia, gossiping about kids from our class. I wonder if, before Amelia and I joined them, they ever used to talk about me.

  On Friday after dinner, the phone rings. It’s Amelia.

  “Hey, Grayson,” she says. “Do you mind if we don’t go to Lake View tomorrow? It turns out there’s something else I have to do.”

  I swallow hard. “Oh. That’s okay,” I tell her, trying not to sound disappointed, as I walk quickly to my room with the phone. I close my door. “Do you want to go Sunday instead?”

  There’s a pause. “Um, I think my mom said my aunt and uncle are coming to town to visit us on Sunday, but I’m not sure.”

  “I guess we could just go next weekend,” I tell her.

  “Okay,” Amelia says. “Sorry about that. So, have a good weekend. I’ll see you at school, okay?” I lean back on my bed.

  “Sure, great,” I tell her, staring at my blinding white ceiling. We say good-bye, and I hang up and throw the phone onto my pillow. I try to tell myself it’s not a big deal, it’s just one weekend, but disappointment settles over me like icy snow. I look at the bird in Mom’s painting. I try to focus on it to keep myself from crying.

  IT TURNS OUT that I wouldn’t have been able to go with her anyway. The next morning, Uncle Evan comes in just as I’m waking up to tell me that Grandma Alice is dead. “Adele told me that she went very peacefully in her sleep,” he says as he sits on the edge of my bed.

  “Oh,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else. I think of her soft hands and blue eyes.

  “I just got off the phone with the funeral home. We’ll bury her tomorrow. Okay?” he says, watching me carefully. I feel like I should be doing something, like crying, but all I can do is nod.

  Uncle Evan waits for a minute before saying, “Okay,” one more time. “So, if you don’t want to talk, I guess I’ll give you a little space. Aunt Sally and I are in the dining room if you need us.” He gets up and watches me for a few more seconds before gently closing my door.

  I look at Mom’s smiling face in the picture next to me. Her hair is blowing around her cheeks. On my bookshelf with my old toys and books from Cleveland are the framed pictures: the blue house, Dad holding me outside of my preschool, Mom pushing me in a swing at a park. I get out of bed and look at them, one by one. I keep waiting to feel sad about Grandma Alice, but I can only think of Mom’s face, and how, if she got to be a grandma, she probably would have looked just like Grandma Alice did.

  The truth is that Grandma Alice had been pretty confused for as long as I could remember. It had been years since we really talked when I visited her. Mostly I’d just sit in her rocking chair and draw while she wiped down the clean countertops over and over again.

  I guess there were those really thin lemon cookies that we used to eat together at her kitchen table when I was younger. I remember them now. And the narrow tin of freshly sharpened colored pencils that Adele always had ready for me. And there was the way the sunlight would come through the thin, waving curtains in the summertime when the windows were open. The gross nursing home smell would blow away, and the light would paint waves on the dark blue rug. They would move whenever the wind rustled the curtains. I used to bring my stuffed animals in my backpack, and Grandma Alice and I would sit in the middle of the waves and pretend my teddy bears were swimming all the way across a rough, giant ocean.

  I’d kind of forgotten about that until now.

  I don’t want to go to the funeral, but in the end, Aunt Sally and Uncle Evan convince me that it will be okay. It’s freezing at the cemetery and the sky is gray. I stand between them in the swirling snow and watch Grandma Alice disappear into the ground.

  ON MONDAY MORNING I sit in Humanities, organizing my notebooks and folders and watching everyone file in. I keep thinking about Grandma Alice’s coffin being lowered into the dark hole. I’m looking for Amelia, and finally, just as the bell is about to ring, she walks in with Lila. I wave to her, but she doesn’t see me. The two of them are too busy talking and smiling at each other, and, as they come closer, I notice that they’re wearing almost identical outfits.

  Their sweaters and skirts are crisp and new looking. The skirts flow to the ground, and the deep-red fabric looks bright against their black Uggs, especially Amelia’s brand-new ones. The skirts are made of thin, gathered fabric that swishes and flows as they walk, and looking at them makes me remember Grandma Alice’s curtains in the summertime. And the purple skirt at the Second Hand.

  I stare at my fingernails as Amelia walks over to our desks. I think of her phone call and how she said there was something else she had to do on Saturday. My brain races faster than my mouth can work. “Hey, Amelia” is all I can manage to get out.

  “Hi!” She’s whispering now under Finn’s voice. “Did you have a good weekend?”

  How could she just ditch me for Lila and then pretend that nothing is wrong? I’d been planning to tell her about Grandma Alice, but I just force a smile and nod. Luckily, I don’t have to talk anymore because Finn is telling us that he’s giving us quiet, independent work time all week since our big papers are due on Friday.

  I take out my notebook, but I can’t concentrate. I wonder if Amelia and Lila will spend every Saturday together from now on. I’ll be stuck at home, doing nothing, just like before. And now I can’t even go to the stupid nursing home to visit Grandma Alice. I think about the funeral, about how it was only the five of us and Adele there, and I realize that I’m the only person left from Mom’s side of the family.

  I feel like I’m disappearing.

  Once fifth period comes, I know I can’t go to the lunchroom. The thought of listening to everyone talk about their weekends and sitting there with Amelia and Lila in their matching skirts—the skirt that Amelia ditched me to buy—seems completely unbearable. I turn toward the library instead.

  Walking through the wooden library doors at lunchtime feels strange, but also familiar. Mrs. Millen looks surprised to see me. She’s sitting at her desk, eating a steaming bowl of some sort of Weight Watchers meal, just like she’s been doing for years.

  She puts her fork down when I walk in. “Hi, Grayson!” she says, studying my face. “Are you back to have lunch with me today?” She takes a sip of her Diet Coke.

  “Yeah,” I mumble, and hoist my backpack onto a desk. I sit at the empty cubicle next to it and unzip the outside pocket. I’m not hungry, but I take out my lunch bag anyway and let it thump onto the desk. I rest my chin in my hands and avoid Mrs. Millen’s gaze. I wonder if the girls will ask one another where I am, and if they’ll even care that I’m not there. Maybe they’ll be glad I’m gone: the freak boy who eats with the girls. Amelia was probably just hanging out with me this whole time until she could find better friends—girl friends. I’m such an idiot.

  I try to calm myself down. It’s not a big deal, I tell myself. You’ve eaten in here for years. I stare at the cubicle walls where kids have carved their names into the wood. I never understood what would make someone do something like that, but suddenly, I want to take out a pen and do it, too. I picture the carving, Grayson was here, and I unzip my pencil bag and glance over at Mrs. Millen. She’s still watching me curiously and she gives me a little wave, so I zip the pencil bag back up and squeeze my hands between my knees.

  There’s old tape stuck onto a wall of the cubicle in the shape of a smiley face. A wad of pink gum is shoved into one of the corners, and, right in front of me, hangs a crooked flyer. I look at it. MIDDLE SCHOOL SPRING PLAY TRYOUTS! it says in red computer print. There’s a dumb picture of an opera singer underneath the heading. I keep reading.

  WHEN? MONDAY AND TUESDAY, DECEMBER 15TH AND 16TH, 3:15–5:30.

  WHERE? AUDITORIUM

  WHAT? THE MYTH OF PERSEPHONE

  SIGN UP FOR TRYOUTS OUTSIDE OF MR. FINNEGAN’S OFFICE

  COME ONE, COME ALL!

  I stare at the flyer. We learned about the Greek gods in fifth grade. Aunt Sally and I made flash cards together before my test, with the gods on one side and a description of each one on the other. I think the myth of Persephone is the one about how the seasons were created, but I can’t remember for sure.

  My mind wanders to the kids who have always done the plays and musicals at Porter—mostly older kids who are seventh and eighth graders now. Then I think about the quiet, kind of weird kids who do crew. I can picture them sneaking around behind the scenes dressed in black, invisible. Maybe I could do crew. But my mind shifts back to all the plays I’ve seen, to the spotlight, the deep burgundy velvet curtain and the solid, wooden stage. And to how it might feel to have everyone watching you.

  I picture Amelia sitting at the lunch table this very second, laughing at every stupid thing that Lila says, and then I picture the empty place next to her, where I sat. I feel like a ghost.

  I stand up, grab my uneaten lunch, and throw my backpack over my shoulder. I burst through the doors into the empty hallway, leaving Mrs. Millen and her Weight Watchers meal behind me.

  The hallway on the fourth floor is dark and empty. Finn’s office is the first one on my right and a piece of paper is taped neatly to the closed door. TRYOUT LIST FOR THE MYTH OF PERSEPHONE is printed along the top. I scan the list quickly for an open slot until I get to the very end. The last line is the only one that’s empty: 5:15–5:30 on Tuesday.

  A blunt pencil is dangling from a piece of yarn that’s taped to the sign-up sheet. I pick it up and dig my fingernails into the worn, yellow paint. I study the imprint of my nail—proof that I’m still here—and write Grayson Sender on the line. When I drop the pencil, it sways like the pendulum on Aunt Sally and Uncle Evan’s grandfather clock as I walk away.

  I watch for Amelia at the bus stop after school. Eventually, I see her walking quickly over to me, her skirt bright against the thin layer of snow covering the ground.

  “Hey, Grayson,” she says, her breath thick in the icy air. “God, it’s freezing out. Where were you at lunch today?” I study her face as she tucks her hair behind her pinkish ears. She’s so clueless.

  “I just had a lot of homework,” I tell her, hiding my frozen hands in my jacket sleeves. “I went to the library.” I can’t bring myself to say anything more.