Chapter 15 Ella

Chapter 15

Ella

"You can try all you want, but I assure you, I'm not going to the Fall Fling."

That was me, yesterday, walking down the school hallway with Brynn! as she tried desperately to convince me that the Fall Fling was a necessary part of the high school experience and a rite of passage that would forever remain as an incomplete stain on my memory without my partaking.

Famous last words, I suppose.

Turns out, I'm going to the Fall Fling.

But let it be known that I am going stag. There is no date. There is no romantic companionship of any kind. There's literally no one because I turned down the only person who asked me.

I have Max to thank for giving me a change of heart—even though I'm not going with him. And that's fine. He'll have fun with Libby and her pickled pigs' feet. After all, pickling is an art. I bet Libby is full of fun facts about brine ratios and fermentation times. It will be a night to remember.

Anyway…

The reason I'm going now is because Max left another Post-it note in one of my books when he came by yesterday after school. It's become something of a tradition. A week has passed since he showed up at my window that night, bloodied and broken-down, needing an escape. I still don't know why he came to me, but maybe he felt the same thing I felt that day at the lake. The day we skipped stones and the foreign sound of my own laughter fused with the breeze.

That afternoon sure felt like an escape.

So, maybe I get it.

The book he left open for me was a poetry compilation by T. S. Eliot called Four Quartets . The poem was titled "Little Gidding" and the following passage was underlined:

"What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from."

The quote has little to do with senior-year Fall Fling festivities, but something about it had me reconsidering.

I even bought a dress.

After classes let out today, I rode my bike into town. I strolled over to a nearby consignment shop and browsed the dress selections, armed with a devil-may-care attitude and my fifty dollars from Grandma Shirley. I spotted it instantly, sandwiched between two black dresses on a cluttered clothes rack. A beacon of vivid orange. A fireball of adolescent dreams.

A tangerine tube dress glowing bright amid a sea of drab neutrals.

My fate was sealed.

I was going to the dumb dance.

I sprawl the new dress out across my bedspread, smoothing the wrinkles and grazing my fingertips down the bright-orange front. It's a simple dress, sleeveless, with a straight-cut neckline. It cinches slightly at the waist while the hem kisses just above my knees.

As I hold it up in front of me and turn to face the mirror, my mother knocks on the door. "Ella?"

"Present."

She enters, poking her head inside. When she spots me doing something other than sulking, she gasps and the door swings open wider. "Honey, that's beautiful. You look terrific."

I make a sour face. Terrific is such a weird word. "It's okay," I reply with a shrug, even though a smile teases my lips.

"Is that for Fall Fling?"

"No, it's for a funeral. I seem to have died and been reborn as a teenager who attends school dances." I tilt my head and pop a hip, assessing the dress from all angles. "Dead Me deserves a punchy send-off."

Mom never appreciates my humor. She folds her arms and leans against the doorjamb, her chestnut hair freshly colored as it waterfalls over her shoulders. Silver flecks were beginning to spawn, which almost sent her into a midlife crisis at forty-five years old. I guess she's about due. Luckily, she works at a hair salon, so now all is right with the world. The crisis has been postponed.

"Are you going with Max?" Mom wonders.

Instinct has me glancing at my bed—the bed where I fell asleep against his shoulder last week like it was just a normal, everyday thing to do. Heat blossoms on my cheeks, so I swivel away from my mother's probing eyes to discard the dress. "No, I'm going alone. Can you give me a ride tomorrow night?"

"Of course. Why are you going alone?"

"Because Max asked me and I said no. Now he's going with Libby." There's no bite to my tone. There isn't.

"Hmm," she hums in that Mom way. "He's handsome."

My heart jumps a little. "He's all right. What are your thoughts on molecular genetics? We're learning about that in biology."

She sighs. "My thoughts are that you picked up the gene of swift subject changes just like your father used to—" Mom cuts herself short when my head whips toward her and tries to blink away the words. "Sorry."

I'd be a hypocrite if I gave her crap for the Dad slip, considering the number of times Jonah's name has tumbled from my lips. It's funny how the two most important people in our lives have been reduced to instant conversation killers. "It's fine."

"I, um, I actually have something for you. These came in the mail." Straightening from the doorframe, Mom pulls an item from the pocket of her black dress pants. Envelopes, folded in half. "Here."

At first I think they're checks from Grandma Shirley, since she's the only person who sends me mail and Lord knows she wouldn't miss another fifty dollars. But when I step closer and scan the letters scribbled on the front of one of them, the handwriting doesn't match. It doesn't match at all.

My stomach lurches.

RIVERBEND MAXIMUM SECURITY INSTITUTION

NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE

Our eyes meet. Mine widening, Mom's misting with a gloss of tears. My hand trembles as it reaches for the envelopes and I try to find my voice. "Thanks."

"I didn't read them. I've hung on to them for a while… I was worried about how you'd react."

All I do is nod.

"Ella…I've seen progress over the last couple of weeks." Swallowing, she lifts an arm and gives my shoulder a firm squeeze. "You're smiling again. You seem like you're in a better place."

I keep nodding, mindlessly. I'm nodding because if I don't do something to distract myself, I'll burst into tears and collapse at her feet. I don't want to burst into tears. I don't want to collapse. Crying is exhausting and collapsing will skin my knees and make me bleed. I'm just so sick of hurting. I've been collecting fresh wounds as often as I collect new books.

Mom swipes at her eyes and retreats slowly, monitoring my condition. My excessive nodding condition. "I'm here if you need me," she says. "I'll be in the kitchen."

The moment the bedroom door closes, I race over to my bed and tear open one of the envelopes, revealing a hand-scrawled note inside.

Jonah.

Jonah, Jonah, Jonah.

I cup a hand around my mouth and begin to read.

Piglet,

I had a dream about the Hundred Acre Wood last night. I go there a lot when the days are long and the nights are longer, and that's where I find you. You're always waiting for me like a home on two legs. Only, last night was different…you weren't there. I stood on our favorite bridge with a stick in my hand and watched through the trees, waiting for you to come and join me. But the woods remained silent and my stick slipped from my fingers into the river below, carried away by water.

I haven't heard from you and I understand why. You think I killed them. I saw it in your eyes that last day in court. You think I deserve to be sentenced to death for a crime constructed by thirsty prosecutors and media mongrels.

You think I belong here.

But in my dreams I belong at home. With you and Mom. I should be watching over my little sister, protecting her like I swore I always would.

I go by a lot of names these days: Monster. Murderer. Psychopath. Sicko. Inmate #829. But I hope that when you think of me…

I'll forever be your Pooh Bear.

Love always,

Jonah

The letter flutters to my bedcovers as a painful gasp is wrenched from my throat.

I burst into tears and collapse.

***

Jonah's letters are tucked inside my hobo bag like some kind of security blanket as we roll up to the dance at seven thirty the following evening. I don't know why I brought them. The words and sentiments sweep through my mind as I stare at the strobe-strewn glass of the gymnasium with my ass glued to the passenger seat.

Piglet,

Can I still call you that? I hope so.

A lot of things have changed, but I pray that'll never be one of them.

I got into a fight with one of the guards, Olsen. He's a no-good prick in a lot of ways, but want to know why I snapped?

He disrespected my baby sister.

He saw a picture of you that Mom sent me before telling me in detail what he wanted to do to you. So I showed him where that train of thought will take him.

My cuffed hands were around his neck before he could take another useless breath. I kind of blacked out, but I guess I managed to get a good hit in before another guard tore me off him.

They placed me in an isolation unit for a while, and I'm sure there will be more bullshit consequences. They say Olsen will recover just fine, but I'm betting his shattered nose will be a reminder for him to watch his fucking tongue.

Anyway, I'm still protecting you.

Even from hundreds of miles away.

Even on death row.

Jonah

Mom glances at me as I try to shake off the gloom, the image of Jonah beating up a prison guard playing out in my mind over and over. When I was younger, I felt like Jonah's violent outbursts in my honor were respectable and brave. Now, it's just a chilling reminder of why he's sitting in a jail cell on death row.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

"Fine." I'm lost in his letters, wondering how he held up in isolation, wondering if there were consequences, and wondering why I should even care.

Stop caring, Ella.

Life will be so much easier if you stop caring.

There's a little white stone tucked inside my hand, growing sweatier by the second. I've stopped pondering why I carry it with me these days; I just do. For whatever reason, it brings me comfort. It centers me, acting as a calming tether to the girl I once was. The girl who curled her hair and who laughed more than she cried.

I thought about curling my hair tonight but didn't. It looks the same as it always does, blow-dried and loose, hanging over my shoulders in red-brown waves. I tried to cover up the evidence of my sleepless night with concealer and a few strokes of shimmery champagne eye shadow. My lips are glossy. My dress fits nicely. Overall, I don't look nearly as terrible as I feel.

My mother stares at me. I see her studying me in my periphery as the headlights across from us shine light on my nervous jitters. I squeeze the stone tighter.

"You'll have fun tonight," she tells me, putting the car into park when I don't move. "And you look so pretty."

Pretty.

Max told me I was pretty while we stared out at the lake together and a bonfire roared with laughter behind us. It was the nicest thing anyone had said to me in years. I ran from the compliment, just like I ran from his proposal to go to the dance together. He said we'd make it fun and I believed him. It's the only reason I'm here right now, looking pretty. "Thanks," I mutter, throwing Mom a weak smile. "I'll find a ride home later."

"I'll stay up. I have a lot of work to do, anyway. Text me if you need me to come get you."

I have no idea what work she has to do, but I force a nod.

She gives my bare knee a squeeze, her irises glimmering grayish-green. Mom looks happier than she used to. There's a flicker of real joy shining back at me.

"Have a good time," she says before I hop out.

I scoot from the seat and push open the passenger door, plopping the stone into my ratty old hobo bag. Not exactly a fancy dance accessory, but fancy doesn't suit me anymore. "See you later," I say. Then I shut the door and dally on the curb, awkward and alone, while the car pulls away and disappears into the night.

I glance at the front of the building, picking at my thumbnail. A blur of colorful dresses and swinging hair moves in time to overproduced music while seizure-inducing lights filter through the double-glass doors.

With a deep breath, I step forward in my worn-out high heels and enter the building. The DJ blasts me with a poppy rendition of "Take Me Home Tonight" by Eddie Money as I clutch the strap of my hobo bag and try not to trip and face-plant into a sea of glitter-filled balloons. Mercifully, a punch stand is set up in the corner of the gymnasium, so I beeline toward it as a source of distraction.

I'm gulping down my second helping when someone from my art class slides up beside me. I think his name is Brandon.

"Ella, right?" he says, reaching for a plastic cup of punch. "I'm Landon. We have art together."

"Cool." I don't think it's very cool.

He nods, his gaze assessing me in a lazy pull, from my apricot scuffed heels to the hint of cleavage peeking out from my neckline. "You look terrific," he says.

I blink.

Terrific.

"Terrific" is one of those words that becomes less of a word the more you say it. I don't know why. It makes my nose scrunch up and my eyebrows crinkle every time I hear it, and then I proceed to repeat it over and over inside my head until it becomes an un-word.

I realize my face is doing the opposite of what it should be doing in the wake of a compliment, so I overcompensate with crazed eyes, a full-toothed grin, and a sluggish nod, making me look like that GIF of Jack Nicholson nodding creepily from Anger Management .

Landon backs away slowly.

One down .

I steal another cup of punch in hopes that my bladder will save me from this nightmare and I can hide out in the bathroom for a while. Shuffling over to the far wall that looks to be void of human contact, I lean back and twirl the cup between my fingers. The gym is alive with strobes and noise as my gaze floats from one gyrating body to the next in search of someone familiar I can latch onto.

Brynn!.

Kai.

Even McKay.

Mostly, I'm searching for…

Max.

I straighten against the wall, my grip on the cup tightening when I spot him by one of the round tables. Brynn! is a vision in flamingo pink as she whispers something in McKay's ear and they both grin, while Libby stands beside Max in a silver-sequin dress and a short blond bob that's been partially pulled up with glitz-studded pins.

Her manicured hand is clamped around his bicep. She's leaning in toward him while he looks around the room, notably fidgety. Possibly bored. Dressed in a modest white button-down tucked into dark slacks, he still manages to look striking. Hair lightly tossed with gel and sleeves rolled up past his elbows, Max scrubs a hand over his face and scratches at the shadow of stubble along his jaw.

He keeps looking around.

Scanning. Searching, just like I was.

My instincts scream at me to bolt, to run, to flee the scene before he sees me. I shouldn't have come. Libby is clearly his date and I'm the weird chick ogling him from across the room after turning down his multiple invitations. It's kind of pathetic if I'm being honest with myself, and I don't want to add that to my laundry list of glaring flaws.

But my feet remain firmly planted on the linoleum floor.

My body doesn't move.

Pathetic wins.

I freeze further when I notice Max falter, then blink. He pivots toward me, almost like he felt me somehow. His attention is on the floor first, gaze aimed at my heels, before it travels up my legs in a languid slide until, finally, he lands on my face.

Our eyes snag.

We hold tight across the strobe-lit dance floor as my pulse revs and my heart skips.

I watch a look cross over his face. Something I can't describe. It's almost like a time-stopped beat of pure awe.

Swallowing, I glance around me, thinking perhaps he's staring at one of the sexy cheerleaders in a slip dress shaking her ass to my left. But when my gaze pans back to him, I know that he's not. He's looking directly at me. And his expression hasn't wavered, hasn't dimmed or grayed. He sees me and he's seeing something that brings him awe.

Me with tired eyes and everyday hair that isn't curled.

Me in a neon-orange dress plucked from a thrift shop rack.

Me…

Staring back at him with the exact same look in my eyes.