17. CODY

CODY

2014

“ N o, not like that,” Clementine pointed to the paper and shook out her brown hair from the pigtails it was in. It had gotten long over the summer, and I wanted to put my fingers in it. “Cael, are you even paying attention?” She smacked me with her pencil.

“Yeah, you said I have to carry the six and divide it by eight,” I mumbled, removing my stare from her face. Failing freshman math hadn’t been my brightest move, but conning Clementine into tutoring me? That was the smoothest move I could have ever made.

“We aren’t even doing division,” she laughed and leaned back against the couch.

Clementine’s entire house smelled of roast chicken and sweet potatoes. It was a mess of patchwork furniture, too much art, and brightly colored walls. My Dad called it a fun house, not a home, but it felt warm and welcoming for reasons I couldn’t understand at fourteen. Mrs. Matthews was in the kitchen with my Mama, singing as they cooked dinner and giggled in bouts of hushed whispers and gasps.

“Cael.” Clementine pinched my thigh and stared at me with her soft chocolate eyes and rosy cheeks. “If you wanna get this credit, you have to pay attention. No girl is gonna wanna date a loser who can’t pass basic math.”

“Correction, Plum, you wouldn’t date a loser who can’t pass basic math. You’re too good for that.” I scrunched my nose up and extended my legs across the old carpet.

Clementine slammed her textbook closed as Mr. Matthews wandered in through the back door with a bundle of flowers in one hand and his lunch kit in the other. Mrs. Matthews tucked the flowers away with a quick kiss and told him to go wash up for dinner. Thinking back, there wasn’t a day when Mr. Matthews hadn’t come with flowers for her, always different, always beautiful. Their house smelled of nature and was littered with petals from old bouquets that Mrs. Matthews hadn’t gotten around to tidying up. Clementine loved those petals. She’d collect them and press them into books. All over the house, there wasn’t a book without petals tucked carefully inside. I even found them in my textbooks, leaving them there for the next student to find. Little pieces of Clementine.

Now they’ll last forever , she would whisper and press a few more.

Standards that would no doubt have to be met for a lifetime.

I hoped whoever was lucky enough to buy Clementine flowers for the rest of her life understood that. I huffed gently, unable to bear the idea of bare books.

“Let’s go for a walk,” she declared, pushing off the floor and straightening out her yellow sundress before she held out her hand to me. She wiggled her fingers when I didn’t take it right away.

“Fine, stay here, see if I care, but don’t complain to me when they start making you peel carrots,” she said.

That got me moving. I pressed my hand into hers, and she mocked a grunt as she pulled me off the floor.

“I’m going to have to start threatening you with peeling carrots more often,” she laughed under her breath and gave my palm a squeeze as we wandered through the kitchen.

My current favorite thing about Clementine was how she never let go first. Her fingers tangled in mine as she dragged us toward the back door. Her skin was soft and warm and fit perfectly in my palm. Our stupid bracelets rubbed together as she pulled on my arm to make me move faster.

“Come on, slowpoke,” she whined and slipped her shoes on. I sighed under my breath and uncurled my fingers from hers. My sneakers were harder to get on, and I silently cursed every second of lacing them before jogging out the back door toward her .

“You’re so fast. Where are we going?” I asked her, tugging on the fabric of her dress to slow her down a bit.

She swatted my hand away and looked over her shoulder, “Anywhere we don't have to peel carrots!”

We walked down around the creek and, with each flower I passed, I scooped it into my hand, collecting a bundle before Clementine even noticed what I was doing. “Hey, Daydream,” I called out to her.

When she turned to look at me, the wind kicked up her soft brown hair, and the setting sun seeped through it in thick rays, framing her in the most glorious way. My breath caught in my throat at the sight of her, and my chest tightened in her presence like it never had before.

“These are for you.” I handed her the flowers and watched her bury her nose in them. “You can press them into your books.”

She stared down at them, her fingers brushing over the petals softly. “Just like Momma’s,” she smiled, “but these are mine. I’ll have to find a special place for them.”

Anything she said after was mute, the smile on her face creating a pocket of warmth deep within me that I hoped never cooled.