Read Online Briana's Gift by Lurlene McDaniel - Free Book Online
Authors: Lurlene McDaniel
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don’t have to go postal. I’m just trying to be a friend.”
I hang my head. “Sorry,” I say.
He reaches over, puts his hand on my shoulder. “We worry about you. I think about you a lot.”
“You do?”
His eyes look like deep pools of blue water. My heart thuds like a jackhammer.
“There you two are! I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Melody’s voice saves me from drowning.
Stu drops his hand from my shoulder, waves her up to where we’re sitting. “Break time.”
She climbs up, eyes us suspiciously. I stand, my insides quivering. “Back to work,” I say. “How was dance?”
“Same-same. How are tree sales?”
“We have enough for Mendoza to buy himself a new baton and a whistle,” Stu jokes.
Melody breaks into laughter. I only smile. Stu’s stab at humor isn’t
that
funny. I precede them outside, glad for the sharp slap of cold on my face. I go over the conversation I’ve had with Stu. He said he was worried about me. He said he thought about me.
A lot!
Do we have a chance to be more than friends? If only Melody hadn’t barged in when she did. Something will have to change drastically if I’m ever going to be more than just friends with Stu. And that something does
not
include Melody.
On most days my brain is a bouncing ball. My thoughts flash from Briana to her nameless baby, from Stu to Melody, from me-Melody-Stu to schoolwork, from band practice to the coming holidays. I start to think about one thing but before I can concentrate on how to deal with it, my brain cells jump to something else and I end up not figuring out anything about
anything.
I hate rubber-ball thinking!
Mom’s really busy closing out year-end books for different clients, so she’s barricaded in her office for long hours. I’ve practiced my solo parts for our holiday show so much that I can perform them in my sleep, and I finish homework assignments ahead of schedule. I have time to myself, and I spend much of it in Bree’s bedroom. I don’t know why I feel better sitting in her room, but I do. I’ve neatened it up, put things into place, vacuumed and dusted, although I know she’s never coming back to stay here again. The only thing I don’t do is wash her bedding. The pillow still holds her scent and I press my face into it, close my eyes and imagine she’s still alive.
I’ve always looked up to her. Growing up, she was too busy to pay me much attention, but I never minded. I
liked
her, thought she was cool. I didn’t argue with Mom like Bree did. I guess I never liked yelling or being yelled at. Bree must have thought it was her duty to make up for my lack of spirit. Mom made rules Bree refused to follow—Mom called it damage control—but when Bree was around, life was never dull.
I go back to my earliest and most vivid memory of my sister. Daddy has died and Mom is packing up our old house for the move to Tennessee. I’m sitting on the porch steps, my face buried in my hands, crying. Mom has told me to sit down and stay out of the way. I’ve been sitting there and crying forever when Bree comes over and gives me a tissue. “What’s the problem, Sissy?”
“I miss Daddy,” I say.
She looks sad. “I miss him too.”
“What if Daddy comes home and we’re gone?” I obviously haven’t gotten the death angle straight in my head. “What if he can’t find us?”
“He’s not coming home.”
“But why? Did I do something wrong?”
“Don’t you remember the funeral, Sissy?” I nod. “The man in the box was Daddy.”
The man in the box hadn’t looked a thing like my father to me. My daddy smiled a lot. The man in the box never moved. “I only looked once,” I confess. I remember shutting my eyes tight right after Mom led me to the casket and told me to tell Daddy goodbye.
“Remember how we rode in the big car to the cemetery? Remember how they buried the box in the hole in the ground?”
“But the pastor said Daddy was sleeping.” I hear the
I hang my head. “Sorry,” I say.
He reaches over, puts his hand on my shoulder. “We worry about you. I think about you a lot.”
“You do?”
His eyes look like deep pools of blue water. My heart thuds like a jackhammer.
“There you two are! I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Melody’s voice saves me from drowning.
Stu drops his hand from my shoulder, waves her up to where we’re sitting. “Break time.”
She climbs up, eyes us suspiciously. I stand, my insides quivering. “Back to work,” I say. “How was dance?”
“Same-same. How are tree sales?”
“We have enough for Mendoza to buy himself a new baton and a whistle,” Stu jokes.
Melody breaks into laughter. I only smile. Stu’s stab at humor isn’t
that
funny. I precede them outside, glad for the sharp slap of cold on my face. I go over the conversation I’ve had with Stu. He said he was worried about me. He said he thought about me.
A lot!
Do we have a chance to be more than friends? If only Melody hadn’t barged in when she did. Something will have to change drastically if I’m ever going to be more than just friends with Stu. And that something does
not
include Melody.
On most days my brain is a bouncing ball. My thoughts flash from Briana to her nameless baby, from Stu to Melody, from me-Melody-Stu to schoolwork, from band practice to the coming holidays. I start to think about one thing but before I can concentrate on how to deal with it, my brain cells jump to something else and I end up not figuring out anything about
anything.
I hate rubber-ball thinking!
Mom’s really busy closing out year-end books for different clients, so she’s barricaded in her office for long hours. I’ve practiced my solo parts for our holiday show so much that I can perform them in my sleep, and I finish homework assignments ahead of schedule. I have time to myself, and I spend much of it in Bree’s bedroom. I don’t know why I feel better sitting in her room, but I do. I’ve neatened it up, put things into place, vacuumed and dusted, although I know she’s never coming back to stay here again. The only thing I don’t do is wash her bedding. The pillow still holds her scent and I press my face into it, close my eyes and imagine she’s still alive.
I’ve always looked up to her. Growing up, she was too busy to pay me much attention, but I never minded. I
liked
her, thought she was cool. I didn’t argue with Mom like Bree did. I guess I never liked yelling or being yelled at. Bree must have thought it was her duty to make up for my lack of spirit. Mom made rules Bree refused to follow—Mom called it damage control—but when Bree was around, life was never dull.
I go back to my earliest and most vivid memory of my sister. Daddy has died and Mom is packing up our old house for the move to Tennessee. I’m sitting on the porch steps, my face buried in my hands, crying. Mom has told me to sit down and stay out of the way. I’ve been sitting there and crying forever when Bree comes over and gives me a tissue. “What’s the problem, Sissy?”
“I miss Daddy,” I say.
She looks sad. “I miss him too.”
“What if Daddy comes home and we’re gone?” I obviously haven’t gotten the death angle straight in my head. “What if he can’t find us?”
“He’s not coming home.”
“But why? Did I do something wrong?”
“Don’t you remember the funeral, Sissy?” I nod. “The man in the box was Daddy.”
The man in the box hadn’t looked a thing like my father to me. My daddy smiled a lot. The man in the box never moved. “I only looked once,” I confess. I remember shutting my eyes tight right after Mom led me to the casket and told me to tell Daddy goodbye.
“Remember how we rode in the big car to the cemetery? Remember how they buried the box in the hole in the ground?”
“But the pastor said Daddy was sleeping.” I hear the
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