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Authors: Leah Konen
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could have happened.”
I REMEMBER THE police cars that morning, Jason’s head bent down as the cops led him away, but I didn’t think it was anything that bad. Maybe a little weed or a discovered fake or something. The Bonneville police would jump at anything more exciting than speeding tickets. A few hours later, Lyla called.
“Get Mom now,” she said.
“What’s wrong?” She was away at the beach with her two best friends. I imagined a tragic accident in the water. A drowning or a shark attack. I still didn’t put any of it together.
“Just get Mom,” she said again. “I need to come home now.”
I rushed up the stairs and knocked twice on my parents’ bedroom door before bursting in. Mom was applying eyeliner in front of the mirror, fresh out of a gardenia-scented bath, hair in curlers and a plush robe knotted at her waist.
“What is it?” I could tell from her voice that she already knew something was wrong.
I pushed the phone at her. “Lyla sounds upset.”
The eyeliner dropped to the floor and rolled towards me as she took the phone with both hands. “Baby,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
I stood there, my fists clenching and unclenching, as her eyes got big and she sucked in breath and said, “Oh my goodness,” and, “Is he all right?” and, “Where was the fire?”
I didn’t move, didn’t drop her gaze. I couldn’t have even if I’d wanted to.
She gripped the phone tighter. “Wha- aat ?” Her voice was a half parabola, long and steady at the front and questioning at the end, exponentially shocked.
Someone had done something bad.
“Wait, Lizzie’s Jason?”
I couldn’t hear Lyla’s answer, but the look on her face said enough. My stomach lurched. For a few terrifying moments, I was sure something had happened to him.
“No,” Mom said. “No. I’ll be right there. Don’t worry.” She hung up.
“What is it?” I asked. “Mom, is Jason okay?”
She looked at me the way she’d looked at me when I was five, when after an hour and a half in the Splash Mountain line at Disney World, I was three-quarters of an inch too short to ride. She knew she was going to break my heart, but there was nothing in the world she could do about it.
She told me what Jason did to Skip, as I sat on her bed and tried not to hyperventilate, hugging me tight, her sharp curlers prickling my cheek. I didn’t understand it then. And I still can’t understand it now.
I fold the paper, drop it back in the box. Jason got more than his share of newspaper mentions, but this is the one that makes it all real, the one I constantly come back to. The one that reminds me, when my mind gets away from me, just who Jason is.
Because a lifetime of chili dinners and backyard playdates and bittersweet nostalgia can’t change what Jason Sullivan has done.
Chapter 7
W EDNESDAY IS DEVOTED ENTIRELY TO WEDDING stuff. As soon as I’m back from babysitting, Mom’s all ready to go. She’s got a whole list of things for us to do before the bridal shower, next Sunday, and I have to help her with all the details, because she wants everything to be a surprise for Lyla.
Suzanne meets us at the caterers. “Hey, y’all,” she says in her chirpy voice. She gives me a big tight hug and says, like she always does: “Honey, you need to eat more.”
“Oh, stop,” I say, and I gesture under my lip. Suzanne picks up my cue, wipes away the smudge of pesto. She must have started tasting without us.
There are two kinds of Southern belles. There are the ones like my mother, prim and proper, the ones who always know the right thing to say, who send thank-you notes in a week or less, and who monogram pretty much everything they own.
Then there are ladies like Suzanne. Indulgent and just a little bit wild; they live on dishes like creamed spinach and mac ’n’ cheese, swear a little more than they should, cackle when they laugh, and occasionally lace their sweet tea with bourbon.
It’s not that they don’t have
I REMEMBER THE police cars that morning, Jason’s head bent down as the cops led him away, but I didn’t think it was anything that bad. Maybe a little weed or a discovered fake or something. The Bonneville police would jump at anything more exciting than speeding tickets. A few hours later, Lyla called.
“Get Mom now,” she said.
“What’s wrong?” She was away at the beach with her two best friends. I imagined a tragic accident in the water. A drowning or a shark attack. I still didn’t put any of it together.
“Just get Mom,” she said again. “I need to come home now.”
I rushed up the stairs and knocked twice on my parents’ bedroom door before bursting in. Mom was applying eyeliner in front of the mirror, fresh out of a gardenia-scented bath, hair in curlers and a plush robe knotted at her waist.
“What is it?” I could tell from her voice that she already knew something was wrong.
I pushed the phone at her. “Lyla sounds upset.”
The eyeliner dropped to the floor and rolled towards me as she took the phone with both hands. “Baby,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
I stood there, my fists clenching and unclenching, as her eyes got big and she sucked in breath and said, “Oh my goodness,” and, “Is he all right?” and, “Where was the fire?”
I didn’t move, didn’t drop her gaze. I couldn’t have even if I’d wanted to.
She gripped the phone tighter. “Wha- aat ?” Her voice was a half parabola, long and steady at the front and questioning at the end, exponentially shocked.
Someone had done something bad.
“Wait, Lizzie’s Jason?”
I couldn’t hear Lyla’s answer, but the look on her face said enough. My stomach lurched. For a few terrifying moments, I was sure something had happened to him.
“No,” Mom said. “No. I’ll be right there. Don’t worry.” She hung up.
“What is it?” I asked. “Mom, is Jason okay?”
She looked at me the way she’d looked at me when I was five, when after an hour and a half in the Splash Mountain line at Disney World, I was three-quarters of an inch too short to ride. She knew she was going to break my heart, but there was nothing in the world she could do about it.
She told me what Jason did to Skip, as I sat on her bed and tried not to hyperventilate, hugging me tight, her sharp curlers prickling my cheek. I didn’t understand it then. And I still can’t understand it now.
I fold the paper, drop it back in the box. Jason got more than his share of newspaper mentions, but this is the one that makes it all real, the one I constantly come back to. The one that reminds me, when my mind gets away from me, just who Jason is.
Because a lifetime of chili dinners and backyard playdates and bittersweet nostalgia can’t change what Jason Sullivan has done.
Chapter 7
W EDNESDAY IS DEVOTED ENTIRELY TO WEDDING stuff. As soon as I’m back from babysitting, Mom’s all ready to go. She’s got a whole list of things for us to do before the bridal shower, next Sunday, and I have to help her with all the details, because she wants everything to be a surprise for Lyla.
Suzanne meets us at the caterers. “Hey, y’all,” she says in her chirpy voice. She gives me a big tight hug and says, like she always does: “Honey, you need to eat more.”
“Oh, stop,” I say, and I gesture under my lip. Suzanne picks up my cue, wipes away the smudge of pesto. She must have started tasting without us.
There are two kinds of Southern belles. There are the ones like my mother, prim and proper, the ones who always know the right thing to say, who send thank-you notes in a week or less, and who monogram pretty much everything they own.
Then there are ladies like Suzanne. Indulgent and just a little bit wild; they live on dishes like creamed spinach and mac ’n’ cheese, swear a little more than they should, cackle when they laugh, and occasionally lace their sweet tea with bourbon.
It’s not that they don’t have
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