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Authors: Marsha Qualey
Tags: Young Adult
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fingers on his knee. “Clear enough to me, Arden. You’ve lost your parents, you’ve just lost your brother, and now you want to keep your home.”
“Exactly. Thank you.” John frowned. Mrs. Rutledge folded her hands. “Can’t I even try to make it on my own?”
They all looked at each other, except for Al, who was staring at his feet, the position he’d been in all night. I wasn’t sure why they’d brought him. Maybe to reinforce Scott’s wishes, to be the best friend who knew what the deceased really wanted.
He raised his head and looked straight at me. “Scott was hoping you’d get to art school, see the world,” he said. “He hoped you would do all the things he didn’t do.”
Yes, I’d guessed right.
“So for his sake, if they let you have your way, don’t fuck up.”
Mrs. Drummond inhaled sharply, her husband crossed his legs, John glanced at Mrs. Drummond, embarrassed for her. Mrs. Rutledge, a veteran school counselor used to a wide vocabulary, nodded.
“Any application for emancipation would be subject to evaluation,” she said, “and we’d all have input. You’d have to show you were taking responsibility for yourself.”
“In other words, you’d be watching.”
“For your own good.”
“We may as well give her a chance,” Al said. His sharp tone caught my attention and made me wonder if he too was wrestling with dreams. I thought back to all the summer nights when he and Scott worked on the ’Cuda in the garage, laughing, putting away a few beers. More than once I’d heard Al coaxing Scott to get a snowmobile, making slightly dirty jokes about the thrill of the ride between his legs. Maybe he was blaming himself.
“If she wants to be alone so bad,” Al said, “let her try it. Geez, she’ll be eighteen in a year anyway.”
They all murmured, Good point, yes, yes.
Mrs. Rutledge looked around. “Trial period of a month, shall we say?”
“A month ?” I screeched. I wouldn’t have the house cleaned in a month.
“End of the school year,” said Mr. Drummond.
John tidied up the stack of papers, tapping them sharply against the briefcase. “Unless there’s even the slightest indication that we need to step in earlier.” They all turned to me grimly.
“Then,” said Mrs. Drummond, “we tie the purse strings”—John nodded—“and get tough.”
For my own good.
“I need to think,” I said, and stood up. “Why don’t we call it quits for now? Would anyone like something to eat? There’s lots.”
They all rose, John dropping papers off his lap. “Will you come into the office and sign things?” he asked. “We need to get the names straight on the accounts, figure out some sort of an allowance. And would it be okay if I took a look at Scott’s desk and the computer? I need to make sure I have all the financial records.”
I shrugged. “Help yourself.”
“There’s one more thing.”
I massaged my forehead. Stop it, stop it, stop it
“Walt Lorenzo told me to tell you that he’ll need Scott’s truck back.”
I looked at him. They’re hammering at my life and he wants to talk about the truck?
“It was leased on an employee program. Fortunately, the Honda is yours, right?”
I nodded as they all started discussing other things: the will, bank accounts, mutual funds, cars, insurance, our lawn service.
John saw that I wasn’t tracking. “It never fails to make me feel like a goon, but I always have to tell clients that death uncovers a lot of details.”
They all murmured, Yes, yes, so many things.
Details. That moment I felt more alone than ever. I was swimming in a nightmare while everyone else had moved on to details.
* * *
While John searched the study and Scott’s room for financial records, Mrs. Rutledge, Al, and Mrs. D. moved on to the kitchen for tea. Mr. Drummond followed, then paused in the doorway. “She brought you some manicotti,” he said. “She’ll probably start making double batches of everything.”
“I don’t
“Exactly. Thank you.” John frowned. Mrs. Rutledge folded her hands. “Can’t I even try to make it on my own?”
They all looked at each other, except for Al, who was staring at his feet, the position he’d been in all night. I wasn’t sure why they’d brought him. Maybe to reinforce Scott’s wishes, to be the best friend who knew what the deceased really wanted.
He raised his head and looked straight at me. “Scott was hoping you’d get to art school, see the world,” he said. “He hoped you would do all the things he didn’t do.”
Yes, I’d guessed right.
“So for his sake, if they let you have your way, don’t fuck up.”
Mrs. Drummond inhaled sharply, her husband crossed his legs, John glanced at Mrs. Drummond, embarrassed for her. Mrs. Rutledge, a veteran school counselor used to a wide vocabulary, nodded.
“Any application for emancipation would be subject to evaluation,” she said, “and we’d all have input. You’d have to show you were taking responsibility for yourself.”
“In other words, you’d be watching.”
“For your own good.”
“We may as well give her a chance,” Al said. His sharp tone caught my attention and made me wonder if he too was wrestling with dreams. I thought back to all the summer nights when he and Scott worked on the ’Cuda in the garage, laughing, putting away a few beers. More than once I’d heard Al coaxing Scott to get a snowmobile, making slightly dirty jokes about the thrill of the ride between his legs. Maybe he was blaming himself.
“If she wants to be alone so bad,” Al said, “let her try it. Geez, she’ll be eighteen in a year anyway.”
They all murmured, Good point, yes, yes.
Mrs. Rutledge looked around. “Trial period of a month, shall we say?”
“A month ?” I screeched. I wouldn’t have the house cleaned in a month.
“End of the school year,” said Mr. Drummond.
John tidied up the stack of papers, tapping them sharply against the briefcase. “Unless there’s even the slightest indication that we need to step in earlier.” They all turned to me grimly.
“Then,” said Mrs. Drummond, “we tie the purse strings”—John nodded—“and get tough.”
For my own good.
“I need to think,” I said, and stood up. “Why don’t we call it quits for now? Would anyone like something to eat? There’s lots.”
They all rose, John dropping papers off his lap. “Will you come into the office and sign things?” he asked. “We need to get the names straight on the accounts, figure out some sort of an allowance. And would it be okay if I took a look at Scott’s desk and the computer? I need to make sure I have all the financial records.”
I shrugged. “Help yourself.”
“There’s one more thing.”
I massaged my forehead. Stop it, stop it, stop it
“Walt Lorenzo told me to tell you that he’ll need Scott’s truck back.”
I looked at him. They’re hammering at my life and he wants to talk about the truck?
“It was leased on an employee program. Fortunately, the Honda is yours, right?”
I nodded as they all started discussing other things: the will, bank accounts, mutual funds, cars, insurance, our lawn service.
John saw that I wasn’t tracking. “It never fails to make me feel like a goon, but I always have to tell clients that death uncovers a lot of details.”
They all murmured, Yes, yes, so many things.
Details. That moment I felt more alone than ever. I was swimming in a nightmare while everyone else had moved on to details.
* * *
While John searched the study and Scott’s room for financial records, Mrs. Rutledge, Al, and Mrs. D. moved on to the kitchen for tea. Mr. Drummond followed, then paused in the doorway. “She brought you some manicotti,” he said. “She’ll probably start making double batches of everything.”
“I don’t
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