Six Feet Over It by Jennifer Longo Page B

Emily’s mother.
    “Lisa and Caroline are completely made-up names.” Kai says.
    “Are not!”
    “Then why don’t you ever go to their houses? Talk to them on the phone?”
    I lean back in my black chair. “Kind of busy. Graves to sell.”
    “See, that’s what I’m saying! This sucks, you shouldn’t be here all the time.”
    “No, it’s not … I mean they’re busy, too. Cheerleading.”
    “Your friends are cheerleaders ?”
    “Yes! I can broaden my friend horizons if I want. We see each other at school; that’s our thing. It’s our jam.” I wrap the story up with an even-breezier-but-still-not-so-breezy-it-sounds-fake laugh, which to my ears does not land but seems to work for Kai.
    She smooths silver York wrappers on her knee, folds some tiny origami.
    “And you’re positive …” She leans back in the chair and gives the office another once-over. “This is okay?”
    “ Yes, God!”
    She’s as eager to be convinced as I am for her to be.
    “Well,” she says. “You need more light. Get a lamp.”
    “Yeah.” I exhale. “Definitely, you’re right. Floor lamp, maybe. I’ll tell Wade.”
    She pinches the corner of a wrapper, holds up a York crane. “Ooh, you could get Grandpa to send you the wagon wheel!”
    Grandpa’s love of the American West is expressed primarily via his extensive Willie Nelson eight-track tape collection, his cowboy hat and boot wardrobe, and the wagon wheel: an actual wheel from a covered wagon suspended above his and Gramma’s dining room table, wired for electricity and fitted with a bunch of red glass globes. Eating beneath it this past summer felt like being in a saloon; it made us want to toss peanut shells on the floor and spit at the stove. I smile, until the wagon wheel yanks me back to the yellow letter, and the sting of missing Emily—but then a van comes through the Manderleys. Kai sits up, turns to see who’s here.
    Rivendell.
    “Oh cripes,” I whisper, hunkering down in my chair.
    “What?”
    “Nothing. Flowers. Go soak your leg before it falls off. I’ve got homework.”
    She drops a fistful of tiny, shiny cranes on the desk calendar and lugs her backpack off the wingback.
    “Don’t work too hard.”
    I wave Ovid at her. “Yeah. It’s tough.”
    She reaches across the desk to squeeze my face and kiss my cheek. A sweep of cold air rushes in and she closes the door behind her, still safe. Still happy. Unburdened by me.
    Through the windows I watch her slowly walk the road, her beautiful curls tucked snugly beneath a warm, wool knit hat, blue stripes the color of her eyes. At the veterans section she limps her way through the headstones to the Rivendell van to shake Elanor’s dad’s hand, his wispy ponytail carefree in the wind. Balin of the dice hops from the van, and she shakes his hand. I wait for Elanor to climb out, a flower van clown car—but not today. The three of them chat. Kai laughs. Balin’s face stays fused toward hers despite their hilarious height difference, even while lifting pots of flowers to the graves. Man, that guy is lanky. Dark curls fall all over his face. That whole family needs haircuts, stat.

five
    TODAY IS EMILY’S BIRTHDAY. December thirteenth. One guilt-spawned choice of where to spend summer vacation and I’ve traded all the rest of her birthdays for Kai’s.
    Dario is down in a grave in Serenity. Real Nice Clambake is out with her sister, Shirley Jones belting from the boom box at the top of her Broadway lungs. I figure out how to use my pencil with bulky warm gloves on, then pour myself wholly into a stack of stapled algebra work sheets.
    Ducks quack once in a while.
    Wind whistles and moans around the office eaves.
    Emily’s face is flushed, peeking around the open door.
    My heart stops.
    “Hi!”
    Elanor. Elanor’s face.
    “Busy?” She steps in, hugs herself warm. Black tights today. Gray skirt, black-and-purple-striped sweater, voluminous wool scarf, swimming-pool blue. The boots.
    I rub my temples.