Almost June: Chapter 1

     If I had a nickel for every time someone called me lucky, I'd be rich enough to go to the moon. Everywhere I've been, that's what people call me. I've heard it so much it might as well be my own name. It isn't, and I'd say thank goodness for that, but I'm out of the habit of being grateful right now.
     I stare out the rain-streaked windows of Grace's Honda. The clouds are dark blue-gray and look ready to explode. I hate the rain.
     I rest my elbow against the door handle, put my chin on my hands, and shut my eyes tight.
     “All serene, June?"
     I roll my eyes beneath my eyelids. The car stops. Must be at a red light. She said Sarah lives in Twisp, it's too soon to already be there.
     I hear her shift in her seat. She's probably looking at me with those pity eyes of hers. I'd bet my suitcase on that. Well, I wouldn't, but still.
     “Don't worry, hon. You're going to love her. You're very lucky to be getting to live with Sarah, you know. She…"
     I tune out her speech as soon as I hear the word lucky. Grace can call me that all she wants, but I guarantee no one in the world would want to trade places with me. Grace can go eat some kale chips or fried flowers, or whatever it is vegans can even eat.
     I've been hiding inside myself for a long time, but what she says next doubles my heart rate.
     “We're here, June-girl. Or, at least, I am. Are you?“
     I hate that nickname.
     “Don't call me that.“
     Her make-up is so thick that I can hear her smile. “There she is! Come on, let's get your suitcase.“
     I snap my eyes open. We are in the parking lot of an apartment building. It's made of rosy, red bricks, which I like because red is my favorite color right now. The white trim is so bright it hurts to look at. My eyes close involuntarily, and I have to pry them open with my fingers. When Grace exits the car, I slap my face so I'm more awake.
     Stupid brain, stupid body. At night trying to fall asleep is like trying to calm down Benny on a sugar high. Impossible. My thoughts spiral and my heart races and I sometimes can't breathe. But then during the day I'm so tired, even though I can't fall asleep.
     Grace taps on the window. The sound makes me want to pull my hair out. I slam the door and she hands me my suitcase.
     We walk into the building. Light-and-dark-gray-checked carpet, yellow-gray wallpaper, a few pictures here and there. Grace heads toward the stairs, right past the elevator.
     “Grace. My suitcase. Elevator.“
     She turns around. “Words, June. What about the suitcase? What about the elevator? You need to ex-”
     I sigh and she gives in without a word.
     She presses the button for floor 7, the highest one in the building. Good sign, the view will be far enough to see all of West County. Closer to the sky, farther from home.
     I count the dots on the ceiling tiles, and then the ones behind my eyelids. It feels like I left my stomach in the lobby.
     When the elevator opens at the top, I wait. My legs won't move. I hate when I get like this.
     Grace's hand lands between my shoulder blades. Her touch is gentle, but I jump maybe three feet into the air. Her sigh makes me shrink. My skin is a size too big for my body. “It will be okay.“
     I step out of the elevator.
     I turn left and then Grace steers me right, counting my steps until she stops me. Thirty-seven steps. The room number is 72B. Every door in the hallway has a bulletin board on the left side. Hers has a business card and a restaurant logo.
     “Do you want to knock?“ Gracie asks.
     I shake my head and pull my shirt sleeves past my hands so they aren't bunched up around my forearms. They hang all the way to my knees, so I gather the ends in my hands. It's huge, but it smells like campfires and motor oil. Just like Dad did.
     I forget the world so much that I don't notice when Grace raises my clenched fist to the door and knocks for me. I yank my hand away like hers is made of lava right before the door swings open- an approximate five seconds after Grace knocked. The perfect amount of time to wait.
     Sarah is younger than the sixty-year old I imagined- maybe thirty-five or forty? and looks like the most perfect person in the world. She's wearing faded, paint splattered jeans and a simple cotton long sleeve the color of unripe blueberries. Her brown hair is pulled back in a loose braid. Her eyes are hazel, she has freckles, and her smile is not big but the kindest one I've ever seen.
     I've never lived with another girl, I realize, not since I was three which doesn't really count. I imagine her as a mom, a sister, and I want it to be real, but I remember the grudge I'm holding against her and Dad's imminent return. I don't care if they say he's dying. He's not going to die. He promised.
     I stare at my hands. Benny is written on one, in Sharpie. I should get a tattoo.
     “It's wonderful to finally meet you, June. Good to see you, Grace.“
     I don't want to like her, but I say "Nice to meet you."
     She invites us in. The door is all the way on the right side of the apartment, and after a five foot entry we're in the living room. When I face it the kitchen is on my left, and all the way on the right is a table. On the wall by the table is a window overlooking a big green field and forest. The walls are white and covered in paintings, the carpet is a faded brown, the Formica countertops are yellow-gray, and there's flowery salmon-red wallpaper in the kitchen. The appliances look old, the cabinets are white with brown trim.
     There's a plaid armchair and a blue velvet couch around a glass coffee table. She sits us down on it and pours coffee in the kitchen.
     “Would you like some, June?“
     “Sure.“
     Grace frowns but keeps her red-painted lips shut. I have something to be grateful for now.
     She presses the mug in my hand. Her fingers are warm and soft and gentle. I take a sip. It's the most disgusting thing I've ever tasted. I love it. I take another.
     “I'll get you settled in, but then I have to go,” Grace says.
     Panic rises in my chest, my heart fluttering like a bird in a cage. Grace is annoying, but she is safe. She knows me. I don't want to be alone in this apartment with a stranger, even if she is kind.
     Sarah settles down onto the plaid chair and I think about my old house as Grace babbles about meaningless things like gas prices and the weather.
     Before August, everything was fine. Stupid August.
     I guess you could say we were rich, me and Benny and Dad. Big white house with a front porch and a nice big yard. I always got what I wanted on birthdays and Christmas. (Dad just gave me money, to buy what I wanted, and I spent it on Benny, but still.) We had our own rooms, but Benny had trouble sleeping, so he almost always ended up in mine on the floor or with me. I didn't care. Benny was my favorite person in the world.
     Dad wanted to be a pilot, but couldn't hold down a job. He didn't inherit any money either, his mom died giving birth and his dad was a mean drunk. Soon as he turned eighteen, he joined the Air Force, fought in the Vietnam War, and killed people (from the air) and got hit by a missile while flying his plane. He came back with a Purple Heart, money, and lots of problems.
     Dad has two emotions: manic happiness and depression. He's one or the other almost all the time of the time and you never know when, why, how he'll act, or how long it'll last. The other rest of the time he's regular, which is actually better than when he's crazy happy.
     But whatever one of the three it is, one thing never changes. I am the one who keeps us alive.
     Example: Dad is in a state of manic happiness. He wants to take us out for ice cream and see concerts and go on hikes or to the circus or join the circus. Me and Benny get home from school, he wants to go-go-go to the forest to take a five-mile hike.
     I say that's too far, it's too close to dinner, but a two or three-mile hike sounds good so that we do something more reasonable, and he doesn't get sad again. I tell him where we should go and make sure Benny has the right shoes and clothes on and we have sunscreen and bug spray and snacks. We do the hike and even though it's short, Benny is tired, and we don't get home until late.
     Dad goes to the bar for dinner. I make Kraft mac 'n cheese for me and Benny and distract him so he isn't sad about Dad leaving, tuck him in, and clean the house and do the dishes and fold Dad's laundry.
     I had trouble sleeping a lot, so after chores I'd go lay on the grass and stare at the stars for a little while. I learned that shooting stars aren't rare like people think, I saw one or two every week.
     Not anymore. Not since Benny died.