“Why’re you covered with mud?” I asked, emboldened by the personal nature of his last question.
He looked up at me and grinned. He had a beautiful smile that spread across his whole face, and small chiseled teeth. His nose had an odd sort of flatness to it—just at the tip—as if someone had leaned in and pressed it against the palm of his hand, but it only added to his good looks. “This isn’t mud,” he said. “It’s clay.” He jerked his head toward the back of the house. “I’m a potter.”
He was a potter? He didn’t look much older than Milo. “How old are you?” I asked.
He laughed a little. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
If Mom had told me once she’d told me a hundred times never to ask people their age. It was horrible manners. I dropped my eyes and kicked a little at the dirt around my foot. “No reason. You just…look kind of young, I guess. To be a potter, I mean.”
“I’m twenty-four,” he said. “And I wasn’t aware that there was an age limit for potters. How old are you?”
“Seventeen,” I answered. “Almost eighteen.”
“You gonna be a senior this year?”
“Actually, I just graduated. I’m going to college in the fall.”
“Oh. Cool. I’m going to Seattle in the fall.”
“Seattle?” I repeated. “To do what?”
“Set up a pottery studio. Do my own thing.”
I looked up, studying him for a moment. “What kind of pottery do you make?”
He went back to picking the dried clay off his arms. “Stonewear, mostly. Vases, mixing bowls, mugs. I just finished a big pitcher that…” His voice trailed off. “Well, actually, the pitcher didn’t turn out that great.”
“Was that what you were kicking around up there?”
He snorted. “Among other things.”
“Rough day?”
“You have no idea.”
“I’m having one of those days myself,” I said.
He stopped picking. “Your sister?”
I didn’t answer. It was Sophie, sure. But it was so much else too. Even if I couldn’t put it into words yet.
He looked back down when I didn’t respond. Shrugged a little. “Whatever. It’s none of my business.” He stuck out his hand suddenly. “Aiden,” he said.
“Julia.” I took his hand in mine. It was warm and rough. “Nice to meet you.”
“And you.”
“Well, I have to get back.” I didn’t have to get anywhere, really. It just seemed like the thing to say. “Good luck on your pottery.” I paused. “Or should I say, cleaning up your pottery.”
Aiden raised only his left eyebrow. “Thanks.”
I started walking down the road again as he moved back up the lawn. But I paused again as the stone wreath on the front door caught my eye. “Hey, Aiden!” I yelled.
He turned. “Yeah?”
“Did you make that wreath on the door?”
He shook his head. “That’s my dad’s!” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “He’s into making weird stuff like that. It amuses him.”
I smiled and waved. “Tell him I like it!”
Aiden lifted his arm. “Will do. Later!”
“Later?” I thought to myself, walking down the remaining length of road.
Later when?
My head began to pound along the inside of my temples as I crossed Main Street. Sophie’s house was less than half a block away. I stopped when I glimpsed her blond hair in the distance. She was sitting on the railing of the front porch, her hands braced on either side of her. Her back was to me, and her feet swung in front of her.
What if I didn’t leave tomorrow? What if I stayed? What would happen if I gave Sophie the time she obviously needed to talk about Maggie? The sudden thought sent prickles along the tops of my arms. Mom. Dad. The internship at the courthouse. Mom. Dad.
Jesus. I would have to call Mom and Dad. They would say I wasn’t staying on course. Which I wasn’t. Suddenly, inexplicably, I was thinking of veering off in my own direction. And the worst part about it was that I wasn’t even sure if it was the right thing to do. What if I was making a huge mistake? What if, by staying here for however long it was going to take, I was screwing up everything they had worked so hard to lay down for me, brick by brick, year after year?
I squeezed and unsqueezed my hands as I watched Sophie light a cigarette and exhale the smoke toward the porch ceiling. A chip of paint, large as a lemon, fluttered down and landed lightly on top of her head. Sophie reached up with one hand and pulled it out of her hair. She looked at it a moment, and then threw it—hard—across the porch. Her shoulders slumped as she steadied herself along the railing again, and her head hung low between them.
“Okay,” I whispered to myself as I resumed walking again.
“Okay, Sophie. All right.”
chapter
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