Текст книги "Let It Snow"

Автор книги: John Green

Соавторы: John Green,Lauren Myracle,Maureen Johnson
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Chapter Eight

Morning came in the form of a five-year-old leaping onto my stomach. My eyes popped open from the force.

“Who are you?” she said excitedly. “I’m Rachel!”

“Rachel! Stop jumping on her! She’s sleeping!”

This was Stuart’s mom’s voice.

Rachel was a highly freckled mini-Stuart with incredibly bed-messy hair and a huge smile. She smelled vaguely of Cheerios, and she needed a bath. Debbie was right there as well, nursing a cup of coffee while she switched on the Flobie Santa Village. Stuart stepped out from the direction of the kitchen.

I hate it when I wake up to find that people have been creeping around me and have seen me asleep. Unfortunately, it happens to me a lot. I can sleep like a champion. I once slept through a smoke alarm going off. For three hours. In my bedroom.

“We’re going to put off opening our presents,” Debbie said. “So this morning, we can all just have something to eat and have a nice talk!”

This was clearly for my benefit, as there were no gifts for me. Rachel’s face looked like it was going to split in two, like a piece of overripe fruit. Stuart looked to his mother, as if asking if this was really a good idea.

“Except for Rachel,” she said quickly.

It’s amazing how quickly little kids’ moods can shift. She went from total despair to elation in the time it normally takes to sneeze.

“No,” I said. “No, you guys should, too.”

Debbie was shaking her head firmly and smiling.

“Stuart and I can wait. Why don’t you go and get yourself ready for some breakfast?”

I slunk off to the bathroom, head down, to try to do some basic morning repair. My hair looked like it was trying out for the comedy circuit, and my skin was raw and chapped. I did my best with cold water and decorative hand soaps, which is to say, I didn’t make a lot of progress.

“Do you want to call your family?” Debbie asked when I emerged. “Wish them a happy holiday?”

I found myself looking to Stuart for help with this one.

“That may be hard,” he said. “They’re in the Flobie Five.”

So much for hiding that fact. Debbie didn’t seem put out by it, though. Instead, she got a gleam in her eye like she’d just met a celebrity.

“Your parents were in that?” she asked. “Oh, why didn’t you say? I love the Flobie Santa Village. And it was so silly to put them in jail. The Flobie Five! Oh, I’m sure they’ll let them talk on the phone to their daughter! At Christmas! It’s not like they killed somebody.”

Stuart looked up at me knowingly, as if to say, Told you.

“I don’t even know what jail they’re in,” I said. I felt guilty as soon as I said it. My parents were wasting away in a cell somewhere, and I didn’t even know where.

“Well, that’s easy enough to find out. Stuart, go online and find out what jail they’re in. It has to be on the news.”

Stuart was already on his way out of the room, saying he was on it.

“Stuart’s a wizard with those kinds of things,” she said.

“What kinds of things?”

“Oh, he can find anything online.”

Debbie was one of those parents who still hadn’t quite grasped that using the Internet was not exactly wizardry, and that we could all find anything online. I didn’t say this, because you don’t want people to feel that they’ve missed something really obvious, even when they have.

Stuart came back in with the information, and Debbie made the call.

“I will get them to let you talk to your parents,” she said, holding her hand over the receiver. “They have no idea how persist– Oh, hello?”

It sounded like they were giving her a bit of trouble, but Debbie beat them down. Sam would have been impressed. She handed me the phone and retreated from the kitchen, all smiles. Stuart picked up a wriggling Rachel and carried her out, as well.

“Jubilee?” my mom said. “Honey! Are you okay? Did you just get to Florida? How are Grandma and Grandpa? Oh, honey . . . ”

“I’m not in Florida. The train never made it. I’m in Gracetown.”

“Gracetown?” she repeated. “You only made it that far? Oh, Jubilee . . . where are you? Are you all right? Are you still on the train?”

I didn’t quite feel up to telling the whole story of the last twenty-four hours, so I made it nice and short.

“The train got stuck,” I said. “We had to get off. I met some people. I’m staying at their house.”

“People?” Her voice hit a high pitch of concern, the kind that said that she suspected drug dealers and molesters. “What kind of people?”

“Nice people, Mom. A mom and two kids. They have a Flobie Santa Village. Not as big as ours, but some of the same pieces. They have the gumdrop shop, with the full display. And the gingerbread bakery. They even have a first-generation Merry Men Café.”

“Oh,” she said, somewhat relieved.

I think my parents think you have to have some kind of moral character to be in the Flobie crew. Social deviants don’t take the time to lovingly set the tiny gingerbread men displays in the window of the bakery. And yet, lots of people would take that as a sign that someone was unhinged. One person’s crazy is another person’s sane, I guess. Plus, I thought I was being pretty crafty by describing Stuart as one of “two kids” instead of “some guy I met at a Waffle House with plastic bags on his head.”

“Are you still there?” she asked. “What about your train?”

“I think it’s still stuck. It got caught in a snowbank last night, and they had to turn down the power and the heat. That’s why we got off.”

Again, pretty clever to say “we” as opposed to “just me, wandering across a six-lane interstate during a blizzard.” It wasn’t a lie, either. Jeb and the Ambers and Madisons had made the trek themselves, just after I blazed the trail. Being sixteen means you have to be a genius conversational editor.

“How’s . . . ” How do you ask your mom how jail is?

“We’re fine,” she said bravely. “We’re . . . Oh, Julie. Oh, honey. I am so sorry about this. So, so sorry. We didn’t mean . . . ”

I could hear that she was about to completely lose it, and that meant that I would soon lose it if I didn’t stop her.

“I’m fine,” I said. “The people here are taking really good care of me.”

“Can I speak to them?”

Them meant Debbie, so I called to her. She got on the phone and had one of those mother-to-mother talks where they express concern for children as a whole and make a lot of scrunched-up faces. Debbie was well up to the task of reassuring my mother, and in listening to her talk, I discovered that she wasn’t going to let me go anywhere for at least a day. I heard her shoot down the idea that my train was going anywhere, that there was any chance at all I was going to make it to Florida.

“Don’t you worry,” she said to my mom. “We’re going to take good care of your girl here. We have lots of good food, and we’ll keep her nice and snug and warm until things clear up. She’ll have a good holiday, I promise you. And we’ll send her right back up to you.”

A pause while my mother made high-pitched sisterly devotions of gratitude.

“It is no trouble at all!” Debbie went on. “She’s an absolute pleasure. And isn’t this what the holidays are all about? You just take care of yourselves in there. We Flobie fans are rooting for you.”

When she hung up, Debbie was wiping at her eyes and writing a number on her “Elf List” magnetized refrigerator notepad.

“I should call about my train,” I said. “If that’s okay.”

I couldn’t get anyone on the phone, probably because it was Christmas, but a recorded voice said that there were “substantial delays.” I looked out the window as I listened to it cycle through menu choices. It was still snowing. It wasn’t as end-of-the-worldly as last night, but it was pretty steady.

Debbie lingered for a bit but then drifted off. I dialed Noah’s number. He picked it up on the seventh ring.

“Noah!” I said, keeping my voice low. “It’s me! I’m—”

“Hey!” he said. “Listen, we’re all about to sit down and have breakfast.”

“I’ve kind of had a rough night,” I said.

“Oh, no. Sorry, Lee. Listen, I’ll call you back in a little while, okay? I have the number. Merry Christmas!”

No “I love you.” No “My holiday is ruined without you.”

Now, I felt myself losing it. I got all choked up, but I didn’t want to be one of those girlfriends who sob when their boyfriends can’t talk . . . even if my circumstances were a little beyond normal.

“Sure,” I said, holding my voice steady. “Later. Merry Christmas.”

And then I ran for the bathroom.

Chapter Nine

You can only spend so long in a bathroom without arousing suspicion. Over a half an hour, and people are staring at the door, wondering about you. I was in there at least that long, sitting in the shower stall with the door closed, sobbing into a hand towel that read LET IT SNOW!

Yeah, let it snow. Let it snow and snow and bury me. Very funny, Life.

I was kind of terrified to come out, but when I did, I found that the kitchen was empty. It had been cheered up a bit, though. There was a Christmas candle burning on the middle bit of the stove, the Bing Crosby tunes were rocking out, and a steaming pot of fresh coffee and a cake were waiting on the counter. Debbie appeared from the laundry room next to the stove.

“I had Stuart go next door to borrow a snowsuit for Rachel,” she said. “She outgrew her last one, and the people next door have one just her size. He’ll be back soon.”

She gave me a knowing nod that said, I know you needed some private time. I have your back.

“Thanks,” I said, sitting down at the table.

“And I spoke to your grandparents,” Debbie added. “Your mother gave me their number. They were concerned, but I set their minds at rest. Don’t worry, Jubilee. I know holidays can be hard, but we’ll try to make this one special for you.”

Obviously, my mom had told her my real name. She pronounced it carefully, as if she wanted me to know that she had taken note of it. That she was being sincere.

“They’re usually great,” I said. “I’ve never had a bad holiday before.”

Debbie got up and poured me some of the coffee, setting the cup down in front of me, along with a gallon of milk and a massive sugar bowl.

“I know that this must be a very rough experience for you,” she said, “but I believe in miracles. I know it sounds corny, but I do. And I feel like you coming here has been a little one for us.”

I glanced up at her as I poured milk into my coffee and almost flooded the cup. I had noticed a sign in the bathroom that said FREE HUGS GIVEN HERE! There’s nothing wrong with that—Debbie was clearly a nice person—but she maybe veered toward the goofy side of soppy.

“Thanks?” I said.

“What I mean is . . . Stuart looks happier today than he has in . . . Well, I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but . . . Well, he may already have told you. He tells everyone, and you two already seem to have hit it off, so . . . ”

“Told me what?”

“About Chloe,” she said, wide-eyed. “Didn’t he tell you?”

“Who’s Chloe?”

Debbie had to get up and slice me a thick piece of cake before she could answer. And I do mean thick. Harry Potter volume seven thick. I could have knocked out a burglar with this piece of cake. Once I tasted it, though, it seemed just the right size. Debbie didn’t fool around when it came to the butter and sugar.

“Chloe,” she said, lowering her voice, “was Stuart’s girlfriend. They broke up three months ago, and he . . . well, he’s such a sweet guy . . . he took it so hard. She was terrible to him. Terrible. Last night was the first night in a long time that I saw a spark of the old Stuart, when you were sitting there with him.”

“I . . . what?”

“Stuart has such a good heart,” she went on, oblivious to the fact that I had frozen, a bite of cake halfway to my mouth. “When his father, and Rachel’s father, my ex-husband, left, he was just twelve. But you should have seen how he helped me and how he was with Rachel. He’s such a good guy.”

I didn’t know where to begin. There was something shockingly awkward about discussing Stuart’s breakup with his mom. The expression is: a boy’s best friend is his mother. It’s not: a boy’s best pimp is his mother. It’s that way for a reason.

Even worse, if it could get any worse, which it apparently could . . . I was the balm that had healed her son’s wounds. Her Christmas miracle. She was going to keep me here forever, stuffing me with cake and dressing me in oversize sweatshirts. I would be Bride of Flobie.

“You live in Richmond, right?” she chattered on. “That’s, what, a two– or three-hour drive. . . . ”

I was thinking about locking myself in the bathroom again, when Rachel came bounding in the doorway and skidding up to me in her slippers. She climbed halfway up onto my lap and studied my eyes up close. She still needed a bath.

“What’s the matter?” she said. “Why are you crying?”

“She misses her family,” Debbie said. “It’s Christmas, and she can’t see them because of the snow.”

“We’ll take care of you,” Rachel said, taking my hand and doing that adorable “let me tell you a secret” voice that little kids can get away with. In the light of her mother’s recent comments, though, it seemed kind of threatening.

“That’s nice, Rachel,” Debbie said. “Why don’t you go and brush your teeth like a big girl? Jubilee here can brush her teeth.”

Can, but hadn’t. No toothbrush in my backpack. I was really not at my best when I packed.

I heard the front door open, and a moment later, Stuart arrived in the kitchen with the snowsuit.

“I just had to look at two hundred photos on a digital picture frame,” he said. “Two hundred. Mrs. Henderson really wanted me to know just how amazing it was that it could hold two hundred photos. Did I mention that there were two hundred of them? Anyway.”

He set the snowsuit down, then excused himself to go change his jeans, which were soaked from the snow.

“Don’t you worry,” Debbie said, as he left. “I’m going to take the little miss to go play outside so you can relax. You and Stuart both got terrible chills last night. You’re staying in here and keeping warm at least until we can find out about your train. I promised your mom I would look after you. So you and Stuart stay in here and hang out. Have some nice hot chocolate, something to eat, cuddle up under a blanket . . . ”

Under any other circumstances, I would have assumed that that last sentence meant, “Cuddle up under two separate blankets, spaced several feet apart, possibly with a lightly chained wolf between you,” because that’s what parents always mean. I got a feeling from Debbie that she was fine with the situation, however we wanted to roll. If we felt the need to sit on the sofa and share a blanket to conserve body heat, she was not going to object. In fact, she was likely to turn down the heat and hide all the blankets but one. She took the snowsuit and went off in search of Rachel.

It was so alarming, I temporarily forgot my trauma.

“You look spooked,” Stuart said when he returned. “Has my mom been scaring you?”

I laughed a little too hard and coughed on my cake, and Stuart gave me the same look that he’d given me at the Waffle House the night before, when I was rambling on about tangential Swedishness and my bad cell-phone reception. But, like last night, he didn’t comment on my behavior. He just got himself a cup of coffee and watched me from the corner of his eye.

“She’s taking my sister out for a while,” he said. “So it’s just going to be us. What do you want to do?”

I put more cake in my mouth and fell silent.

Chapter Ten

Five minutes later, we were in the living room, the tiny Flobie Santa Village twinkling away. Stuart and I sat on the sofa, but not, as Debbie had probably hoped, snuggling under the same blanket. We had two separate ones, and I sat with my legs tucked up, forming a protective knee barrier. Upstairs, I could hear the muffled cries of Rachel as she was shoved into a snowsuit.

I watched Stuart carefully. He still looked handsome. Not in the same way as Noah. Noah wasn’t flawless. He had no single amazing feature. Instead, he had a confluence of agreeable aspects that were accepted by one and all to add up to one very attractive whole, perfectly packaged in the right clothes. He wasn’t a clothes snob, but Noah had a weird way of predicting what was coming next. Like he’d start wearing his shirts with one side tucked in and one side loose, and then you’d get a catalog, and every guy in it would have his shirt like that. He was always one step ahead.

There was nothing stylish about Stuart. He probably had only a slight interest in his clothes and, I was guessing, absolutely no clue that there were options on how shirts and jeans were worn. He pulled off his sweater, revealing a plain red T-shirt underneath. It would have been too generic for Noah, but there was no self-consciousness in Stuart, so it looked right. And even though it was loose, I could see that he was pretty muscular. Some guys surprise you like that.

If he had any knowledge whatsoever of what his mom was planning, he showed no sign of it. He was making amusing comments about Rachel’s gifts, and I was smiling a stiff smile, pretending I was listening.

“Stuart!” Debbie called. “Can you come up here? Rachel’s stuck.”

“Be right back,” he said.

He took the steps two at a time, and I got off the sofa and went over and examined the Flobie pieces. Maybe if I could talk to Debbie about their potential value, she would stop talking to me about Stuart. Of course, that plan could backfire and make her like me more.

There was a mumbled family conference going on upstairs. I wasn’t sure what had happened with Rachel and the snowsuit, but it sounded pretty complex. Stuart was saying, “Maybe if we turn her upside down . . . ”

Here was another question: Why hadn’t he mentioned this Chloe to me? Not that we were best friends or anything, but we did seem to get along, and he had felt comfortable enough to grill me about Noah. Why hadn’t he said something when I mentioned his girlfriend, especially, if Debbie was correct on this point, if he told everyone about it?

Not that I cared, of course. It was none of my business. Stuart had just wanted to keep his pain to himself—probably because he had no intention of trying to get anywhere with me. We were friends. New friends, but friends. I, more than anyone, could not judge someone because his parent behaved in a strange manner and got him into an awkward situation. Me, with my jailed parents and my midnight run through the blizzard. If his mom had the creepy matchmaker gene, he could not be blamed for it.

When the three of them came down the stairs (Rachel in Stuart’s arms, as it didn’t appear that she could move in the snowsuit), I felt a lot more relaxed about the whole situation. Stuart and I were both victims of our parents’ behaviors. He was like a brother to me in this respect.

By the time Debbie bum-rushed the mummy-wrapped Rachel out into the wild, I had calmed myself. I was going to have a cool and friendly hour or so with Stuart. I liked his company, and there was nothing to worry about. As I turned to commence said cool and friendly hour, I noticed that Stuart was sitting down with a clouded expression on his face. He regarded me cautiously.

“Can I ask you a question?” he said.

“Um . . . ”

He interlaced his fingers nervously. “I don’t know how to put this. I need to ask. I was just talking to my mom, and . . . ”

No. No, no, no, no.

“Your name is Jubilee?” he said. “Really?”

I crashed onto the sofa in relief, causing him to bounce a little. The conversation I usually dreaded . . . now it was the most welcome, wonderful thing in the world. Jubilee was jubilant.

“Oh . . . right. Yeah. She heard that right. I’m named after Jubilee Hall.”

“Who’s Jubilee Hall?”

“Not who. What. It’s one of the Flobie pieces. You don’t have it. It’s okay. You can laugh. I know it’s stupid.”

“I’m named after my dad,” he said. “Same first and middle name. That’s just as stupid.”

“It is?” I asked.

“At least you still have your village,” he said breezily. “My dad was never around much.”

Which was a good point, I had to admit. He didn’t sound particularly bitter about his dad. It sounded like something that was long past and no longer relevant to his life.

“I don’t know any Stuarts,” I said. “Except for Stuart Little. And you.”

“Exactly. Who calls their kid Stuart?”

“Who calls their kid Jubilee? It’s not even a name. It’s not even a thing. What is a jubilee?”

“It’s a party, right?” he said. “You’re one big traveling party.”

“Oh, don’t I know it.”

“Here,” he said, getting up and reaching over for one of Rachel’s presents. It was a board game called Mouse Trap. “Let’s play.”

“It’s your little sister’s,” I said.

“So? I’m going to have to play it with her anyway. Might as well learn. And it looks like it has a lot of pieces. Looks like a good way to kill time.”

“I never just get to kill time,” I said. “I feel like I should be doing something.”

“Like what?”

“Like . . . ”

I had no idea. I was just always on my way somewhere. Noah was not a fooler-arounder. For fun, we’d update the council Web site.

“I realize,” Stuart said, holding up the Mouse Trap box and shaking off the lid, “that you probably lead a fancy life in the big city. Wherever you’re from.”

“Richmond.”

“Fancy Richmond. But here in Gracetown, killing time is an art form. Now . . . what color do you want?”

I don’t know what Debbie and Rachel were doing, but they were out in that snow for a good two hours or more—and Stuart and I played Mouse Trap the entire time. The first time we tried to do it correctly, but Mouse Trap has all these gizmos and things that swing around and drop a marble. It’s weirdly complicated for a kids’ game.

The second time we played, we made up entirely new rules, which we liked much better. Stuart was really good company—so good that I didn’t even notice (that much) that it was taking Noah a while to call me back. When the phone rang, I jumped.

Stuart answered it, because it was his house, and he passed it to me with a kind of strange expression, like he was a little displeased.

“Who was that?” Noah asked, when I got on.

“That’s Stuart. I’m staying at his house.”

“I thought you said you were going to Florida?”

In the background, I could hear a lot of noise. Music, people talking. Christmas was going on as normal at his house.

“My train got stuck,” I said. “We crashed into a drift. I ended up getting off and walking to a Waffle House, and—”

“Why did you get off?”

“Because of the cheerleaders,” I said with a sigh.

“Cheerleaders?”

“Anyway, I ended up meeting Stuart, and I’m staying with his family. We fell in a frozen creek on the way. I’m okay, but—”

“Wow,” Noah said. “This sounds really complicated.”

Finally. He was getting it.

“Listen,” he said. “We’re about to go over to see our neighbors. Let me call you back in about an hour and you can tell me the whole story.”

I had to hold the phone away from my ear, so great was my shock. “Noah,” I said, clapping it back into place. “Did you just hear me?”

“I did. You need to tell me all about it. We won’t be that long. Maybe an hour or two.”

And he was gone, again.

“That was quick,” Stuart said, coming into the kitchen and going to the stove. He switched on the kettle.

“He had to go somewhere,” I said, without much enthusiasm.

“So he just got off? That’s kind of stupid.”

“Why is that stupid?”

“I’m just saying. I would be worried. I’m a worrier.”

“You don’t seem like a worrier,” I grumbled. “You seem really happy.”

“You can be happy and worried. I definitely worry.”

“About what?”

“Well, take this storm,” he said, pointing at the window. “I kind of worry that my car might get destroyed by a plow.”

“That’s very deep,” I said.

“What was I supposed to say?”

“You’re not supposed to say anything,” I answered. “But what about how this storm might be evidence of climate change? Or what about people who get sick and can’t get to the hospital because of the snow?”

“Is that what Noah would say?”

This unexpected pop at my boyfriend was not welcome. Not that Stuart was wrong. Those are exactly the things that Noah would have mentioned. It was kind of creepily accurate.

“You asked me a question,” he said, “and I told you the answer. Can I tell you something you really don’t want to hear?” he asked.

“No.”

“He’s going to break up with you.”

As soon as he said it, there was a physical bang in my stomach.

“I’m only trying to be helpful, and I’m sorry,” he went on, watching my face. “But he is going to break up with you.”

Even as he was saying it, something in me knew that Stuart had hit upon something terrible, something . . . possibly true. Noah was avoiding me like I was a chore—except Noah didn’t avoid chores. He embraced them. I was the only thing he was walking away from. Beautiful, popular, fabulous-on-all-levels Noah was pushing me aside. This realization burned. I hated Stuart for saying it, and I needed him to know it.

“Are you just saying this because of Chloe?” I asked.

It worked. Stuart’s head snapped back a little. He clicked his jaw back and forth a few times, then steadied himself.

“Let me guess,” he said. “My mom told you all about it.”

“She didn’t tell me all about it.”

“This has nothing to do with Chloe,” he said.

“Oh no?” I replied. I had no idea what happened between Stuart and Chloe, but I’d gotten the reaction I wanted.

He stood up, and looked very tall from where I was.

“Chloe has nothing to do with it,” he said again. “Do you want to know how I know what’s going to happen?”

No, actually. I didn’t. But Stuart was going to tell me anyway.

“First, he’s avoiding you on Christmas. Want to know who does that? People who are about to break up with someone. You know why? Because big days make them panic. Holidays, birthdays, anniversaries . . . they feel guilty, and they can’t get into it with you.”

“He’s just busy,” I said weakly. “He has a lot to do.”

“Yeah, well, if I had a girlfriend, and her parents had been arrested on Christmas Eve, and she had to take a long train ride through a storm . . . I’d have my phone in my hand all night. And I would answer it. On the first ring. Every time. I’d be calling her to check on her.”

I was stunned silent. He was right. That’s exactly what Noah should have done.

“Plus, you just told him you fell into a frozen creek and you were trapped in a strange town. And he hung up? I’d do something. I’d get down here, snow or no snow. Maybe that sounds stupid, but I would. And if you want my advice? If he isn’t breaking up with you, you should dump his ass.”

Stuart said all of this in a big rush, as if the words were blown up by some emotional windstorm deep inside. But there was a gravity to it, and it was . . . touching. Because he clearly meant it. He said everything that I had wished Noah would say. I think he felt bad, because he shifted back and forth silently after that, waiting to see what damage he had caused. It was a minute or two before I could speak.

“I need a minute,” I finally said. “Is there somewhere . . . I can go?”

“My room,” he offered. “Second on the left. It’s kind of a mess, but . . . ”

I got up and left the table.