1
Kennedy
My orange and white cheerleading skirt spills over my thighs and onto the driver’s seat of my Jeep Wrangler.
In the passenger seat next to me, my pom-poms ruffle with every gust of wind that blows through the car. As does my hair, which I shouldn’t even have bothered tying back in a ponytail. I’m eating chunks of my long chocolate locks, but it’s worth it to keep the doors off my truck until it’s so cold I’m forced to put them back on.
Khalid’s voice bumps through my speakers as I hang a right, my pom-poms coming dangerously close to falling onto the street below. Indigo Drive comes into view in all of its picturesque glory. It’s almost like the street I grew up on is trying to boast it’s all-American, tree-lined, white picket fence, well … street cred, for lack of a better word. When I was growing up on Indigo, there was a dog in every other yard, kids riding bikes until dusk, block parties; you name the Stepford suburb activity and our street had it. Each house includes some red brick in its design, sports an ample lawn that isn’t too close to the neighbor’s yard, and a range of expensive flowers dotting the front walk. My parent’s even put in a porch swing to add curb appeal.
Although, let’s not get too judgmental on clichés. I am the captain of the cheerleading squad who just ended her first day of senior year by sitting on the hood of her truck with her friends in the parking lot before cheer practice because it’s the first year we’ve been allowed to drive to school and congregate after the final bell.
As I slow my speed, one of the newer mothers on the street swings a glare my way as her baby wails in her arms. Whatever, I lived here first. And it’s only three p.m., I’m allowed to turn my car speakers to the max. It’s practically a teenage rule of law.
Why are there so many people on the sidewalk? I wonder idly as my hands turn the wheel skillfully and practiced into the driveway of number nine Indigo Drive.
Grabbing my black backpack, with its Brentwick High School logo stamped on the front pocket, in one hand and my pom-poms in the other, I hop out of the truck. After a long day of school, the expectations of teachers, running cheer practice on my own, and already feeling the pressure of the college application process, I could use a snack. And maybe a nap. But I have homework, on the first freaking day, and my best friends want to grab sodas at the diner. Since my curfew has been extended to midnight, even on a school night, I better make the most of the last year in my hometown before college.
“Kennedy! Oh, Kennedy. They found him! He’s alive.”
Right before my mother’s body slams into mine, I can see the rivulets of tears running down her face. She looks mad, like she’s on the brink of a psychotic episode, and I’m so confused as she sobs into my shoulder.
I’m a carbon copy of this woman, same height, same brown hair, same big brown eyes. She blushes when strangers in public ask if she’s my older sister. It just makes me glower, though I love her to the moon and back.
“What? What are you doing?” I try to push her back, because I genuinely have no idea what she’s talking about.
Mom hiccups, sucking in a lungful, and a stinging awareness passes through me right before she opens her mouth. The words she just spoke finally penetrate my brain, soaking into the nerve endings and cortexes and all the tissue that is there to help you process, well, everything.
He’s alive.
“Everett, honey. They rescued him. He’s alive. Oh, thank God. Marcia and Grady got the call two hours ago, that he was on US soil. He’s coming home. Everett is coming home.”
Have you ever been so shocked that all you can do is laugh? It’s a morbid reaction to emotional news, especially horrible news. Not that this is horrible news, this is incredible news. But I’ve always been one of those people who cackles hysterically in high-pressure, sad, emotionally charged, or otherwise situations. It’s a defense mechanism, like my soul can’t take the seriousness of the matter so it revolts against societal norms.
Well, my tried and true behavioral technique doesn’t fail me now. While the rest of the neighborhood stands on the street crying tears of joy and weeping with relief, I double over, spill my pom-poms on the driveway, and laugh my goddamn head off.
“He’s … coming … home.” I giggle, holding my hand over my mouth to make it appear like I’m crying.
“Oh, Kennedy, not now!” Mom scolds, chiding me.
As if I can help this. I want to roll my eyes at her, but I’m too caught up in my fit of chuckling to do so.
It’s comical, if you think about it. For an entire year, I’ve mourned the death of the boy I’ve dreamed about since I was old enough to have crushes. Laughter is the only way to react to the news that the prisoner of war, the hometown hero the entire town wept over, is coming home. That he’s alive.
Everett Brock. And just like that, my memory jumps back two years’ time, to the last time those bright green eyes held mine.
The rumbling of the truck coming down the street is unmistakable. No ordinary car sounds like that. It isn’t the sleek, black car of death that visited the house next door just nine short months ago. That vehicle had been silent and vicious in its attack on our street.
No, this one announces its presence, causing everyone on the street to whip their heads toward it.
I make out the camouflage paint on the old Ford pickup before I even realize that it’s headed straight for me. Everything feels like a dream right now, as if my life is moving in slow motion but my heartbeat has settled somewhere between manic and atrial fibrillation.
I straighten, my mouth sobering to the point that not only will laughter not come out, I’m not even sure breath is escaping past my lips.
He’s in there, I know it. Why else would an army vehicle from the base about an hour from here be driving down the street we both grew up on?
“Oh my Lord …” Mom gasps, because everyone is watching this like some kind of car crash they can’t look away from.
None of us have any idea what he might look like.
A car is fast on the truck’s tail, and this one I would know anywhere. Marcia and Grady Brock come screeching around the corner in their navy blue BMW, and the car slams into park on the street. They’re out in a flash, dashing across the driveway, and Marcia sends a watery smile Mom’s way.
The door to the truck opens in the driveway next door, an officer pulling the handle.
I see a boot first, black, scuffed. Part of me wants to look away, wants to wait until he’s fully out of the car. I’m not sure I can handle it bit by bit, or if seeing him full-on for the first time in two years will be worse.
But I am helpless at this point. I wish I could stop time, have a minute or two more to process this.
A long leg follows it, and then another, and then he’s appearing from the truck as if he hasn’t risen from the dead.
No longer the boy I waved goodbye to as he drove off to basic training, Everett stands before me in the body of a man. Ropey muscles coat his arms, the height I thought he possessed before now put to shame by the couple extra inches he miraculously sprouted since eighteen. A scruffy beard masks most of his face, and his hair is too long and greasy, but anyone can see how intensely handsome he is, even under the coarse forest.