Jay Asher - What Light

Caleb shuts the tailgate behind another tree in the back of his truck. “Are you sure you have time for this?” he asks.

Actually, I do not have time for this. The lot gets slammed after the parade every year, but we came straight back and I asked Mom if I could go on this one run with Caleb. She gave me thirty minutes.

“It’s not a problem at all,” I say. Two more cars pull up to our lot and he gives me a skeptical look. “Okay, maybe it’s not the most convenient time, but I want to do this.”

He dimple-grins and walks around to his door. “Good.”

We pull up to a small, dark house only a few minutes away and both get out. He takes the middle of the tree and I grab the trunk. We walk up a few concrete steps to the front door and adjust our grips. At the sound of Caleb ringing the doorbell I can feel my heart start to race. I’ve always enjoyed selling trees, but surprising people with them is a whole new level of excitement.

The door opens fast. An irritated man glares from Caleb to the tree. An exhausted-looking woman beside him gives the same look to me.

“The food bank said you were coming earlier,” he snaps. “We missed the parade waiting for you!”

Caleb drops his gaze momentarily. “I am so sorry. I told them we’d be here after the parade.”

Through the doorway, I see a playpen in the living room with a diapered baby asleep inside of it.

“That’s not what they told us. So were they lying?” the woman says. She pulls the door open wider and nods into the house. “Just put it in the stand.”

Caleb and I carry in the tree, which now feels ten times heavier, and get it set up in a dark corner while they watch. After adjusting it a few times to make it as straight as possible, we stand back and look it over with the man. When he doesn’t object, Caleb motions for me to follow him back to the door.

“I do hope you have a merry Christmas,” Caleb says.

“It’s not off to a great start,” the woman mutters. “We missed the parade for this.”

I begin to twist around. “We heard you the—”

Caleb grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door. “Again, we’re very sorry.”

I follow him out the door, shaking my head. When we get back in the truck, I unload. “They didn’t even say thank you. Not once!”

Caleb starts the engine. “They missed the parade. They were frustrated.”

I blink. “Are you serious? You brought them a free tree!”

Caleb throws the truck into reverse and eases into the street. “I’m not doing this to earn a gold star. They had a little baby and they were probably tired. Missing the parade—misunderstanding or not—would be frustrating.”

“But you’re doing this with your own money on your own time…”

He looks at me and smiles. “So you would only do this if people tell you how awesome you are for it?”

I want to scream and laugh about how ridiculous those people were. About how ridiculous Caleb is being right now! Instead, I’m left speechless and he knows it. He laughs and then looks over his shoulder to change lanes.

I like Caleb. I like him even more every time I see him. And this can only lead to disaster. I’m leaving at the end of the month, he’s staying, and the weight of everything not said between us is growing too heavy to carry much longer.

Back at the lot, Caleb puts the truck in park but keeps the engine running. “Just so you know, I am very aware of how mean they were about getting a free tree. I have to believe, though, that everyone is allowed a bad day.”

The lights surrounding the lot bring shadows into Caleb’s truck. He looks at me, his features half hidden, but his eyes catch the light and beg to be understood.

“I agree,” I say.

It’s the busiest day at the lot so far. I barely have time to go to the bathroom, let alone eat lunch. So I pick at a bowl of mac and cheese at the counter in the rare moments between ringing up customers. Monsieur Cappeau sent an email this morning asking me to call him over the next day or so pour pratiquer, but that’s way down on my need-to-do list.

Today’s tree delivery came early again, not only before we opened but before any of the workers even arrived. Dad called a few of the more dependable ballplayers to come in early, so at least there were a handful of us to tiredly unload the shipment.

As exhausted as I am from unloading so many trees before breakfast, I’m grateful for the extra business. It feels like things may be picking up, and keeping the lot open another year could be a possibility.

I stand beside Mom at the register and point toward Mr. and Mrs. Ramsay outside. I attempt some tree lot commentary, like Caleb and his friends at the parade.

“Folks, it looks like the Ramsays are arguing over whether or not to pay extra for this stunning white pine,” I say.

Mom looks at me as if questioning my sanity, but I continue.

“We’ve seen this before,” I say, “and I don’t think I’m spoiling it to tell you Mrs. Ramsay will get her way. She’s never been a fan of the blue spruce, no matter what Mr. Ramsay says.”

Mom laughs, motioning for me to keep my voice down.

“A decision looks imminent!” I say.

Now we’re both glued to the scene playing out within our trees.

“Mrs. Ramsay is flapping her arms,” I say, “calling for her husband to just make up his mind if he wants to bring home anything at all. Mr. Ramsay compares the needles on both trees. What’s it going to be, folks? What’s it going to be? And… it’s… the… white pine!”

Mom and I throw our hands in the air and then I give her a high five.

“Mrs. Ramsay wins again,” I say.

The couple enters the Bigtop and Mom, biting her cheeks, ducks out. When Mr. Ramsay sets the final twenty-dollar bill on the counter, Mrs. Ramsay and I exchange knowing smiles. I hate to see anyone leave even slightly discouraged, so I tell Mr. Ramsay they made a great choice. White pines hold their needles better than some trees. They won’t need to vacuum them up before their grandkids arrive.

Before he can put away his wallet, Mrs. Ramsay takes it from him and slides me a ten-dollar tip for my help. They both leave happy, although she good-naturedly swats him and tells him he’s too cheap for his own good.

I stare at the ten-dollar bill, a hazy idea taking shape. I rarely receive tips since most people tip the guys who load their trees.

I send a text to Heather: Can we do some cookie making at your house tonight? Our trailer is a good home away from home, but it’s not built for a baking frenzy.

Heather texts back right away: Of course!

I immediately text Caleb: If you do a delivery tomorrow, I want to go. I’ll even have something to contribute besides my beguiling personality. I bet you never used that in a sentence!

A few minutes later, Caleb responds: I have not. And yes you may.

I tuck my phone away, smiling to myself. For the rest of the afternoon and evening the anticipation of spending more time with Caleb keeps me going. But as I count out the register at closing, I’m aware that this time needs to be about more than trees and cookies. If he makes me feel this happy now, and I can easily see things growing more intense, I need to know what happened with his sister. He did admit something happened, but knowing all that I do about him and all that I’ve seen, I can’t imagine it’s as bad as what some people believe.

At least, I hope it’s not.

Time drags at half-speed the next day. Heather and I were up late talking and baking Christmas cookies at her house. Devon stopped by in time to add frosting and sprinkles and help us sample about a dozen of them. With firsthand experience now, I agree that his stories are mind-numbing. His skills at cookie design almost made up for it, though.

I finish showing a customer how to price our trees based on the colored ribbons tied to them. Once he gets it and moves on, I hold on to one of the trees and close my heavy eyes for a moment. Upon opening them, I see Caleb’s truck pull in and feel suddenly fully awake.

Dad notices the truck, too. When I head to the Bigtop, he meets me at the register, a few tree needles stuck to his hair.