Jay Asher - What Light

I send a text to Heather that afternoon: What exactly would a holiday love affair entail?

The sun has barely risen, but I have two texts waiting for me when I wake up.

The first is from Rachel, complaining about the amount of work it takes to plan a winter formal when sane people are either cramming for finals or holiday shopping. If I were there, I know she would easily convince me to help, but there’s not much I can do from nine hundred miles away. Thankfully, balancing my work on the lot with schoolwork isn’t too difficult. My teachers send class notes and visuals, and I do the assignments when things slow down and I can hop online. Talking to Monsieur Cappeau once a week won’t be the most fun thing in the world, but at least I won’t fall out of practice for the oral part of my French grade.

Sitting on my bed, I read the second text from Heather: Please say you’re serious about a holiday boyfriend. Devon spent the whole night talking about his fantasy football team. Save me! I’m about to make him need a fantasy girlfriend.

I stand up, texting: A really cute guy bought a tree yesterday.

As I’m on my way to take a shower she responds: Details!

Before I can untie the knot on my drawstring pajama bottoms, she texts again: Never mind! Tell me when I bring lunch.

After the shower, I put on a gray sweatshirt and jeans. I pull my hair into a high ponytail, tug out a few strands so they’re loose around my face, add a bit of makeup, and then step out into the cool morning. In the Bigtop, Mom stands behind the counter putting change in the register. When she sees me, she points at my still-steaming Easter egg mug on the counter, with a candy cane already sticking out.

“Have you been up long?” I ask.

She blows gently across the surface of her own drink. “Not everyone can sleep through those texts pinging on your phone.”

“Oh. Sorry about that.”

Dad walks over and kisses us both on the cheek. “Morning.”

“Sierra and I were talking about her text messages,” Mom says. “I suppose she doesn’t need her beauty sleep, but—”

Dad gives her a kiss on the lips. “You don’t need it either, honey.”

Mom laughs. “Who said I was talking about me?”

Dad scratches the graying stubble along his jaw. “We did agree it’s important for her to stay connected to her friends back home.”

I decide not to tell them one of the texts was from Heather.

“That’s true,” Mom says, and then shoots me a look. “But maybe ask your life back home to sleep in occasionally.”

I imagine Rachel and Elizabeth right now, probably on the phone planning the rest of this long Thanksgiving weekend.

“Since you brought up life back home,” I say, “I think it’s time you told me whether or not we’re coming back next year.”

Mom blinks and rears back her head. She looks at Dad.

Dad takes a long drink from his thermos. “Eavesdropping on our conversations?”

I twist a loose strand of hair. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, I overheard your conversations,” I clarify. “So how worried should I be?”

Dad takes another sip before answering. “There’s no reason to worry about the farm,” he says. “People will always want Christmas trees, even if they buy them at a superstore. We just may not be selling them ourselves.”

Mom touches my arm, an uneasy look on her face. “We will do everything we can to keep the lot open.”

“It’s not only me I’m concerned about,” I say. “Of course I want it to stay open for personal reasons, but this place has been here since Grandpa opened it. It’s where the two of you met. It’s your life.”

Dad nods slowly and ultimately shrugs. “The farm is our life, really. I guess with all the early mornings and late nights back home, I’ve always seen this as the prize. Watching people get excited about finding the right trees. It’ll be hard to let that go.”

I admire so much that they’ve never let this become just a business.

“All that will still be happening with our trees,” Dad says, “somewhere, but…”

But someone else will get to watch it happen.

Mom drops her hand from my arm and we both look at Dad. This would be the hardest for him.

“The lot has barely broken even the past few years,” he says. “Last year, with the bonuses I gave to the crew, we actually lost money. We made up for it with the wholesalers, and I guess that’s where things are turning. Your Uncle Bruce has been really focusing on that while we’re gone.” He takes another sip. “I’m not sure how much we can handle before we finally admit…”

He trails off, unable to say it—or unwilling to say it.

“So this might be it,” I say. “Our last Christmas in California.”

Mom’s face is a mirror of gentleness. “We haven’t decided anything, Sierra. But it might be a good idea to make this one memorable.”

Heather steps into the trailer carrying two more bags of leftovers. Her eyes are electric, and I know she wants me to dish on the cute guy who came by yesterday. Devon walks in after her, looking at his phone. Even with his face bowed, I can tell he’s good-looking.

“Sierra, this is Devon. Devon, this is… Devon, look up.”

He looks up at me and smiles. His short brown hair frames round cheeks, but it’s his comforting eyes that make me like him immediately.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say.

“You too,” he says. He holds my gaze long enough to prove his sincerity, and then his face dives back into his phone.

Heather hands Devon one of the bags of food. “Baby, go bring this to the guys out there. And then help them out loading trees or something.”

Devon takes the bag without glancing up from his phone and then leaves the trailer. Heather sits across from me at the table, and I move my computer onto the pillow beside me.

“I’m guessing your parents weren’t home when Devon picked you up,” I say. Heather looks confused, so I point at her hair. “It’s a little messy in back.”

Her cheeks go red and she rakes her fingers through the tangles. “Oh, right…”

“So are things looking up between you and Mr. Monosyllabic?”

“That’s a nice word,” she says. “If the choice is between listening to him or kissing him, kissing is a much better use of his mouth.”

I burst out laughing.

“I know, I know, I’m a horrible human being,” she says. “So tell me about that guy who came in.”

“I have no idea who he is. There’s not much to say.”

“What does he look like?” Heather pops the lid off a container of turkey salad, which has walnut and celery chunks. Her family is still trying to rid their house of Thanksgiving.

“I only saw him for a moment,” I say, “but he looked about our age. He had this dimple that—”

Heather leans forward, her eyes narrowed. “And dark hair? A killer smile?”

How does she know that?

Heather pulls out her phone, taps it a few times, and then shows me an online picture of the very guy I was talking about. “Is this him?” She does not look pleased.

“How did you know?”

“The first thing you mentioned was his dimple. That was the giveaway.” She shakes her head. “Plus, that would be my luck. Sorry, Sierra, but no. Not Caleb.”

So his name is Caleb. “Why?”

She leans back and sets her fingertips on the edge of the tabletop. “He’s just not the best choice, okay? Let’s find someone else.”

I’m not letting this stop here and she knows it.

“There’s this rumor,” she says, “but I’m pretty sure it’s true. Either way, something happened.”

“What is it?” This is the first time I’ve heard her speak so cryptically of someone. “You’re making me nervous.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to get into this. I hate being a gossip, but I am not going on a double date with him.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s unconfirmed, okay? It’s only what I’ve heard.” She looks me in the eyes, but I am not saying a word until I hear it. “They say he attacked his sister with a knife.”

“What?” My stomach twists. “That guy is… Is she still alive?”

Heather laughs, but I can’t tell if it’s from my shocked expression or because she was joking. My heart still pounds, but eventually I laugh a little, too.

“No, he didn’t murder her,” Heather says. “From what I know, she’s fine.”

So it wasn’t a joke.

“But she doesn’t live here anymore,” Heather says. “I don’t know if that’s because of the attack, but that’s what most people think.”

I lie down on my bed and place a hand over my forehead. “That is intense.”

Heather reaches under the table and pats my leg. “We’ll keep looking.”

I want to tell her not to bother. I want to tell her I’m not interested in a holiday love affair anymore, especially if my radar is so off that the one guy I picked out once attacked his sister with a knife.

After we finish the turkey salad, we go outside to round up Devon so I can head back to work. He’s sitting at a picnic table behind the Bigtop with a bunch of the guys, all picking through Heather’s leftovers. There’s also a pretty girl I’ve never seen, snuggling up close to Andrew.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” I say. “I’m Sierra.”