Николас Спаркс - A Walk to Remember

It turns out that there wasn't much about the family in the historical records, though we did find out one interesting tidbit of information. Henry Preston, the father, was a one-armed lumberjack, believe it or not. Supposedly he could cut down a tree as fast as any two-armed man. Now the vision of a one-armed lumberjack is pretty vivid right off the bat, so we talked about him a lot. We used to wonder what else he could do with only one arm, and we'd spend long hours discussing how fast he could pitch a baseball or whether or not he'd be able to swim across the Intracoastal Waterway. Our conversations weren't exactly highbrow, I admit, but I enjoyed them nonetheless.

Well, Eric and me were out there one Saturday night with a couple of other friends, eating boiled peanuts and talking about Henry Preston, when Eric asked me how my "date" went with Jamie Sullivan. He and I hadn't seen much of each other since the homecoming dance because the football season was already in the playoffs and Eric had been out of town the past few weekends with the team.

"It was okay," I said, shrugging, doing my best to play it cool.

Eric playfully elbowed me in the ribs, and I grunted. He outweighed me by at least thirty pounds.

"Did you kiss her good-night?"

"No."

He took a long drink from his can of Budweiser as I answered. I don't know how he did it, but Eric never had trouble buying beer, which was strange, being that everyone in town knew how old he was.

He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, tossing me a sidelong glance.

"I would have thought that after she helped you clean the bathroom, you would have at least kissed her good night."

"Well, I didn't."

"Did you even try?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"She's not that kind of girl," I said, and even though we all knew it was true, it still sounded like I was defending her.

Eric latched on to that like a leech.

"I think you like her," he said.

"You're full of crap," I answered, and he slapped my back, hard enough to force the breath right out of me. Hanging out with Eric usually meant that I'd have a few bruises the following day.

"Yeah, I might be full of crap," he said, winking at me, "but you're the one who's smitten with Jamie Sullivan."

I knew we were treading on dangerous ground.

"I was just using her to impress Margaret," I said. "And with all the love notes she's been sending me lately, I reckon it must have worked."

Eric laughed aloud, slapping me on the back again.

"You and Margaret—now that's funny. . . ."

I knew I'd just dodged a major bullet, and I breathed a sigh of relief as the conversation spun off in a new direction. I joined in now and then, but I wasn't really listening to what they were saying. Instead I kept hearing this little voice inside me that made me wonder about what Eric had said.

The thing was, Jamie was probably the best date I could have had that night, especially considering how the evening turned out. Not many dates—heck, not many people, period—would have done what she did. At the same time, her being a good date didn't mean I liked her. I hadn't talked to her at all since the dance, except when I saw her in drama class, and even then it was only a few words here and there. If I liked her at all, I told myself, I would have wanted to talk to her. If I liked her, I would have offered to walk her home. If I liked her, I would have wanted to bring her to Cecil's Diner for a basket of hushpuppies and some RC cola. But I didn't want to do any of those things. I really didn't. In my mind, I'd already served my penance.

The next day, Sunday, I was in my room, working on my application to UNC. In addition to the transcripts from my high school and other personal information, they required five essays of the usual type. If you could meet one person in history, who would that person be and why? Name the most significant influence in your life and why you feel that way. What do you look for in a role model and why? The essay questions were fairly predictable—our English teacher had told us what to expect—and I'd already worked on a couple of variations in class as homework.

English was probably my best subject. I'd never received anything lower than an A since I first started school, and I was glad the emphasis for the application process was on writing. If it had been on math, I might have been in trouble, especially if it included those algebra questions that talked about the two trains leaving an hour apart, traveling in opposite directions at forty miles an hour, etc. It wasn't that I was bad in math—I usually pulled at least a C—but it didn't come naturally to me, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, I was writing one of my essays when the phone rang. The only phone we had was located in the kitchen, and I had to run downstairs to grab the receiver. I was breathing so loudly that I couldn't make out the voice too well, though it sounded like Angela. I immediately smiled to myself. Even though she'd been sick all over the place and I'd had to clean it up, she was actually pretty fun to be around most of the time. And her dress really had been something, at least for the first hour. I figured she was probably calling to thank me or even to get together for a barbecue sandwich and hushpuppies or something.

"Landon?"

"Oh, hey," I said, playing it cool, "what's going on?"

There was a short pause on the other end.

"How are you?"

It was then that I suddenly realized I wasn't speaking to Angela. Instead it was Jamie, and I almost dropped the phone. I can't say that I was happy about hearing from her, and for a second I wondered who had given her my phone number before I realized it was probably in the church records.

"Landon?"

"I'm fine," I finally blurted out, still in shock.

"Are you busy?" she asked.

"Sort of."

"Oh . . . I see . . . ,"she said, trailing off. She paused again.

"Why are you calling me?" I asked.

It took her a few seconds to get the words out.

"Well . . . I just wanted to know if you wouldn't mind coming by a little later this afternoon."

"Coming by?"

"Yes. To my house."

"Your house?" I didn't even try to disguise the growing surprise in my voice. Jamie ignored it and went on.

"There's something I want to talk to you about. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

"Can't you just tell me over the phone?"

"I'd rather not."

"Well, I'm working on my college application essays all afternoon," I said, trying to get out of it.

"Oh . . . well . . . like I said, it's important, but I suppose I can talk to you Monday at school. . . ."

With that, I suddenly realized that she wasn't going to let me off the hook and that we'd end up talking one way or the other. My brain suddenly clicked through the scenarios as I tried to figure out which one I should do—talk to her where my friends would see us or talk at her house. Though neither option was particularly good, there was something in the back of my mind, reminding me that she'd helped me out when I'd really needed it, and the least I could do was to listen to what she had to say. I may be irresponsible, but I'm a nice irresponsible, if I do say so myself.

Of course, that didn't mean everyone else had to know about it.

"No," I said, "today is fine. . . ."

We arranged to meet at five o'clock, and the rest of the afternoon ticked by slowly, like the drips from Chinese water torture. I left my house twenty minutes early, so I'd have plenty of time to get there. My house was located near the waterfront in the historic part of town, just a few doors down from where Blackbeard used to live, overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway. Jamie lived on the other side of town, across the railroad tracks, so it would take me about that long to get there.