Джей Эшер - What Light

I consider what my parents would say if they knew Caleb snapped like he did, even if it was years ago. Ever since I can remember, they have always emphasized forgiveness, believing people can change. I want to think they would stand by those words, but when it comes to me and who I like, I’m not sure how they would react.

I glance at Heather with an apologetic shrug, but this may be the only chance I get with Jeremiah. “Have you talked to them about it since?” I ask.

“They don’t want this kind of problem for me,” he says.

It makes me so sad—and angry—that his parents or anyone would consider Caleb a kind of problem. “Right, but would you be friends if you could?”

He eyes the front of the room again and the teacher futzing with his computer. Jeremiah turns back to me. “I was there. I saw how it went down. Caleb was mad as hell but I don’t think he would have hurt her.”

“You don’t think?” I say. “You know he wouldn’t have.”

His fingers hold the sides of his desk. “I don’t know that,” he says. “And you weren’t there.”

The words hit hard. It has never been just Jeremiah’s family. It’s also him; and he’s right, I wasn’t there.

“So neither one of you is allowed to change, is that it?”

Heather taps my arm and I lean back in my chair. Jeremiah stares at a blank page in his notebook throughout class, but he never writes a word.

I don’t see Caleb until the end of the day. He’s with Luis and Brent, leaving the math wing. I watch them slap each other on the shoulders and take off in different directions. He smiles when he sees me and comes over.

“You know, most people try to get out of school,” he says. “How was your day?”

“There were some interesting moments.” I lean against a wall in the hallway. “I know you’ll probably say you never used the word arduous in a sentence, but it was mostly that.”

“I have not used that one,” he says. He leans against the wall with me, pulls out his phone, and starts typing. “I’m going to look that one up later.”

I laugh and then notice Heather walking toward us. Several paces behind her, Devon is talking on his phone.

“We’re going downtown,” she says. “Shopping. You two want to join us?”

Caleb looks at me. “It’s up to you. I’m not working.”

“Sure,” I say to Heather. I turn to Caleb. “Let Devon drive. You can look up your word-of-the-day.”

“Keep teasing me and I may not buy you a peppermint mocha,” he says. Then, like it’s the most natural thing he’s done, he takes my hand and we follow our friends outside.

Caleb only lets go of my hand so that he can open the back door of Devon’s car. After I’m seated, he closes the door and walks around to the other side. From the front passenger seat, Heather turns and gives me a knowing smirk.

I give her the only suitable response for a situation like this: “Shut up.”

When she wiggles her eyebrows at me, I almost laugh. But I do love that she made the decision to stop questioning Caleb. Either that or she’s just really happy to have us along for the ride with Devon.

When Caleb gets in, he asks, “So what are we shopping for?”

“Christmas presents,” Devon says. He starts the engine and then looks at Heather. “I think. Right?”

Heather closes her eyes and leans her head against the window.

I need to feed Devon some boyfriend tips. “Okay, but who are you shopping for, Devon?”

“Probably my family,” he says. “What about you?”

This is going to be much harder than I thought, so I change tactics. “Heather, if you could have anything for Christmas, what would it be? Anything at all.”

Heather clues in to what I’m doing, and that’s because she’s not ridiculously oblivious like Devon. “That is a great question, Sierra. You know, I’ve never been someone who asked for much, so maybe…”

Devon messes with the radio as he drives. It takes everything I have not to kick his seat. Caleb looks out the window, close to laughing. At least he gets what’s going on.

“Maybe what?” I ask Heather.

She glares directly at Devon. “Something thoughtful would be nice, like a day of doing my favorite things: a movie, a hike, maybe a picnic on Cardinals Peak. Something so easy even a moron could do it.”

Devon switches the radio station again. Now I want to smack him in the back of his thick skull, but he’s driving and I care too much about the other passengers.

Caleb leans forward. He puts a hand on Devon’s shoulder while looking at Heather. “That sounds really fun, Heather. Maybe someone will give you that best day ever.”

Devon looks into the rearview mirror at Caleb. “Did you tap me?”

Heather leans up close to his face. “We were talking about what I want for Christmas, Devon!”

Devon smiles at her. “Like one of those scented candles? You love those!”

“That’s real observant,” she says, sitting back. “They’re only all over my dresser and desk.”

Looking back to the road, Devon smiles and pats her on the knee.

Caleb and I start laughing softly, but then we can’t hold back and it comes roaring out. I lean against his shoulder, dabbing tears from the corners of my eyes. Eventually Heather joins in… a little. Even Devon starts to laugh, though I have no idea why.

Every winter, a retired couple opens a seasonal shop downtown called the Candle Box. It’s almost always in a different location—a store that would otherwise sit vacant during the holidays. They stay open about the same stretch of time as our lot, but the owners live here throughout the year. The store’s festive shelves and tables are stocked with scented and decorative candles with pinecones, glitter, and other items layered into the wax. What draws some people into the store who would otherwise walk by is the candle-making in the front window.

Today the wife sits on a stool surrounded by tubs of various colors of melted wax. She dips a wick into the wax again and again to create the candle, which thickens with each dip, alternating layers of red and white. She finishes this candle with a dunk into the white wax and then hangs it on a hook using a loop in the wick. The wax is still warm as she slides a knife down the sides, peeling back strips and exposing the many tiers of white and red. About an inch from the bottom she stops slicing the wax and, in a ripple design, presses the ribbon back against the candle. That process continues, sliding the knife and rippling the ribbon, around the entire candle.

I could watch this process for hours.

Caleb, though, keeps interrupting my hypnotized state.

“Which do you like better?” he asks, lifting candles in front of my face. First he wants me to smell a jar with a picture of a coconut on the label, and then one with cranberries.

“I don’t know. I’ve smelled too many,” I say. “They all smell the same now.”

“No way! Cranberries and coconuts smell nothing alike.” One at a time, he holds the candles close to my nose again.

“Find something with cinnamon,” I say. “I love cinnamon candles.”

His mouth drops open in mock horror. “Sierra, cinnamon is a starter scent. Everyone likes cinnamon! The point is to move on to something more sophisticated.”

I smirk. “Is that right?”

“Absolutely. Wait here.”

I don’t have a chance to get fully re-mesmerized by the candle-making before Caleb returns with another jar. He covers the picture with his hand, but the wax is a deep red.