Chapter Two:

       In Which She Gets Off a Train

“We are approximately thirty minutes from our destination.” A burly sounding voice suddenly says through hidden speakers, making me jump. “I suggest you make sure that you have all of your belongings in hand.”
I look around, noticing that most people are doing the same. As though they just expect their ‘belongings’ to be floating in the air around them. Then we all come to life, and I can hear rustling and shushed whispers as I pick up my carry-on from the dirty floor.
I look over to the woman next to me. She’s still sleeping. I look at my watch: it’s only 7:30, so it makes sense.
Should I wake her up? There’s only about twenty-five minutes left.
I wait a couple minutes, looking over at her. She’s very pretty, and the light hits her face in such a way that she looks ethereal, with her golden hair splayed out on the seat.
Jealousy hurts, mostly because you know it’s not needed; somewhere in your soul you know everyone is just as good, just as beautiful, really. But it stabs at my heart just then, no matter how much I don’t want it to. I resist pulling out a little compact mirror from my bag. I know I’d see what I see every day. A plain, freckled face. Brown hair. Brown eyes.
I shake the thoughts away and look at my watch again. 7:42. I look over at the woman again, and tap her on her shoulder, maybe a little too hard. She wakes up, her eyes blinking open. At first I don’t know what to say, so I just mumble:
“We’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Ish.”
She looks at me in confusion, and then nods. Then she smiles, brightening everything like the sun, and says: “Thank you.” I just look down and nod, too, before slinging my bag onto my shoulder and walking down the aisle.
I think of how I’m not good with talking to strangers, or anyone, for that matter. My mouth gets dry and my tongue won’t move. I’m used to just thinking, I guess. I never was good with spoken words.
So, while zig-zagging through the now-alive people and trying not to step on little children, I think. Because that’s what I’m good at. I think about the fact that I’m not exactly sure how I’m going to get around this place I’m going, because I’m only fifteen and I can’t drive. I think about the fact that I’m scared, and I’m not having much fun. But I guess I didn’t come here for fun. I came here for a reason I don’t want to think about. It would help, though. It would help if someone was here. But I guess one someone didn’t want to come, and the other is the one I’m going to see.
I feel abandoned, like something that fell out of a pocket and no one ever bothered to pick up.
I sit down in the dining cart, picking up a menu. The waiter looks at me skeptically, as though wondering if a fifteen year-old would have the money to pay for the over-priced food here. I just smile, trying to look as reassuring as I can. And he walks over, and he smiles like waiters smile, and he takes my order: pancakes and bacon with extra syrup. 
I look around at the people, and they’re all talking. Or laughing. I wonder what they see when they look at me. Again, jealousy strikes my heart, because I’ve never had this. I feel so scared here, so out of place, but even if I went back home, I still wouldn’t have this.
I look down at my table cloth and pick at the threads, my thoughts quieted. The waiter brings me my food and I eat it in a hurry, wanting to get out of this place. I pay with the credit card Dad gave me, and then I walk out of the little dining area.
Back in my seat, the woman smiles at me again, and I smile back. I keep the bag around my shoulder, waiting. And then I hear it: the whistle and the rumbly voice through the speakers again, telling us that we’ve reached our destination. And I’m ready to get off of this train.
A man helps everyone walk down the couple of steps off the train and onto the platform. Then we all wait, a bunch of strangers huddled together. It’s a small station, and it doesn’t even have one of those thingamajigs that bring your luggage to you, so a few workers from the train slowly carry out all the suitcases, of every color and size, and slowly the group diminishes as they grab their stuff and go. When there’s a dozen or so people left, mine’s carried out, and like the rest, I pick it up and leave.
And I’m scared again, because I don’t know what to do, and I’m in a town I’ve never seen and I don’t have anyone here to be lost with me. As I walk out of the station, I realize that I don’t even have those people on the train anymore. They’re going their own ways now, and now I’m left with the task of finding my own.
I sit down on the bench outside. I put down my heavy suitcase and rummage through my bag, looking for a piece of paper Dad gave me.  I feel the familiar crinkle of paper and I unfold it, taking in the words. He booked me a room at a hotel three blocks away from the station called La Rosa. I wrinkle my nose, chuckling. Doesn’t that mean Pink? A smile graces my face as I read further. The brief letter tells me all kinds of stuff about the town that he looked up online, and he wrote down the address of the hotel and Visitor’s Center, so I could put it in my phone’s GPS. The very feel of the paper makes me feel closer to home, and though Dad and I didn’t always see eye-to-eye, this makes me feel less alarmed. I feel calmer, less alone in this town.
I get up. I walk, my tennis shoes slapping against the cement sidewalk softly. The winds blow slightly and I breathe it in. I play a little game I like to play when I’m stressed. I pretend that the people passing by aren’t there; I pretend, like always, that I’m all alone in the world, staring up at the colorful skies on a hill somewhere, someday. And I know what you’re thinking; why would I want to be alone, when I’m feeling lonely?
Well, Reader, I’m only fifteen. And here I am, walking through a foreign little city like a lost puppy dog, looking for something. But I do know one thing.
There’s nothing lonelier then being unhappy; nothing worse than being surrounded by people and, instead of feeling a part of them, feeling instead that you’re lost in some endless sea you never asked to be in.
But I digress.
I’m just a block away from the hotel now. I turn the corner, looking down at my phone to make sure I’m going the right way. I am, and I spot the sign that says La Rosa, in bright, crimson letters. And, sure enough, the building’s painted pink from top to bottom.
I cross the road, looking for cars, and then walk through the parking lot and up to the sliding doors of the hotel. I briefly wonder exactly how I’m supposed to check in. I’ve never done it before. Then I shrug.
I’ll figure it out, I assure myself as I walk into the little lobby. The lady at the front desk smiles at me, as ladies-at-the-front-desk do. She talks me through it all, after I explain that I’ve never checked into a hotel before. She isn’t surprised; I’m only fifteen. They don’t have a bell-boy, so I just take all my stuff into the elevator and push the button for the third floor.
I look down at my card, trying to memorize the number: 314. I hear a ding as the elevator stops and the doors open. I hurry down the hallway, looking for the right number, my suitcase slapping against my leg and the bag against my back. 314. I push the card into the slot and the door opens. I rush in, like an army into battle. I throw my luggage to the side, kick my shoes off and flop onto the pristine bed. I sigh.

What now?

               Chapter Three: 

         In Which She Meets Joe

I’m sitting on the bed. It’s eleven o’clock in the morning, and here I am. Staring at a stupid credit card.
Should I go out to eat? Or go shopping? Which one would cost less?
I put my head in my hands, thinking. Why, oh, why did Dad decide it was such a good idea for me to go on this stupid trip? We’re broke; absolutely, one hundred percent broke. He might choose to ignore it, but I don’t. Just as that thought wisps through my mind, my stomach rumbles.
Stupid, growing, overly-hungry body.
That’s it. I’ve been holed up in this room for three hours, watching a movie and lazing around. I’m here. Someplace new. I should go outside and enjoy myself and...Go to the park or something.
My stomach made a weird gurgling sound.
I should probably stop at the store, too. It’ll be cheaper than eating out in the long run.
So I get up, stuffing the blue credit card in my pocket, and head out of my hotel room door.
I wave at the lady behind the counter as I walk through the lobby, but either she doesn’t see me, or she just doesn’t wave back. I look at her name tag, realizing I don’t know her name, and squint to read it from here: Angela.
I walk out the hotel doors into the fresh air. Somehow, hotels always feel so stuffy. Maybe because they’re just buildings jam-packed with rooms for strangers to sleep in.
That could be it. I nod to myself as I walk down the sidewalk.
I look around nervously, too, in between the times I’m looking at my phone nervously, making sure I’m heading the right direction. Call me a scaredy-cat, but I don’t like being alone. I’m not the kind of fifteen year-old that actually likes being left home alone.
Because, when you’re alone, you inevitably get lonely.
But, like always, I wander.
I remember when I was two, I somehow got lost in the woods next to the City Park. It took my Dad, five friends, and a search squad to find me, five hours later. I’ve gotten lost countless times, and, if I was anyone else, I’d probably have a million stories up my sleeve, but I’m me. Nothing ever really happens on my little adventures, anyway. It always turns out fine, though. Really. Which you’d think would help alleviate my fear, but nothing really does.
So, here I am, hoping I won’t get mugged. But, it doesn’t matter. Not really, I promise.
Before I go to the park, I decide to buy some things from the store, just to get me through the morning. I find this little place called Carl’s Grocery Store, and I go in and buy two apples, some peanut butter, a set of knives (the store clerk gave me a suspicious look as I was checking out) and a jug of water. I also get a bag of barbeque chips, because they’re my secret love.
Now, this next part may come as a surprise. At least, I assume it will, because it took me days before it finally fit into my head.
As I head toward the park, a brown paper bag in my right hand, I see him. He’s standing by a tree, on the sidewalk on the other side of the road. Just a boy, probably my age, or a bit younger or older. Nothing special about him at all, I swear.
And then I start walking, not towards the park but across the road; across the stretch of pavement that holds great, metal behemoths called cars that race to wherever they’re going. And, I swear, I don’t even look.
I try to stop my arm from moving, but I wave to him like he’s an old friend. He looks up, not really even surprised. In fact, he starts walking toward me, and I smile for some reason. We meet, a few yards from each other, under the shade of a great oak, and I can see confused people pass by us out of the corner of my eye. He gives me a little wave now, too, kind of sheepish, and I know something really special must be happening right now. So I ask:
“Do you want an apple?”
                                                                           •          •          •
His name is Brendan. And I can tell by the way he talks that he’s sad. I wonder if maybe my voice carries that undertone, too. He looks at me with another sheepish smile as he slices the apples on the paper bag. We’re sitting on the edge of the sidewalk now, and people smile as they see us there; Brendan cutting the red apples, me sitting crisscrossed, eating my delectable chips, and probably looking at him too much.
“So, what’s your name?”
I look up at him to see him looking at me. I haven’t told him my name yet. Here we are, perfect strangers, dipping apple slices into a jar of peanut butter. Well, at least I know his name.
“Isabel. Isabel Josephina May.”
He leans back against the tree, taking a bite of peanut butter-covered apple. “Isabel Josephina May. That’s a pretty name. You already know, but I’m Brendan Joseph Farmfield. Can I call you Josie?”
I’m surprised for a moment. No one has ever even thought to call me Josie before. “Only if I can call you Joe”, I challenge him. Then I chuckle as all his words sink in. “Farmfield? That’s your last name? Who comes up with Farmfield?”
“Well, at least I’m not named after a month of the year,” He retorts. But then he chuckles, too.
We eat quietly for a while, munching on apples and chips (well, I’m munching on chips. I’d never let someone else eat them, of course. Except, well, he caught me by surprise and stole some, but that doesn’t count).
“Okay,” He says suddenly.
“What?”
He looks at me again. “Okay, you can call me Joe if you want. It’s kind of weird, but sure. If I can call you Josie, that is.”
I think about it for a minute. “Okay, Joe. You can call me Josie. Middle names are always the best, anyway.”
He nods. We start munching again.
I look around at the leaves on the trees, because they’re so green, and swaying in the wind like they are, they look like huge, living emeralds. Joe follows my line of sight, and he looks at the breathing gems too.
“You know,” I hear him say. “We might just get along fairly well, Josie.”
“Of course we will, Joe.” I smile.

                     Chapter Four:

     In Which Things Escalate Quickly 

Joe and I are getting along pretty well, if I do say so myself. In fact, we’ve been meeting at the park every day at exactly 6:02 for the past four days. It was Joe’s idea, but I liked looking at my watch impatiently while at a store or watching T.V. in my stuffy hotel room. That 6:02 appointment gave me somewhere I had to be.
He’d always be waiting on a swing, and he’d wave and give me an awkward smile as I walk off the sidewalk and onto the mulch.
The shirt he’s wearing matches his eyes, which seem to be a hazel color. I like them. And they kind of look like a mixture of pine needles and dirt, not even the color so much as just the way they looked. They looked like melancholy, the kind that used to be an open field of flowers before the wind decided to blow all the petals away. Then all you’re left with is stems and dirt, and apparently that gave way to an abandoned old pine tree.
In that moment, as I look into his eyes and see that desolate meadow, I realize that all people are like this. They all have eyes that are meant to be gazed into, not just looked at. And I wondered what it’d be like to have someone see my eyes like this.
Our conversation would usually go something like this:
Joe: So, what’s your favorite color?
Me: I don’t know.
Joe: Okay, so... what’s your favorite song?
Me: ...I don’t know that, either.
Joe: Your favorite animal?
Me: Humans.
Joe: Well, that’s kind of disturbing, but okay.
He’d interrogate me like this the minute I got there, every day at 6:02. I realized that I didn’t know my favorite time of day, or my favorite flower, or even my favorite song. I guess I’d have to work on that.
I grip the chains tighter as I kick off the ground. I lean back until the ends of my hair touch the mulch and I take a deep breath.
“So,” I ask him. “Why are you here?”
For a minute or two I only hear the birds chirping and branches swaying. I’m about pull myself upright and look at him when he speaks.
“I’m just here,” He shrugs, putting his hands up, palms to the sky, like he’s asking the air around him why he’s ‘just here’.
“So...Do you have any reason for being here?” I ask, wondering if he’s actually going to tell me something. I had been meeting up with him for the past four days. We’d usually stay here until the sun starts to set. And yet I know that I don’t know a thing about Joe. But then again, he doesn’t know much about me, either. Just that I don’t know much about me, myself.
Joe swings high up into the air and smiles at me as he comes back down. “I think everyone has a reason for being where they’re at, Josie. But maybe I’m really just here to be here.”
But maybe I’m really just here to be here. That makes sense to me somehow. It’s how I’ve felt ever since my mom died.
“Maybe we’re all just here to be here.” I say, and I can tell that we aren’t going to talk about it anymore. At least, not for a while. The trees around us bob their branches as though nodding their heads in agreement with my thoughts. I wonder if maybe they know what’s going on in Joe’s head. Maybe the trees and the shrubs and even the sky know. Maybe they know all my secrets, too.
That thought comforts me.  Secrets are always hard to tell in the beginning. You’re afraid to let those words breathe, to cut through the air and actually get a chance to damage the world around you. It’s not until you let them go that you realize they were already doing damage inside you, strangling you until you couldn’t breathe.
I sigh. My thoughts had run off again and I’d zoned out. My sigh caches Joe’s attention and suddenly the buzzing stops. Wait, no; that was Joe’s voice. He’d been talking while I’d been contemplating whether or not the trees could hear my thoughts.
Good going, Izzy.
He looks at me with a crooked smile. “Earth to Josie. Are you even listening?”
The wind blows through his hair, picks up a black piece, and softly tosses it up into the air. The black looks nice against the baby blue sky, I decide. I look up into his eyes and answer.
“Sorry. My thoughts flew off with the wind.” That was something mom always said, and I love the sound of it. I can just imagine my thoughts drifting away, free to be up there with the birds. I realize that I have a goofy grin on my face and try to tone it down.
He looks at me again as he swings his legs, making the swing go higher and the wind blow more of his hair away from his forehead. “I was just asking why you’re here.”
I look around before answering. I like it here, really. But every time I think of why I made this train ride over to this small town, I cringe. Well, not really. It was more like my heart aches and so does everything else.
“I’m just...” I try to think of what to tell him; try to think of how I’m going to not tell him.
He looks at me as I try to find the words. “Don’t even worry about it,” he finally says. His voice is soft and I can tell he’s trying to calm me, probably because I look terrified, no matter how much I try to hide it. I’m good at lying and I’ve done it before, but I hate it. I just hate it and I don’t want to lie to Joe.
I nod, thankful. Then I look up and see his meadow eyes, and I look close. The pine’s still there, the needles are still falling. I realize, and I hate how mushy it sounds; but I realize that I want to make those needles stop. I want to set the whole thing in reverse, until the meadow is filled with wild flowers; until the wind never destroyed their happiness. And maybe, just maybe, the pine would still be there, it’d just be more...alive. It’d be in the middle of the meadow, and finally the lonely old pine would be surrounded by beauty and friends. I wish I could wipe that melancholy away, and make that meadow bright again. There’s no other way to put it.
I realize that I’d been staring into Joe’s eyes for way too long. I look down at my lap and twist my fingers tighter around the chains, kicking off the ground to get a little higher in the air.
Then I look back over at him. He’s still looking at me, with his hair still being blown around a little bit by the wind. He gives me a sheepish smile and looks away when he notices that I caught him staring.
Was he staring at me?  Because if he was, well. I don’t know. Is it supposed to mean something?
Maybe he was trying to see my eyes, too. Or my face. I run my fingers through my hair, wondering if he was looking at the wind swish it around the way I was looking at his. If he found me as fascinating as I found him. For no reason at all, either. I just like the meadows in his eyes and the way his hair looks against the sky.
I sneak a glance at Joe again from the corner of my eyes, and see him turn his head quickly away again. I laugh. It bubbles up and flies out of my mouth so softly that I doubt he can hear it. But then I hear him laugh, too, and it makes me laugh louder. Then he laughs a little louder. At almost the same time, we turn towards each other, and I can tell. We drink the sight of each other in, and our laughter mixes in the air the way a melody does, but also kind of like cookie batter. Spry, with a hint of sweetness as it envelopes us the way chocolate chips are folded in. And I think he can tell, too.
We both like each other. And not even because of the way our hair flits around or the way our eyes look or even because of the sound of our laughter mushing together forms a whole new kind of sound.
Maybe, I think as the laughter dies down and I realize he’s going to ask me a bazillion more questions. Maybe we like each other the same way Joe’s here because he’s here. Maybe we like each other just because we do.

                   Chapter Five:

                In Which She Cries

When mom died, Dad went with her, right off that cliff into the rushing water. Sure, he’s obviously still alive. He gets up in the morning and eats breakfast and goes to work. He comes home and he eats dinner and goes to bed. That was a fairly normal dad, really. Some kids had alcoholics and drug dealers for dads. I just had one that didn’t care much for anything anymore. Which I guess is why he didn’t come with me.
I figured it was time, though, to come here to this little town in the middle of nowhere, even if dad couldn’t bear the thought of being so close. So close to home, so close to where she died, so close to the cemetery where mom laid, a buried corpse. Dad couldn’t stand to think about it, I knew. And, if I was telling the truth, neither could I. Who wants to think about their dead mother? It’s only after you lose someone so dear that you realize just how much nostalgia can hurt.
Yet, here I am, walking down a sidewalk with the breeze feeling so refreshing against my face. And I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop remembering the moment I went to school and dad had tears in his eyes. I can’t stop thinking about eight year-old me, sitting on the bright pink carpet of my bedroom, playing with my dolls. Him coming in, looking so worn and sad that little me rushed up to him, asking what was wrong.
And he told me. He told me that mom died that morning. She was a park ranger, and they had called her in on some emergency in the office. She missed the turn, the guardrail; mom missed out on the rest of her life. They hadn’t found her body; it had probably been washed out into the water. So far, only pieces of the car had been seen and extracted, here and there.
I’m crying, I realize. I rub at my face the best I can without looking like I’m actually wiping tears away. They just keep pouring down, though. I see people glance in my direction. I realize that I’m gasping now, trying to breathe somehow, trying to stop crying even though at this point I can’t even see anymore. I make my feet teeter off the sidewalk and start walking as fast as I can away from the people.
I have to get away from everyone. I have to get away before I fall apart.
My throat hurts and my nose runs and I have to keep wiping the snot on my sleeve before it goes into my open, wheezing mouth. My tears are coming down too fast, though, and I can taste the salt on my tongue.
I just need to get away, I think as I still see people in my peripheral vision. I keep hoping that they don’t notice the gasping, sobbing girl jogging shakily past them. I just keeping looking ahead of me as I delve deeper into what I hope is a park.
“Josie?” I hear from behind me. I almost turn my head in that direction to look, but I stop myself. There’s only one person who’d call me Josie, and I don’t want him to see me like this. I just want to be alone so I can cry as hard and long as I want to.
I need to get away.
“Hey, Josie! Wait up!” Joe calls out. This time, I dare to look back, and there he is, running after me. Then I realize that I’m running. I start to slow down, thinking that I must be drawing attention, but as I look around- no one’s here.
How long have I been running?
“Josie! Please, slow down!” I can hear the desperation in his voice, and I do slow down. I keep getting slower and slower and slower until I’m barely walking.
I need to sit down.
I wipe my eyes and find a bench with my still-foggy vision. In fact, everything feels foggy. I feel lost.
Why am I here? Why’d I decide to come on a trip to see my dead mother, for Christ’s sake! Why did the most vivid memories always have to hurt the most?
I felt the old bench shift a little. I had my eyes closed and my head resting on my knees. I started when I felt a hand on my back.
“Oh, sorry. It’s just me, Josie.” Joe whispers. He sounds like he’s trying to soothe a wounded animal. I let out a small sob, and I wonder what I must look like, bent over and shaking like a leaf in the wind.
“N-no, I’m sorry,” I gasp. “I don’t know...I’m sorry.” I say again. I lift my head to look up at him. He has a little smile on his face, even though he looks incredibly awkward and absolutely nervous.
“Why are you s-smiling?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “Why are you crying?”
I look down at the dirty, gray and tan sidewalk. The trees are still swishing around me. I can still feel the warm sunlight on my skin. I’m okay... I’m okay.
“Joe,” I mumble. “My mom’s dead.” I don’t know what makes me say it like that, but it’s what comes out. My mom’s dead. And she is.
“Oh,” I hear him breathe out. “When?”
I know what he means. “A...long time ago. It’s a little silly that I still get so worked up about it, don’t you think?”
He shakes his head again. “No.” He doesn’t say anything else for a little while. Then he whispers the same question he whispered yesterday, and I’m afraid.
“Josie, why are you here?”
Why am I here? I think. I’m here because my mom died and I can’t stand being alone anymore and I just need to see her one more time even if it means going to some graveyard and blubbering next to a tombstone.
“My mom’s dead,” I whisper again. “And she’s buried here. This is where she and dad are from. I was born here. We moved after she died, though. My dad can’t stand nostalgia- it’s too bittersweet for his taste.” I sniffed, and sat up, looking around to make sure we’re alone. “Mine, too.”
I’m glad and nervous when Joe just sits there for a while, looking at the park with me. I feel like he’s on my side. I also want to know what he’s thinking.
“I’m sorry, Josie. I know it sounds really generic, and you probably don’t want to hear it, but I’m going to say it anyway because I really am. I’m sorry.”
I nod. We sit there for a while before Joe leans over and pulls me into a hug. I wonder briefly if I should be thinking stranger danger! But I don’t feel alarmed. Nervous, but not alarmed.
I lay my head on his shoulder and close my eyes, taking deep breaths. I feel him lean back, and I open my eyes to see that he’s closed his too, and then I let my eye lids slide close again. We sit like that for a long time, taking deep breaths and keeping our eyes closed and yet still open to the world. I feel the wind rustle my hair and the collar of his jacket as it brushes against my nose. I can hear the birds and the distant traffic and the grass quivering.
“Joe,” I mumble exasperatedly against his shirt. “What are we going to do?”
He chuckles. “We’ll be fine, Josie.”
I sigh. “I know.”
He pulls back a bit, and I barely stop myself from tugging him back into my arms. But that would be weird, I guess.
Joe looks into my eyes, and I wonder again what he sees. He smiles, though, so maybe it’s not that bad.
“Joe?” I ask, trying to get his attention.
“Hmm?”
“I need to go. It’s my sixth day here. I’m leaving the day after tomorrow and I need to go visit my mom.”
He just nods and stands up. He holds out his hand and I just stare at it a second before I realize what he’s doing and put my hand in his. He helps me up off the bench as I check to make sure there aren’t any remaining tears on my face.
He links our arms together as we walk onto the path to get back to the main street. I send out silent thanks for not getting us both lost while running blindly through the park.
“How far away is the cemetery,” he asks me.
“Not too far. Actually, I’ve been really careful the past few days trying to avoid it.”
We keep walking. It doesn’t take long for the sound of traffic and voices to make it to my ears.
Joe stops right outside of the thin treeline. “I don’t mean to sound pushy,” he says. “But do you...want me to come with you?”
I shake my head at him, trying to smile. “No, that’s okay. I’d rather go alone.”
He frowns a little. “Again, I don’t want to sound pushy, but could I at least walk you there? It’s not safe, walking alone down back streets.” And he looks at me with genuine worry.
“Sure, I guess. If you want to. Just promise not murder me in some dark alley. Or, at least have me cremated if you do.” And we both laugh. We laugh the best two people can laugh while walking off towards a cemetery and one person’s dead mother.
It was just a couple blocks away, and when we get there it’s actually kind of beautiful. It’s on a hill, with a pathway leading up to a small, cast iron gate that barely makes it to my stomach. The cemetery has trees providing shade and flowers providing color, and the sun is set in the sky in just the right position to make it look like it’s watching over the little patch of ground all the tombstones lay upon.
Joe lets go of my arm as we get to the path leading up the small incline. “Are you sure you can make it back alright?” He asks.
I roll my eyes. “Of course I can. Now, go. I need to go have a conversation with a dead person.”
Joe grins. Right before I turned around to walk to the gate, he surprises me by throwing his arms around me again. He quickly draws back, giving me a sheepish smile.
“Sorry,” he says. “It looked like you needed a hug.” And then he was walking with his back turned to me, back down the sidewalk we came from to who knows where. He turns back around for a second, giving me a wave while walking backwards. I wave back, trying to memorize the sight of the golden sunlight falling on his face as he turns back around.
I just stand there for a good ten seconds. Then I turn, too, to go my own way.
   

                   Chapter Six:

           In Which She Finds Out

It’s kind of funny, how mom’s tombstone comes up and all I can think is: Hmm, third row, seventh from the left. As if I’m mentally giving someone the directions to her gravesite. The second thought I have is that I need to go get some flowers. I look around and realize that mom’s is one of the only gravesites that aren’t decorated with something.
Ha. It sounds like I’m trying to keep up with the latest cemetery trends.
I decide that I’ll buy a plant, not any stupid fake flowers, or real ones in a bouquet that’ll die in less than a week. Mom deserves better than that. I want something that will live and keep on living, even in a cemetery.
“Roses, maybe?” I whisper. I don’t feel as stupid as I thought I would, sitting here in the grass, talking to a headstone.
I try to think about what mom’s favorite flower was. I try to reach back into my memories, try to find something, but I pull up short.
“I guess I’ll just have to find what looks right. It’ll probably be some funky-looking plant. That seems like it’d be your style, mom.” But I know as soon as the words come out that I’ll spend a long time looking for the perfect plant. If it’s going to be a testament to mom’s life, it has to be the right one.
Then I sit there. I don’t know what to say anymore. It’s not like she can hear me; I’m probably just here for closure or some other phony psychiatric reason. That’s what most people would say; that I’m here to finally heal my wounds, here to let go of all my troubled thoughts so they can fly away in the wind.
Except, if there’s anything I know with all my heart, it’s that you don’t just let things go. You can loosen your hold on them, you can try your very best to get over them, but in the end, it’s up to time to decide when that thing slips out of your grasp. And you never forget, either. Because memories are what make up your life, I guess. And no matter how much you want to let go of the bad ones, it’s impossible to just cut out pieces of your life. And maybe, in the end, you don’t really want to.
But now, sitting in this cemetery, I kind of want to. I don’t like the feeling of my eyes burning when I’m about to cry, or the feeling I get when I see something and think of mom. It all seems so trivial, but it isn’t. Sadness means something, just like everything else. Even if that something isn’t what you want. Even if it’s here to teach you a lesson when all you want to do is go run away and be happy.
“Mom,” I whisper. “It’s okay.” And I think I’m speaking to both of us now. “I’m okay, really. And I think dad’s getting better. He really loved you, you know. And it’s so, so hard to get over love. Or, I guess, sadness. Because I know he’s never going to stop loving you. He wouldn’t come here, but that’s kind of okay, too. I understand. If it was the other way around, maybe I wouldn’t have come either.”
I just sit there again. “I don’t really know what to do now. This isn’t really about your death, though. I think I’d be lost either way. I just wish you were here to tell me what to do.” I smile, and I try to chuckle. “Or at least teach me your mad art skills.”
What would life be with mom here? That’s what I wonder all the time. I wonder if I’d be a different person, a better person. One with a whole family and a happy soul. It makes me sound like an angsty teen, I know. There are people, right now, who are being tortured and killed and raped and starved. And I just lost a parent. Who cares? But when you only have your own eyes to look out of, the world can seem kind of narrow, I guess. Because I care. Because I can feel what I’m feeling right now, and true sadness, no matter what the reason, is all the same in the end. Just like true happiness, or confusion, or anger.
“Mom, I don’t know, I just don’t know,” I sigh. “I don’t even know who I am. I don’t understand so many things. And, really, it’s kind of ridiculous that I’m sitting in a graveyard, talking to a tombstone. But I like ridiculous; at least I know that. And I know that I want to see cotton candy skies someday, too. And I want to fall in love. And I want dad to feel happy again. Heck, mom, I just the world to be happy. And if me being happy will help that, at least I’m doing something, right?”
“Right?” I whisper again. I hope so, so, so much that I’m right.
“I think I’m going to go now, mom,” I tell her. “This is getting a little mushy, and it 5:42 according to my watch. I have to go meet up with Joe. Oh,” I say in surprise, “... I haven’t even told you about Joe yet.”
I tell her about his eyes, and his smile, and just the way he is. I try to keep it as truthful as possible. I tell her that I like him, maybe not in the romantic sense, but in...Some sense. He and I are a lot alike, I say. And he hugged me when I cried, and I’m willing to hug him if he ever cries. And our laughter sounds pretty good together, too. We meet at 6:02 every night, I tell her. And we just talk. He’s the first boy, really the first person, who’s ever understood me as much as you, I tell the gravestone.
And then it hits me that I’m talking to a gravestone. And it hurts. I stand up and take two steps forward, until I’m standing right next to it. I put my hand on the stone, but it’s nothing compared to mom’s skin, her voice; her smile. I wonder if this is why dad moved us from here. I wonder if this is what he felt when he looked at the town mom and he grew up in. It just wasn’t enough without her.
“I love you,” I tell mom, via the gravestone. And I hope to god that she can somehow hear me.
                                                                •          •          •
“Hey, Joe.” I call out, walking over to the swings.
“Hey, Josie.” He smiles at me- the awkward, crooked smile that goes right down deep into my heart.
I sit down on the swing to the left of him, wondering what he’s going to ask this time. Knowing him, he hasn’t run out of questions yet. At the same time, though, I don’t want to answer any about my mom. I don’t want to talk about it now, and I wonder if he understands that.
“Joe,” I ask partly to stall his interrogation and partly because I’m curious. “Why are you really here?”
His swing slows down. I wonder if he wants to talk about this about as much as I want to talk about mom. For a split second I’m actually afraid that he’s going to stop the swing and walk off, leaving the unanswered question in his wake. But he doesn’t, and I’m relieved and anxious all at once.
“So, my other answer isn’t cutting it anymore, huh,” he asks. I just shake my head.
He sits there, and I guess he’s trying to gather his thoughts. I hope he’s going to tell me the truth this time. Not half-truths or fibs or some fake life story. I just want the truth.
“Really, Josie, I don’t even know exactly why I’m here.” He tells me. “One day, I decided to run away. And I did. I ran away and now I don’t really know why I’m here or where I’m going. I just know that I’m here. Isn’t that enough?” There’s a hint of desperation in his voice at the end. Like he’s trying so much just to convince me of the truth of it. Maybe even trying to convince himself.
“Joe, my mom was a park ranger. One day she was called in and it was early and foggy and she drove right off a cliff. Ever since my dad barely talks, and I’m so sad, and now her paintings are just sitting in an old room, half of them unfinished. Until you, I didn’t have any real friends. And maybe you don’t know my whole story, Joe, but at least what I’ve told you has been the truth. So, please, please, please, just tell me.” At first I thought that the words were only in my mind, but then I caught the sound of them leaving my mouth, and I felt so much relief when they left, so much not-regret.
Sometimes secrets can choke you, even when they’re not all that secret.
Joe nods, smiling again, even though he looks sad. Sad for the both of us. “I just don’t know how to say it. I mean, it was weird, how it happened; I woke up one morning and thought ‘I’m tired of this. I’m tired of my deadbeat dad. I’m tired of my mom being so caught up with raising my siblings that she doesn’t even have time to go to my piano recitals or see my school play. I’m tired of the life I’m living.’ That was four years ago, Josie. I left that morning, the way little kids sometimes decide they’re just going to run away, except I really did. I haven’t been back since.”
It takes me a while to come up with words that would suffice. What do you say to something like that? What do you do?
“Your eyes look like a meadow,” I blurt.
Joe’s surprised laugh seems to burst through the air. “I’ll give you this, Josie. You really know the weirdest things to say, maybe even the rightest things.”
“Is rightest even a word?”
Joe shrugs. “Maybe.”
We both swing our legs, swinging higher and higher.
“I know you just poured your heart out and all that, but that doesn’t explain why you’re here, in this town.” I say.
“Sure it does,” he retorts. “I used to live two towns over.”
I let that sink in. “What?”
He looks at me, with his eyes that hold a bunch of bothersome pine needles, and sighs. “The home I ran away from? It’s just thirty minutes away from here.”
Again, much like all the other times I talked with Joe, I don’t really know what to say. “But I thought you ran away...Four years ago?”
He sighs again. “I did. I didn’t make it far, you could say.” He laughed. “Josie, I’ve been living with my grandparents. How’s that for a laugh? I ran away from my parents just to stay with my grandma and grandpa. I wasn’t ready to go on some adventure. Movies and books make it look so easy, but that much change is just hard.”
I guess I can understand that. I think back to how scared I was on the way here. I think that maybe dreaming of something is usually better than turning that dream into a reality, when that dream is so obscure and awe-striking that it just can’t fit into the ways of reality. And then you’re just left with disappointment.
So I ask: “Joe, are you disappointed with the way things turned out?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. No. Yes?” He shakes his head. “No, I’m not. If the house I left was ever really home, I would have gone back to it by now. My family would have come and gotten me if they were actually family, right? And I don’t really feel like I missed out on very much by not running off on some journey. Life’s the journey, I guess.”
I make a face. “Okay, just stop it with the corny lines, please. It’s disturbing.”
Joe laughs again, and I like the fact that I make him laugh so much.
“So,” he asks. “My eyes look like a meadow, do they?”
I turn my head towards him, sticking out my tongue. “Stop making fun of me. It’s the truth, okay? Geez.”
Then Joe slows his swing down and gets off, walking towards me. I can feel my heart beating a little faster as I slow my swing down, too, until I’m just sitting there on it, with Joe now sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of me.
“You know what your eyes look like?” He says earnestly.
“No.” I reply truthfully. Please tell me.
“It’s weird, really. They kind of remind me of cotton-candy skies, like spring sunsets. They’re pretty.”
I must have sat there for at least five minutes, my mouth agape. Joe looks at me worriedly.
“Did I say something wrong?”
I shake my head forcefully. “No, no...It’s just...Thank you, f-for that. It means more than you think.”
And I get up and hug him. Really hug him; the kind where you squish your body so tight to another’s that you feel kind of comforted and kind of violated at the same time. It’s nice.
I have to lean down really low to do it, and just after a couple seconds, Joe pulls back, pulling me onto the ground with him. He pulls me close, until my nose is almost touching his chest.
“Josie,” He whispers.
“Hmm?”
“Maybe this is kind of my adventure.”
“What do you mean?” I ask him. The hug is nice, but I wouldn’t call it an adventure.
He gestures in-between the small space sandwiched between us. “I mean this. Just, whatever this is.”
I pull back a little bit. “You know, I’m leaving in a couple days, Joe. And I’ve, um, never...Dated before, so...”
Joe shakes his head quickly, almost cutting my sentence off. “No, that’s not what I mean. I don’t want to be your boyfriend, Josie. I mean, I like you and all, but we don’t have to kiss or hold hands or any of that stuff. In fact,” He pulls away, lying flat on his back, and he gestures for me to do the same. I lie down, looking up at the golden, dusky sky.
“In fact, we only have to look at the sky together.” He finishes.
I look at him. “Thank you, Joe.”

“Anything for you, Josie.”

                 Chapter Seven:

               In Which They Fly

It’s my last day here. I know it. Joe knows it. I feel like everyone I pass on the street knows it.
Seven down, one to go.
Except I don’t want to leave as much as I did before. I have mom and Joe to thank for that, I guess. Every day, when I walk out of the hotel lobby and into the sunshine outdoors, I just wonder what it’d be like. I walk into downtown, going from shop to shop but never actually buying anything, and I think about my life, how different I’d be if I’d grown up here. If mom hadn’t died and we were all still a happy family. If maybe I’d met Joe sooner; if maybe we’d have grown up together and become the best of friends.
I’m walking down to the park again, yawning, because this time we’re not meeting at 6:02 p.m. This time it’s 6:02 in the morning. Time’s a-wasting, I suppose.
Like always, I call out. “Hey, Joe.”
“Hey, Josie!” He smiles at me, waving. Well, he seems to be more of a morning person.
He isn’t sitting on the swing, though. He was leaning against a tree, and now he’s walking toward me, a big smile still on his face.
“Joe,” I immediately warn. “You better tell me what’s going on.”
He just kept smiling. “I saw an advertisement in a newspaper yesterday night,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows. “So?”
“I’m not going to tell you, Josie. It’s going to be awesome, though. It’s the perfect thing to do before you leave.” He declares.
The perfect thing to do before I leave?
He takes me by the arm, tugging me in a direction that must be leading us to this ‘awesome’ thing.
“To tell you the truth, I couldn’t believe it when I saw it at first. I mean, I’d never heard of anything thing like it being around here before. I just thought it must be more than a coincidence, you know?”
“Joe,” I say. “You aren’t making any sense.”
“Maybe not now, but you’ll see.”
He leads me through downtown, then through the suburbs, then the outskirts. By the time the Fairfield comes into sight, my feet are already sore.
“Joe, why-“ But then I know why. They’re just starting to rise in the air, and even from a quarter a mile away they look humongous and colorful against the sky.
Joe looks at me anxiously. “It’s a hot air balloon show. I thought you’d like it.”
I look at him a second before my eyes are drawn back to the sky. “It’s beautiful,” I whisper. I turn towards him and give him a hug, and then I punch his arm with enough force that he gives a little shout.
“Ow! What was that for?” He asks in confusion.
I smile. “Just looked like you needed it.”
He shakes his head and rubs the spot on his arm.
“C’mon,” I say, grabbing his hand suddenly,” let’s get a closer look!” And we run on the plushy, green grass towards the fair and those colorful balloons. And, of course.
Of course of course of course of course of course.
We run hand in hand toward cotton-candy skies.
         

            •           •          •

We run hand in hand toward cotton-candy skies. My hand stills, the pen lifts off the paper for a while.

“That seems like a good end, doesn’t it, Joe?” I raise the notepad, pointing at the last sentence.
He nods. “It’s beautiful, Josie.”
We’re sitting cross-legged on the ground eating apple slices and peanut butter, just like the first time we met. Well, except the ground is actually the floor of the train station.
“I’ll miss you, Joe.” I blurt out, blushing just a tiny bit.
He smiles sheepishly, the way he always smiles, and I try my best to remember what it looks like.
“I already miss you, Josie. Promise me you’ll come back some day. To continue our story,” he says, pointing at my notebook. I nod.
I look at the clock on the wall. It’s almost seven. It’s almost time to leave.
“I don’t know what I’ll do without you, Josie. We only knew each other eight days and you’re already my best friend.” He whispers.
“You’re my best friend, too, Joe.” I reach out and hold his hand, and it feels weird and nice at the same time.
Then the all-familiar burly, crackling voice shouts out over the speakers, telling me that it’s time to let Joe’s hand go, that it’s time to leave this little town.
I stand up slowly. “I don’t want to miss the train,” I tell him.
He jumps up and hugs me tight, and I wonder how I could grow to love someone the way I love Joe in eight days. Because I do love him, maybe not in the let’s date way, but still. He was like a big breath of fresh air after being stuck in an old attic for days.
“I’m going to miss you so much, Josie.” He murmurs into my hair.
“Joe, promise me you’ll go on your adventure. Even if I’m not there with you. Just go out and find what you’re looking for, okay?”
I feel him stiffen for a second, and I wonder if I snubbed him in some way.
“I- sure, Josie. I’ll try. But you have to know something,” and he pulls away from the hug, making me realize how long we’d just been standing in the middle of a train station, hugging. He holds me at arm length. “You were one of my adventures, Josie.”
I laugh a little. “As if. We barely did anything other than talk at a park.”
“Still. You helped me a lot, Josie, so, you know...Thanks. For everything you’ve done.” He pointed to my notepad again. “Our journey was really short, Josie, but you completely changed my story.”
I cringe. “You and your corniness, I swear. I hope it isn’t contagious.”
He chuckles. “Go be awesome for me, Josie.”
I hug him again, wondering if maybe we do this too often. “You go be even more awesome, Joe. And thanks for everything, too.”
The burly voice is shouting at me again, and I pick up my suitcase. I look at him, cocking my head to the side and smiling. Then I turn around, hefting my backpack onto my shoulder.
Halfway down the hallway, I turn around again, this time to face Joe. He’s just standing there at the same spot, watching me go.
“Goodbye, Joe!” I call out, waving with all my heart. Some people around me look at me weirdly, but it’s okay.
He waves too. “Goodbye, Josie!” He yells.
And then I head off to meet the train.
             

             •          •       •

I dream of rain and cotton-candy skies. I want to ride a hot air balloon deep into the sky and just stay there for a while. When I finally come down out of the clouds, I’d like to land on emerald grass with a touch of morning dew, and just lay there for weeks, watching wildflowers grow and blossom around me.

I dream of falling in love. I dream of having happiness surround me like a blanket, and I’d like to be able to spread that happiness like blackberry jam on fresh bread. I dream of making the world colorful and sweet.
My name is Isabel, though a certain boy calls me Josie. I’m on a train, you know. On my way to somewhere.
                                        
                    The End

    "Sometimes people are beautiful.

            Not in looks.

            Not in what they say.

            Just in what they are."

                                                                     - Markus Zusak