Page 36 of Look on the Bright Side

Mrs.Dean (“Call me Heather”) was so easy to talk to. She didn’t work—Mom had used the words trust fund at one point. Their house was filled with beautiful things—a chandelier from Venice, a statue from Greece, a pure white couch that never got dirty. They didn’t have pets, and their whole house smelled like oranges.

Justin was still getting treatment, and still weak and tired. Sometimes she’d sit by his bed or on the couch, reading to him as he dozed. She tutored him when he had the energy so he could catch up on all the school he missed. Mr.Dean had taken a leave from his job as an attorney, so if he drove Justin to his chemo appointment in Hyannis or a doctor visit in Boston, Lark would help Mrs.Dean—Heather—arrange flowers cut from their garden, or hang sheets on the clothesline, because line-dried sheets smelled like love, Heather said. At Lark’s house, there wasn’t enough time to hang out clothes, since there was a minimum of three loads of laundry to be done every day.

When Lark stayed for supper, she’d set the table with the cloth place mats and napkins the Deans used every night. After dinner, they’d all play Scrabble or Scattergories or Boggle, since the Deans loved word games.

To Lark, it was the kind of family she might want to have someday. Orderly, peaceful, friendly, thoughtful. They talked about serious subjects—politics, war, other cultures—and Heather and Theo listened to both Justin and her, nodding or suggesting an article they might read if they were interested. Lark learned that not only was Justin nice, he was eloquent and a deep thinker. Alone in his room or on a walk along the Cape Cod Rail Trail, which was flat and paved and not too much for him in his still-weakened state, they talked about what they hoped to do in the future, the friends they thought they’d keep when they started high school, their families.

By late July, the bulk of Justin’s chemo was done, thank God, though he’d have to have “touch-ups” for the next few years to keep the leukemia from coming back. He had a 90 percent chance that he’d be just fine. Ninety percent was an A, Lark reminded herself, worrying over the remaining 10 percent. An A–, but still.

Then, one hot August day as they walked through the gentle trails of the Audubon center, where the Deans were lifetime members, Lark got up the courage to ask the question she had not dared ask yet. The sky was a stunning shade of pure blue, and birds warbled in the trees. The breeze off the bay was warm—thunderstorms were predicted for later with an ensuing temperature drop, and the smell of pine and salt marsh was strong and comforting.

“Did you ever think you were going to die, Justin?”

He stopped walking, frowning thoughtfully, looking out at the bay. His hair was just starting to grow back, and his eyes no longer looked so unprotected, since his lashes and brows had come in. He was achingly beautiful.

“I did, yeah,” he said. “The first round of chemo was so hard, I almost wanted to. Everything hurt so much, even my bones. Maybe especially my bones, because, you know, my bone marrow had cancer. Even lying down hurt, and then I’d have to puke. Sometimes I couldn’t even lift my head. I’d just throw up on my own pillow.” He grimaced. “I had sores in my mouth all the way down my throat, and it hurt so bad to puke like that.”

“Throwing up is how we first started being friends,” she said, putting her hand on his skinny arm to let him know it was okay.

He smiled at that, and her heart swooped up like an osprey on a current of wind. “That’s true.” His face grew serious again. “The thing I kept thinking was, I couldn’t do that to my parents. I couldn’t die, because it would wreck them. But it hurt so much to be alive.” He gave her a sideways glance. “That’s when my mom would read me your letters.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked away, fast. “That’s…that’s good. I’m glad I wrote them.”

“Me too.” He leaned in and kissed her, a soft, sweet kiss, short enough that she didn’t have to feel uncomfortable, long enough that it was utterly perfect. Her first kiss, age thirteen. Her first love with this gentle, quiet, kindhearted boy.

“Will you be my girlfriend, Lark?” he asked.

She smiled and bit her lip. “I thought I already was.”

“You are. I just wanted to make it official.” He grinned, then took her hand, and they kept walking, their conversation returning to their last year of middle school and what lay beyond.

When Mrs.Dean dropped her off later that afternoon, Lark ran into the house and pounded up to the room she shared with Addison.

“We’re going out,” she announced breathlessly.

“Did he kiss you?” Addie demanded.

Lark nodded. “It was…it was perfect.”

Addie didn’t smile. “Well. Okay, then. If it has to be someone, I’m glad it’s Justin. Just don’t forget about me. Twins first, everyone else, take a number.”

Lark laughed and flopped on the bed next to her sister. She could feel her sister’s jealousy as much as she felt her own happiness. She squeezed Addie’s hand, reassuring her without words.

“Twins first,” she echoed, though she knew that someday soon, it wouldn’t be true anymore. It shouldn’t be true forever, after all. Someday, Addison would find the love of her own life.

Lark knew she herself already had.

•••

Once they got to high school, the puppy love didn’t fade. Instead, like a puppy, it grew in leaps and bounds. Everyone knew they were together—Lark and Justin, Justin and Lark. Larstin, Addie had dubbed them, still jealous but trying to keep it hidden, which Lark appreciated. It wasn’t that Addie resented her for having someone; it was that she’d figured she’d have someone first. But she was gracious in her way, and Lark made sure to include her often, which served both of them well. Addie didn’t feel left out, and Lark had a chaperone.

Despite their mother’s frank and embarrassingly frequent talks about human anatomy and how babies were made, Lark still felt shy on that front. So far, she and Justin had just kissed. Justin hadn’t tried anything else, and she was glad, because as flushed and taut as kissing him made her feel, she didn’t want to rush anything. Their love was in its earliest springtime—snowdrops and crocuses just blooming. Giving in to impulse might have the same effect as a hard freeze, and something this beautiful, this new and fragile, should not be tampered with.

Their love was perfect. They could talk about serious things, and they could laugh together. He knew she cried easily for happy and sad reasons…when Grammy was diagnosed with cancer, he had simply held her and stroked her hair and let her sob, something she couldn’t do at home, since everyone was sad there, and she didn’t want to add to their burden. But Justin had plenty of room for her and all her feelings, which could overwhelm her sometimes.

When she was happy and proud—learning she was the top student of their freshman class, for example—he knew that after she blushed and smiled and accepted her classmates’ congratulations, she’d need to cry to get out all that pride and embarrassment. She’d need to cry if Addie was mad at her, and she needed to cry when Harlow told the family she was going to college in Colorado, even though she was happy for her big sister. Sometimes, she cried just because she felt such intense love—for him, for Grandpop, for Justin’s mother, for Amos, their creaky old cat who wouldn’t be around forever.

Everyone else in her life hated when she cried. There was often a stampede to console her—Daddy, Harlow, Mom, Addison, and Robbie, who would cry along with her. Winnie would avoid her, because Winnie hated tears from anyone. Justin was the only one who understood that without crying, her feelings would make her pop like a bubble.

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