Page 65 of Catch the Sun

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Jonah’s letters are tucked inside my hobo bag like some kind of security blanket as we roll up to the dance at seven thirty the following evening. I don’t knowwhy I brought them. The words and sentiments sweep through my mind as I stare at the strobe-strewn glass of the gymnasium with my ass glued to the passenger seat.

Piglet,

Can I still call you that? I hope so.

A lot of things have changed, but I pray that’ll never be one of them.

I got into a fight with one of the guards, Olsen. He’s a no-good prick in a lot of ways, but want to know why I snapped?

He disrespected my baby sister.

He saw a picture of you that Mom sent me before telling me in detail what he wanted to do to you. So I showed him where that train of thought will take him.

My cuffed hands were around his neck before he could take another useless breath. I kind of blacked out, but I guess I managed to get a good hit in before another guard tore me off him.

They placed me in an isolation unit for a while, and I’m sure there will be more bullshit consequences. They say Olsen will recover just fine, but I’m betting his shattered nose will be a reminder for him to watch his fucking tongue.

Anyway, I’m still protecting you.

Even from hundreds of miles away.

Even on death row.

Jonah

Mom glances at me as I try to shake off the gloom, the image of Jonah beating up a prison guard playing out in my mind over and over. When I was younger, I felt like Jonah’s violent outbursts in my honor were respectable and brave. Now, it’s just a chilling reminder of why he’s sitting in a jail cell on death row.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Fine.” I’m lost in his letters, wondering how he held up in isolation, wondering if there were consequences, and wondering why I should even care.

Stop caring, Ella.

Life will be so much easier if you stop caring.

There’s a little white stone tucked inside my hand, growing sweatier by the second. I’ve stopped pondering why I carry it with me these days; I just do. For whatever reason, it brings me comfort. It centers me, acting as a calming tether to the girl I once was. The girl who curled her hair and who laughed more than she cried.

I thought about curling my hair tonight but didn’t. It looks the same as it always does, blow-dried and loose, hanging over my shoulders in red-brown waves. I tried to cover up the evidence of my sleepless night with concealer and a few strokes of shimmery champagne eye shadow. My lips are glossy. My dress fits nicely. Overall, I don’t look nearly as terrible as I feel.

My mother stares at me. I see her studying me in my periphery as the headlights across from us shine light on my nervous jitters. I squeeze the stone tighter.

“You’ll have fun tonight,” she tells me, putting the car into park when I don’t move. “And you look so pretty.”

Pretty.

Max told me I was pretty while we stared out at the lake together and a bonfire roared with laughter behind us. It was the nicest thing anyone had said to me in years. I ran from the compliment, just like I ran from his proposal to go to the dance together. He said we’d make it fun and I believed him. It’s the only reason I’m here right now, looking pretty. “Thanks,” I mutter, throwing Mom a weak smile. “I’ll find a ride home later.”

“I’ll stay up. I have a lot of work to do, anyway. Text me if you need me to come get you.”

I have no idea what work she has to do, but I force a nod.

She gives my bare knee a squeeze, her irises glimmering grayish-green. Mom looks happier than she used to. There’s a flicker of real joy shining back at me.

“Have a good time,” she says before I hop out.

I scoot from the seat and push open the passenger door, plopping the stone into my ratty old hobo bag. Not exactly a fancy dance accessory, but fancy doesn’t suit me anymore. “See you later,” I say. Then I shut the door and dally on the curb, awkward and alone, while the car pulls away and disappears into the night.