Words and Their Meanings by Kate Bassett

Author:Kate Bassett
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: teen, teen lit, teen reads, teen novel, teen book, teen fiction, ya, ya fiction, ya novel, ya book, young adult, young adult novel, young adult book, young adult fiction, words & their meanings, words and there meanings, words & there meanings
Publisher: Llewellyn Worldwide, LTD.
Published: 2014-07-20T16:00:00+00:00

Daily Verse:

I had been working on the surface for so long.

29

Coffin yoga. Daily Verse. Think about Gramps. Think about Mateo. Think about how weird it is to feel broken and mended all at once. Sad and happy. Sappy.

Bea is sitting on my floor, pounding the wood like a strung-out drummer and singing totally inappropriate lyrics about not getting laid but getting in a fight.

“Um, you can’t say that kind of stuff. Where did you learn that song?” I recognize it from when Nat and I used to go to the ’80s night at the bowling alley, like way back in middle school. Or tenth grade.

“Lori. She was playing it at Dad’s when I had to sleep over the other night. She said it was a slumber party kind of song.”

Bea stops drumming and looks up at me.

“She’s kind of dumb.”

I can’t help but laugh.

“Do you want to make stovetop s’mores for breakfast?” I ask.

Bea hops up and starts dancing around my room.

“Okay,” I nod. “But then we’re going to call Mom. I know she’s nervous about you being in the room with him, but I think you can handle it. We need to give her a break, and I can bring cards and some stuff to draw with too, so we can almost pretend he’s just taking an afternoon nap. It will be like we’re hanging in a hotel room.”

I’m pretty sure Bea stopped paying attention after I suggested the stovetop s’mores at 9 a.m., because she’s bobbing her head up and down as she skips right out of my room.

–––––

The ICU floor is empty for a Saturday. Fluorescent light bounces between the ceiling and fresh wax on the floors. Our shoes squeak and Bea begins twisting with each step to magnify the sound. I don’t tell her to stop. It makes us walk slower.

“Hi, Mom.”

We stand in the doorway of Gramps’s room. A single paper crane, which I recognize to be his first origami attempt, sits on his tray table, frayed and lopsided. In his stories, my grandmother’s engagement ring was tucked inside it many years ago. There is also a potted fern with a card sticking out of it. I walk over with Bea on my heels. It says, “I love you, George. Fight the good fight. Jack.” My father.

When I turn around I feel sick to my stomach because everything seems yellow. Yellow, not black, is the color of death. Gramps’s skin is yellow. The florescent lights make the whole room yellow.

Mom offers a thin smile, asking Bea if she’s okay and if she’d like to come closer. Bea shakes her head no but puts on a brave-enough face that Mom only nods and says it’s good of us to come. She fidgets with her ringless ring finger, twisting skin instead of a wedding band. On the nightstand beside her chair are four empty plastic cartons of red Jell-O and two crossword books without a single crease in the spine.

“We thought you could use a break.”

“No thanks.”

Mom shakes her head.

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