Whatever Tomorrow Brings
By Claire Nance
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Chapter 1
Friday
July 10, 1970
“I can’t stay here.”
I pulled my hand out of Slate’s and hurriedly worked my way down the row of occupied seats to the carpeted aisle, my eyes down to avoid getting tangled in the feet of strangers. Then I practically ran out of the Village Movie House, with Slate’s footsteps coming up fast from behind. He caught me at the door leading into the lobby.
“What’s wrong, Dee?” His velvet brown eyes flickered over my face.
I shook his hand off my arm and kept heading for the parking lot. I had to get outside where I could breathe. I stopped at his truck, turned around and leaned against it, gulping for air like a fish left dangling on a bamboo pole.
Slate grabbed hold of my shoulders. “Look at me,” he said, “and tell me what’s going on.”
I pushed him away. It seemed I needed space as well as air.
He changed his mind. “Don’t say anything. Just try and take a deep breath…. That’s it. Now, let it out slow…. Take another one…. Let it out slow…. Take another…. Let it out…. Keep going….”
My whole body shuddered as I sucked in air. I felt like a child, and tears slid down my cheeks because Slate was seeing me like this, but I forced myself to concentrate on the deep breaths. After about a minute, I felt the tension in my body easing up. After two minutes, my breathing returned to normal.
I looked up at Slate, and he smiled at me.
“Better?”
I nodded. “How—How did you know what to do?” It was a warm afternoon, but my fingers felt like ice when I swiped at the remaining tears on my face.
“Coach Johnson. Sometimes I get nervous before a big football game. Like when we play the Norton Panthers, and everyone’s expecting us to win. Can you tell me what happened?”
I shivered. “On the way home. Would you take me home?”
“You sure you’re all right?”
“I think so.”
He opened the door for me, and I climbed into the front seat.
“It happened when the roof caved in on those teenagers in the mine shaft,” I said, after he climbed behind the wheel. “The screen went black, and I heard them crying for help, and I—I felt like I was in there with them—suffocating. I had to get out.”
He started the engine. “It was just a movie, Dee.”
“I know. But I felt like I was back in—” I stopped. Only a handful of people knew about my being trapped in a toy chest when I was little, and I didn’t know why, but every time I talked about it, I felt ashamed—as if what happened was my fault.
Slate turned down the radio. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“This isn’t some trick to keep me from going on the fishing trip with the guys tonight, is it? I know two weeks is a long time, but—”
My jaw dropped. “You think I would pull some kind of stunt like that just to keep you here?”
“Okay, maybe I’m wrong.” He glanced over at me and saw the look on my face. “I’m wrong. I’m sorry.” He pulled me closer and put his arm around me. “You going to be okay while I’m gone?”
“I guess so,” I said stiffly. I moved away from him and pulled my compact from my purse to check my makeup. I was happy to see my brown hair hadn’t turned white after my ordeal. I dabbed at my moist eyelashes with a tissue.
“I’ll call you every night.” He gently squeezed the back of my neck. “You don’t have to worry about your makeup,” he added. “You’re still beautiful.”
I rolled my eyes. He was shameless. “Sorry you blew your money on that movie.” I crumpled the tissue and snapped my compact shut.
He shrugged. “I was getting bored anyway.”
We both laughed at his obvious lie.
"Let’s go by Skip’s and get a malt and some French fries. I’m hungry.”
Suddenly, I was, too. “Sounds like a plan,” I said and scooted closer to him.
Thursday
October 8, 1970
A sudden breeze blew the glass storm door wide as soon as I opened it. My sister, Carol, caught it before it slammed against Mom's potted plants sitting on the porch.
“Watch it,” she said from behind me.
I juggled the books in my arms while switching my clarinet case and baton to my left hand. Then I could unlock the front door with my right.
“Hurry up,” she complained as I fumbled with the key.
“I'm doing the best I can.” I opened the door, and she pushed past me and headed for the bathroom. No wonder she was in such a hurry.
Tossing my things on the couch, I headed for the kitchen for a glass of tea. Mr. Blackmon kept the band and drill team late this afternoon working out last-minute changes to our halftime show for tomorrow night's football game. And even though it was October, it'd been hot on the practice field. It'd be another week before a cool front came to Southeast Texas. I couldn’t wait for lower temperatures and less humidity.
My phone rang as soon as I dumped my books on my bed a few minutes later. It was Slate. We made it through the first five minutes without arguing. Then—
“If you say one more time that I should quit football, I’m hangin’ up.”
I put my hand on my hip. “Just how many hits do you think your brain can take?”
“I mean it, Dee. Don’t give me any more flack.”
I glanced over at Slate’s framed picture on my nightstand. Coal-black hair fell over a narrow forehead and velvet brown eyes with thick black lashes smiled back at me. How could someone so handsome be so stubborn? “You—you act as if concussions are no big deal.”
“And you act as if they’re fatal. Doc Wilson says—”
“Doc Wilson?” I rolled my eyes. “He’s your biggest fan. I'm surprised he’s making you sit the bench tomorrow night. He’d probably let you play against the Panthers with a broken leg if you asked him.”
“Now you’re really being ridiculous.”
Beep, beep!
I spun around and jerked back the bedroom curtain as a red-and-white convertible sped past the house. Marcus Easton. Thrillsville.
“Who was that?”
“Nobody.” I did a double-take. “Oh, Slate! Two baby squirrels are playing in the oak tree.” I pulled the curtain back further.
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not, they’re just so cute. They can’t be more than nine inches long.”
“Who was that who honked?” Slate’s deep voice had an edge to it.
“Just Marc,” I said, continuing to spy on the little gray squirrels. They flattened themselves against the trunk of the oak as a dark-haired boy on a blue bicycle pedaled past the house.
“Uh-huh. Sorry if I’m interfering in your love life.”
“Right,” I said drily. The squirrels were chasing each other now, a gray blur whirling round and round the trunk. I turned away before I became dizzy. “Now, who’s being ridiculous?”
“Well, what do I know? I’m at the fieldhouse most afternoons.”
“And I’m on the marching field most afternoons.”
“With Easton.”
“With a hundred other band members.” I couldn’t believe we were having this conversation. Walking over to the dresser mirror, I took a quick inventory—ash brown hair, muddy blue eyes, and ivory skin that freckled instead of tanned. Nothing special there. Carol was the real beauty in the family with her olive skin and thick golden blond hair. She was also the most popular. If Slate was going to go steady with anyone, Carol would’ve been the obvious choice. Instead, he fell for me. It blew my mind. And Carol’s. She had some rough days, but she took it like a champ.
“So why does he drive by so often and why so many pictures of him in your family album?” There was no mistaking the irritation in Slate’s voice.
I rubbed my nose. “How did you know—?”
“I had to do something while waiting for you last Saturday. The album was right there on the coffee table.”
Thanks a lot, Carol. She’d been looking at it before Slate came over and must’ve left it out. Neatness was not one of my sister’s virtues. “I didn’t notice. You never said anything.”
“Bruised ego. Besides, we were late for the movie.”
“Well, I told you all about Marc in June when he came back from California.” Picking up a pen, I began writing Slate’s name in blue on the gray cover of my algebra book.
“That was before school started and you ended up having two classes with him and the same lunch period.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“You don’t hear me laughin’.”
I added a “plus” sign and my name under Slate’s. “But I’ve known Marc for years. And most of the time he’s a pest. Which is why you only saw a few pictures of him.”
“A few? Is your nose growing, Pinocchio?”
I giggled. “Would you stop?”
“What for? I enjoy talking about the other boys in your life. Just like I enjoy arguing about football and concussions.”
“All right, all right. I get it.” I glanced at his picture again, his velvet brown eyes setting off a landslide in my stomach. “But I am glad you’re not playing tomorrow night. I hate seeing you get hurt. I do care about you, you know.”
“About time you said it,” he replied, his voice softer. “But about not playin’—”
Then I remembered. “Even though you won’t let me wear your football jacket.”
“What? Come on, not that again. Listen, Hot Shot. I’ll decide when you wear my jacket.”
I pouted. “So, you’ve said. But don’t you think it looks funny—”
“I couldn’t care less how it looks.”
My lips spewed air like a popped balloon. He couldn’t care less, but what about me? Didn’t my feelings count? I rarely saw “Slate the Great,” all-district, all-state linebacker, except between classes, after games, and on Saturday nights. But sometimes, if he was seriously injured during a game, not even on Saturday nights. Wearing his jacket was a way of keeping him near me.
“Sheila’s had Big Bob’s for a week,” I argued. “And Tom gave Tara his yesterday. And this afternoon Carol pretty much rubbed my nose in it because I don’t have yours.”
Slate snorted. “That sister of yours is somethin’ else.”
I silently agreed. Aloud, I said, “I think she has a point.”
“You and Carol make two.”
“Well, I don’t see why you won’t let me wear it.” I switched the receiver of my French phone to my left ear. “Of course, if you don’t care enough about me to—”
Slate’s sigh was heavy…and loud.
I picked up my baton and practiced time tosses in front of my dresser mirror while he thought it over. I was on the third toss when he spoke again.
“If I gave it to you, how long would you want to keep it?”
“That’s up to you.”
“You’d give it back to me as soon as I asked for it? No whinin’ or complainin’?”
I rolled the baton off my right thumb, flipped it into the air, and caught it. “No whining or complaining.”
“And you’ll take good care of it? You won’t get hair spray, or powder, or perfume on it? Because if the guys at the fieldhouse got a whiff—”
“I swear I won’t.”
“Well….”
I stopped twirling, bit my lip, and held my breath. I could almost feel his jacket on my shoulders.
“Ask me next month,” he said and chuckled.
“Sla—ate.”
“Look, Dee, I gotta go. Supper’s ready, and I’ve still got English and tests in civics and trig to study for.”
In other words, discussion closed.
I clamped my teeth together. Other girls could twist their boyfriends around their little finger, no problem. I couldn’t even get Slate to bend much less twist.
“Come on, Hot Shot. Say good night.”
“Fine. Good night!” I slammed the receiver down, glanced at his framed picture on my nightstand, and stuck out my tongue.
“Well, that was mature.”
I gasped and jumped back on the bed.
Carol giggled.
“Thanks for the heart attack,” I said crossly. “You should wear a bell around your neck.”
She flicked her blond hair off one shoulder, a hint of annoyance in her sea-green eyes. “I’m just looking for some notebook paper. Is that all right with you?”
“Notebook’s on the floor over there,” I said, pointing. “And next time, knock.”
“What are you so uptight about?”
“Who’s uptight?” I quickly crossed the room and slipped a 45 on my record player. I was in no mood for questions. Plopping onto the bed, I picked up Jobo, the stuffed panda bear that stayed on my pillows, and half-listened to the music while I reviewed Slate’s phone call in my head.
Seemed like we were arguing a lot these days with Slate rarely giving in. He was so moody lately. And why did he have to be so stubborn? He didn’t seem to understand or care what wearing his letter jacket meant to me. It would really boost my morale. And there were certain people who needed to see me wear it—a little reminder that Slate belonged to me and I belonged to him. Of course, I kept his senior ring on a chain around my neck, but it couldn’t be seen in the classroom or halls as well as his jacket.
I thought Slate would give it to me last week when the first October cold front came through, that he’d be proud for me to wear it. But no-o. If only I could get him to change his mind. Honestly, sometimes he treated me just like a child.
I sighed heavily and rubbed Jobo’s shiny black nose. Who was I kidding? I felt like a child most of the time. I thought making twirler last Spring and having Slate for a boyfriend would make a difference—and it did for a while—but then—whoosh! —the old fearful me rushed back to the surface. I wished I could be more like Carol. She wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything. That’s all I wanted—to stop feeling like a scared little kid and start feeling like I belonged in my world. I supposed that was the real reason I wanted to wear Slate’s jacket—so I’d feel more secure.
Glancing over at my older sister, Miss How-Many-Hearts-Can-I-Break-In-A-Month Anderson, I decided, despite my misgivings, to ask her for advice—just this once. I put down Jobo and turned down the phonograph.
“Carol?”
“What?” She snapped my notebook shut as I settled back on the bed.
“How…uh…how did you get Chad to let you wear his letter jacket?”
She stood up straight. “I told you I never wanted to hear that name again. Two-timing rat fink!” She shook notebook paper at me. “You can’t trust any boy; I don’t care who he is.”
This from a girl whose motto was, “All’s fair in love and war.” If Chad hadn’t caught Carol flirting with a lifeguard at the beach over the Labor Day weekend, he never would’ve stepped out on her. I coughed so I wouldn’t laugh.
Heading for the door, Carol suddenly stopped and looked back at me. “Why do you ask?”
I stalled, finger-tracing a light green petal on my floral bedspread. “Oh…I was…just wondering.”
“O-oh,” she said knowingly. “Slate’s not cooperating. Well, I don’t think my methods would work in your case. You’ve spoiled ‘Slate the Great’ from Day One.”
My head shot up. “I have not.”
Carol smiled sweetly. “Whatever you say.” She caught her reflection in my dresser mirror and bent down for a closer inspection. “So, what excuse has Slate given you for not letting you wear his jacket?”
“None. Just that he wants to decide when he gives it to me.”
Carol licked her little finger and rubbed it under her right eye. “The male ego rears its ugly head. And you let him get away with it.”
I lifted my chin. “Not necessarily. It’s just that I’m the first girl Slate’s ever wanted to go steady with. It’s all new to him. I need time to break him in.”
She giggled. “As if you know anything about going steady yourself.”
That hurt.
“Dee, you kill me.”
“Don’t give me any ideas. And put down my lipstick.”
Carol dropped the tube. Then she turned around to face me. “Bottom line is you’ve let Lindell High’s star athlete be the boss for too long. Now you’re paying the price. I warned you before when he gave you his senior ring and took back the little gold football he’d given you last Spring. You wanted to keep the football a while longer, but as usual you gave in to him.”
Her tone irked me. “His parents gave him that little football when he made all-state. He never would’ve given it to me in the first place if he hadn’t lost his ring. When he found it again, he wanted to switch out. It was only natural considering the football was fourteen-carat solid gold. And unlike you, I don’t mind making sacrifices for the guy I love.”
“So why ask me for advice?”
“I’m sorry I did. You’re absolutely no help.”
She shook her wavy blond hair and headed out. “How can I help a wimp?”
“I’m not a wimp,” I yelled after her, “and you know nothing about true love.”
The record ended. I lifted the black vinyl disc from the phonograph and placed it back in its paper sleeve. Carol just didn’t understand the pressure I was under. Slate’s broad shoulders, athletic build, and handsome features attracted more girls than a sidewalk shoe sale marked “Clearance.”
I clutched Slate’s ring and slid it up and down the gold chain around my neck. I still wasn’t comfortable with the envious glances cast my way when Slate walked me to class. I knew what they were thinking—what does he see in her? —and I didn’t blame them. He was much too wonderful for me. I lived constantly under the threat that he’d find someone prettier, funnier, smarter.
Putting the tube of lipstick Carol dropped back on the mirrored tray that sat on my dresser, it occurred to me that I should just let the matter of wearing Slate’s jacket go. No use pushing the issue and acting like a total nag.
I suddenly caught a whiff of something. I took a deep breath. There it was again. It smelled like—like something burning.
“Mom?” I ran into an empty kitchen, then spotted Mom through the window. She was talking to Mrs. Haggard at the backyard fence with Trixie, our tan-and-white chihuahua, in her arms. My nose wrinkled. The acrid smell coming from the stove told me I needed to act fast. I grabbed the gold hot pads sitting on the white tiled countertop opposite the stove and opened the oven door.
Thick curls of pale gray smoke hit my nose and eyes as the burnt edges of a sirloin steak sizzled angrily. Coughing and blinking, I leaned over and pulled the broiler pan out of the oven, the grease sloshing wildly under the rack.
And that’s when the unbelievable happened.
My right contact lens popped out, landed on the broiler pan, and shriveled into nothingness. I gasped and hurriedly set the hot pan on the counter as Mom came through the back door.
“Is it badly burnt?” she asked. “I only meant to be gone a few seconds, but Thelma was upset over Trixie chasing her nasty white cat again. I keep telling Carol to be careful when she goes out the front door. This dog’s a little escape artist.” She set Trixie down on the linoleum, reached up, and turned on the vent over the stove.
“Mom!”
She glanced at the steak. “Don’t worry, Honey, it’s still edible.” Crossing to the kitchen sink, she began washing her hands.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the broiler pan. “Mom, it’s gone!”
“What are you talking about? What’s gone?”
“My contact lens! It popped out, hit the pan, and—and poof!”
“What?!” Mom stared in disbelief.
“It was right there,” I said, pointing to the spot. “Now there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. It happened so fast.”
Drying her hands, she stood next to me, speechless.
“What’s all the commotion?” Carol asked, strolling into the kitchen.
Mom turned off the vent. “Dee lost a contact lens.”
“Again? She just replaced one in August.”
I squinted at Carol through my one good lens. “That was not my fault. Who knew the wind could be that strong at the beach?”
“How’d it happen this time?”
“She broiled it.”
“She what?!”
“She broiled it. Just now.”
Carol stared at me.
“I was checking the steak and smoke got in my eyes, and I blinked, and the lens popped out and hit the hot broiler, and pfft!” I wiggled my fingers in her face. “Gone!”
Carol burst out laughing.
“Don’t you laugh.”
Mom swept her salt-and-pepper bangs off her forehead. “I’ll call Dr. Smith’s office tomorrow and get a new lens ordered. The good news is it will only cost thirty dollars since we bought the replacement insurance. The bad news—you get to tell Dad when he comes home from work.”
Great.
“Looks like you’ll be twirling at the pep rally and football game in glasses,” Carol teased.
I inhaled sharply. “Oh, no!” No, no, no!
Carol snickered and sauntered into the living room.