Ian was there again today and I’m starting to suspect he might like me. I hope so anyway. After school, he waited by Bobby DiMaio’s locker, leaning against it and pretending he wasn’t there just to see me. Pretending that he and Bobby have so much to catch up on, like there aren’t enough hours in the day to say all the things they need to say. But I’m not buying it. It didn’t used to be that way. He never used to wait for Bobby, not until the night Judy and I bumped into him after the game. Now he waits at Bobby’s locker every day, stealing glimpses of me when he thinks I’m not looking. But I see him. And every day when they walk by, he wears a smile that I’m sure is meant for me.
Violet glanced up, her cheeks burning as if she’d just been caught looking through someone’s bedroom window. Like she was some sort of Peeping Tom.
Still, it didn’t stop her from reading the next passage.
June 16, 1960
Bobby wasn’t at school today, but Ian was still waiting anyway. Only this time he didn’t stand at Bobby’s locker, he stood at mine. When he said “Hi, Lu,” my stomach did nervous flips and I was terrified to open my mouth and try to talk, afraid I wouldn’t be able to answer him. How is that possible? How can a boy make me suddenly speechless? He did, though, and I didn’t even care. When he smiles at me, it’s like staring into the face of an angel. He makes me forget about all the things my mother taught me . . . about being good and faithful and pure. I wonder what it would be like to kiss him.
July 3, 1960
It happened! I can’t believe it happened, but it did. Ian Williams kissed me. Me! I let him, and I even kissed him back. My mother would have a heart attack if she found out. I’d never be allowed to leave the house again. But I’d do it all over. A hundred times over! It was the most amazing, wonderful, beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced. I know I shouldn’t say things like that. I know what that makes me, but I don’t care. Ian kissed me, and I kissed him back.
Violet covered her mouth, trying not to giggle at the idea of her grandmother—a woman who’d always seemed so . . . so old to Violet—having a crush on a boy.
She couldn’t get over how old-fashioned it all was, the notion that a girl wouldn’t be allowed to kiss a boy.
Violet flipped through the pages, skimming the entries.
August 28, 1960
We have to sneak around to see each other now. Mother says Ian’s not the right kind of boy for me, that he’s not good enough. I don’t know what makes us any better than him since Daddy works at the factory, same as Ian’s father, but that’s what she says. I think she expected me to go to college and find a husband, not to marry a local boy who will likely end up at the factory too. I don’t care though. I want to be with Ian. Only Ian. Besides, I can still go to college—Ian will wait for me. Who knows, maybe he’ll go to college too. Or maybe neither of us will. Maybe we’ll run away and get married before our parents can stop us. Mrs. Ian Williams. Mrs. Louise Williams.
September 6, 1960
Ian’s away with his father for the week. Hunting season started and his daddy decided he was old enough to go with the rest of the men. I miss the smell of him. I miss his lips and his strong arms. I miss him.
September 13, 1960
I tried not to be alarmed when I saw him, but I knew it the moment he came strutting down the hall at school on Monday morning—he’d killed something. I hadn’t considered what his hunting trip might mean beyond the two of us being separated for an entire week. I hadn’t thought about the consequences of him carrying a gun. He may as well have come to school still wearing his bloodied hunting gear—I could see it just as clearly. More so maybe. It was revolting. The smell he was carrying was sickly and sweet, like the decayed vegetation in my mother’s garden at the end of the season. Like rotting, rancid, moldering fruits. Except that I was the only one who noticed it. I was the only one who’d known what he’d done to earn the mark he now wore. That he would always wear.
September 15, 1960
I’ve been avoiding Ian for two days, but I know he knows something’s wrong. How do I tell him that it’s not his fault . . . not really? I’ve tried to ignore it, but it’s impossible, it comes off him in waves, like heat. Holding my breath only made me dizzy, but at least I could be with him, even if it was only for a few minutes. Until I let him kiss me. That was when I tasted it. It was on his lips, and then it was on mine. I actually gagged before I could push him away. I told him I had to go, that I had to catch my bus, and then I ran away. I can’t avoid him forever, can I?
September 16, 1960
I’ve decided to tell him. I’m afraid. I haven’t told anyone since I was a little girl, before I knew it was something to be ashamed of, when my parents made it clear that I was never to talk about it again. That, like my great-grandmother and my aunt Claire (who they pretend doesn’t exist), I’m touched. Touched. I know what they mean when they say that. They mean crazy. It used to bother me that they felt that way about me, but I’ve learned to hide the things I see and hear and smell from them. I’ve learned not to tell them about the dead animals I sense. But now, with Ian, I feel like he needs to know, otherwise he’ll wonder why I’ve backed away from him. Maybe together we can figure this out. Maybe we can find a way to change it. Or at least to live with it.
Violet sat up, her heart racing despite the fact that she was reading about events that had unfolded over fifty years ago. She no longer felt guilty about reading her grandmother’s private thoughts; she had to find out what had happened next.