Gayle Forman - If I Stay

Table of Contents

FOR NICK
Finally... Always

Everyone thinks it was because of the snow. And in a way, I suppose thats true.

I wake up this morning to a thin blanket of white covering our front lawn. It isnt even an inch, but in this part of Oregon a slight dusting brings everything to a standstill as the one snowplow in the county gets busy clearing the roads. It is wet water that drops from the skyand drops and drops and dropsnot the frozen kind.

It is enough snow to cancel school. My little brother, Teddy, lets out a war whoop when Moms AM radio announces the closures. Snow day! he bellows. Dad, lets go make a snowman.

My dad smiles and taps on his pipe. He started smoking one recently as part of this whole 1950s, Father Knows Best retro kick he is on. He also wears bow ties. I am never quite clear on whether all this is sartorial or sardonicDads way of announcing that he used to be a punker but is now a middle-school English teacher, or if becoming a teacher has actually turned my dad into this genuine throwback. But I like the smell of the pipe tobacco. It is sweet and smoky, and reminds me of winters and woodstoves.

You can make a valiant try, Dad tells Teddy. But its hardly sticking to the roads. Maybe you should consider a snow amoeba.

I can tell Dad is happy. Barely an inch of snow means that all the schools in the county are closed, including my high school and the middle school where Dad works, so its an unexpected day off for him, too. My mother, who works for a travel agent in town, clicks off the radio and pours herself a second cup of coffee. Well, if you lot are playing hooky today, no way Im going to work. Its simply not right. She picks up the telephone to call in. When shes done, she looks at us. Should I make breakfast?

Dad and I guffaw at the same time. Mom makes cereal and toast. Dads the cook in the family.

Pretending not to hear us, she reaches into the cabinet for a box of Bisquick. Please. How hard can it be? Who wants pancakes?

I do! I do! Teddy yells. Can we have chocolate chips in them?

I dont see why not, Mom replies.

Woo hoo! Teddy yelps, waving his arms in the air.

You have far too much energy for this early in the morning, I tease. I turn to Mom. Maybe you shouldnt let Teddy drink so much coffee.

Ive switched him to decaf, Mom volleys back. Hes just naturally exuberant.

As long as youre not switching me to decaf, I say.

That would be child abuse, Dad says.

Mom hands me a steaming mug and the newspaper.

Theres a nice picture of your young man in there, she says.

Really? A picture?

Yep. Its about the most weve seen of him since summer, Mom says, giving me a sidelong glance with her eyebrow arched, her version of a soul-searching stare.

I know, I say, and then without meaning to, I sigh. Adams band, Shooting Star, is on an upward spiral, which, is a great thingmostly.

Ah, fame, wasted on the youth, Dad says, but hes smiling. I know hes excited for Adam. Proud even.

I leaf through the newspaper to the calendar section. Theres a small blurb about Shooting Star, with an even smaller picture of the four of them, next to a big article about Bikini and a huge picture of the bands lead singer: punk-rock diva Brooke Vega. The bit about them basically says that local band Shooting Star is opening for Bikini on the Portland leg of Bikinis national tour. It doesnt mention the even-bigger-to-me news that last night Shooting Star headlined at a club in Seattle and, according to the text Adam sent me at midnight, sold out the place.

Are you going tonight? Dad asks.

I was planning to. It depends if they shut down the whole state on account of the snow.

It is approaching a blizzard, Dad says, pointing to a single snowflake floating its way to the earth.

Im also supposed to rehearse with some pianist from the college that Professor Christie dug up. Professor Christie, a retired music teacher at the university who Ive been working with for the last few years, is always looking for victims for me to play with. Keep you sharp so you can show all those Juilliard snobs how its really done, she says.

I havent gotten into Juilliard yet, but my audition went really well. The Bach suite and the Shostakovich had both flown out of me like never before, like my fingers were just an extension of the strings and bow. When Id finished playing, panting, my legs shaking from pressing together so hard, one judge had clapped a little, which I guess doesnt happen very often. As Id shuffled out, that same judge had told me that it had been a long time since the school had seen an Oregon country girl. Professor Christie had taken that to mean a guaranteed acceptance. I wasnt so sure that was true. And I wasnt 100 percent sure that I wanted it to be true. Just like with Shooting Stars meteoric rise, my admission to Juilliardif it happenswill create certain complications, or, more accurately, would compound the complications that have already cropped up in the last few months.

I need more coffee. Anyone else? Mom asks, hovering over me with the ancient percolator.

I sniff the coffee, the rich, black, oily French roast we all prefer. The smell alone perks me up. Im pondering going back to bed, I say. My cellos at school, so I cant even practice.

Not practice? For twenty-four hours? Be still, my broken heart, Mom says. Though she has acquired a taste for classical music over the yearsits like learning to appreciate a stinky cheeseshes been a not-always-delighted captive audience for many of my marathon rehearsals.

I hear a crash and a boom coming from upstairs. Teddy is pounding on his drum kit. It used to belong to Dad. Back when hed played drums in a big-in-our-town, unknown-anywhere-else band, back when hed worked at a record store.

Dad grins at Teddys noise, and seeing that, I feel a familiar pang. I know its silly but I have always wondered if Dad is disappointed that I didnt become a rock chick. Id meant to. Then, in third grade, Id wandered over to the cello in music classit looked almost human to me. It looked like if you played it, it would tell you secrets, so I started playing. Its been almost ten years now and I havent stopped.

So much for going back to sleep, Mom yells over Teddys noise.

What do you know, the snows already melting. Dad says, puffing on his pipe. I go to the back door and peek outside. A patch of sunlight has broken through the clouds, and I can hear the hiss of the ice melting. I close the door and go back to the table.

I think the county overreacted, I say.

Maybe. But they cant un-cancel school. Horse is already out of the barn, and I already called in for the day off, Mom says.

Indeed. But we might take advantage of this unexpected boon and go somewhere, Dad says. Take a drive. Visit Henry and Willow. Henry and Willow are some of Mom and Dads old music friends whod also had a kid and decided to start behaving like grown-ups. They live in a big old farmhouse. Henry does Web stuff from the barn they converted into a home office and Willow works at a nearby hospital. They have a baby girl. Thats the real reason Mom and Dad want to go out there. Teddy having just turned eight and me being seventeen means that we are long past giving off that sour-milk smell that makes adults melt.