Jay Asher - What Light

Dad climbs the ladder to help me slide more trees down to the workers. After lowering a few, he looks at me with his hands on his knees. “Did I react too strongly with Andrew?” he asks.

“Don’t worry,” I say, “he knows I’m not interested.”

Dad lowers another tree, a delighted smile on his face.

I look out over the workers on the lot. “I think everyone here knows I’m off-limits.”

He stands up and wipes his wet hands on his jeans. “Honey, I don’t think we put too many restrictions on you. Do you?”

“Not at home.” I send down another tree. “But here? I don’t think you’d be too comfortable with me seeing anyone.”

He grips another tree, but then stops to look at me and doesn’t pass it over the side. “It’s because I know how easy it can be to fall for someone in a very short time. Trust me, leaving like that is not easy.”

I lower two more trees and then notice he’s still looking at me. “Okay,” I say. “I understand.”

With the trees finally unloaded, Dad takes off his gloves and shoves them into his back pocket. He heads to the trailer for a short nap and I walk toward the Bigtop to help ring up customers. I pull back my hair to wrap it into a bun when I see, standing at the counter, Caleb in his street clothes.

I let my hair fall to my shoulders and scrape a few strands forward.

I pass him by as I head to the counter. “Back again, making someone else’s Christmas bright?”

He smiles. “It’s what I do.”

I nod for him to follow me to the drink station. Next to my Easter mug I set a paper cup for him and then I tear open a packet of hot chocolate. “So tell me, what made you start doing this with the trees?”

“It’s a long story,” he says, and his smile falters a bit. “If you’ll take the simple version, Christmas was always a big deal in my family.”

I know his sister doesn’t live with him anymore; maybe that’s part of the non-short story. I hand him his cup of hot chocolate with a candy cane stirrer. His dimple reappears when he sees my Easter mug, and we both take a sip while looking at each other.

“My parents would let my sister and me buy whichever tree we wanted,” he says. “They’d invite friends over and we’d all decorate the house. We’d cook a pot of chili and afterwards we’d all go caroling. Sounds really cheesy, right?”

I point to the flocked trees around us. “My family survives on cheesy Christmas traditions. But that doesn’t explain why you buy them for other people.”

He takes another sip. “My church does this big ‘necessity drive’ during the holidays,” he says. “We collect things like coats and toothbrushes for families that need them. It’s great. But sometimes it’s nice to give people what they want instead of only the necessities.”

“I can appreciate that,” I say.

He blows steam from the surface of his drink. “My family doesn’t do the holidays like we used to. We put up a tree, but that’s about it.”

I want to ask why, but I’m sure that’s also part of the non-simple version.

“Long story short, I took the job at Breakfast Express and realized I could spend my tips on families who wanted a Christmas tree but couldn’t afford it.” He stirs the peppermint stick. “I guess if I earned more tips, you’d see even more of me.”

I sip up a small marshmallow and lick it from my lip. “Maybe you should put out a separate tip jar,” I say. “Draw a little tree on it and have a note saying what the money’s for.”

“I thought about that,” he says. “But I like using my money. I’d feel bad if that extra tip somehow took away from a charity that gives people what they actually need.”

I set my mug on the counter and point at his hair. “Speaking of things people need, don’t move.” I run behind the counter for a small paper bag. I hold it out to Caleb and his eyebrows raise.

He takes the bag, looks inside, and laughs so hard when he pulls out the purple comb I picked up for him at the pharmacy.

“It’s time to start tackling those flaws,” I say.

He slides the comb into his back pocket and thanks me. Before I can explain that the comb is first supposed to go through his hair, the Richardson family walks into the Bigtop.

“I was wondering when you’d show up!” I give both Mr. and Mrs. Richardson hugs. “Aren’t you normally day-after-Thanksgiving tree buyers?”

The Richardsons are a family of eight who have been buying their trees from us since they only had two children. Every year they bring us a tin of home-baked cookies and chat with me while their kids bicker over which tree is the most perfect. Today, their kids all say hi to me and then run out to start looking.

“There was car trouble on the way to New Mexico,” Mr. Richardson says. “We spent Thanksgiving in a motel room waiting for a fan belt to arrive.”

“Thank you, God, they had a pool there or the kids would have killed each other.” Mrs. Richardson hands me this year’s blue snowflake-covered cookie tin. “We tried a new recipe this year. We found it online and everyone swears it’s delicious.”

I pull off the lid and pick out a slightly misshapen snowman cookie that has a ton of frosting and sprinkles. Caleb’s leaning in, so I offer him the tin and he takes a mutated reindeer with buck teeth.

“The younger kids helped out this year,” Mr. Richardson says, “which you could probably tell.”

I moan around the first bite. “Oh my, yum… These are delicious!”

“Enjoy them now,” Mrs. Richardson says, “because next year I’m going back to the Pillsbury version.”

Caleb catches a crumb falling from his lips. “These are amazing.”

“A lady at work says we should try some peppermint bark,” Mr. Richardson says. “She says even the kids can’t mess it up.” He tries to reach into my tin for a cookie, but Mrs. Richardson grabs his elbow and pulls him back.

Caleb snags another cookie and I shoot him a look. “Excuse me! You have now exceeded your allotment.” I know he would love to tease me for saying allotment, and it is fun to watch him struggle, but he would rather eat the cookie.

“Eat all you want,” Mrs. Richardson says. “I can give you and your boyfriend the recipe and—”

Mr. Richardson touches his wife’s arm at the word boyfriend. I smile at him to let him know it’s okay. Besides, one of their children is now screaming outside.

Mrs. Richardson sighs. “It’s been lovely seeing you again, Sierra.”

Mr. Richardson nods at us both before leaving. Once outside, he shouts, “Santa sees you, Nathan!”

Caleb steals another cookie and pops it in his mouth.

I point at him. “Santa sees you, Caleb.”

He holds his hands up innocently and walks to the drink station for a napkin, which he scrubs across his mouth. “You should come with me on tonight’s tree run,” he says.

I nearly choke on my cookie mid-swallow.

He tosses the crumpled napkin into the green plastic trash can. “You don’t have to if—”

“I’d love to,” I say. “But I work tonight.”

He looks me in the eyes, his expression shallow. “You don’t have to make excuses, Sierra. Just be straight with me.”

I step toward him. “I work until eight. I told you that, remember?” Is he always this defensive?

He bites his top lip and faces outside. “I know there are things we should talk about,” he says, “but not yet, okay? Just, if you can, don’t believe everything you hear.”

“I will go with you another day, Caleb. All right? Very soon.” I wait for his eyes to look at me. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

He picks up another napkin to wipe his hands. “I do. I think you’d really like it.”

“Good,” I say, “because it means a lot that you want me to go.”

He stifles a smile, but his dimple gives it away. “You grew the trees. You deserve to see what they bring to these families.”

I wave my candy cane toward the trees. “I get to see it every day.”

“This is different,” he says.

I stir my drink with the candy cane and study the spirals it forms. It feels like this will be more than two people simply hanging out. It feels like I’m being asked out. If he did that, having nothing to do with trees, a part of me would love to say yes. But how much do I honestly know about him? And he knows even less about me.

He pulls out his comb and wags it in front of him. “This isn’t getting used until you commit to an exact date.”

“Oh, now you’re playing rough,” I say. “Let me think. This weekend is going to get real busy here, so I’ll be exhausted after work. Can we go Monday when you’re done with school?”

He looks up, like he’s checking the calendar in his head. “I don’t work that day. Let’s do it! I’ll come get you after dinner.”

Caleb and I leave the Bigtop together, and I decide to show him some of my favorite trees on the lot. Whatever tip money he wants to spend today, I’ll make sure he gets the best. I begin walking toward a balsam fir I’ve had my eye on, but he starts heading toward the parking area.

I stop. “Where are you going?”

He turns around. “I don’t have any money for a tree right now,” he says. His smile is warm but mischievous. “I got what I came for.”

Things slow down Sunday evening, so I retreat to the trailer to chat with Rachel and Elizabeth. I open my laptop and slide apart the curtains by the table in case I’m needed outside. As my friends’ faces appear onscreen, my heart aches from being so far away. Within minutes, though, I’m laughing as Rachel describes how her Spanish teacher tried to get the class to make empanadas.

“They were like burnt hockey pucks,” she says. “I’m not lying! After class, we literally played hockey in the hallways.”

“I miss you guys so much,” I say. I reach out to touch their faces on the screen and they touch the screen right back.

“How are things?” Elizabeth asks. “Not to be pushy, but any news about next year?”

“Well, I did bring it up,” I say. “My parents really want to make it work here, but so far I don’t know if things are heading that way. I’m sure that makes you all a little happy, but—”

“No,” Elizabeth says. “No matter what happens, it’s going to be bittersweet.”

“We would never want the tree lot to end,” Rachel says, “but of course we’d love you to be here with us.”

I look out the window. Three customers are all I can see moving in the trees. “It doesn’t feel like we’ve been as busy as last year,” I tell them. “My parents analyze our sales every night, but I’m too afraid to ask.”

“Then don’t,” Elizabeth says. “Whatever happens will happen.”

She’s right, but every time I leave to do homework or even take a break, I wonder if I could be doing more. Losing this place would be so hard, especially for Dad.

Rachel leans in. “Okay, is it my turn? You will not believe the ridiculousness I’m dealing with for the winter formal. I’m working with a bunch of amateurs!” She launches into a story about sending two freshmen to a craft store for supplies to make snowflakes. They came back with glitter.

“That’s it?” I ask.

“Glitter! Didn’t they realize we’d need something to put the glitter on? We’re not throwing it in the air!”

I imagine being at a formal like that; classmates in gowns and tuxes flinging up handfuls of glitter as they dance. The glitter cascades down, lit by the swirling lights. Rachel and Elizabeth laugh and spin with their arms out. And I watch Caleb, his head tipped back and his eyes closed, smiling.

“So… I met someone,” I say. “Sort of.”

There’s a pause that feels like forever.

“As in, a boy?” Rachel asks.

“Right now we’re just friends,” I say. “I think.”

“Look at you blush!” Elizabeth says.

I hide my face in my hands. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing. You know, he’s—”

Rachel interrupts. “No! No-no-no-no-no. You’re not allowed to get fussy over what’s wrong with him. Not when you’re in full-on crush mode.”

“I’m not being fussy this time. I’m not! He’s this super sweet guy who gives Christmas trees to people who can’t afford them.”

Rachel leans back and crosses her arms. “But…”

“This is where she gets fussy,” Elizabeth says.

I look from Rachel to Elizabeth, both in their little boxes on my screen. Both waiting for me to tell them the downside. “But… this super sweet guy may have gone after his sister with a knife.”

Their mouths drop open.

“Or maybe he just pulled it on her,” I say. “I don’t know. I haven’t asked him.”