6
Kenley
The first night of float building is always chaos, but this year there’s a different vibe. I call it the “The Homecoming Queen Killed Herself” vibe, which has settled over the senior class in particular like a heavy coat of dew. Everyone fights an internal battle with the fact that Rose is gone and should be here, and the fact that Rose is gone, and life continues.
The Powers That Be determined this is one tradition that will continue, and I think that permission, plus the familiarity of the event, incites an energy that’s been missing for a few weeks, and I’m shocked when Ozzy and I pull up to Ezra’s house and see how many people came out.
There’s a certain rhythm to this tradition. Freshmen are gung-ho, full of energy and in it to win it. Unfortunately, they’re the less skilled so results may vary. Sophomores are suddenly too cool for any and all things, have just discovered sex and drinking, so theirs usually sucks. The juniors are caught in the reality of AP classes, college visits and the hard truth about their GPA. They struggle to participate but tend to pull it off in the end for a solid second or third place win. But the Seniors? Well, we realize it’s our last year, one final block in all the blocks, we’ve also already started applications, firmed-up college exams, and are completely out of fucks to give.
Add in Rose Waller? Everyone is ready to just have fun.
“I was skeptical about having it at Ezra’s,” Ozzy admits, standing at the end of the driveway, “but I take it back. This is the perfect location.”
Bright spotlights shine down on the driveway, which is good since it’s already dark, and we need light. The trailer is parked near the back on a nice flat surface. Ezra’s driveway fits the house, oversized and spacious. Loud music is pumped through speakers, providing a burst of energy. A group of parents sit around the firepit, “chaperoning,” their cups
kept close. Alcohol most likely. You’d have to drink to take on this job.
Kids cluster in groups, “pomp-ing” which is a float building term I only learned because of this particular tradition. Tiny squares are cut into tinier squares and rolling into pea-sized balls. We’re required to make exactly one-gazmillion of these that we then glue on cardboard one at a time to create the float’s design. It’s ridiculous, tedious and mind numbing. It’s also part of what makes the whole thing fun.
We walk by a table filled with pizza boxes and drinks. Ozzy snags a piece of pepperoni, and we pass the different groups, still separated into cliques. Float building is equal opportunity—everyone is invited because everyone is needed—but that doesn’t mean we all hang out together. It’s more like we work parallel to one another, each focused on small pieces that will ultimately create one final design. It’s a lot like real life.
“You made it,” Ezra calls, jumping off the trailer. He’s got a tape measurer in one hand, and a pencil tucked behind his ear. Finn stands behind him holding up a few pieces of lumber. He winks, and that familiar heat creeps up my neck.
“What do you need us to do?” I ask.
“The mentor just got here—want to take lead on that?” He nods toward the chaperones, and I see one woman I don’t recognize. She’s got shoulder-length brown hair and a nice smile. She looks about the same age as the parents, but again, she’s not familiar to me. “We don’t need a huge amount of help, but she may have something interesting to add.”
“Sure,” I say, leaving Ozzy to help the guys.
I walk down to the chaperone circle, noting that Mr. Baxter is the only dad here. He’s sitting with Monica Chandler, and surprisingly, Regina Waller. Not surprising, because they’re all old friends, but surprising because it’s crazy to me that she wants to be here. A rush of guilt tugs at me; it happens every time I see either of the Wallers. If only I’d talked to Rose that night and accepted her apology, I can’t help but wonder if thing would be different.
Regina, always the one to take the higher road, smiles and says, “Kenley, is there something you need?”
“I was sent down to talk to our mentor.” I look at the woman and offer her my hand. “I’m Kenley Keene.”
“Shannon Hughes,” the woman says, shaking my hand. Although her face isn’t familiar, her name is. I scan my memory trying to place it. “Just catching up with some fellow alumni. Your group probably has more collective knowledge on Thistle Cove traditions than any other class; I doubt you need me much.”
“It always helps to hear it from someone that’s not a parent,” Monica says. “They just tune us out.”
I nod. She’s right about that. “Any input is appreciated. Those guys are so excited about using power tools that I’m not sure they’re paying attention to the rules.”
“Let’s go see what’s going on.”
On the way back to the driveway I ask, “Do you have kids in another grade? Your name is really familiar.”
“No, I don’t live in Thistle Cove anymore, although I do have two kids—they’re in college. My dad passed away a few months ago, and I came back to help my mom move into a smaller place.”
“Oh, sorry to hear about your dad.”
“Thank you. He was a great guy. Staying with my mom is nice, but when the alumni group was looking for mentors I figured it may be a good way to get out of the house a little.”
“Sounds like a good idea.” I frown. “I swear I’ve seen, or heard, your name before.”
We get to the trailer where Juliette is standing. She has a purple three-ring binder in her hands.
“Hi,” she says, thrusting her hand forward. “I’m Juliette Chandler.”
Shannon looks her over. “Jason’s daughter?”