In Our Bones

I am not the heroine of this story.

I'm a suffering of cells, made up of bloodshot monkey-brown eyes, a tangled mess of dark hair, and skin like melted horchata with all the spice of cinnamon and the paleness of fresh rice. I'm slender butterfly limbs, soft curves and long sad lashes, little hands and littler mouth, all small and pouty, just like my momma's. I'm sadness rolled up into a human cigarette—something you want to light up and breathe and then throw to the ground to put out its fire. You'll want to take me in, and then when I get too close, when I burn you, you'll want to drown me, drown this growing wildfire.

I will hurt you, just like I hurt them.

Because I'm not a heroine.

I'm a fucking disaster.

—

My name is Juneau, but no one spells it that way; Juno is much easier.

I'm named after the capital city of Alaska, and when some kid in elementary school Googled it and found out that it was the second-largest city in the United States, they thought it'd be hilarious to call me the second-largest girl in Arthur F. Corey elementary school. The first, of course, was taken up by the other girl named after a place: Kansas Summers, a name almost as weird as mine, if even a little weirder. We were the two big girls, not because we were big-boned or anything, but because we were tall and we were heavy as fuck. Kids could come running at us, but we were tanks, and they'd bounce right off us like plastic bullets. We'd both been skinny as babies, but hell, as soon as we hit kindergarten, we'd sprouted like weeds, tall and thick-fisted with big heads and bigger mouths, yapping off like chihuahuas to any motherfuckers that dared to pick on us.

Because we weird-named kids had to stick together.

Kansas and I were as thick as thieves. She was blue-eyed and blonde-haired, the poster child for a curvy kid model, and I was... well, me. Chubby brown-eyed-brown-haired mousey kid with the delicate older sister, who—get this—was also named after a city: Aspen. She got the thin bones with long fingers that swept over piano keys like water, drowning out everyone and everything with the sweet sound of music. Her hair was less mousey, redder, a little auburn, and she got blue eyes like Daddy. I guess what I'm trying to say is that they were always beautiful, and I was a late bloomer... like really, really late.

I hadn't bloomed yet when we first met the other kid who was named after a place. He moved to Buena Park, California in the summer of '98 when we were in the fourth grade, and his name was Caspian, like the Caspian Sea, but no one ever called him that because he went by his last name, Booker. No one made fun of Booker because he could lay a sixth-grader on the ground with one punch, and he'd done just that the day he'd moved here.

"New dude just got sent to the principal's office," some kid had said, Victoria Ferris, I think, the girl who would probably make a good wife for a senator or something eventually. Prim and proper, always dressed like she was going to church.

"For what?" I'd asked.

"Sixth-grader snapped Kansas's bra strap. New kid didn't like that," Victoria said, and I could hear an edge of jealousy in her tone. I didn't know if she was jealous that Kansas hit puberty before all of us, or because Booker had defended her. He was in another class so I didn't know him, didn't even know what he looked like. Victoria obviously did.

"Where are you going?" Victoria asked as I took off.

"To find Kansas," I yelled over my shoulder. I ran through the school until a teacher yelled at me, and then I power-walked through the halls until I reached the front office. Sitting on a chair across from reception was Kansas, her hands folded in her lap, tears streaming down her face.

"Kansas," I whispered, taking a seat beside her. I slung an arm around her shoulder and she immediately sobbed into my chest, taking me by surprise. Kansas was a strong girl; she didn't often cry. Whatever had happened that day had scarred her.

"It'll be okay," I said, lowering my voice when the secretary caught sight of me from over the reception desk. "We're gonna kick that fucker's ass."

"Miss Garner," the secretary said sternly. "You are a young lady. Act like it."

"Sorry, Mrs. Ridley," I replied, my face turning red. "Okay, change of plans. We're not kicking any, uh, butt. We'll go get ice cream, okay? I have money, and I'll ask my sister to drive us."

We were fat-asses, Kansas and I, so ice cream should have made her perk up, but it didn't. She still looked dejected and all I could do was hold her, my little nine-year-old brain firing with ideas of revenge. Who'd done this to her?

When a dark-haired kid exited the principal's office, I sprang to my feet and shouted, "You dick!"

"Miss Garner, come into my office," the principal said, stepping out from behind the kid. No one in the room looked amused. That was fine; I wasn't trying to be funny. I was serious. Fuck that kid.

"He's not a dick," said a soft voice from behind me. "He's the one that defended me, Juno."

"Oh," I said. I looked at the dark-haired kid, trying to see him in a new light, and realized that I'd never, not once, seen this kid before. He had to be Booker.

And I'd called him a dick.

"I'm sorry," I said sheepishly as I made my way to the principal's office. Mr. Straughn. God, how I hated Mr. Straughn; he had one of those punchable faces, all twisted mouth from a constant smirk, and bushy caterpillar eyebrows that wiggled when he talked.

Booker didn't even look at me. He just walked past me like I didn't exist.

"You okay?" I heard him ask Kansas.

"Yeah," she said, her voice impossibly small.

"Miss Garner," Mr. Straughn said, reminding me that I had some explaining to do. He took me into his office, gave me a talking-to and detention for a week. Detention at Arthur F. Corey School was just spending your lunch and recess inside your classroom since they couldn't keep us after school. It was as much a punishment to your teacher as it was to you, so it sucked extra hard because it gave your teacher another reason to hate your guts.

I was sure my teacher already despised me, so how much worse could it get? I was a troublemaker with a big mouth.

When I exited the principal's office, Kansas was still there, and sitting beside her was Booker, the fluorescent lighting making his dark hair shine. He had peculiar golden eyes, like a tiger, and there was something kind of wild about him. My cheeks were red when they both got to their feet.

"We waited for you," Kansas explained.

"I'm sorry," I blurted out again.

Booker just looked at me, and for a moment I thought he was going to ignore me again, but then he said, "It's cool."

"Want to go for ice cream with us? My treat," I said.

Booker smiled, a sort of lopsided one where only one side of his mouth tugged up. I'd later learn that it was the only way he smiled; this crooked smile that melted hearts everywhere he walked—besides mine, of course. To me, he was just Booker, the kid who could knock out a sixth-grader.

"Sure," he said. Not much of a talker, but that was okay. Kansas and I talked enough to make up for it.

For another year and a half, Booker was shorter than Kansas and me, but then over the summer before sixth grade, he sprouted like a fucking weed; tall as a tree, lanky and serious, talking as little as always, quiet and brooding. Kansas was completely in love with him, as was probably just about everyone else. Booker had earned the guys' respect and the girls' hearts.

I was the odd one out. I liked Booker—a lot, but not like that. Booker had cooties, you know? And I was juvenile enough to let myself believe it.

"Booker's going to Buena Park Middle School too," Kansas excitedly said to me on the last day of sixth grade. Booker this, Booker that. She was about the only person he really talked to. Because we hung out together, sometimes he talked to me too, but not much. We didn't have much in common besides the fact that we both cared about Kansas.

In middle school, Booker started buying these giant cookies for us. One for Kansas, one for me. He never got one for himself, didn't even explain why; he just did it, and that was that. The three of us sat on the bleachers during lunch, exchanging Rice Krispie Treats for Gushers and throwing pieces of PB&J sandwiches at the pigeons.

The three of us went to Sunny Hills High School and that's kind of when everything changed. Booker and Kansas had always been meant for each other. I sat back and watched as their hands brushed when they walked, as they always looked for each other first in a room, as they spent more and more time together without me, and then one day they walked into school holding hands. Booker kissed Kansas against her locker, and my heart burst into flames.

I felt so... alone.

When we were juniors in high school, sixteen-years-old and driving all wonky like a couple of idiots, taking turns in Booker's beater, laughing at the way Kansas would drive all wobbly, things changed. One day Kansas went home early to study for a midterm exam, and Booker and I decided we'd practice driving in the local community college parking lot at night when the lot was clear of cars.

I was used to everyone telling me that my driving was too fast, that my turns were too sharp, but Booker was different. He never told me how much I sucked. He just put a hand over mine, turning the steering wheel gently, teaching me quietly what it meant to drive like a normal person instead of a racecar driver.

"Gently," he said. "Lift your foot off the gas. Slowly. Not completely, just a little."

That was the thing about Booker; he didn't judge you, didn't belittle you, didn't make you feel like shit. He just helped you.

I'd been practicing driving for months, but that night was the night I finally learned to drive. I learned that the car was not just a machine to control, but a part of you, an extension of yourself. You had to be careful with it, the way you were careful with yourself—look both ways before crossing the street, you know? Protect that car like you'd protect yourself.

"You've got it," Booker said, smiling his lopsided smile.

I grinned. He was right, I finally got it! I parked the car and sighed, doing a little happy dance that made Booker chuckle.

"You're crazy, June."

Only Booker and my dad called me June. Daddy had passed away the year before. It still stung to think about him; about the way he'd wake me up for Saturday morning cartoons so we could eat waffles and watch them together; about the days he'd pick me up early from school so we could catch the matinee at the local movie theater; about the way he never let me feel inadequate next to Aspen even though she was the skinny and talented one. Daddy had made me feel precious, had told me how I was beautiful, had promised that someday a lucky guy was going to be waiting for me in a church, and Daddy would be there to walk me down the aisle.

I started to cry.

"Hey, hey," Booker said softly, "you're okay. I promise you're okay."

"Am I?" I asked him, looking up with an ugly snot-faced expression of helplessness.

"Of course you are," he said. "You're the strongest person I know, June."

"I-I don't think so, Booker," I whispered. "I'm breaking down. I don't know how long I can keep pretending. I'm not okay. I'm trying so hard, but I'm just not."

"But you are," Booker said, reaching out and putting his palm against my cheek. "Nobody's perfect, June. Being strong is not about being perfect. It's about persevering—exactly what you've been doing. You're hurt, but you're still smiling. You don't let Kansas see your pain. You make her happy... you make me happy."

"I do?" I asked breathlessly. I think I was kind of fishing for compliments at this point because it was making me feel better, but I never knew I'd regret it because a moment later Booker leaned forward and pressed his lips to my cheek. My breath caught in surprise.

"Booker," I whispered shakily.

"I care about you," Booker said softly. "Probably more than I should."

I couldn't quite process what he was saying. "What does that even mean, 'more than I should'?"

Yeah, I was an idiot. I didn't know how to read what he was telling me.

"You don't understand," he said.

"Understand what?"

"I'm in love with you, June."

I know a look of horror crossed my face.

"No," I said, opening the car door. "I—uh, nope."

"June—"

"Nope." I got out of his car, ran my hand through my hair, tugging at the loose strands. This was not happening. Booker, in love with me? What fucking reason did he have to love me? Booker was my best friend, not closer to me than Kansas, but—oh god, Kansas! Booker was the love of her life.

"June, please," Booker said, getting out of the car and going around it to reach me. He put his hands on my elbows, tugging me toward him.

"Booker, don't—"

And he kissed me.

For one blissful moment, I enjoyed it. Sparks flew behind my eyelids, my legs turning to jelly as I lost all my equilibrium, and I fell into his arms. He steadied me, deepening the kiss—and that's when I realized what we were doing. I pulled back and slapped him across the face.

"Booker, how could you?" I asked, tears pricking in my eyes. God, this would destroy Kansas.

"We broke up," Booker said. "This morning. We broke up, June. I know what you're thinking, but I'm not cheating on Kansas. I would never do that."

What the fuck? And no one had told me?

"Booker, it doesn't matter that you broke up. We can't do this to Kansas. It's wrong."

"I'm not her property. I love you, June. Not her."

Tears trickled down my cheeks. "Jesus, why?"

"Because you're fucking crazy!"

I laughed, a dark sort of laugh that meant that nothing was funny at all.

"Thanks," I said sarcastically.

"No, that's not what I mean," Booker said. "You're... You're loud. You're too much. Too much talking, too much stubbornness, too much everything. You're just fucking insane, and I love it. I've always loved it. I've always loved you. I made friends with Kansas to be closer to you, but you always gave us a wide berth. I-I know you probably don't feel the same way about me. I know I'm just Kansas's property to you—"

"That's not what I said—"

"Let me finish. You don't see me, June, but I see you. I see everything. I know you're broken, I know you're fucked-up, I know you're hurting because I am too. I'm fucking destroyed. I know you lost your dad, but did you know that I lost mine too? Just a couple weeks after you lost yours. I couldn't let anyone stop comforting you to comfort me so I didn't tell anyone."

"Why the fuck would you do that, Booker?"

"How many times do I have to say it? Because I love you."

Biologically, on a molecular level, I knew that I cared deeply about Booker. But I loved Kansas.

"No," I said, walking away. "Just—no, Booker. Go back to Kansas. Don't break her heart. Please don't break her heart."

Booker put his hands in his pockets, looking down at the ground. "Is that really what you want?" he asked quietly.

—

Six Years Later

—

The dress was perfect. Kansas had helped me pick it out. It went with the wedding theme, and it was silky and lacy and just perfect. Didn't I already say that? Yeah, perfect.

"I can't believe it," Kansas said, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. "You look gorgeous."

"No, you do," I said. The stylist had curled her hair and all the bridesmaids' too. We'd made friends in college, weirdly enough, and we'd gotten close to a lot of them, but none as close as Kansas and I were to each other. We were practically sisters. Most people thought we were.

But it was nice to have bridesmaids. Maid of Honor was guaranteed, but what about the rest of the wedding party? Aspen, my sister, was a bridesmaid too. I smiled, watching her fix her hair, pinning up her freshly curled hair.

There was a knock on the door.

"Who is it?" a bridesmaid, Kelly, asked.

"Booker."

Everyone squealed.

I walked to the door and leaned against it.

"You can't come in, Booker."

"Why not?"

I rolled my eyes. "You're not allowed to see the bride until she walks down the aisle. Everyone knows that."

"Whatever," Booker said. "Hurry up. Don't make me wait."

"Go away," I said, and he did.

Kansas's brother Dakota (yes, yet another place-name) would walk me down the aisle. He was a sweetheart and I loved him to death. He was nervous as hell that day; Dakota didn't do well in crowds. He had mild autism, and it made him anxious to be around so many people. I patted his arm, smiling. When the music started, I made my way down the aisle, leading Dakota. He was sweating profusely, but I didn't mind. I walked slowly, and he began to follow, putting one foot in front of the other.

Booker was waiting at the end of the aisle, grinning his lopsided grin. I walked toward him, grinning back. God, how we'd grown.

I walked and walked and walked, and walked right past Booker, to the raised platform to the left where I belonged—my spot as Maid of Honor. Dakota took his place as Best Man.

The bridesmaids trailed in one by one and I smiled the entire time. That night in the community college parking lot I'd told Booker that I'd wanted him to go back to Kansas, that yes, that was what I really wanted. And so he had. He'd gone back to her, patched up what they'd broken, and then they fell in love, really fell in love. I hadn't once regretted my decision.

And today was their wedding day.

I was desperately single and that kind of sucked, but it was nobody's fault but my own.

The wedding march started, and then came Kansas in her beautiful white wedding gown, making my lacy and silk yellow dress pale in comparison, but that was okay; it was her day, after all.

I glanced at Booker. He was grinning even wider now. It was so adorable that it was almost disgusting. I smiled when Kansas looked at me, and I gave her a thumbs up. This was her moment.

The ceremony was beautiful, everything I knew Kansas had always dreamt of. When they read their vows, half the room was in tears. All I could do was smile and smile and smile until it hurt to smile, but I kept smiling even after that. I didn't cry; I'd promised Kansas that I wouldn't because it'd ruin my makeup for the photos.

After their first kiss as husband and wife, the photographers pushed us out into the summer air and had us pose for too many pictures. Most of the females of the wedding party had to have their makeup retouched, even Kansas, but I proudly smiled away the afternoon.

A limo drove the newlyweds to the reception hall while the rest of us piled into regular cars. The bridesmaids were all carpooling there, and I somehow got squashed into the middle seat in the back of a Nissan Versa. Cramped, uncomfortable, and definitely no place for a Maid of Honor, but who gave a fuck about that, anyway?

As Maid of Honor, I took over my duties at the reception hall to get everything ready for the couple's grand entrance. When they finally walked in through the double doors, the emcee announcing them with too much enthusiasm, the music blaring, I realized just how lonely I was. Not that I wanted Booker, but a part of me wanted what they had.

My best friend had married the love of her life and I still couldn't get a text back. What was more tragic than that?

That night, I met Jamison, who I remembered sitting on the groom's side in the church. He went by Jamie, and he read me like I was an open book. He walked right up to me with a glass of tequila, straight.

"Here," he said. "I think you need this."

"I don't know you."