In the Arms of Stone Angels - By Jordan Dane Page 0,41

bedroom window, I scaled down the oak tree. I grabbed my old bike from the garage and headed for the stone angels—and Grams. And even though it was after midnight, I took my time getting to the cemetery. I stuck to the shadows on the street to avoid anyone seeing me. And I kept an eye out for patrol cars. No way I wanted more face time with the cops, not even Will Tate.

When I got to the cemetery, I hid my bike and climbed over the stone wall. I located the newer section and read the names on the headstones. It didn’t take me long to find Grams. I almost cried when I saw that her grave had the prettiest stone angel I’d ever seen. The angel was a child. A little girl. And I swear she was looking at me. Just me. Her eyes followed me as I walked around my grandmother’s grave.

I dropped to one knee and knelt on the ground. And as I stared up at the baby angel, I spoke to my grandmother.

“Oh, Grams. I miss you so much.”

I ran my fingers through every line chiseled onto the base of Grams’s stone angel—over and over—as I told my grandmother everything. I huddled against the stone and talked until I was done. Sometimes I cried. Sometimes I even laughed. And I pictured Grams’s face and smelled the baby powder she dusted with after her bath. I even caught a whiff of the tapioca she made that I hated but never told her. Memories of Grams flooded my mind like she was reaching out to me.

But finally it was time to do what I’d come to do.

I reached into my fanny pack and pulled out my box cutter. I held it in my hand and stared at it for a long time. The weight of it was familiar and it brought back a rush of dark memories. I had used the blade to cut myself. And each new scar marked a pain I still carried with me in my heart, but what happened today made me see that I was coming to a crossroad.

I had to want to change for myself. And no one else—not even White Bird—could make me happy. I had to do that on my own. And I had to stop letting others dictate how I felt about me. I didn’t care what someone like Jade DeLuca thought. She was a total waste of perfectly good skin. And three pounds of brain matter was about two pounds too much for what she did with it. I didn’t respect her, so why would I care what she thought of me?

And that went double for Derek Bast. Sure he could pound me into chicken-fried-steak, but he’d always be a charter member of the asshole club. I was tired of feeling awful. And I was fed up with giving jerks like Jade and Derek control over my life. I wasn’t sure how I would do it, but I knew what my first step had to be.

I had to stop hurting myself.

I dug a hole near Grams’s headstone—under the watchful eyes of her baby angel—and I buried my box cutter. Under the stars, my truth meter, I swore to my grandmother that I’d never cut myself again. And although I had no way of really knowing it, I believed Grams heard me.

Nearly 3:00 a.m.

With a big wad of gum in my mouth, I took my time riding my bike to Grams’s house. A couple of lines or a lyric needled me all the way there. I had the urge to stop and write them down in the notepad I had brought with me, but I was still flipping words in different order and working it out.

Forever is never-ending music…

Nighttime is my blanket…

The lines were there, inside my head, for the first time in two years and it felt good. I wanted to write down how I felt whenever I stepped foot in a graveyard. The word home came to me, but I wasn’t sure what else I wanted to say, so I let it stew in my brain until I was back at Grams’s again, ready to crawl under the covers.

But before I climbed up the tree and back through my bedroom window, I saw a strange glimmer of light flickering on the drapes of the living room on the first floor. At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, but when I looked once