The Good Son by Carolyn Mills (best novels for teenagers .txt) 📕

He tried to talk to me once about what happened, before Amir left Dunford for good. I think he must have hoped that as long as Amir was still in town, there was a chance the two of us could work things out.

He was waiting for me one day in the parking lot at the plant when I finished my shift. At first, when I saw him standing beside my car, I had a horrible thought that Amir had done something, hurt himself or worse, but that would have been giving myself too much credit.

“Zoe,” Gary said, looking at me sadly. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Trust me,” I said. “I have my reasons, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

“What does that mean? ‘You have your reasons?’ Zoe, just tell me what’s going on. This can’t be what you want.”

I looked Gary square in the eye. “It is,” I said. “It is what I want.” I got into my car and slammed the door. When I drove away, Gary was still standing there, watching me.

But that was after. Long before that day in the parking lot with Gary, I was happier than I’d ever imagined being. And Amir was at the centre of it all.

CHAPTER THREE

•

“YOUR JOB IS TO ENTERTAIN the guests,” Amir told me. “And to make sure you’re having fun.”

“What about you? Are you going to have any fun stuck behind the barbeque all night?”

“I like grilling meat,” Amir replied. I stood on my tippy toes and kissed him. We were standing in my kitchen waiting for our Labour Day party to begin, which Amir had pretty much single-handedly organized.

Even though this was Amir’s brain-child, I found myself caught up in the excitement. It had turned into a gorgeous day, sunny, but not too hot, with just enough of a breeze to keep the air from becoming heavy. It had been cloudy and spitting rain when I first woke up, and I couldn’t imagine all the people Amir had invited fitting inside my bungalow, so I was glad when the sky cleared up and the sun came out. Also, Amir’s enthusiasm was infectious. As we bustled around my kitchen, putting last-minutes touches on the food we’d prepared together, I was reminded of the way I used to feel right before my birthday parties, staring out the window, waiting and waiting for that first person to show up with a present in their hands.

Those parties all took place before Amy Nessor’s murder. Before I stopped inviting kids to our house. Before I stopped having friends to invite in the first place.

“Here, this can go outside,” Amir said, handing me a bowl of beer nuts. We’d made way too much food: a multi-layered taco dip, bacon-wrapped water chestnuts, vegetarian chili, a fruit salad. This was in addition to the bowls of chips and nuts we’d already carried outside.

Gary and Yolanda were the first to arrive. I offered Yolanda some wine, pouring myself a full glass, and soon the backyard was dotted with small groups of people.

“Those sausages are about done, eh?” I said to Amir, peering over his shoulder at the barbeque.

“Are you questioning my cooking skills?”

“Well, if they’re anything like your bowling skills …”

I STOOD ON THE DECK, doing my best to make small talk with people, and looked around at the clusters of guests milling around the yard. Amir had put up a badminton net; there were lawn chairs strewn across the grass; everywhere I looked, people were smiling and laughing. Hell, even I was smiling and laughing.

Amir abandoned his post at the barbeque and came to stand beside me. I put my arm around his waist and pulled him close. Leaning into his shoulder, I whispered, “I am so glad I met you.”

He dipped his face toward mine and kissed me on the lips. “Ditto,” he said.

Mom was sitting not too far away, under the shade of the patio umbrella. She’d seen our quick embrace and was smiling at me. Later, when I was re-filling her water glass, Mom put her hand on my arm and said, “Zoe, you deserve this. You deserve to be happy.”

“Thanks,” I said, wondering why she felt compelled to tell me that, as if I might think I didn’t deserve to be happy.

It bothered me, her saying that.

I WAS HAPPY WHEN I was with Amir, and if my life felt unfamiliar to me, it was unfamiliar in a good way. Finally, for the first time maybe, I was actually living. When Amir left, my newly acquired joie de vivre went with him. Or maybe it was never mine; it had always been his, and for a while, I had just been lucky enough to be pulled into its orbit. Regardless, without him, my life quickly deflated. Returned to its regular proportions.

“YOU TOOK A PHOTOGRAPHY CLASS in high school, right?” Amir asked. We were walking along the path beside the Still River and his hand was warm in mine.

“Yeah …” My voice came out sounding defensive. I had my camera with me — I almost always had it when we were out walking — and I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. Was he suggesting I should be taking better pictures, given that I’d once studied photography in high school?

“I saw a thing at Gulman’s Studio. They have a professional photographer coming in to teach a class and it made me think of you.”

“You think I need to take a class?”

“I thought you’d like to take it. You’re always taking pictures, and you’re good, your pictures are good, but this would be a chance to develop your skills even more.” He squeezed my hand. “It was just a thought.”

I DID SIGN UP FOR the photography course and when I arrived for my first class in Gulman’s Studio — which used to be Gulman’s Textiles — I was surprised by how many different kinds of art classes were offered in the refurbished factory: painting, woodworking, glass-blowing, quilting, and pottery. Gulman’s