Page 11
“That woman did it all, didn’t she?” Lauryn said as she joined me at the foot of my bed.
I took the picture from her and rubbed my fingers over its soft edges. “She really did.”
Theater superstar, queen of fundraisers, with the ability to name every person who passed by her in the street, Grandma Marguerite was in a class all on her own. Even after that crap went down with the stadium, she still called Reed’s grandmother, Joyce, every Sunday for their usual catch-up.
Grandma died on a Saturday afternoon, and when Joyce called the day after, I assumed it was because she didn’t know.
She did.
She had called to check on me.
I’d never forget that.
“She’d be proud of you for being in the production this summer.” Lauryn offered me the open and now nearly empty bag of chips.
“Well, I’m not in it, really—”
“Hey.” Lauryn smacked my leg. “Everyone who works and helps with a play is in the play, Eliza. ‘There are no small parts…’ ”
“ ‘…only small actors,’ ” I finished, nudging her.
We let my cat-shaped clock on the wall speak for us for a few moments, its ticking only interrupted by Lauryn’s hand going in and out of the chip bag until she finished it. “So…when do we get to talk about Reed Fulton being in town this summer?”
I fell back against my plush headboard.
“It’s been a few years since I last saw him, but damn, girl.” She fell backward next to me. “He’s fire.”
Please. I made a gagging noise. “No, he’s not.”
She smacked my arm. “I know your mask was covered in feathers but come on. Tall, dark eyes—”
“Arrogant, irritating…”
“But those arms and shoulders.” She fake-swooned. “Did you see them?”
Yep. I saw them, all right.
Gah. Wait. What?
“His triceps pushing against that shirt…”
“Lauryn.” I threw my pillow at her. “He’s a Fulton. The same boy who stole my toys when I was six. Who told me there was no such thing as Santa Claus—”
“Didn’t you say it was an accident about Santa—”
“I was five.”
She laughed and hopped off my bed, grabbing my iPad off the desk. I changed out of the rest of my costume, throwing on a pair of old lacrosse shorts and a big T-shirt of Dad’s before peering over her shoulder.
Lauryn now scrolled through the new Fulton team page.
“Are you nuts?” I snatched it. “My dad uses this to make game videos sometimes.”
Three loud knocks hammered on my door before it opened, and Dad stood under its frame holding a toothbrush. His reading glasses rested on the top of his salt-and-pepper hair, and a pen sat tucked behind his ear.
He must’ve been watching game tapes again.
“Eliza, your mother and I were worried when we didn’t get a text from you. You know you’re expected to text us when you go somewhere and when you’re on your way back,” he said.
