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I know what I saw, but over the next few days, Simon gives no indication that he’s received, let alone read my note. He passes me in the hallway without so much as a sideways glance. When Sienna calls me over to talk one day before class, he walks off abruptly, as if I’ve suddenly contaminated the air. During the pep rally for tonight’s basketball playoff game, I spot Simon in the top row of the bleachers, his attention fixed on the girl huddled in at his side for the duration of our dance routine.
“Tonight I’m going to redeem myself, I promise!”
Daisy is bouncing on her toes excitedly when I burst her bubble. “Have fun, Daisy…I’m going straight home after the game.”
“What?” I feel bad that her mood’s taken a nosedive because of me, but there’s no way I’m going to Tyler’s party. “Youhaveto come! I think we’re the only sophomores Sienna and Skylar invited, and they only invited me because of you.”
I shake my head to reassure her, even though I know this is probably true. Sienna and her sister are truly nice, so I’m not being entirely fair, but I notice I’ve been on the receiving end of a whole lot of kindness lately. I’m still riding that odd wave of celebrity that comes when some terrible tragedy befalls you. Humans are predictable. We like to feel good about ourselves, see ourselves in a positive light. And nothing works better than bestowing kindness on others, especially when there’s an audience to witness your good deed.
In seventh grade some boy in my class was diagnosed with a rare blood disorder. The rumors flew, the outlook was bleak. No one paid much attention to him before, then all of a sudden bake sales were being organized to help out with medical bills, kids who never spoke to him were writing the most heartfeltGet Well Sooncards, and the soccer coach, who never let this boy off the bench when he was in perfect health, was now donning aDo it for Bradypatch on his warm up jacket, same as the one his players wore on their jerseys.
I am currently wearing the crown. I am the girl who lost her mother.
Daisy looks as if she’s just reminded herself of this. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“I’m sorry too, Daisy. I know I haven’t been the best company lately. You should go to the party. Most of the juniors are going and you’re like a freaking social butterfly…You’ll be fine.”
“Itispotentially the last game of the season.”
I push her gently from behind as we walk into the lunchroom. “Way to have faith in our team.”
“Please,” she whispers as she turns around, “I overheard Tyler saying they have no chance of beating Lincoln.”
“I think he’s right.”
Taking me by the shoulders with a gleam in her eye, she says, “I’m going to go.”
“Good. I’d feel like a wet blanket if you stayed home because of me.”
“If you change your mind—”
“Pretty sure I won’t.”
“Okay, okay. Think I could say I’m staying over at your house?”
I don’t even reply as we roll our eyes in unison. Even though it’s never been said, we both know Daisy’s parents would never permit her to stay the night at my house where—gasp!—children are not supervised twenty-four-seven. If they ever knew the truth, that my father slept at home no more than two or three nights a week, they would have called child protective services by now.
“Just take it easy on the drinking this time. No shots.”
“I know,” she says, shaking her head. “I felt like crap for two days after that last party. I don’t even know if they’ll let me go tonight. Maybe if I ask my Dad to pick me up at curfew, he’ll trust me to behave myself.”
“Right…You’re going to ask him to pick you up at Tyler’s place in the trailer park? With music blasting and drunken idiots playing beer pong out front?” Daisy laughs but looks defeated. “I’ll make you a deal. You can tell your parents we’re going out to get something to eat after the game and then I’ll come pick you up at Tyler’s and take you home. But please don’t be drunk, or I swear your parents will never let us hang out again. Sound good?”
My tray, still thankfully empty, clatters to the floor when she grabs me in a bear hug. “Did I tell you today that I love you and that you’re the best friend ever?”
I smile and maybe even laugh a little, but her show of affection and her words make me sad. Best friend ever? I don’t know much about true friendship, but I assume that close friends share things with one another. I certainly know a lot about Daisy. She shares on a near constant basis. But her thoughts and dreams are candy-coated and sparkly. The positive stuff is easy to share. On the flip side, Daisy knows next to nothing about me. I have dreams that are as bright as the stars too, but unlike Daisy, no one in my family is interested, let alone encouraging. I have a plan in place, and I’m determined to get out of here, but there are times when I feel so alone that I can’t envision a future that’s anything other than bleak.
Daisy is always pure of heart, happy and hopeful. I just can’t bring myself to burden her with my bullshit.
Last night on the drive over to Tyler’s, I started to get a little sick and tired of myself. Yes, my mother had just died and I was a hot mess in general, but I had to get on with it. I pulled up at quarter to eleven, praying that Daisy would come out at the agreed upon time. Holding up one finger after another, I rattled off all the things I had to be thankful for. I had Daisy, I did have my father if I ever really and truly found myself in a jam, I had a car, I had a job—now I was on a roll. I had amassed twelve hundred dollars in the envelope I kept tucked away in a hollowed out copy ofThe Grapes of Wrathon my bookshelf, and I also had a lead on several scholarships after meeting with Mr. Vargas yesterday. I filled my lungs with air and nodded.Screw this Debbie downer attitude, I’m going places!And the gods were truly smiling down from Mount Olympus, because at ten to eleven on the dot, a very perky and only slightly buzzed Daisy came walking—not stumbling—out of the party, and I got her home without so much as a suspicious look from her parents.
* * *
Simon
I read the letter every night before I go to sleep. I don’t want to read it, but somehow the paper winds up in my hands, and then I’m opening it and feeling the emotions I felt when I penned the words. The ritual comforts me and hurts me at the same time.
Instead of leaving it in the nightstand drawer like I usually do, I grab it this morning, tucking it into my back pocket before I leave for work. Pulling up a few minutes before my boss opens the store, I watch her from across the street. She’s setting up tables and pouring coffee for the two or three early birds already starting their day. I recite the words from memory as I watch her, imagine myself speaking them to her. In reality, I’m a coward. I’ve ignored her all this week, even done things to intentionally push her away. In the predawn hour, sitting here alone in my car, it’s only then that I’m brave enough to tell her how I feel.
