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“Has he said anything since?” Maggie asks.
I scratch a nonexistent itch. “Nope. But it doesn’t matter.”
“He’ll call,” The Mouse says with confidence.
“Of course he’ll call. He has to call,” Maggie says, with too much enthusiasm.
Four days have passed since the barn-painting incident and we’re dissecting the event for about the twentieth time. After Lali rescued us, apparently The Mouse and Walt did come back, but we were gone along with the ladder, so they figured we got away okay. On Monday when we showed up at school, we couldn’t stop laughing. Every time one of us looked out the window and saw 198 and that big red splotch, we’d crack up. At assembly that morning, Cynthia Viande referred to the incident, saying the vandalism to private property had not gone unnoticed, and the perpetrators, if caught, would be prosecuted.
We all snickered like little cats.
All of us, that is, except for Peter. “Can the cops really be that dumb?” he kept asking. “I mean, they were right there. They saw us.”
“And what did they see? A few kids standing around an old dairy barn.”
“That Peter guy—geez,” Lali said. “He’s so paranoid. What the hell was he doing there anyway?”
“I think he likes Maggie.”
“But Maggie’s with Walt.”
“I know.”
“She has two boyfriends now? How can you have two boyfriends?”
“Listen,” Peter said the next day, sidling up to me in the hall. “I’m not sure we can trust Sebastian. What if he rats us out?”
“Don’t worry. He’s the last person who’s going to tell.”
Hearing Sebastian’s name was like a skewer to the gut.
Ever since the kiss, Sebastian’s presence has been like an invisible shadow sewn to my skin. I cannot go anywhere without him. In the shower, he hands me the shampoo. His face floats up behind the words in my textbooks. On Sunday, Maggie, Walt, and I went to a flea market, and while I pawed through piles of sixties T-shirts, all I could think about was what Sebastian would like.
Surely he’ll call.
But he hasn’t.
A week passes, and on Saturday morning, I reluctantly pack a little suitcase. I look at the clothes I’ve laid out on the bed, perplexed. They’re like the random, disjointed thoughts of a thousand strangers. What was I thinking when I bought that beaded fifties sweater? Or that pink bandanna? Or the green leggings with yellow stripes? I have nothing to wear for this interview. How can I be who I’m supposed to be with these clothes?
Who am I supposed to be again?
Just be yourself.
But who am I?
What if he calls while I’m gone? Why hasn’t he called already?
Maybe something happened to him.
Like what? You saw him every day at school and he was fine.
“Carrie?” my father calls out. “Are you ready?”
“Almost.” I fold a plaid skirt and the beaded sweater into the suitcase, add a wide belt, and throw in an old Hermès scarf that belonged to my mother. She bought it on the one trip to Paris she took with my father a few years ago.
“Carrie?”
“Coming.” I bang down the stairs.
