But on days like this, it’s hard to believe we’re best friends anymore. I hate the way they were mean to Sarah Chang for no reason this morning. I hate even more that I don’t know how to stand up to them.
Things between us have been different lately. I can’t pinpoint why. But if I’m being honest with myself, the only thing that bonds us is this group chat that I don’t even feel like responding to on most days.
The thought makes me frown. We used to do everything together. Sleepovers with Sephora face masks. Hibachi dinners where the chefs would throw food into our mouths. Tie-dye bagels on weekends after spin class. I was always the one who would rally the troops, but I haven’t planned anything fun since before the accident.
That’s because before the accident I was always trying to appeal to my friends. Organizing things that they liked to do, instead of thinking about what I found fun. And sure, I love hanging out with my friends, but sometimes I prefer to be alone.
Sometimes I make lists just so I can practice my hand lettering. Other times I underline my favorite passages in books and doodle those. My friends appreciate this hobby of mine when it benefits them—like when I make them really great signs for a big game or when I write them the best birthday cards—but most times when they catch me doodling, they say things like are you even paying attention to me? Or worse, it’s cute that you still do that.
I know cute isn’t a bad word per se, but sometimes when people use it, it comes off as patronizing. Nobody ever tells a boy he’s cute for doing something he likes doing. That’s why I know that’s cute isn’t a compliment.
I reach for my phone and start scrolling through all the texts I’ve missed. There are photos of different outfits my friends are trying on for tonight. Carmen has sent one of her in jeans and a halter top. She looks like she’s going to be freezing to me, but Jess ironically typed three fire emojis underneath it. Anthony isn’t going to be able to look away, Katie texted next.
My heart sinks. Katie already knows about Anthony? Carmen just told me about him this morning. Has this been going on with everyone else noticing but me?
I keep scrolling back through my text messages, wishing I could scroll back through time too. There are inside jokes I don’t recognize.
Maybe Carmen’s right. Maybe I have been missing everything.
One of the more frustrating things to find out is that I changed my password for a lot of log-ins before the accident: TikTok, Instagram, Snapchat, etc. The only things I can access are Twitter and Facebook. Apparently, before the accident, I changed my password for the apps I actually used. I always used to use Carmen’s birthday, but I have no idea what I changed it to.
It doesn’t really matter—it’s not like I’ve had the urge to post anything lately anyway. I can still see photos I grammed because I’m public. There are only a few I don’t remember taking, like the one where I’m at the diner with my friends sipping milkshakes, and the one of me in a hoodie with my bookshelf in the background. My last photo was just of me about to go ice-skating at one of my favorite spots, but after the accident it was flooded with get-well-soon comments and hearts.
I roll off my bed onto the floor and peel back the fuzzy rug that protects my secrets. After I lift the loose floorboard, I reach in and grab the three mysterious items—the dried rose, the Polaroid, and the key.
They’re right on top because I’ve been staring at them a lot lately, like if I stare long enough, I’ll suddenly remember my forgotten memories. But as many times as I’ve looked at them, I still have no recollection of receiving that rose or of someone taking my photograph. On the back of the Polaroid, it says NYC 2/8 in my handwriting. Who on earth did I go to New York City with? It must have been an odd day weather-wise. There’s snow in the background, but I’m only wearing a tie-dyed sweatshirt. Maybe I took my coat off? I reluctantly do that all the time when my friends want to pose for photos, so it’s possible. But I’ve shown them the Polaroid and they all say they weren’t with me that day.
As I stare at the photo now, the colorful sweatshirt reminds me of my watercolored paper heart. Then my fingertips run along the little brass key. The most confusing item I saved. What does it open?
When I ask my family what happened during those forgotten eleven weeks, they tell me I was busy with All Things College. Over winter break I made a pros-and-cons list for each school I was interested in, trying to narrow down where to apply. I was also buried in my intense study schedule, with cross-outs every day as proof that it actually happened. I ended up doing really well on the ACT, better than anyone I know. But it’s weird to feel proud of something you don’t remember doing—it’s almost like it didn’t really happen.
I tried to find out why I left the dance early, but nobody knew, not even Carmen. I’d know if she was lying. She does this thing where she blinks really fast. But when she says she has no idea why I left early, her eyes stay wide-open, so I believe her. I used to ask every once in a while, just to make sure, but I could sense she was getting annoyed, so I stopped.
Still, I find it hard to believe that all I did in those eleven weeks was study, even if that’s what I told my parents and even if the events seem trivial to my friends. When you get to high school, people tell you these are the days you’ll remember the rest of your life. That’s all I want—to remember them.
I remain seated on my floor, staring at the items, trying to remember how they got there. But my head goes completely dark, like a movie theater does right before the feature, except nothing happens next for me. I hold the rose in my hand, hoping it might trigger some memory but the smell from the dried petals is so faint it’s barely there at all.
I sigh. The only person who might know anything about it is Pete. He most likely gave me these things before I broke up with him. I’ve wanted to ask him plenty of times, but each time I’m tempted I get a heart-wrenching flashback of him coming to the hospital and holding my hand, basically pretending to be my boyfriend, because I asked for him when I woke up. He wasn’t spiteful about how I had ended things with him, proving that he was the perfect boyfriend—perfect human—until the very end, and even after. It’s why I vowed to leave him alone and never ask him about the items in my secret spot. Prying seemed so selfish—why dredge up hurt feelings?
But it’s been almost a year, I think. He’s definitely over it by now.
If I can just get him to tell me why these items were important enough for me to save, I can remember those eleven weeks. Then maybe, just maybe, I can move on once and for all….
I head to my closet, selecting two outfit options—the jean jacket I made freshman year with my last name on the back and a maroon long-sleeve T-shirt that says i have more spirit than you in gold lettering. With the hangers in hand, I head down the hall to Ashley’s room, her emo music growing louder and louder. When I get to her door, I knock and the music is lowered.
“One second!” she yells. Then there are shuffling sounds.
She opens the door and I enter her room, which is the polar opposite of mine. Band posters are tacked all over the walls, clothes are piled all over the floor. It looks like she just tried everything on in her closet. She’s wearing a leather jacket I’ve never seen before and ripped jeans. She and Steve are definitely going to some concert.
I shake my head. “Which shirt do you want to wear? You have to at least look like you’re going to a game.”
She breaks into a large smile. “Really?”
Ashley jumps off the bed and squeezes me tightly. I run down a list of the times I remember her hugging me: When I woke up in the hospital. When she graduated from middle school. When I took her and her friends to play laser tag for her fourteenth birthday. When I gave her a pair of gold hoops two years ago for Christmas. When she lost one of the earrings and I told her I wasn’t mad, even though I was secretly annoyed.
When she releases me, she grabs the jean
jacket and squeals, “I’ll go tell Mom!”
Chapter 5
Steve’s car is exactly like I thought it would be. There are papers with scribbled-out song lyrics. A random sock on the floor. His guitar sits next to me in the backseat because his trunk is too small. It’s a tight squeeze, but I try to be grateful for the ride. I hold my purse in my lap tightly, as if dropping it could contaminate it. I decide Steve’s new nickname is Skeevy Stevey.
Every time a car horn blares, my heart jumps. Someone beeps at us as Steve barrels through an intersection. “The light was yellow,” he insists.
I nod, even though I’m nervously staring at the floor of the car near my feet instead of the road.
“Where’d you go for pizza?” I ask, spotting a pizza box crumpled up underneath the front seat.
“I didn’t have pizza,” he says, turning around, but then he spots the box too. “Ah, from last week. Forgot to chuck that.”
It’s official: he’s even messier than my sister. How is Ashley not completely turned off by him? He may be a senior, but that doesn’t excuse the rest of him.
To my surprise, Ashley doesn’t even grimace. She’s sitting in front of me, so I can see her reflection in the rearview mirror. When we were younger, we had unspoken assigned seats in the car—she always sat on the left side, and I took the spot on the right. We had this secret code: if she squeezed my hand three times, it meant I love you. Watching her now, I wish she were in the back with me, but she’s up front helping Steve navigate. We’re picking up one of his friends from school, but they must not be that close, because Steve doesn’t know how to get to his house.
“Turn left here,” Ashley says, checking the GPS on her phone.
“This is definitely not the fastest way to Jason’s. It must be the long way.” Steve shakes his head and lowers the music.
“This is what Google Maps is saying,” she insists. “It’s the left, right here.”
We turn onto a road glowing with streetlights, heading downtown.
“I heard Pete’s leading the team in points this year,” Steve says, looking back at me in the mirror, but I don’t give him a reaction.
“Cool,” I say casually.
“Do you think you’ll talk to him after the game?” he asks, smirking.
“Don’t ask her that,” Ashley says, then turns to me. “You don’t need to answer him.”
“What?” Steve asks, dumbfounded. “It was just a question.”
“It’s fine,” I say, trying not to be surprised that my little sister is defending me. After all, she isn’t so little anymore. But since when does she think she needs to protect me?
“Yeah, I probably will say hi,” I answer, when really that’s the only reason I’m going.
“What do you think of him with Molly?”
“Steve!” Ashley hisses.
“What? She doesn’t know?” Steve asks as Ashley gives him a death stare.
“Know what? Who’s Molly?” I ask.
“Some freshman,” Ashley says. “I don’t know if they’re together. I just saw them together after the game last week and I didn’t tell you because I don’t know if it’s anything.”
“Oh, got it,” I say. “No worries.”
But my chest tightens because I am worried. Not because I care who Pete’s maybe talking to, but because this might ruin my whole plan. Will I want to ask him about a rose he might have given me if he’s sitting next to some new girl? I really should’ve thought this through.
I whip out my phone and quickly find the number I know by heart but haven’t texted in a while.
Hey Pete! Heading to the game now. Don’t want it to be weird but can I talk to you about something really quick after you guys win? Good luck!
As soon as I push send, I bite my lip. Please, please say yes.
My reaction must make Steve think I care about Molly, because he looks back at me. “You’re way better, for the record.” He cautiously looks to my sister for her approval. She looks satisfied and smiles back at me for confirmation, as if I need her to. “It’s true.”
“Er…thanks,” I say.
Instinctively, I hug my ribs where stitches healed months ago and look out the window.
I watch Ashley give Steve another death stare, which says see what you did? I’d normally enjoy that they are fighting—maybe there’s a near-future chance they break up. But I hate that they’re fighting about me.
I’m about to tell her that I’m completely fine, when her next words stop me.
“Turn here on Clover.”
Clover? Did she say Clover? Like my paper heart? My eyes dart to the window.
The headlights shine on two street signs. Then I see it. The words from my mysterious paper heart from earlier are now calling for me in front of my eyes. It is the corner of two narrow roads lined with stores—the corner of Clover and Gold.
“Stop!” I yell.
Steve slams on the brakes. The wheel turns and the car swerves a little before he straightens the wheel. Ashley gasps loudly. My body sways toward the window and then snaps back. For a moment, it feels like all time has stopped, until the car behind us beeps the horn loudly, making me jump.
“What was that?” Steve gasps as he starts to drive again. Ashley looks back at me.
“I—I just need to get out for a second for some fresh air. Can you pull over real quick?”
“Are you serious?” Steve asks. “I almost got rear-ended so you can get fresh air. You’d think you— never mind,” he says, cutting himself short.
Ashley ignores him, still looking at me. I think she sees the urgency in my eyes, because she nods.
“Fresh air it is. I’ll tell Jason I’m running late,” Steve says, noticeably annoyed. But I don’t care about his tone—all I care about is getting out of this car.
After a couple of blocks, Steve glides the car to the side of the road into an open spot. As soon as the car stops, I’m unbuckled and swinging the door open. The cold air instantly hits my face, and I feel deceived by the warm glowing streetlights around us, but that’s not going to stop me. I wrap the scarf Carmen got me for Christmas tighter around my face and practically leap out of the car.
“I’m coming too,” Ashley declares as she opens the door.
“No, I’m fine,” I say to her. “Stay here, I’ll be quick.”
She frowns in a defeated way, like she used to when we were younger and I told her she couldn’t hang out with me and Carmen. But she shuts the door and shrinks back in her seat.
I turn and make my way along the sidewalk to the corner. My toes are cold, but I don’t even think about that, or about how I’m walking around in the dark, or how my phone just buzzed, probably from a new text in my group chat asking where I am.
There’s barely anyone on the sidewalks. I spot a couple getting out of their car, but they immediately dart into a French café. I pass other little shops and a large industrial brick building with a bar normally crowded with college kids. Peeping inside, I see that the pool tables are pretty empty, like nobody dares to go outside.
When I see the sign for Gold Street, I squeeze the paper heart in my jeans pocket. I’m a block away now.
A food delivery bike reels past me, and I get a whiff of Italian food. My stomach jolts, but I know it’s not from hunger. First of all, I’m full from the tacos. But second, and more importantly, I have a feeling I’ve never had before, like trick birthday candles are reigniting in my stomach.
When I turn the corner, I suddenly fear this is all a trick too. What did I expect to find?
As I keep walking toward the signs for Clover and Gold, the candles in my stomach snuff out for good. There’s nothing there but the street signs. Besides, it’s freezing. I should just retreat back to the car. Back where I know I can’t be disappointed.
I’m offic
ially about to turn around when I hear a jingle. Out pops a man on the sidewalk at the corner of Clover and Gold. He’s holding a large bouquet, and the realization blooms in my mind like the roses in his hand.
It’s a flower shop.
I walk toward the corner, my long legs carrying me as fast as possible toward warmth and answers. When I push open the door, a sign above it catches my eye: fred’s flowers.
This flower shop feels so random sitting here on a busy street, like a burst of life popping out in the crack of a sidewalk. I must have walked by this place at least a dozen times without noticing it.
When I walk inside, there’s a man at a counter with rows of poinsettias, roses, and other flowers behind him. I don’t know their names, but they look like they belong in some imaginary secret garden that I’d doodle in my notebook.
“Can I help you?” the man asks. I wonder if he’s Fred, but I shake my head.
“Just looking,” I say.
Maybe-Fred nods toward a row of flowers. “Orchids are two for one today. Let me know if you need help finding anything.”
He sounds as bored as he looks, with his slumped shoulders and expressionless face. He opens his register like he’s about to start counting money out of boredom.
“Actually…,” I start, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the paper heart. “I got this note—”
That’s all I have to say before his eyes light up.
The man claps his hands and disappears into the back of the store. When he returns, he has a long-stemmed rose in his hand.
“For you, my dear,” he says.
I know I should be grateful, but I’m so surprised that I forget to say thank you or take the flower from his outstretched hand. I stand there awkwardly until he pushes the stem closer. I reluctantly reach out and grab the rose.
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