The Last Wish of Sasha Cade

by Cheyanne Young

  I eat lunch alone, ignoring my old table in favor of a bench outside the library. When I wasn’t dating Zack, Sasha and I used to float around the lunchroom, eating with various friends who were all excited when we came by. The last few months, we stayed at one table, the popular table, where all of Sasha’s self-appointed friends (and Zack) accepted us as if we’d always been there. Now that she’s gone, those friends haven’t asked me to join them all week. Maybe they think things would be awkward now? They’d be right. No worries. I eat my chicken salad alone, eyes on my phone as I refresh my email yet again.

  This isn’t healthy, and I know it. Part of me doesn’t care, and the other part of me — the one smart enough to get into vet school — thinks I should get a hobby.

  After school on Wednesday, I call Mom and tell her I’ll be a little late, and then I drive over to Izzy’s Flowers.

  The front room of the flower shop looks like a pink rose monster threw up all over the place. Well … if a rose monster’s vomit looks like vases filled with skillfully arranged bouquets.

  “Izzy?” I call out, walking through the small footpath between racks and racks of flowers. They’re stacked on top of every available surface, lining the floor all the way to the front counter.

  “Billy?” Izzy calls out from the maze. “That you?”

  “No,” I call back, peering through a temporary plastic shelving unit to see Izzy walking up to the counter. “It’s, uh, it’s me.”

  Saying my own name would be the next step here, and maybe it’s the overwhelming perfume of roses, but my body feels prickly, like thorns full of anxiety are pressing into me. I came here expecting a job, but did Izzy really mean that? Maybe I should buy flowers or something to make it look like I had a reason to come here.

  I slip into the small free space on the customer side of the front counter. It’s about one floor tile wide, and can’t possibly be in accordance with fire codes.

  “Raquel,” Izzy says, the lines around her lips creasing into a smile. “It’s good to see you. I’ve been wanting to tell you that you gave a beautiful eulogy.”

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling heat rush to my cheeks. I’m not one for loving compliments, and her memory of the funeral only makes my heart jump in anticipation of the next note from Sasha.

  “Sorry for the mess,” Izzy says. “Billy is half an hour late, of course.”

  “What are all these flowers for?” I try to glance around, but mostly I focus on making myself as small as possible so I don’t knock any of them over.

  “Big fancy wedding over in Rosehill,” she says. “The bride is a little stuck-up, but of course I’m not allowed to say that.” She rolls her eyes. “She wanted more pink roses than anyone in the entire state had in stock, so she ordered from five of us. Five florists! Something like ten thousand pink roses in total.”

  “Wow,” I say. “If I had that kind of money, I wouldn’t spend it on flowers.”

  “That’s why we work here,” Izzy says, giving me a conspiratorial wink. “We take the money from those who have too much.”

  “We?”

  “Well, that’s why you’re here, right?” Izzy reaches under the counter, her denim dress pooling around her feet, and pulls out a dark purple apron, still in the plastic bag. “You ready to start working?”

  I rip open the bag, shake out the new apron and hook it around my neck, tying the strings around my waist. It smells like new clothing, and there’s an embroidered Izzy’s Flowers logo in the center. Hands on my hips, I say, “How do I look?”

  “Like someone still healing from a loss.” Her lips tuck into a slight frown. “But there’s no better way to heal than to work hard.”

  Izzy puts a weathered hand on top of mine and then glances behind me, toward the front of the store. “Looks like Billy’s finally here,” she says, just as the front door opens. “Let’s start loading the truck, hmm?”

  She grabs a vase of flowers and I follow her lead. Soon, the truck is filled but the store is only a third of the way empty, meaning Billy, a thin Hispanic man with the coolest handlebar mustache, has to make two more trips for the day.

  I focus on working quickly and working hard, the desire to impress my new boss growing with each minute that I’m on the clock. While we work, she tells me I’ll be getting paid thirteen dollars an hour (woot!) and that I can fill out a tax form before I leave for the day.

  She’s right about the hard work. It’s nine o’clock when we watch Billy drive away with the last load of pink roses, and Izzy flips the Open sign on the door to the Closed position. Only then, when we have a quiet moment to breathe, do I remember all the things on my mind.

  Sasha’s dying wish. Elijah. The ever-pressing ball of agony in my stomach that reminds me I’ll never see her alive again.

  I pull my phone from my back pocket, realizing that I haven’t checked it since before I drove here.

  I have a few messages from Mom, asking if I’ll be home for dinner and then telling me she’ll save some leftovers just in case. There’s a new email from school, reminding the student body of the blood drive next week. But that’s all. I shut off the screen as I slide the phone back in my pocket.

  Izzy and I set up a work schedule, which is probably the best schedule ever. She says I can come in whenever I want and we exchange phone numbers so she can text me when we get big orders and she needs my help.

  I have a feeling I’ll be spending a lot of time at Izzy’s Flowers. It’s fun, it smells great, and the boss is like one of those spiritual, wise older people in a movie about finding yourself. Now, I need to be found more than anything.

  My phone pings as I’m pulling into the driveway, that familiar little chirp that signals the arrival of a new email. I tell myself to chill out.

  I park my car and cut off the engine, then slide down the notification bar on my phone.

  1 new email from: thefuturesasha@gmail.com

  Like the Hoover Dam bursting, an adrenaline rush erupts through my body, making every inch of me feel alive. I open the email and read the message, blinking several times because all those tears that always seem to be lingering on the edge of my eyelids cloud my vision.

  Dear Rocki and Elijah,

  Hey there, favorites. As I sit here and reflect on who I am as a person, what makes me tick, what makes me feel happy and fulfilled, I almost immediately land on the lake.

  For as long as I can remember, my family spent summers, Memorial Days, Thanksgiving weekends — okay, basically every holiday except Christmas — out on Lake Peyton in my parents’ kick-ass boat. Sitting on the back of the boat, my feet dangling in the water and Mom floating in front of me, clapping her hands for me to jump into her arms — that’s actually my first memory.

  There’s something magical about floating on the dark blue water, letting the sun warm your skin and the sounds of nature fill your soul. The way the wind blows through your hair, making it hella messy, but still kind of sexy once you get old enough to realize that beach hair is the best — well, that’s also magical.

  I love the lake and I love cruising on the boat. Rocki, please tell Elijah all about that time we went skiing and ran out of gas and had to flag down those drunk college dudes to get my dad from the shore. Tell him the other stories, too, okay?

  And here’s your adventure. Head out to the marina this Saturday, pack a lunch and take out the boat. The password is 21581, my parents’ wedding anniversary, and the boat will already be gassed up, because I’ve arranged this.

  My parents won’t know because they don’t ever go out on the boat anymore. It’ll be just between us, capisce?

  Have fun.

  I love you and miss you both,

  Sasha

  Chapter Eight

  There’s no way in hell I’m going to steal Mr. Cade’s boat. That thing is like a second child to him, a two-hundred-thousand-dollar baby that he l
oves almost as much as he loves his human family. Besides, I’m not even sure how to take the thing even if I do stoop so low as to commit grand theft auto (or whatever you call it when it’s a boat).

  He’d let Sasha and me drive it quite a few times, but that was once we were out of the dock and out in the open lake with nothing around us but water. Steering the thing around all the other boats docked in the marina? Starting it up, making sure all the gauges are correct and the engine isn’t going to, like, overheat or something? Not. Happening.

  I can’t do this. It’s the very first thing Sasha’s asking me to do for her brother and I’m going to have to back out.

  Maybe I’ll just meet him there and tell him. He should understand, right?

  But sitting on a bench at the marina, simply describing what it was like all those summers out on the lake with Sasha’s family — that’s not going to cut it.

  For the millionth time, I wonder why I can’t just tell the Cades about Elijah. Surely, they’d understand; they’d probably offer to take us out on the boat themselves. I throw my head back and look at the gray upholstered roof in my car.

  Sasha, you’re barely gone and I’m already letting you down.

  It’s been five days since I met Elijah in the cemetery and, not for the first time, I’m kicking myself for not getting his phone number or something. Shouldn’t we be able to talk? If anyone could understand the pain I’m in, it would be Elijah.

  I’m toweling off my hair when I get an idea so freaking obvious that I curse out loud for not having thought of it sooner. The email was addressed to both of us. That means …

  Still standing stark naked in my bedroom, I grab my phone and pull up the email. In the header information, right there in all its pixelated glory, are two email addresses. Mine and elijah0delgado@gmail.com.

  Sasha helped me make my email address when I got my first cell phone back in sixth grade. We were idiot kids, and I chose the handle rockibobocki, and I never bothered changing it. Elijah’s simple, straightforward email address just fits him. After only one meeting, I know he’s the kind of guy who can be trusted. He’s serious — he’ll totally understand why we can’t steal a boat on Saturday. Finally, I have a way to tell him.

  I stare at his email address for two days.

  Too bad I never get the guts to message him.

  ***

  When the final bell rings on Friday, I nearly jump out of my skin. My eighth-period U.S. history class has a substitute teacher, so she’d put on a film for us to watch about the civil war. I’ve been distracted all week as it is, but a boring film playing too loudly in a darkened classroom was enough to send me into a catatonic state.

  I collect my backpack slowly, blinking and swallowing as I try to regain some self-control. Every day since the email, I’ve been a walking bundle of nerves. The rest of the school is psyched for the weekend, but I couldn’t be further from excited. This must be what an anxiety attack feels like, I realize, as I grit my teeth and try to focus on breathing. I don’t even go to my locker to drop off my history book, as I need all my energy to make it to my car.

  At home, I change into clothes for work. I am numb as I move around my room. Procrastination is no longer my friend.

  Poor Elijah has probably been excited for this boat trip for days and I’m an asshole for not breaking the news to him sooner. What have I been afraid of? That he’s going to think I’m a lame excuse of a best friend, one who can’t even break some rules to honor his sister’s death?

  Yes, that’s exactly it. I need Elijah to like me. The only thing worse than not fulfilling Sasha’s last wish would be leaving him feeling like it was all a pathetic waste of time because his tour guide sucked.

  Sasha had nothing but blind faith in me, so the least I can do is have some myself. I can make this work without stealing a boat. Before I leave for Izzy’s, I sit down in front of my computer, open Sasha’s email and click on his username to create a new email.

  Hey,

  I’m really sorry but we can’t steal the Cades’ boat … Sasha is crazy. I was thinking we could just go visit the marina or something? I can still tell you stories, I promise. I just hate to think what would happen if we got caught.

  Raquel

  Elijah must be on a computer somewhere, because I get a reply only three minutes later, while I’m attempting to brush my scraggly hair into some kind of uniform direction. Heart thundering, I walk over and click on his message.

  Having been in enough legal trouble in my life, there’s no way I’m stealing a boat, either. See attached. ;-)

  Before finishing the email, I click on the PDF attachment. It’s a receipt from the marina. My mouth falls open as I read over it. He’s gone and rented a boat for three hours on Saturday. I look up and check the date at the top of the receipt. He booked it the day after Sasha’s email. He already knew. This whole time of me freaking out was for nothing because Elijah already had a plan.

  I close the PDF and go back to his email.

  Hope that’s okay? I’ll bring lunch, you bring dessert?

  See ya,

  Elijah

  I grin while tiny acrobats do happy dances in my stomach. Oh, it’s more than okay, Elijah. It’s perfect.

  Chapter Nine

  Mom flips on the coffee maker and turns, one hand on her hip while she watches me scarfing down my breakfast. She reaches for a coffee mug and then peers down at me. “You’re up early.”

  “It’s ten thirty,” I say with a snort as I shovel down another bite. This rumble in my stomach is unmistakably hunger. For the first time since Sasha’s death, I’m genuinely famished.

  Mom grabs a spoon and French vanilla coffee creamer, then pulls out the chair next to me at the kitchen table. “Whatever you put in your Cheerios, I want some.”

  “Nothing but cereal and milk in here, Mom.”

  “Could have fooled me,” she says. “You have any plans today?”

  “Yeah, I’m, uh —” I pull my eyebrows together and stare at my cereal like I just found a hair in it or something. Shit. I’ve been so thrilled about Elijah renting the boat that I haven’t thought up a cover story. It’s too soon after Sasha’s death to go to parties, or shop all day at the mall, or hang out with other friends. I wouldn’t even do any of those things without Sasha, anyway.

  I clear my throat, inspired. “I’m thinking of heading to the library. Get caught up on homework and stuff.”

  “That’s wonderful, honey. I have some books to return, so I could go with you.”

  “No, that’s okay,” I say a little too quickly. I scoop up another bite of Cheerios and smile. “I’ll just take your books back for you. I’ll probably be a while … a few hours. Don’t want to make you wait.”

  “Okay, thanks. They’re by the couch.”

  I stand and rinse my bowl out in the sink, forgoing my usual drinking-of-the-milk routine because I don’t want to give her the chance to see the lie on my face.

  “Have a good day,” Mom calls as I leave.

  “Don’t worry,” I say sarcastically. “You know how much I love schoolwork.”

  Sasha’s neighborhood is a stretch of lakefront homes. Just west of it, there’s a strip of lakefront restaurants and shopping centers, plus of course the marina. They built a Starbucks three years ago, and our tiny town freaked out at having a big coffee chain.

  At the marina, I pull into an empty parking spot next to an older black motorcycle. I’m not entirely sure it’s Elijah’s, but we’d agreed to meet near the Starbucks, so the chances are good.

  A Starbucks truly is the sign of living in modern civilization. Up until Sasha’s initial diagnosis, we spent nearly every Sunday morning here, sipping Frappuccinos and watching the sailboats go by.

  I park my car and pull a pair of sunglasses from my center console, doing a quick check in the visor mirror to make sure my choppy h
air is tucked behind my ears and not sticking out over the tops of the glasses.

  Elijah appears on the other side of the Starbucks glass door just after I flip my visor up. He’s in a white T-shirt that fits snugly over his chest and arms, revealing a muscular frame I hadn’t noticed last time I saw him.

  Though it’s warm enough to go swimming, I guess we both had the same idea — that swimming together would be weird — because Elijah wears a pair of faded, light blue jeans and those same running shoes. His black hair flies around in the breeze, and that thin silver chain around his neck glints in the sunlight.

  I wave at him and reach into my back seat, retrieving a pale green bag from Gigi’s Cupcakes.

  Elijah meets me at my car, two Frappuccinos in his hands. “Java Chip, right?”

  “How’d you know?”

  He takes a slow sip from his own coffee, a caramel Frap by the looks of it. “Sasha talked a lot about you in our emails. She said you were both addicted to Java Chip.”

  “Addicted might be an understatement,” I say, lifting my straw so I can get a sip of whipped cream. It only just now dawns on me that Elijah probably has no money. “What do I owe you?” I say, reaching for my purse.

  “Nothing,” he says, his lips still wrapped around his straw. “It’s on me.”

  I hesitate, my hand on my wallet. “My parents give me cash all the time, so it’s not a big deal. I can pay you back.”

  He shakes his head. “I have a job,” he says, emphasizing the last word. “If you don’t let me buy you a coffee every now and then, busting my ass forty hours a week would be for nothing.”

  Every now and then. I drop the wallet back in my purse. “Thank you.”

  I hold up the cupcake bag. “I brought dessert.”

  “Sweet.” He reaches across his motorcycle and grabs a blue backpack from the handlebar. “Lunch is in here. Do you like tacos?”

  “Uh, who doesn’t like tacos?”

  “Good deal,” he says quickly. I think we’re both aware that all of this happy small talk is awkward no matter how we wrap it.