“You’ve been working too hard,” Dad says.
“Maybe,” I say. “I’m going to go lie down for a while.”
I can feel my parents looking at each other as I clear my dish and leave the room.
* * *
On Sunday afternoon, I decide to walk down to Bargain Books & Beans—not for research, just for me. I’m too unsettled about my lack of communication with AJ (and to a lesser extent Shelby) to worry about stupid Sy Goldberg and the mayor. I take my laptop and a copy of the paper with me.
“Sam!” someone yells when I walk into the coffee shop. “Over here!”
“Hey, Joanne,” I say as she waves me over.
“Great story on the POW,” she says, pointing to the copy of the Herald Tribune in my hand.
“You read it? Thanks,” I say.
“Listen, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve decided to join the dance team this year,” Joanne says. “I’ve been dancing at the same studio since I was three, and I finally feel confident enough to compete on stage, in front of people. So I’m going for it.”
“That’s wonderful, Joanne. You should!”
“Anyway, I don’t think I’ll be able to handle competitive dance and being yearbook editor. So I wanted to ask if you’d be interested.”
“That’s so nice of you to offer, but what about Missy or Sarah? I wouldn’t want to step on any toes. And wouldn’t a faculty adviser have to approve me or something?”
“Missy and Sarah are too busy with sports, and I’ve already mentioned your name to Mr. O’Hara. He thinks you’d be perfect.”
“He does? Wow.” Mr. O’Hara teaches AP English. He’s also yearbook adviser. “Can I think about it?”
“Sure. But I hope you say yes. You can totally handle it. The hardest part is making sure everybody sticks to the word count when they write their blurbs. I know it’s hard, since you don’t get to say much about your time in high school in less than a hundred words.”
“So true.”
I buy an iced latte and chat with Joanne some more before she leaves. I’m happy I connected with her and Fiona’s group this summer. I’ve known them since middle school, but for some reason, we’ve never really talked. Maybe Shelby’s right about my tendency to be standoffish.
I open my laptop and think about Joanne’s offer. What she said about editing students’ blurbs made me think of obits. What doesn’t? But it also gives me the perfect idea for my blog. I type the first sentence:
Imagine you’ve been asked to write your own obituary. What would it say?
The rest just seems to flow from there. I talk about obits and high school yearbook write-ups and how we tend to look at our lives more closely when we’re aware of the limits—word counts, space, time. And then I tell the story of Anton, the boy who died in the fire. When we are gone, what words will we leave behind? That’s when a name for a blog hits me, Dead Lines: A Teen Obit Writer’s Take on Life. When the time is right, I’m going to show it to Harry and see what he thinks. Writing about the dead this summer has taught me how to live. Maybe I’ve got something to share. I wish I could show this to AJ.
I pick up my phone and text him.
Hey,
I say. My temples pulse as I wait for his reply. I try to look at my computer screen, but my eyes won’t focus on any words. The same thing happens when I scan the coffee shop and the sidewalk outside: I don’t see anything. Finally, my phone makes a text sound.
Hey,
AJ replies.
I’m sorry.
I type back immediately,
U should be,
and then, two seconds later,
☺
Then I type, C U soon? A few minutes go by before I get a return text. I laugh out loud when I see it. A photo of him from the nose up, like he’s peering into the camera. The attached message says,
Sooner.
The tightness in my chest loosens, and for the first time since bar night, I can breathe.
* * *
Tomorrow is my seventeenth birthday. My insides feel like a shaken bottle of soda that needs to settle down before it explodes. Summer is coming to an end, and the sun is already setting earlier. I need to get a run in before it gets too dark.
I set off toward the high school so that I can run laps around the track. When I reach the parking lot, I again hear the familiar sounds of the marching band on the practice field. This time, however, I also hear a coach’s whistle. The football team is in the stadium. Ugh. I’ll have to run laps while the team conducts its practice drills. Do I really want to sweat in front of all those jocks? Screw it. I want to run around the track, and I’m going to run around the track. I up the volume on my iPod and go for it.
Mile One: Shelby and I haven’t spoken in seven days, and there’s no real reason why. We aren’t mad at each other, are we? The problem is, with every day that goes by, there’s another day of silence between us.
Mile Two: If she had called, I would have talked to her. Why hasn’t she called me? Why haven’t I called her?
Mile Three: Tomorrow I’m going to tell Joanne I want the job as yearbook editor.
Mile Four: When I get back to work, I’m going to show Harry my sample blog idea.
Mile Five: I wonder if I can get into Columbia or NYU if I apply. New York City is a lot closer than central Pennsylvania. I could keep working at the Herald Tribune straight through college. Maybe I should dust off my SAT prep book.
Mile Six: I keep running. And running.
I arrive back home just as the tangerine-colored sun sinks below the horizon. I shower and get ready for bed. But even after watching five different shows involving culinary competitions—cupcakes, wedding cakes, five-course dinners—and finishing Waiting for Godot, I can’t turn my brain off. Work, school, college, Shelby, Coma Boy, AJ.
It’s three in the morning, and I’m lying in bed, willing myself to fall asleep. My pillow feels too hot. I keep flipping it to the cooler side, but it’s no use. Finally, without stopping to think, I grab my cell phone and dial the one person I want to talk to right now.
“Hey,” he says.
“You’re home?”
“I’m home.”
“How was Ohio?”
“Flat. Far.”
“I’m glad you answered your cell.”
“I left it on. I was hoping you’d call.”
“You were?”
“Yup.”
I spit it out before I lose my nerve.
“You know, there’s this amazing band playing at the Jersey shore the Friday before Labor Day,” I say.
“Are you asking to be my plus one?” AJ asks.
“I am.”
“That’s more than two weeks away.”
“I wanted to give you time to think about it.”
“Pick you up at seven,” AJ says.
“It’s a date.”
“Is it?” AJ asks.
I think it is.
chapter twenty-four
Advice Column
Today is my birthday. It began like all the others for as far back as I can remember—with my dad singing that Beatles birthday song. “Bananananana. You say it’s your birthday.”
“It never gets old,” Dad said this morning.
“Yes. Yes it does,” I told him. “But thanks.”
Mom and I had to cut him off after the third line.
Since Dad has a meeting in Manhattan, Mom took the morning off to drive me to the Division of Motor Vehicles for my road test.
Despite that Mr. Harrison at the DMV said my parallel parking “left a little to be desired,” he was feeling generous and passed me anyway. At long last, I’m a licensed driver in the state of New Jersey.
“Congratulations, honey!” Mom says, and gives me a sideways squeeze when we get in the car. “You keep your eyes on the road, and I’ll text your father to let him know the good news. We’ll all go out tonight to celebrate. Your choice.”
> Twenty minutes later, I drop my mom at the bus stop, and for the first time ever, I’m alone in the car. It’s a bit odd, lonely even. At home, now that the road-test anxiety and excitement are behind me, I have nothing to do. Shelby and I had always planned on celebrating after my road test (provided I passed) with our first car ride together alone. One of those stupid rites of passage we’ve been dreaming of ever since I got the Barbie Volkswagen Beetle and Shelby got the RV. But there’s been no call or text from Shelby. Part of me was hoping my birthday would be the icebreaker.
I return a birthday text message from Meg and tell her I got my license. Even Joanne remembered, and I mentioned it only in passing that day at the coffee shop. When I text back my thanks, I add that I want the yearbook-editor gig.
YAY! ☺ Will let Mr. O’Hara know.
I’m going to be yearbook editor! This calls for a snack. I’m craving pretzels dipped in cream cheese. There’s nothing better than the salt-dairy combo. At nine fat grams per two tablespoons, however, I usually opt for fat-free cream cheese, which is merely a white substance for people with good imaginations. But screw it, today is my birthday and I’m going for it.
“Get your shoes on, birthday girl!” Gram says. She’s standing in the kitchen with her pocketbook draped over her forearm. “You’re taking me to IHOP for lunch.”
“I am?”
“Of course! I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time. I’m free of Aunt Connie.”
Okay … still not how I envisioned seventeen to be, but it’s got to be better than watching daytime TV and hearing about yet another drug that may cure my horrible disease but brings on dry mouth, insomnia, suicidal tendencies, chronic diarrhea, and a limp.
“Just let me grab the keys.”
“Now you’re talking.”
An hour later, Gram is sitting across the table from me at IHOP, a heaping pile of chocolate-chip pancakes with extra whipped cream in front of her. My phone rattles on the table. A text from Shelby.
Well? Happy Bday. Miss u!
“Hmm. Nice of her to finally remember,” I say.
“Shelby?” Gram asks.
I nod.
“What’s going on with you two?” Gram asks.
“We’re not talking,” I say.
“Why?”
“I’m not exactly sure. It’s not like we got in a fight. More like we got on each other’s nerves, big time, the night she came out with my newsroom friends.”
“I see. Is a boy involved?”
“Sort of.”
“Is he worth losing a friend over?”
I guess that would depend on which boy we’re talking about.
“I guess not,” I begin. “It’s hard to put into words. First she was talking to Tony, then AJ, then Tony again. She was being … Shelby.”
“And you were probably being Sam.”
“What?”
“Look, I don’t know exactly what happened, but you should still talk to her. Don’t let twelve years of friendship end because of one bad night.”
“Okay, but let’s say your best friend flirted with Gramps.”
“Your grandfather was a handsome man. Women flirted with him all the time.”
“And?”
“And maybe it was my fault for not making a move sooner.”
“It took you ten years!”
“Exactly! Learn from my mistake. Come on,” she says. “You mentioned your grandfather, and that gave me an idea. Let’s go pay him a visit.”
She grabs the check and slides out of the booth. Gram’s right. I’ve already taken care of the first part—making a move (at least I hope AJ perceives it that way)—now it’s time to take care of the rest. Before we leave, I text Shelby.
Thx! Got it! TTYL.
* * *
When we get to the Glendale Cemetery, Gram and I walk down a small, grassy hill before we reach Gramps’s grave. I notice Gram’s name is already on the headstone, alongside her date of birth. It would freak me out to stare at that blank space, where my date of death would someday be engraved. It doesn’t seem to bother Gram, though. Neither does the fact that my grandfather is not actually here. Gram talks to my grandfather as if he’s standing in front of us, leaning against his headstone with his hat in his hand.
“James!” she yells, as if he’s merely on the other side of some bad cell-phone reception. Gramps’s name is Vincenzo, but she uses “James” because when he started school, it’s what his teacher called him. “I brought Sam here to see you. It’s her birthday! She’s seventeen now—can you believe it? She got her driver’s license today. She’s so smart and beautiful. You would be very proud.”
“Gram,” I say, embarrassed, but not sure why.
“I miss you, you know. I still reach for you at night sometimes, but you’re not there. But don’t be sad about that or anything. I’m no spring chicken. I’ll see you soon enough.” Gram pauses, and I’m not sure where she is going with any of this.
“Maybe Sam wants to talk to you now. Do you? I shouldn’t put her on the spot. Let’s give her a minute,” Gram says. “Go ahead,” she whispers.
I’m not sure I can talk aloud to my grandfather with my grandmother standing right there. I don’t know what I’m going to say or if I’m going to say anything, and then, much to my own surprise, I just start talking.
“Hi, Gramps. It’s Sam. Sorry I didn’t come to see you sooner. I’ll visit more now that I’ve got my driver’s license. And I don’t know if you know this, but I’ve been working at the Herald Tribune all summer, writing obits. I’m starting my senior year soon. I’m going to be yearbook editor, and I’m excited about that, but nervous about all the rest. Shelby and I have been drifting apart. Shelby’s the same old Shelby, I guess. But these past few months … I’m different. It’s like, in the newsroom, I matter. That’s why I’m so upset with Shelby. It was never about some boy. It’s like she tried to ruin my place. Can friends be jealous of each other and still be friends? That’s probably what I need to figure out.”
Phew. Well, who needs therapy when you’ve got a granite headstone? Gram stands beside me and takes my hand. Without speaking, we stare straight ahead at Gramps’s grave like we’re watching the credits roll at the end of a movie. It feels like Gramps is staring back.
“I love you, Gram,” I say.
“Oh, you’re just saying that because now you’re afraid I’m going to die.” Then she says, “I love you, too.”
“You’re just saying that because you want me to drive you around now,” I say.
“Maybe,” she says, and winks.
Before we leave, Gram bends down near the headstone. She makes the sign of the cross and then gently runs her hand along the smooth surface next to her name.
“Are you afraid?” I ask.
“Of course not. I know your Gramps is on the front porch.”
I imagine heaven, for Gram, is a house. Inside the house are her brothers and sisters, her mother, and the father she lost when she was just a little girl. It’s always Sunday there, fried meatballs bubbling in tomato sauce on the stove, Italian music on the radio. Inside the house, there is lots of talking and laughter. Outside, Gramps is waiting for her to come home.
* * *
Before we leave for the restaurant, my parents give me my birthday cards and presents. (No car, but I didn’t expect one.) I got an amazing sapphire-and-diamond ring in white gold. “It’s beautiful,” I say when I open it.
“So are you, Sam. We thought so on the day you were born, and have every day since,” Mom says, all teary.
“Seventeen is a special birthday,” Dad says.
“For me, too,” Gram says. “Sam’s my new ride.”
In addition to a check, Gram gave me a gift card to Pit Stop gas.
We have dinner at Amici’s, my favorite restaurant. Mostly, it’s been a nice birthday. I feel guilty, though, because even though my family is great, part of me longs for what I imagine to be the typical birthday for a seventeen-year-old girl—ros
es from a gorgeous boyfriend, dinner at some romantic restaurant, hearing the words “I love you” for the first time—and not from a blood relative. I’ve been waiting all day to hear from AJ. I thought after our phone call last night, things were fixed between us. More than fixed. Progressing.
When we turn onto our street, Mom says, “Looks like you have company.”
AJ’s Jeep is parked in front of our house. My hand is already on the door handle. It’s all I can do to not leap out of the moving car.
Standing in the driveway, I make the introductions, and AJ shakes everyone’s hand. I wonder if Gram gives him an extra squeeze. I can tell by her sly smile, she’s already got a crush on him.
“I came by to see if you want to go for a ride,” AJ says. “But I don’t want to interrupt anything.”
“Go ahead,” Dad says.
Mom just nods and smiles.
Gram gives me a thumbs-up when AJ turns the other way.
I’m getting into the passenger door when AJ hands me the keys.
“Here, Miss Daisy. Why don’t you drive me for a change?”
I take the keys and smirk.
“You did get your license, didn’t you?” he asks once we’re inside.
“I suggest you buckle your seat belt,” I say as I turn the key.
“Wait,” AJ says, when I’m about to shift into drive.
“You’re not having second thoughts are you?” I kid.
“Funny.” He plugs his tunes into the car stereo. “I didn’t have a chance to get you a birthday present with Ohio and all. I considered a Buckeye travel mug, then I thought, What is a Buckeye, anyway? So I made you this instead.” He holds the screen in front of me.
“‘Sam-I-am’?” I read.
“Hit play,” he says.
We drive along with all four windows down. It’s already dark, and there’s the faint scent of fall in the mid-August air. The songs AJ picked for me range from college radio to classic rock, and I try to discern if there’s a common thread, some message behind his choice of music for me.
“I love this,” I say. “Thank you.”
I’m smiling so big, my cheeks hurt. His eyes cut toward me, and he looks uncomfortable as the next song cues up. Acoustic guitar. Male vocalist. I’m trying to place the mellow, baritone voice.
Famous Last Words Page 17