P.S. I Miss You

by Jen Petro-Roy

  “Kissing?” The word burst out like soda from a bottle that’s been shaken up. When I opened my mouth, it was like I took the cap right off. POP! FIZZ! There was no way to hold that sticky-sweet stream back.

  June shook her head.

  I shook my head.

  We were quiet for about a zillion more years.

  “Would you ever want to?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Yeah, maybe. I mean, me, too, maybe.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Um, okay.”

  More staring.

  Did you and Alex stare at each other a lot? I mean, I know you used to stare into each other’s eyes. I saw you doing that a lot. But that was after you’d kissed for the first time. Did you do it before, too? Did it feel this awkward?

  Because this was super awkward. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do and I didn’t know if Mrs. Harper or Katie or Maggie or Miri or even Joey would walk up to us any minute.

  So I inched forward and kissed her. I kissed June! Me, who used to run away from all the dogs in our neighborhood. Me, who had a night-light in my room until I was nine.

  I felt like I deserved a medal for courage, like the Cowardly Lion gets in The Wizard of Oz.

  The kiss only lasted for about two seconds, and I’m not sure who pulled away first. We stared at each other for another few seconds. June smiled. I smiled.

  Then Mrs. Harper did walk up. Her arms were full of props, and she asked us to carry some stuff inside for her. I lost track of June then, and every time I caught her eye for the rest of the night, she looked away. She disappeared after the show, too. Which makes me think she regrets the kiss. Maybe she thinks we’re sinners now, too. Or whatever atheists call bad people.

  Maybe she’s just waiting to talk to me about it in school on Monday. I hope things aren’t weird between us now. Because even if she does regret it, I still want to be her friend.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you. I miss your advice.

  P.P.S. In case you’re wondering, Beauty and the Beast was great. Maggie didn’t lose her voice or forget any of her lines and everyone got a standing ovation at the end. Mom and Dad brought me flowers—twelve long-stemmed red roses. I bet they’d have given me poison ivy if they knew about me and June.

  MONDAY, APRIL 8TH

  Dear Cilla,

  Here’s something I was thinking about last night in bed, when I was staring up at the ceiling, reliving every second of the kiss for the zillionth time. While I was making those two seconds stretch into two infinities.

  Why did kissing June feel like a brave thing to do?

  I’d never say that Katie’s brave for kissing Ethan.

  Why should it be different for what I did?

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you!

  P.P.S. I’m nervous about seeing June in school today. I hope things aren’t awkward.

  MONDAY (LATER), APRIL 8TH

  Dear Cilla,

  June wasn’t in school today.

  Love,

  Evie

  TUESDAY, APRIL 9TH

  Dear Cilla,

  Not today, either. She’s avoiding me. I know it. She wants to forget what happened.

  She doesn’t even want to be friends anymore.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  P.P.S. Please write back. I need your help.

  THURSDAY, APRIL 11TH

  Dear Cilla,

  June’s been absent all week. School feels so empty. Now that Beauty and the Beast is over, Katie and Maggie aren’t as annoying as before, but they still talk about theater stuff all the time. Stuff like what the next show is going to be. If Katie should take singing lessons now, too. How it’ll be “the best thing ever” for them to go with their new friends on a trip to New York City.

  Or else they talk about Ethan and Dominic. (Maggie and Dominic started going out last week.)

  I know more about Ethan and Dominic than I ever wanted to know. Like that Ethan’s favorite vegetable is brussels sprouts. That Dominic’s favorite color is dark green (not light green, not regular green, but dark green). That Ethan uses rose-scented shampoo that he borrows from his younger sister (I’m not supposed to tell anyone that part).

  I know the same things about June, but I can’t say them out loud. Katie and Maggie aren’t going to care that June broke her middle finger last year and that whenever it’s going to rain she feels a little pang there. They’re not going to care that June always sneezes three times in a row. Not once or twice, but always three times. They’re not going to care that June hates pasta and turkey sandwiches, and they’re two of my favorite foods.

  Katie and Maggie and I still laugh together, but it’s not the same. It’s not like when I’m with June. There’s nothing else competing for my attention with June.

  It’s just us.

  Us laughing about the pen stain on Ms. Pasquale’s cheek that she doesn’t notice for two hours. Us trying to make the best designs on the soles of our sneakers. Us convincing June’s mom to share her super-secret recipe for cinnamon apple pie and then getting into a flour fight in the kitchen.

  I miss her. As a friend and as (maybe) something more.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you, too.

  SATURDAY, APRIL 13TH

  Dear Cilla,

  I’ve waited all day for June to call me or come over. She’d shout “Surprise!” and tell me she really hasn’t been ignoring me. She’d say everything’s okay with us and that she doesn’t think I’m gross and disgusting and a … you know.

  You know, the word Mom and Dad use to describe girls who like other girls. The word they say with pursed lips, like they’ve sucked on a lemon.

  A lesbian.

  What if June gets that lemon face, too? I know I didn’t do anything wrong, but I still feel guilty. Because of church. And because of our backward parents, who’ve talked about the “awfulness of same-sex marriage” enough that it’s apparently brainwashed me a little bit.

  That makes me feel kind of sick. Because I didn’t do anything wrong. We didn’t do anything wrong.

  So now I feel guilty about feeling guilty about the kiss. AHHHHHHH!

  Mom had to pick up a carton of eggs this afternoon (Dad wanted ice cream, too), so I went with her to the supermarket. I didn’t tell her I only went because June’s house is on the way. I looked extra hard but I couldn’t see anyone moving behind the windows. Her mom’s car was in the driveway, though, so I know they didn’t go away.

  I’m so confused. Should I call her? Or will that make her think I’m a stalker? Please write back.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  SUNDAY, APRIL 14TH

  Dear Cilla,

  This morning before church, Dad was reading the New York Times Weddings section over breakfast. There was a feature on two guys who’d just gotten married. They wore matching dark suits and each of them had a little flower in his lapel. One wore a fancy fedora (I think that’s the name of the hat with the big brim) and the other had curly black hair. One of them was holding a little baby in his arms. She wore this tiny frilly white dress and might have been around the age of your baby. Maybe. I’m not that great at telling how old babies are.

  Dad slammed the paper shut as soon as he saw the picture. He didn’t say anything, but I saw him squeeze his eyes closed and clench his teeth. He picked up the sports page instead, but I could tell he wasn’t really reading it. The article was about golf. Dad hates golf.

  That was fine with me, though. I didn’t want to look at him. Because I knew why he tossed away that paper. I knew why that picture offended him.

  Why I would offend him, too.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  P.P.S. Do you get the New York Times at your school? Did you see the picture of the lady
with the wedding dress with sparkles all over the skirt? That’s the kind I want someday when I get married. If I get married.

  MONDAY, APRIL 15TH

  Dear Cilla,

  June was finally in school today! She told Mr. Gardner she’d had the flu. I think I believe her, but I’m not sure. She does look pale, and she does have a note from her mom. Plus, Maggie’s out sick today, too. I don’t feel sick, though. And since we kissed, wouldn’t I have caught it? I’m not sure how kissing germs work. Shouldn’t they be worse than the regular germs you get when you shake someone’s hand?

  When June sat next to me, I waited for her to say hi first. She looked like she was going to say something, but then Mr. Gardner started talking about the project we’ll be working on this month.

  Our new social studies unit is on Europe. Mr. Gardner usually assigns partners for group projects, but he told us we could pick this time. Of course I wanted to be partners with June, but I wasn’t going to ask her first. That’d feel like asking her to be my girlfriend or something.

  Joey claimed Katie (I think he was trying to make me jealous. It obviously didn’t work), and everyone else paired up in seconds. I bet they all assumed I’d be with June.

  Which is what ended up happening, after all. Mr. Gardner wrote our names next to each other on the board and asked all the pairs to pick a country from a list he handed out.

  Then June and I had the most awkward conversation in the whole world:

  JUNE: Hey.

  ME: Hey.

  JUNE: Did you have a good week?

  ME: I guess. Are you feeling better now?

  JUNE: I think so. I was barfing all over the place. It was gross.

  ME: Ew!

  JUNE: I know! Mom hates throw up. I think she was more miserable than me.

  ME: Oh.

  JUNE: Yeah.

  ME: So … how about we do Italy?

  It was like we’d just met, but worse. Because the day we’d met, we talked for fifteen minutes about how parachute day in gym class used to be the best thing ever and how it’s totally unfair middle schoolers don’t get to do it anymore. Today we sat there staring at each other.

  June was wearing this orange shirt that made her eyes look super dark, like the sky at night. She’d dyed her pink streak orange, too, and she looked really pretty. I wanted to tell her that, maybe whisper it to her, but I totally chickened out. Someone could hear me. Or June might not want to hear it.

  She caught me looking at her once and smiled, though. My heart did a double beat. I could feel it in my chest. Maybe she would want to hear it.

  Mr. Gardner called on us first so we actually do get to do Italy. I remember when you did your country report on Germany and I had to taste test that disgusting sauerkraut. Pasta and pizza are way yummier.

  The report is due in three weeks. That means we have to meet after school and on the weekends to work on it.

  I don’t know if I’m excited or totally freaked out.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  TUESDAY, APRIL 16TH

  Dear Cilla,

  June and I talked at school today. Not about what happened, though. Which is funny, considering how much we talked before the kiss.

  We talked about how Dad is super grumpy now since he gave up coffee for Lent.

  We talked about how June’s DVR broke and now she can’t record middle-of-the-night horror movies.

  We talked about how Mr. Gardner doesn’t let us have snacks in class but always sneaks bites of the protein bars he keeps in his top drawer. The gross banana ones, too.

  We talked about everything except what really matters.

  At least we talked.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 17TH

  Dear Cilla,

  Today we talked about Pixar movies and debated two-piece versus one-piece bathing suits.

  We talked about sour cream and onion chips versus Spicy Nacho Doritos.

  We talked about Katie and Ethan kissing in the middle of the lunchroom and getting in trouble for it!

  We didn’t talk about us kissing at all.

  It’s kind of like how we’re not talking about what happened. Or what’s happening. You haven’t written back in ages, and I’m starting to get worried that you’re sick or brainwashed or something. Because I know the letters are going to Saint Augustine’s.

  Nothing’s coming back, though.

  Remember how I wrote that maybe Mom and Dad are worried I might try to track the baby down? That got me thinking.

  Maybe I can. I can find her and then I can go get you. Maybe if you hear how she’s doing, or see a picture of her, you’ll find some closure. Or healing or whatever. Maybe then you’ll be able to come home.

  You’ll want to come home.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  P.P.S. The verdict was neither: we both want to buy tankinis for the pool this summer.

  THURSDAY, APRIL 18TH

  Dear Cilla,

  Happy Holy Thursday! Ha, just kidding. I know this used to be your least favorite day of the entire year. When I was a kid I thought it was silly—going to church to get your feet washed? It was like going to the supermarket to get a new car. Or going to the beach to pick apples. The two things together made no sense, which made it kind of cool.

  Now I definitely agree with you. We got a new priest last month. And by “new” I mean ancient. Father Edward is about a bazillion years old. His fingernails are all yellow and gnarled and his face looks like a huge white raisin.

  Mom and Dad expect me to take off my shoes and let those hands pour water all over my feet? Yeah, right. I know Jesus washed the feet of his disciples to cleanse them and make them feel part of the Church blah blahdeblah blah blah, but that was about a million years ago. (Father Edward was probably alive back then.) I don’t need to get my feet washed by some old guy in a robe.

  My feet are clean. I took a shower this morning. I’m wearing socks.

  Maybe I don’t want my sins washed away, either.

  Mom and Dad can if they want, because they have stuff to feel bad about. They did something wrong. And even if they didn’t, they always worry about doing something wrong. Or feel bad about something they might have done wrong.

  They must get tired.

  Because I get tired thinking about how to make them happy.

  I get tired pretending.

  I don’t get why I have to do a lot of this stuff anymore. Church is okay. I like the sermons, when the priest tells a story about how the Bible relates to life. But why can I only pray using the words they give me? Why can’t I talk to God in my own words? Why can’t I pray outside by the lake? Or in my room?

  What if I want a different God than the one who’ll hate me for who I like?

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  FRIDAY, APRIL 19TH

  Dear Cilla,

  Do you still believe in God? I think I do. Even though lots of stuff doesn’t make sense, I still think He’s up there.

  I’m not sure if it’s because that’s what I’ve always believed or that’s what I really believe, but in the end, I do believe. I feel better when I pray. Sometimes my prayers are answered and sometimes they’re not, but it feels good to know there’s someone looking out for me.

  Especially now that you’re gone.

  Mom and Dad are making me pray now. That’s what they think I’m doing. It’s 1:06 p.m. on Good Friday and we’re doing our yearly “be quiet from noon to three because that’s when Jesus was hanging on the cross and we need to show him respect” thing. I don’t understand how Catholics know exactly what time Jesus died. Or what time they took him down from the cross. I asked Mom, but she told me it was “the principle of the thing and we should accept the answers God gave us.” Then she told me to sit on my bed and talk to God.

  Mom’s not here, though, so
I’m writing to you instead. Right now, I’d rather be closer to you than to God. I’m actually running out of stationery, which is funny. When Aunt Megan gave me this, I didn’t think I’d use more than a few sheets. But now I’ll have to use regular paper to write to you. Or buy new stationery.

  I’m hoping I won’t have to, though. Maybe you’ll show up the day after I use the last sheet. Maybe it’s magic paper and you’ll appear in a poof of smoke when I write on the very last line.

  That has about as much of a chance of happening as my Hogwarts letter coming.

  I think I will pray now, actually. I’ll pray that Mom and Dad don’t kick me out of the house when they figure out what’s going on.

  I’ll pray that you’re happy and your baby’s safe and that June and I figure out what’s going on between us.

  I’ll pray because it’ll make me feel better, even if only a little bit.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  SUNDAY, APRIL 21ST

  Dear Cilla,

  Happy Easter! This is the first Easter we’ve been apart since I was born. I wore my brand-new Easter dress to church this morning. It’s knee length and pink, with blue and green flowers. I told Mom she didn’t have to buy me a new dress since last year’s still fits, but she insisted.

  “It’s a tradition, Evie! I buy you and Cil—” She stopped talking and pressed her lips together so tightly they turned white. “I buy you a new dress every year. It’s part of the celebration.”

  I got excited at her slip and thought it was okay for me to ask a question. “Mom, shouldn’t Cilla still be a part of our tradition? Can she come home for Easter?” I held my breath for the answer, but all Mom did was stare at me for a full minute.

  “Cilla was part of our tradition.” Mom’s voice broke, like she was about to start crying again. “Not anymore.”