“Not specifically,” he says, after a beat. “I don’t remember anyone specifically. But it doesn’t mean I don’t know you.”
“Right,” I say, swallowing the surge of disappointment.
“All it means,” he says, cheerful, “is that you have to remind me who you are. How did we know each other?” I hesitate.
He wasn’t my boyfriend. I don’t want to lie to him.
“We were friends,” I say.
There’s a breath of silence before he says, “Okay. So tell me something, friend.”
“Something good?” I ask, echoing the start of our conversation.
“Anything,” he says.
I rack my brain for the next few seconds, wondering what I should tell him. Just like the first day we spoke, I think about saying something neutral, something innocuous. I could tell him how I broke the photocopier at work today. I could tell him something true, like the fact that I am secretly more terrified than excited about college, that the thought of everything and everyone I know changing terrifies me. It makes me think of plates shifting, the ground quivering underneath me while I try to find something strong enough to hold on to.
I could tell him how much I miss him.
“I found out my mom is cheating on my dad,” I breathe into the phone.
I hadn’t even realized it was in the running for what to say to Will, but somehow it explodes out of me and there’s nothing I can do to stuff the words back inside. I feel sick hearing the truth out loud, then paranoid, because what if somebody else has access to these conversations? What if the words I say to Will aren’t just between the two of us?
And now I’m starting to sweat because the only person I trust with the truth—the person I really wanted to be telling this to—is Lacey. I want to hear her reassuring voice, want to cry on her shoulder and let her promise me everything is going to be okay, even if she doesn’t know that it will be.
I want my best friend.
“Holy crap,” Will says. “I’m sorry, Eden.”
Somehow his voice manages to sound kind and sympathetic, like he really is sorry, and I’m busy wondering how that’s possible—how a computer can possibly feel sorry for me—when I remember about Will’s family. How he lost his father when he was thirteen, so clearly he must have known that feeling of something precious splintering, and I realize that maybe it is possible that he understands exactly how I feel.
“Thanks,” I say.
“How did you find out?” he asks.
I’m caught off guard again. I don’t know what I thought would happen after my confession—that we’d move on to other things and never speak of it again, that Will might bring the conversation back to something good, something happy and carefree, just like he used to be.
But instead, he’s asking me about it, letting me talk more about it.
Still, I hesitate. What if this conversation really isn’t private, what if it’s one of those things other people listen to for quality assurance purposes or whatever? What if he feels like he has to ask but doesn’t really want to hear about it?
“It’s a long story,” I say.
“I have time,” he says with a chuckle, and it hits me that he does have time. He’s not going anywhere.
And even if he doesn’t really want to hear about it, I don’t have to worry about boring him or oversharing or saying the wrong thing.
He’s not a person.
And yet he’s Will.
I can trust him.
So I take a deep breath and start at the beginning, start at this morning at work with my dad, and end at tonight and getting back from Lacey’s.
I tell him everything that happened, leaving nothing out, and he does exactly what I’d hoped he would do.
He listens.
WILL ALWAYS HAD a knack for making me feel better, from the day he walked me to the nurse’s office to the occasions when he’d saved me from being the last person picked in gym class, but my favorite memory with him had happened on my birthday, in January.
It was the kind of morning that feels too early no matter how used to it you are. Missing the warmth of my bed, I trudged to chem class and slid into my seat on the lab bench I shared with Will, New Age Lauren and her lab partner, Megan Tomey. I was pulling out my books when Lauren jumped up to give me a hug. “Lacey told me it’s your birthday! Happy birthday, girl!”
She was heading back to her seat when Will sauntered in, right as the late bell was going. He had a talent for doing that, cutting it so close that he was technically late but not late enough to get in trouble for it. I swear I saw Mrs. Phillips glare at him as he came in. He sat at his usual spot between Lauren and me, and immediately turned to me.
“Eve,” he said. “It’s your birthday?”
“Yeah,” I said warily, because birthday attention had a distinctly embarrassing tinge to it, and because Mrs. Phillips was starting to lecture and I didn’t want to get in trouble.
Will, naturally, was unconcerned about such things.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.
“Shh,” I said as Mrs. Phillips’s eyes drifted in our direction.
Will lowered his voice but leaned in close. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he repeated.
“Um, because it’s not a big deal,” I whispered back. “And you don’t tell me when it’s your birthday.”
Which didn’t mean that I didn’t know when his birthday was. Of course I did. But it wasn’t because he’d told me.
“March twenty-seventh,” he said easily, and I pretended to take note of it.
I assumed that was the end of it, until later, in English class, I saw something move out of the corner of my eye. I’d been taking down notes on Beowulf, sitting three rows from the front and in the middle of the room. Neither Lacey nor Will was in this class with me, so I could be my truest, dorkiest self: a model student. A model student who still only managed to get B’s, but that was neither here nor there.
That day, though, for whatever reason, I happened to glance in the direction of the open classroom door and saw Will gesturing wildly. At first I thought it was to one of his friends, Marcus Tyme or Brendan Colbert or someone else, but if that was the case, why was he looking right at me?
Did he want me to get someone’s attention for him?
“You,” he mouthed, pointing right at me.
Foolishly, I pointed back at myself and mouthed, “Me?”
“You,” he said again, and when I stared at him, dumbfounded, he looked exasperated. He proceeded to do a series of complicated motions that looked suspiciously like thumb wrestling, and I could only gape at him.
“What?” I mouthed.
He started a new series of motions, and it took several seconds to realize he was making the gesture for phone with his hand.
Ohhhh.
He wanted me to check my phone.
But Mr. Mayer had the strictest no-phone policy in the school. How did Will expect me to pull my phone out of my backpack right in front of everyone?
Even Lacey knew not to text me during English.
Will was still waiting, though, looking frustrated.
“I can’t,” I mouthed, and shrugged helplessly.
He must have thought I still didn’t understand him, because he started repeating the you and phone gestures.
I know, I can’t! I wanted to shout back.
I glanced at Mayer, then back at Will, who was showing no signs of giving up.
Finally I took a deep breath, leaned down, opened my backpack and in one quick motion, slid my phone onto my lap.
I checked that no one had seen me pull it out, then discreetly ducked my head and opened up the last text message I’d received.
Can you get out of class? Will had written.
Um, no. I looked at him and shook my
head.
In return, he vigorously nodded his head.
I forcefully shook mine.
He nodded so hard I was genuinely worried he’d hurt himself.
In a burst of courage, I raised my hand.
“Um, can I get a bathroom pass?” I blurted out when Mayer stopped mid-sentence.
“Fine. Hurry up,” he said, and just like that, it was done. I had gotten out of class.
I hurried out of the room, phone hidden in my sweatshirt, and met Will, who had ducked out of view in case Mayer happened to glance at the doorway.
“You are the worst freaking charades player I’ve ever seen in my life,” Will whispered.
“No, you are,” I shot back.
“How did you not know this meant phone?” he asked, waving a fist with his thumb and pinky sticking up.
“I thought it was, like, surfing or something. Hang ten. I don’t know,” I said, and he burst out laughing.
“Like I’d be asking you to cut class to go surfing. Wait—actually, why didn’t I think of that?” he said. “Apart from the fact that it’s, like, twenty degrees out.”
“Why are you asking me to cut class?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” he said, leading me to the cafeteria and then to a table at the far side of the hall, next to windows overlooking the front of the school.
Sitting in the middle of the table was a single piece of cheesecake with two forks beside it.
“Sit,” Will ordered. I hesitated, and glanced around to make sure no one would call me on cutting, but mostly it was just a bunch of other students there, hanging out in the cafeteria during their free periods.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Birthday cake,” Will said, sitting down across from me. He picked up a fork and signaled for me to do the same.
“Seriously?” I said, my breath catching in my throat.
“Actually, no, but it’s all the caf has for dessert today. I’m not a miracle worker.” He grinned at me. “Happy birthday.”
“Will,” I said, struggling to find words. “This is, like…”
The nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.
“Dig in before I finish it all,” he said, chewing vigorously.
I sat down and picked up the fork and took a bite.
It tasted a little plasticky and too sweet, but it was definitely the best piece of cake I’d ever had in my life.
“First rule of fight club,” Will said, pointing his fork in my direction. “Birthdays are always a big deal. That’s what my dad always said,” he added, his voice growing softer. “I think because after he got sick, he knew that we wouldn’t have that many together, so we always did something huge to celebrate.”
“Like what?” I asked.
It was one of the few times I’d ever heard him talk about his dad.
“Like, we went to Galileo’s one time and ate so much ice cream I threw up on the way home. Another time he let me stay up all night so I could celebrate all twenty-four hours of my birthday. Of course I only made it to, like, two a.m. Then he took us to Yosemite for my mom’s birthday. Stuff like that.”
“Your dad sounds awesome,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said quietly, and I could tell he didn’t want to keep talking about him.
“Why did you do this?” I asked. “Seriously.”
He shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It is, though,” I said. “You got me cake. We’re both cutting class.”
“Actually, it’s my free period,” Will admitted. “But you’re making me kind of sad for you, Paulsen. Don’t you and Lacey do this kind of stuff all the time?”
Cut class and hang out in the cafeteria, right under the very noses of our captors (i.e., teachers)? I gave an unladylike snort. “Lacey tries.” It went without saying that she was often less than successful; it also went without saying that these were the kinds of unnecessary risks that I normally didn’t take.
Will laughed. “Lacey would. Anyway,” he continued, “we’re friends. This is what friends do.”
I could have forced it, pushed him to explain why he’d really done this, why he was always so sweet to me. But it occurred to me that his answer could break my heart; it could break my fantasies about what we were and what we someday could be, and I didn’t want to take the chance. What if he felt sorry for me? What if I was one of those popular-guy-befriends-a-less-popular-girl jokes? Okay, I was getting carried away; Will was way too genuine for that.
And he proved it by pulling me into a hug just before I went back to class. I hugged him back, breathing in his clean, orangey scent.
“Thanks, Will,” I whispered.
I’M STILL TALKING to Will, telling him about my mom and Serg, when Lacey starts calling me. I cancel her call and keep speaking, but almost immediately another call comes through, then another one. After canceling the third call, I feel a pang of uncertainty.
Why is she calling so many times?
Is everything okay?
Is it her mom?
“Will, can I call you back?”
“Sure,” he says. “Whenever your heart desires.”
“Thanks. I’ll call you right back,” I say, then hang up.
I’m anticipating another call from Lacey, but she must know I’ve been screening her calls, because a quick succession of texts lands on my screen instead.
Pick up!
Sorry I missed you. O says you’re pissed? I forgot something at work and had to go get it before closing.
I roll my eyes as I read her texts. I’m almost insulted by how lame an excuse she has. She forgot something at work so she hightailed it out of her driveway, even though she knew I was there waiting for her, and oh yeah, she also texted her brother to cover for her while I was standing right there?
Another text appears: I’m in your driveway. Come down!
Then another: My mom’s going to get on my case for being out so late. Hurry up.
I lift a slat at the bottom of my blinds so I can see the driveway below. The old gray Toyota is there and I can vaguely see someone’s figure behind the wheel. I throw on a hoodie over my pajamas, then open my bedroom door and check that my parents’ lights down the hall are out. They are the definition of morning people, so they like to be in bed by ten p.m. Sam’s and Mia’s lights are both still on, but that doesn’t matter.
I hurry down the stairs, open the front door and am hit with a wave of humid air. The temperature in our air-conditioned house fooled me into thinking it would be relatively cool outside. I walk down to the driveway and stand in front of Lacey’s car, the headlights glaring at me.
It’s too bright to tell who is who, but I can see that there are at least two people in the car.
An angry drumbeat leaks out of the car when she opens her door—the passenger door—and climbs out. When I squint really hard, I catch a glimpse of Hail’s military-style buzz cut, his angular, almost square head behind the steering wheel. Oliver would kill Lacey if he knew she was letting Hail drive their car. Thankfully, Hail makes no move to get out of the car with her.
Lacey is wearing the cutoffs we both own, a thin-strapped tank top and a pair of round, dark sunglasses perched on the top of her head, though the sun set a good hour ago.
I fold my arms across my chest, a clear warning that she better have a good excuse for what she did. Lacey doesn’t seem to catch this, though, because she’s coming around to the front of the car, and instead of saying anything to me, she leans down to look at the front bumper and touches it.
“Shit. Guess it did scratch,” she says. I look down and see that the paint has come off just above the right headlight, and there’s a small dent there.
I’m not going to ask what happened to her car. I’m not going to ask where she’s been, what she’s doing out with H
ail. I won’t ask why she never answered my texts, never bothered to find out why I called so many times or why I came looking for her at her house.
“Why are you here?” I ask. Still frowning at the bumper, she looks up at me now and her expression changes.
“You are mad,” she says. “Look, I know it seems shady, but I’d forgotten my water bottle at work and you know how I’m trying to hydrate this summer, so I had to go back for it. And I know it doesn’t seem important, but if I hadn’t gone back someone would have claimed it as their own by tomorrow morning. There’s this guy I work with, I swear to God he’s a total kleptomaniac.”
I just look at her.
“What?” she asks after a minute.
“How stupid do you think I am?” I ask. “You knew I was waiting for you. You were purposely avoiding me.”
“Or,” Lacey spits, “I have a life and can’t always be waiting by my phone all day.”
“I never asked you to!” I protest. What the hell is going on? I’m the one who’s supposed to be angry; I’m the one she blew off.
“Well, then, what’s your problem?” she asks. “Is this because I have other friends? Is that it?”
I can tell that she’s confident in her theory. I inadvertently glance at Hail in the driver’s seat, and I wonder how much of this he is hearing.
“I’m allowed to have other friends, Eden. And how many times have I asked you to come out with us and you don’t?” Barely taking a breath, she continues, “And, like, I get that you think you’re so much better than them—”
“I do not think that!” I argue, looking again toward the windshield, trying to see if Hail can hear. I hate that we have to hash this out here. That I can’t even talk to her without some stranger overhearing everything we have to say to each other.
“You so do,” she says with a humorless laugh. “You think you’re better than them and you think you’re better than me and it’s, like, I get it. You have good grades, a perfect family, the perfect life….”
“You don’t even know what you’re talking about. You have no clue,” I say, a quiver traveling from my chest to my words. In fourteen years, Lacey and I have rarely fought. For the most part, there have just been passive-aggressive texts and the odd day or two of the cold shoulder. So these words—what she’s saying—were always going to hurt. But today, after everything that’s happened, it feels like she’s dug a metal pole right into my chest.
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