"So it is," Mr. Solomon said as the lights in the classroom flickered to life and we all squinted against the glare.
Our internal clocks were telling us the same thing— class wasn't over.
"I've got something for you today, ladies," Mr. Solomon said as he handed a stack of papers to each girl in the front row.
Liz's hand was instantly in the air.
"No, Ms. Sutton," Mr. Solomon said before Liz could even ask the question. "This isn't a test, and it's not for a grade. Your school just needs you to say in black and white whether you are going to keep studying covert operations next semester."
All around me, my classmates started filling out the form—a check mark here, a signature there, until Mr. Solomon stepped forward and snapped, "Ladies"—he paused as everyone looked up—"my colleague Mr. Smith is fond of saying, 'It is a big world full of dark corners and long memories.' Do not"—he paused, surveying us, and I could have sworn his stare lingered on me—"take this decision lightly."
Bex poked me in the shoulder. When I turned around, she flashed a big thumbs-up and mouthed the words "This is awesome!"
I looked back down at the form in my hands, rubbed it between my fingers, and tried to smell if there was poison in the ink.
It's just paper, I told myself. Ordinary paper. But then that very fact sent chills down my spine as I realized the form wasn't on Evapopaper. It wasn't meant to dissolve and wash away. I caught Joe Solomon's eye, and I'm pretty sure he saw me notice that—the permanence of what it meant. And even though it wasn't meant to be eaten, I still got a bad taste in my mouth.
Chapter Twenty-three
Now, you may think that if you're a Gallagher Girl dating a boy from Roseville that the best thing in the world would be having Tina Walters come running up to you at breakfast, exclaiming, "Cammie, I talked to your mom, and she said we can all walk into town on Saturday!"
You may think that—but you'd be wrong.
Every moment I spent in town while it was swarming with Gallagher Girls was a moment they could see me with Josh, or Josh could see me with them. Still, I looked at Bex across the breakfast table, felt the sadness that I'd been carrying for days, and even though Liz whispered, "Cam, it's a big risk," I knew I had to go. I needed a few hours of forgetting.
Saturday morning, the suites were buzzing as girls collected their Christmas shopping lists and checked what movies were playing. (I'd already seen them both with Josh, of course.) Some of us rode into town in Gallagher Academy vans, but I chose to walk with the rest of the sophomores— amazed at how that familiar terrain looked by the light of day.
When we reached the edge of town, I started rubbing my temples. "Oh," I said, "my head is killing me. Does anybody have any aspirin?" My classmates checked their pockets and purses, but no one could find any little bottles of pills (probably because I'd stolen them all the night before).
"You guys go on without me," I said, when we reached the square. "I'm gonna run to the pharmacy." Not a lie.
"The movie's gonna start in ten minutes," Bex reminded me, but I was already walking away, calling after them, "I'll meet you in there."
As plans go, it was a pretty good one. I could spend two hours with Josh, then sneak into the back of the theater, say something about the movie on the way home, and they'd never know I hadn't been there all along.
The door dinged when I pushed inside. I'd never been to the pharmacy with Josh. It had always seemed better not to see him there. But he'd told me his dad was making him work on Saturdays, and having permission to be in town was too good an opportunity to pass up.
I walked to the counter and spoke to the woman behind it. "Hi. Is Josh here?"
"Well, hello, Cammie," a man said behind me. I turned to see Mr. Abrams walking my way. He was wearing a white smock with his name embroidered above the pocket. I felt like I was getting ready to have my teeth cleaned. "This is a nice surprise."
"Oh, hello, Mr. Abrams."
"Is this your first trip to our little store?"
"Yes, it is. It's …" I looked around at the long rows of cough syrups and greeting cards and bandages for every occasion. "…nice."
Mr. Abrams beamed. "Well, Josh just ran out to make a delivery. Ought to be right back, though. In the meantime, I want you to go over to the counter and order up any kind of ice cream you want—on the house. How's that sound?"
I glanced behind me to see an old-fashioned soda fountain stretching across the far wall. "That sounds great!" Totally not a lie.
Mr. Abrams smiled at me and started toward a set of narrow stairs, but before climbing, he turned and said, "Cammie, you come back any time."
He disappeared around a corner. I was almost sad to watch him go.
The ice-cream counter was smooth against my hands as I walked in front of the huge mirror that hung behind the bar. The woman from the counter followed me over and slipped on an apron as I climbed onto one of the old metal stools.
A sign above the bar read "Proudly serving Coca-Cola since 1942." There was a tall glass jar full of straws. The woman didn't bat an eye when I ordered a double chocolate sundae, and for the first time in weeks I felt almost normal. Outside it was November and cold, but the sun was beaming through the glass storefront, warming my skin as I ate my ice cream and fell into a dreamy, sugar-induced trance.