see you again . . .”
“On Monday.” That just came out. I hadn’t really decided when I was going back to school. But now that I was there, it seemed so totally possible. I could come back. I could pick right up where I’d left off and still finish the school year on time.
“Are you sure?” Mr. Churchwell asked.
“Absolutely,” I said, and stood up, moving toward the door. “Have a great weekend.”
I opened the door slowly and peeked my head into the hallway. It was empty, so I slid out, knowing exactly where I needed to go to wait for Meg. I made it outside quickly and flew down the steps of the school’s entrance, following a concrete path around the side of the building and to the oak tree. It was our oak tree, the only one on school grounds with a trunk wide enough for two people to disappear behind, now fully green with shade. This was where Meg and I liked to hang out at lunchtime.
Most kids coming out of the school would be headed straight for their cars in the opposite direction; they’d never think to come this way. I pulled out my cell phone and sent a text message to Meg that just said:
@ d tree
Then my thumb reached toward the 2 button that would speed-dial the house.
And I froze. I’d been about to call home. Holy crap, is it that easy to forget they’re not there?
No. You were just going to call Nana. Nana, who IS there.
It was simpler at that moment not to call at all.
I heard the front doors open and some voices, loud for a moment or two, then fading slowly. The front doors again, then fading voices. A third time I heard the doors open, and the voices, but they didn’t fade; they were getting stronger, along with footsteps.
I looked up, hoping to see Meg, but it was Andie Stokes and Hannah Lindstrom. Pretty and popular, not mean but unapproachable. Generally superhuman. And they were walking toward me.
“Hi, Laurel,” said Hannah.
“Megan Dill said you might be here,” said Andie.
I had to shield my eyes from the sun to look up at them, but didn’t stand. I was really just too nervous to move, and then I felt like an idiot for that. These were girls from my school who I’d known forever. Once, when we were little, I’d taken a bath with one of them, but I couldn’t remember which.
Now they came and sat down with me, on the ground made bumpy by the oak tree’s roots.
“We just wanted to say hi and let you know how sad we are for you,” said Andie, sweeping her famous chestnut brown hair away from her face. “You must be going through hell.”
“It’s so brave of you to do this today,” added Hannah, blond, touching my shoulder.
“Thank you.”
“We’re starting up a memorial fund, from our class to your family,” said Andie. She was known for her obsession with charities, always coordinating some kind of clean-up day, food drive, or group donation. Some kids did sports, Andie did Good.
“We’d like to do something, you know, permanent. Maybe plant a tree at the rec center park,” chimed in Hannah, who was wearing one of the craveable dresses she designed and sewed herself.
“Okay,” I said, still feeling like a moron. Why couldn’t I say something funny or smart? I was always looking for a chance to talk to these girls, and now here I was, mute.
The rec center park. That was a nice spot, near the town pool and tennis courts, where they had Family Fun Night every summer. The year before, Toby and I had almost won the egg toss, but he’d dropped it when there were just three pairs left. I was pissed, that evening in late August. I’d never won anything at Family Fun Night and was sick of Mom always packing a picnic from the Taco Bell drive-through instead of preparing sandwiches and salad and cookies like all the other moms did, and making us go home before the fireworks because they gave her a headache.
It wasn’t a great memory, but the thought of it still made my throat close up. Fortunately, just then Meg appeared around the corner with a mortified look on her face. She came toward us and said hi to Hannah and Andie, then reached down and helped me up without asking if I needed the hand.
“My mom’s here,” said Megan, and we said quick good-byes before stumbling