His voice grows heavier. “I’m sorry.”
“The suckiest part? The moment that I have detention, you don’t.”
It gets a single glum laugh. “I’d take detention over this.”
“I know.” I soften. “How is it? How are your parents?”
“Pissed off. Busy. They’re running me around everywhere with them, but they can hardly even look at me.”
“They’ll come around.”
“Maybe.”
One question is weighing on me, heavier than any other. I clutch my necklace for support. “Hey…”
“Yeah?”
“Never mind.”
“Isla. Say it.”
“I was just…did your parents know about me? I know you guys didn’t talk often, but I was wondering if you ever mentioned me. Before all of this.” My voice cracks. “I’d hate it if that was your mom’s first impression of me.”
His long pause gives me the answer before he does. “I was gonna tell them before Thanksgiving,” he finally says. “I didn’t want them asking about you.”
I cry in silence. “Were you worried that they’d think I’m not good enough for you?”
“No. No. I just wanted to keep you for myself. We were in that perfect bubble, you know? Of course they’ll like you.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“They will. They know this is my fault. And when the election is over, I’ll tell them all about you. How smart you are, and how kind, and—”
“How ambitious? How I have no plans for my future?”
“Isla.”
“Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I should’ve told them.” There’s another pause. “Did your parents know about me?”
“Of course.”
Josh exhales.
“They were looking forward to meeting you.”
“And now they aren’t.” He gives a sad little snort. “You worry about my parents, but I’m the one who was expelled.” Suddenly, his voice grows lower. “Someone’s moving around. I gotta go I love you bye.”
I don’t even get to say “I love you” back.
On Monday after detention, I find him in the background of some photographs taken over the weekend at a Brooklyn YMCA, a last-chance campaigning effort. He’s tall and handsome and smiling. He looks almost like my boyfriend. I can tell that his smile – no doubt convincing to others – is forced. There are no dimples.
“I didn’t wake you up this time, did I?” he asks. The call arrives in the dead of night. There’s a racket of people in the background, a general buzz of stress and excitement. Headquarters again. The election is only hours away.
“No.” I hug my pillow, wishing it were him. “Getting sleepy, but I’m still reading.”
“That’s my girl. What’s the subject tonight?”