The Last Time We Say Goodbye
Page 29

“Just hanging out,” I say. As if the gym is so relaxing.
He nods like this makes perfect sense.
“I didn’t know you were a photographer,” I say.
He sweeps his shaggy hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’ve been dabbling in it. Seeing if I can get the camera to speak through me or whatever. I’m invisible to people, you know, which makes it easy to get interesting candids.”
That sounds mildly creepy. “You’re not invisible,” I say. “I see you.”
He smiles the timid smile again. “I know. But with some people—most people, really—I just fade into the background. If I disappeared one day, really disappeared and never came back, they wouldn’t even notice.”
I’m just the opposite, I think. I feel like I’ve disappeared already, the Lex that I was before, and some people have definitely noticed I’m gone. But them noticing I’m missing doesn’t mean I get to come back.
I must look tragic and contemplative, because Damian tries to lighten the mood. “That’s high school for you, though,” he says. “Everybody’s caught up in their own thing. We’re all the stars of our own movies. Anyway, that’s my big superpower. Mister Invisibility.”
Right. I rub my shoe against the metal ridges on the back of the bleachers. Damian takes another picture of the cheerleaders as they line up for another cheer.
We’ve got pride! (clap clap clap)
On our side! (clap clap clap)
You know it! We show it!
We’ve got pride!
“Who comes up with these things?” I say. “Seriously.”
He nods. “Hey, they are excellent rhymers. Pride and side. Know and show. Like, whoa.”
We both laugh. Nothing gives nerds more innate satisfaction than poking fun at cheerleaders.
“Did you ever cover the basketball games?” I ask. “For the yearbook, I mean?”
He nods again. “Sure. A few.”
“Did you see Ty play?” My voice catches on my brother’s name, because I don’t say it that much anymore, not out loud, in public, and saying it makes me feel vulnerable or slightly selfish, like I’m asking for sympathy or attention. I didn’t mean to bring Ty up, but I can’t seem to help myself. Because Damian knew Ty, he really knew him, probably better than any of Ty’s jock friends ever did.
“He never missed a shot,” Damian murmurs. Then his eyes widen over how that sounds, in my own personal context. “He was good. They haven’t won a single game since he . . .”
And there’s the pause.
This time I don’t fill it in. I let the silence drag.
“I might have a few pictures of him from this year, if you want them,” Damian says after a minute.
“Yeah. I want them,” I answer.
He coughs into his sleeve. “I would have given them to you earlier, but I didn’t know if you’d . . .”
“I want them,” I say again. “Please.”
“Okay.”
He’s uncomfortable now. I’ve made him uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have brought up Ty. I check my watch. “Anyway,” I say. “The bell’s about to ring. I should . . . We should . . .” I stuff my notebook in my backpack and start to climb down out of the bleachers. Damian follows me. He helps me get over the metal bar at the bottom of the seating area.
“Thanks, Damian,” I say.
“See you later, Lex,” he says, and then he slouches off.
The bell rings.
I take one more look at the cheerleaders as they head for the locker room. Ashley Davenport lags behind. She stops and kneels to tie her shoe. The others drift away.
Who is this girl, I wonder? What happened between my brother and her? What happened?
She finishes tying her shoe and stands up, but she doesn’t follow the others. She looks across the basketball court, past the bleachers.
At me.
I’m torn between the urge to duck and the urge to wave, but I don’t do either. I simply stand there, staring at her, as she stares back at me. For a minute we’re suspended in time.
I have the letter with me. I always have it with me. I could give it to her. I could go right now, down the bleachers, and I could put it in her hand.
“Hey, Ash,” some girl calls, peeking out of the locker room. “Are you coming? We’re going over to Starbucks, remember?”
She lowers her head quickly. “Yeah. I’m coming.”
She doesn’t look at me again as she walks to the locker room door.
12.
ON THE BUS RIDE HOME, Sadie slides into the seat next to me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her ride the bus before, but here she is, in ratty black jeans and green Converse sneakers, her shoulder brushing mine as the bus bumps along the street.
“Do you want to have dinner at my house?” she asks.
My mouth waters just thinking about dinner at the McIntyre house. Sadie’s mom is a culinary genius—pot roasts and lasagnas and fried chicken with mashed potatoes, all the various meals I’ve eaten at the McIntyre home cycle through my mind, bite after wonderful bite.
I get out my phone to text my mom and tell her that I’m going to be home late. Out with a friend, I type. She should be happy with that.
See Lexie socialize.
But when we get to Sadie’s place, the house is strangely quiet. I remember it always being a bustle of activity and noise before—Sadie’s brothers talking and joking and jostling, music blaring, her mom screaming for them to keep it down—but now there’s nobody home, by the sound of it. Sadie leads me down the stairs to the family room in the basement. It looks the same as I remember, same couch, same paint colors, except the TV is bigger now. It still smells faintly of popcorn, from when Sadie’s parents bought an old popcorn maker from a theater in Lincoln when it went out of business, but the machine is gone, a patch of slightly lighter carpet outlining where it stood along the wall. We used to love to watch it heat and pop, the burst kernels spilling out like a delicious volcano of buttery goodness. We spent hours down here, hours upon hours. A decent percentage of my life.