The Last Time We Say Goodbye
Page 66
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“Kafka.” I jot the name down in my notebook.
“Classic existentialism. Start with The Metamorphosis. It’s short, but it’s brilliant.”
Short is good, I think. Short is very good.
“I will check it out, literally,” I say. I reach across the table and pop one of his french fries into my mouth. Damian smiles, a real, genuine smile, revealing a row of crooked teeth.
I’m so happy to see that smile.
In Honors Calculus Lab, when (after our initial ten minutes of homework) we pair up to play a blackjack tournament—winner gets cookies of their choice baked by none other than the multi-talented Miss Mahoney—Steven asks if he can challenge me in the first round.
I can’t think of a good excuse not to. At least Steven’s reaction to me is genuine. Even if it is awkward. “Okay.”
I pull my desk to face his.
“Dealer or player?” he asks.
“Dealer.”
He hands me the deck.
“Are you doing all right?” he asks as I shuffle.
Here we go. The bomb squad interrogation has officially begun.
“I’m fine.”
“You missed school. You never miss school.”
“Never say never,” I joke, but he doesn’t laugh.
“I tried to call you.”
“I went on an impromptu road trip with my mom.”
His eyebrows furrow. “A road trip. Where?”
“Tennessee.”
More furrowing. “Tennessee.”
“Yes. Are you ready?”
He nods. I lay a card faceup in front of him and one facedown in front of me. A nine for him. A two for me.
I lay down one more for him. A five. Then one more for me, face up. A jack.
“What’s in Tennessee?” he asks.
I consider telling him that it’s none of his business, but I know he’s asking because he’s worried. In spite of everything, he still cares about me. I shouldn’t throw that back in his face.
“Graceland,” I answer softly. “We went to Graceland.”
His eyes light up with understanding. “Because your mom loves Elvis.”
I can’t help a smile. “Because my mom loves the King.”
“Awesome.” He smiles too, relaxes his shoulders. “That’s great.”
“So, the cards,” I say, trying to get us back on track, because other pairs are finishing up now and ready to move to round two.
He glances at the cards. “Okay, hit me again.”
I do. It’s a six, which puts him at twenty. He passes, and I’m at twelve, so I draw one more for myself, a king. Twenty-two. Bust. It’s over. He wins.
“Congratulations,” I say. “Mahoney makes a killer chocolate chip. That’s what I’d pick.”
“Hey, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he replies. “I’ve merely won the battle, not the war.”
But he goes on to win the next three hands. And he does pick the chocolate chip.
“I told you so,” I say as we’re leaving the classroom. Beaker and El fall into step behind us, but they hang back and let us talk, which feels weird, but what am I going to do about it, stop and insist that we walk all together?
“Yes, yes you did,” he says. “How did you know?”
“Clairvoyant,” I explain, tapping my temple like my brain is something magical.
“Ah.”
For a minute things feel like they used to be. Before, I mean. When we were friends.
“So, I know you haven’t felt like being involved in Math Club lately,” he says as we round the corner into the commons. “But we’re all going bowling tomorrow night. Parkway Lanes. Six p.m. Be there or be square.”
“Well, you know I’m a square,” I joke.
Steven shifts his backpack to the other shoulder and stops to squint at me. “I’d say you were more rectangular.”
“You’re so sweet,” I say.
“So you’ll come.”
For once I really wish I could. “I can’t,” I tell him. “I have the stupid dinner with my dad.”
Which is really the last place I want to be, considering. But that’s the rule: I eat dinner with Dad on Tuesday nights. If I start breaking the rules now, who knows what could happen?
Steven tries to look like he’s not disappointed. “Okay. Fair enough. Another time, then.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Another time.”
17 March
This is going to sound trite, I suppose, but you never know when it’s going to be the last time. That you hug someone. That you kiss. That you say goodbye.
I don’t know what my last words were to Ty. Probably something like, Smell you later, as I went out the door that morning. I can’t remember. It wasn’t significant, is all I know. We were never one of those families that says “I love you” at the end of every conversation, just in case.
Steven’s parents do that. When he calls to tell them he’s going to be late or something, he always ends by saying “I love you, too.” Even if he’ll see them in 10 minutes.
I used to think that was the tiniest bit lame. If you say something that often, it loses its meaning, doesn’t it? But now I understand. If the unthinkable happens—a car accident, a heart attack, whatever—at least you’ll know your last words were something positive. There’s a security in that. A comfort.
I broke up with Steven on New Year’s Eve. There was a party at his house with his family—his 3 sisters and his parents and his aunts and uncles and cousins and half cousins once removed.
“Classic existentialism. Start with The Metamorphosis. It’s short, but it’s brilliant.”
Short is good, I think. Short is very good.
“I will check it out, literally,” I say. I reach across the table and pop one of his french fries into my mouth. Damian smiles, a real, genuine smile, revealing a row of crooked teeth.
I’m so happy to see that smile.
In Honors Calculus Lab, when (after our initial ten minutes of homework) we pair up to play a blackjack tournament—winner gets cookies of their choice baked by none other than the multi-talented Miss Mahoney—Steven asks if he can challenge me in the first round.
I can’t think of a good excuse not to. At least Steven’s reaction to me is genuine. Even if it is awkward. “Okay.”
I pull my desk to face his.
“Dealer or player?” he asks.
“Dealer.”
He hands me the deck.
“Are you doing all right?” he asks as I shuffle.
Here we go. The bomb squad interrogation has officially begun.
“I’m fine.”
“You missed school. You never miss school.”
“Never say never,” I joke, but he doesn’t laugh.
“I tried to call you.”
“I went on an impromptu road trip with my mom.”
His eyebrows furrow. “A road trip. Where?”
“Tennessee.”
More furrowing. “Tennessee.”
“Yes. Are you ready?”
He nods. I lay a card faceup in front of him and one facedown in front of me. A nine for him. A two for me.
I lay down one more for him. A five. Then one more for me, face up. A jack.
“What’s in Tennessee?” he asks.
I consider telling him that it’s none of his business, but I know he’s asking because he’s worried. In spite of everything, he still cares about me. I shouldn’t throw that back in his face.
“Graceland,” I answer softly. “We went to Graceland.”
His eyes light up with understanding. “Because your mom loves Elvis.”
I can’t help a smile. “Because my mom loves the King.”
“Awesome.” He smiles too, relaxes his shoulders. “That’s great.”
“So, the cards,” I say, trying to get us back on track, because other pairs are finishing up now and ready to move to round two.
He glances at the cards. “Okay, hit me again.”
I do. It’s a six, which puts him at twenty. He passes, and I’m at twelve, so I draw one more for myself, a king. Twenty-two. Bust. It’s over. He wins.
“Congratulations,” I say. “Mahoney makes a killer chocolate chip. That’s what I’d pick.”
“Hey, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he replies. “I’ve merely won the battle, not the war.”
But he goes on to win the next three hands. And he does pick the chocolate chip.
“I told you so,” I say as we’re leaving the classroom. Beaker and El fall into step behind us, but they hang back and let us talk, which feels weird, but what am I going to do about it, stop and insist that we walk all together?
“Yes, yes you did,” he says. “How did you know?”
“Clairvoyant,” I explain, tapping my temple like my brain is something magical.
“Ah.”
For a minute things feel like they used to be. Before, I mean. When we were friends.
“So, I know you haven’t felt like being involved in Math Club lately,” he says as we round the corner into the commons. “But we’re all going bowling tomorrow night. Parkway Lanes. Six p.m. Be there or be square.”
“Well, you know I’m a square,” I joke.
Steven shifts his backpack to the other shoulder and stops to squint at me. “I’d say you were more rectangular.”
“You’re so sweet,” I say.
“So you’ll come.”
For once I really wish I could. “I can’t,” I tell him. “I have the stupid dinner with my dad.”
Which is really the last place I want to be, considering. But that’s the rule: I eat dinner with Dad on Tuesday nights. If I start breaking the rules now, who knows what could happen?
Steven tries to look like he’s not disappointed. “Okay. Fair enough. Another time, then.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Another time.”
17 March
This is going to sound trite, I suppose, but you never know when it’s going to be the last time. That you hug someone. That you kiss. That you say goodbye.
I don’t know what my last words were to Ty. Probably something like, Smell you later, as I went out the door that morning. I can’t remember. It wasn’t significant, is all I know. We were never one of those families that says “I love you” at the end of every conversation, just in case.
Steven’s parents do that. When he calls to tell them he’s going to be late or something, he always ends by saying “I love you, too.” Even if he’ll see them in 10 minutes.
I used to think that was the tiniest bit lame. If you say something that often, it loses its meaning, doesn’t it? But now I understand. If the unthinkable happens—a car accident, a heart attack, whatever—at least you’ll know your last words were something positive. There’s a security in that. A comfort.
I broke up with Steven on New Year’s Eve. There was a party at his house with his family—his 3 sisters and his parents and his aunts and uncles and cousins and half cousins once removed.
