We are silent for a few moments. I consider the long walk home in the snow, and eventually I take one for the team.
“Sorry, J, I just worry about you.”
“I know you do,” she says. “But stop. I’m okay.”
“I know you are,” I say.
“Seriously, London, listen to me,” Jamie begins, sitting up taller on the bed. “You can mess with your own business however you want, but keep those memories about me to yourself. It’s weird enough knowing that you know how things will go for me. I’m not one of those people who go to palm readers. I like surprises. Just let me live my life.” Before I can open my mouth, she adds, “Please?”
“I will,” I promise sadly.
“Thanks,” Jamie says with a weak smile.
I think we’re okay now, but as we walk out of her bedroom to head upstairs for a spaghetti dinner, Jamie mutters, “You better write that down in your little notebook so you don’t forget it.”
“Don’t worry,” I say softly. “I will.”
10
I’m in the cemetery.
My mother is sobbing to my right. There is a menacing stone angel to my left. Across a semicircle of black-clad mourners, a few faces stand out: an older woman with a white lace handkerchief, a younger woman in a low-cut dress, an imposing bald man who looks like a brick wall.
My eyes are stuck for a moment on a small black brooch attached to the older woman’s sweater. From where I stand, it looks like a jeweled beetle, and it seems oddly fancy for a funeral. Then again, I vaguely remember reading an article later in life about Egyptians being buried with beetles. Maybe it’s significant to her. Maybe she just likes bugs.
Tentatively, I inhale, fearing the stench of rotting corpses, but instead I smell two of my favorite scents: grass and rain. Some of the mourners have umbrellas. Some are getting wet.
I look at the path leading to our gathering: it is dirt and rock, mostly dirt in some places. Because of the rain, there are footprints there. Some small; some large. Lots of footprints.
I want to walk through the footprints and mess them up, but I don’t. Instead, I stand still in the rain, wondering what’s going on.
11
Eyes adjusted to the October morning, I try to read the note in the dark. No go.
I roll to my side and edge out from under the cozy comforter. Reaching to turn on the bedside lamp that I’ll have for years to come, I knock over a cup of water that I don’t remember leaving on the nightstand.
Rookie mistake.
Quickly, I snap on the lamp and mop up the small puddle with my pajama sleeve. The PJs are red thermal; I don’t remember putting them on.
Situation under control, I sink back against the pillows. Squinting from the light, holding the note inches from my nose, I read.
10/24 (Sun.)
Clothes:
—Red thermal pajamas most of the day
—Long-sleeved teal sweater and skinny jeans (Mom and I had dinner at Casa de Amigos… spilled hot sauce on upper thigh of jeans… check to see if stain’s out)
School:
—Take Span.-Eng. dictionary to Spanish for translation exercise
—Anatomy quiz (check out study guide by the computer before school)
—Start on graphic design project