“I don’t know,” I say quietly. Luke glances at me.
“Sorry for bringing it up,” he says.
“It’s no big deal,” I lie. In truth, it’s a very big deal, particularly today, but it’s nothing I need to share with a potential boyfriend who seems to play no part in my future. I’m relieved when we reach Luke’s house. Luke’s very new, very large house.
We go in, and after a quick tour of the main level, Luke fixes turkey sandwiches in the kitchen while I scan a mantel in the library bursting with framed photos of him and his little sisters. I feel a little twinge of jealousy at the sight of the happy siblings.
A particular photo of Luke when he looks to be eleven or twelve catches my attention, then magnetically draws it back the first few times I look away. In it, he’s clearly going through a tough-guy fashion phase. I can’t stop looking at it.
Finally, I focus on shots of his baby sisters.
“They’re adorable,” I say about the little girls when Luke brings in lunch.
“Yeah, they really are. You should see them in real life. They say the most hilarious stuff.” Luke is beaming, and the thought of him serving as older brother to these two precious ladies feels right. “Anyway, you’ll meet them sometime,” he adds. “Here you go,” he says, offering me a plate.
>“What are we doing for lunch?” Jamie asks, slinging her bag over her shoulder. Just then, I remember what I’m doing. I straighten up and look at my friend.
“Luke asked me to lunch today,” I say.
“Oh,” she says, sounding disappointed. I think I see a flash of something in her eyes. Annoyance? Jealousy? “That’s okay, I’ll go with Anthony.”
“Sorry, J.”
I notice then that Anthony is leaving in a hurry, and I wonder how she’ll really spend her lunch hour.
As I walk to meet Luke, my mind is on the photos. One photo, really. One person, specifically: my grandmother.
I can’t believe that I didn’t recognize her this morning. Now, I consider what that recognition means.
On one hand, I have an older, wiser role model who (presumably) loves me and might want to bake me cookies and braid my hair. Well, okay, just the cookies.
But on the other hand, my single future memory of her is the darkest one I’ve got: my grandmother is the older woman wearing the pretty beetle brooch at the funeral.
My brain twists and turns as I round the corner to the commons. I see Luke leaning against the far wall, bag dropped to the floor next to him. His eyes are cast down; he appears to be deep in thought. As soon as I wonder what he’s thinking about, his eyes are on mine. He smiles, pushes off the brick wall, and picks up his bag.
For some reason, my brain chooses that exact moment to figure it out. I stop halfway across the commons. A boy nearly collides with me. Luke looks confused.
The funeral.
Grandma.
Mom.
There is only one logical explanation. I don’t want to think it but the thought shoves its way to the front of the line anyway.
It’s Dad’s funeral.
My dad is going to die.
There.
Thought.
13
I am almost completely distracted by Luke by the time we make it through rows of student cars and reach his…
Minivan?