I shrug; she can stay out all night for all I care.
“I bought some popcorn,” Mom offers, trying a little too hard.
“Okay, thanks,” I say, scooping up the last of my peas and wishing she’d leave already, or at least stop watching me eat. I give her a broad, cheesy (fake) smile that, thankfully, she buys. Mom walks across the room, kisses the top of my head, and grabs her keys.
“I guess I’d better get going, then. Have a good night, sweetie. Let’s do something fun tomorrow, just us girls, okay?” She pauses by the door to the garage, waiting.
“Okay, Mom,” I say reassuringly so she’ll leave. Seconds later, it works.
Hastily, I rinse my plate and put it in the dishwasher before skipping up the stairs and waking up my computer from sleep mode. In less than a minute, not only do I have the number for Lingering Pines, but I’m halfway through the photo gallery of images of its sweeping grounds, happy residents, and well-maintained facilities. Though I assume that the people in the pictures are models, I carefully inspect each photo just in case, then print the main page and some of the photos for reminders.
I have the jitters as I ponder what I’m about to do. Step one: find Grandma. Step two: find Dad.
Before I have the chance to talk myself out of it, I open my cell phone and dial the main number for Lingering Pines. The tone sounds long and lonely. I picture a dated phone waiting unattended, its shrill call going unnoticed over too-loud TVs shouting from the patients’ rooms.
I wish for a receptionist to pick up the second before she does. Except that it’s a recording telling me that Lingering Pines is closed, and to please call again tomorrow or dial one for the nurse’s station.
Apparently the elderly residents of Lingering Pines Retirement Community are only open for business between the hours of 8:00 AM and 5:00 PM daily.
Feeling that this isn’t earth-shattering enough to disturb a nurse, I hang up. I store the number in my contacts, allowing myself to imagine for a moment what it would be like to have a grandmother to call and visit sometimes.
>Skipping the trip to my locker, I settle into my seat in Spanish and watch the door. I’m ready to confront Jamie before class, but the seconds tick by and her desk remains empty. The bell rings, and there’s no Jamie.
Ten minutes later, she’s still not here.
When I’ve decided that she’s ditched class, gone home sick, or left for a doctor’s appointment, I face the fact that there will be no confrontation today. Jamie had the last word, and it was a nasty one. My anger subsides because it has to, and it’s replaced by sadness. I can’t help but feel that my best friend has abandoned me.
And I get it, at least a little. I know she’s upset. I know she’s jealous of Luke. I know she wishes I didn’t disapprove of her boyfriend, if you want to call Mr. Rice that.
But getting it doesn’t make it stop hurting.
Forever, I will share my thoughts and feelings with Jamie. Forever, except for right now. And right now, I really need her.
She should be here to exchange notes about whether or not to forgive Luke. She should be here to whisper with me about my dad. She should calm me—just by being nearby—about things too awful to know. She should willingly partner with me for stupid pronunciation drills.
But I’m alone, not just for pronunciation drills. For everything. Every morning when I wake up and learn this anew, a fresh wound will open—until the day Jamie decides to forgive me.
And then we’ll be fine again.
Because that’s how I remember it.
30
The house line rings twice before my mom answers it. I can hear her muffled voice from the kitchen below my bedroom. A minute later, there’s a quick knock on the door.
“London, are you up?” she whispers through the door.
“Yeah, Mom, I’m awake. Come on in,” I say from my seat at the desk. I’m surprised she didn’t hear me moving around earlier. I’ve been up for hours.
“There’s a woman on the phone for you,” she says.
“Weird,” I say before pushing back in my desk chair and walking to the telephone table in the hallway. I pick up the receiver and wait until my mom makes her way down to the kitchen and hangs up the other extension.
“Hello?”
“London?”
“Yes, this is London. Who’s this?” I say, twirling the phone cord around my index finger.