“What drug?” Nora asks, genuinely clueless.
I scrunch up my face, confused. Didn’t they tell her anything? It strikes me that I might completely freak Nora out if I drop the whole Revive program in her lap at once. I decide to let her steer the conversation.
“Um… didn’t they use some kind of a drug to save you?” I ask.
“Huh?” Nora asks. “Oh, no, the Good Samaritan did CPR for, like, twenty minutes, until the ambulance came.”
“Do you remember it?” I ask.
“No,” Nora says. “I passed out when I was still in the car.”
Or died, I think to myself, but don’t say. This is all too weird.
“So, why do you think you’re in Franklin?” I ask.
“Oh, I know why we’re in Franklin,” Nora says. “My parents eventually fessed up to that much.”
>“I might be able to solve that problem,” I say.
“I can’t wait to see what Flower Girl has to say.”
Feeling lighter after my call with Megan, I reach Victory with a little time to spare. As I walk through the doors, an idea pops into my head. Before classes start, I go to the computer lab and print out the lyrics to “The Way I Am.” It’s the song Audrey sang to Matt and me when she was joking around about our crush. But I realize that it sums up our friendship, too.
With a bunch of curious students watching, I tape the lyrics to the front of Audrey’s locker, then, smiling, head to English alone. Matt’s chair is still empty, but I know he’ll come back soon.
When I visit my locker again before lunch, there are more lyrics taped to Audrey’s. By the end of the day, her locker is completely covered by handwritten and printed scraps of songs tacked on in Audrey’s honor. As I read through the lyrics, I finally understand.
Everyone misses Audrey; they weren’t faking it.
I’m not alone.
thirty-four
A little over a week later, responding to Megan’s fantasy Grammy speech, I blog my gracious Oscar acceptance. Then, back on earth, I check Facebook. It’s not something I do a lot. Having to start a new profile every time I change my name, I never have very many friends, so there’s not much activity on my pages. When I last checked in Seattle, I only had sixteen friends, and most of them were bus kids.
That’s why, after typing in my password and checking my notifications, I’m surprised to find thirty-two friend requests waiting for me, all from kids at Victory. Most of them are straight-up requests, but a few have sweet notes about how awesome Audrey was and how cool it was of me to start the lyric tribute.
I accept every single one without hesitation, then check my wall for new posts. Nicole Anderson, formerly Nicole Yang, a bus kid who lives in Atlanta, posted a “positive energy” message in light of Audrey’s death. I smile about both the note and the fact that Megan’s obviously looking out for me. A girl in my history class sent me a virtual hug. I scroll down and get a jolt when I see a post from Matt.
I miss you.
I don’t know why, but I don’t write back right away. I’d rather call him. See him in person. Look in his eyes and really connect with him.
For the moment, I move on.
I notice that Megan’s online the second before she sends a friend suggestion. It’s for Nora Emerson.
I sigh deeply, considering what to do. The night in Seattle when Megan and I found Nora feels like years ago, but two weeks have passed. So overwhelmed and exhausted by everything with Audrey, I’ve been pushing thoughts of Nora away. But it’s time to deal with this. The need to know what happened to Nora—to know for sure if she’s Case 22—overtakes me.
I click to add her as a friend and type a cryptic personal message to her: “I want to hear your story. I’m like you.” As if she was waiting by the computer, she friends me immediately. Since she’s online, I open the messaging program.
Nora, it’s Daisy from FH. Call me if you want to talk.
I type in my cell number and hit return, then watch the clock. The phone rings before two minutes have passed.
“Hello?” I say.
“It’s Nora,” the voice on the other end of the line says. Unsure, she adds, “Emerson.” Her voice is the same as the day she brought me the birthday invitation, except she was more confident back then.