Page 67 of What You Left Me

“I really appreciate you saying that,” I tell Ms. Hornsby. “And thank you for working with the school to give me so many chances. I know it’s more than most people get. I hope you realize that every kid who’s struggling probably has a reason and deserves another shot. And deserves someone who will listen towhy.”

Her eyes are watering. “All right now, you better get going. You tell that Martin McGee he needs to wake up.”

• • •

Spitty, I’m serious. Something is different here. Heavier. I don’t think I have time. I need you to sleep. Nap. Something.

How about this? I bet my life that you won’t be able to dream of me before Petra.

37

Because it’s Monday, the Believe Marty Can Fly team has dwindled. I can now identify almost everyone here: Mama Dorothy, Mr. McGee, Katie, her husband Rick, Turrey, Brooke, another boy that I think is the Chris I’ve heard mentioned a few times, and two older women that must be family as well. Real life must resume I know, but it still surprises me to find the waiting room so empty. The dozens of unfamiliar faces gone, back home to start their summer rituals once more.

As we walk in, everyone pastes on temporary happy faces. Turrey and Brooke stand up to give us hugs. I’m still coasting on autopilot. Too dazed to understand how this sequence of events continues to escalate. The four of us go to our usual spot. Whether it’s a lunchroom or a waiting room, you make a choice once, and it becomes yours forevermore. We sit down, a collection of ninety-degree angles: perfect nervous posture.

Cameron wraps her arms around me. Daniel’s body wash, some woodsy scent called Rustic Mist that we all scrubbed ourselves with this morning, wafts off her. It should smell the same as it does on me, yet somehow, it’s more comforting. I breathe it in and exhale it out, pulling myself in closer to her to hold on to it. Cameron nuzzles me like a mother would, surrendering her personal space to my needs. “How are you not in the middle of some great life crisis like the rest of us?” I ask her.

“Being the mother hen to you dysfunctional chicksismy life crisis.”

“I’m serious. It’s come to my attention that I’ve missed quite a bit for the past year. I need to make sure you’re okay too. It’s not enough to just assume.”

“I am. Swear.”

I try to scrape off her neutral expression and see the truth beneath it. “You did borderline steal a wallet.”

She flicks my wrist, nervous one of the adults overheard me. In her heart she knows, like I do, that everyone is far too distracted to eavesdrop on us. “Can I be honest with you?” she asks. I tilt my head up and give her a look that saysduh, but I understand some stories require this kind of preface, even when being told to your best friend. “My parents pretty much want the opposite of what Aminah’s and yours do. They’re excited that I’m staying out all night and stuff because they’re afraid I’m some kind of zombie with no real life outside of school. I mean, it’s summer now, but you know what I mean.”

“I do.”

“They’re sort of right. Aminah’s sleeping on my floor and sneaking into her house to get things she needs. Daniel’s having this sweeping love affair. You’re some kind of mysterious dream communicator who skipped out on a final for an entire year then took it without studying and passed. I don’t know how to be interesting in the midst of such interesting friends.” She pauses. “I took the wallet so I could have a story to tell.”

“Aw, Cam,” Aminah says. She was eavesdropping. “You’re the best slash most interesting human I know.”

“I agree,” I say. “I’ve never met a single other person with a self-made Art Garfunkel shirt, and if one other such person does exist, I’m positive they wouldn’t wear it three days in a row just to be supportive.”

“I’ve always loved the fact that you never really screw up,” Daniel offers, also eavesdropping. “It makes me a little mad while also secretly inspires me to be better.” He hugs us for a brief moment, then pulls us all apart. “Okay. Do me next!”

Aminah thwacks him with Cameron’s magazine. “You’re so humble, and you love sensitive moments,” she starts. “You wish they could go on forever and ever. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you—”

Daniel grabs her. “Ding ding ding! Time’s up!”

Mama Dorothy comes over to us. She’s carrying a container of food. “People won’t stop bringing me stuff they made,” she tells us as she starts handing out chocolate chip cookies. “I need to pawn it off on you kids.” She pauses when she gets to me. “I tried to place you the other day, but I don’t think you’re the girl who broke out in hives at Marty’s choir concert in sixth grade.” She looks so inviting, even when bleary-eyed and distant, keeping her happy face plastered on to make everyone else feel better.

“Martin and I didn’t go to the same grade school.”

“Did he take you to a dance? I swear I know your face.”

Her hand rubs my cheek so gently, so maternally, that I get up to hug her. “I met Martin at graduation.”

“And you’ve been here all weekend? That’s the sweetest thing.” She starts to cry. Daniel grabs the cookie container from her hands so she can hug me tighter. We just hold each other, two almost strangers in the most personal of embraces. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Petra,” I say with a small laugh. Finally, I get to tell her my name.

“Petra,” she repeats back. “Like the Metra.”

Katie laughs. “That’s totally a joke Marty would make.”

Mama Dorothy pretends to fluff her hair, shaking her hips. “Where do you think he gets it from?”