Page 11 of The Design of Goodbye
“Claire,” said Jules, pulling her into a side hug, “you get me. Fraternal twins, I swear.”
They’d been telling each other they were fraternal twins since they’d met the beginning of junior year. While they had a lot in common, they looked nothing alike. Jules’s hair stopped mid-back, and she had more freckles than all three of us combined. Claire had shoulder-length light-brown curly hair, tanned skin, and was six and a quarter inches—they’d measured—shorter than Jules.
“Won’t you be cold?” I asked.
“Cold?” Jules rolled her eyes, and I regretted asking. “Seriously, the weather doesn’t matter. The pain of frozen legs is worth it for the perfect outfit. You, out of anyone, should know that. But”—she eyed me up and down—“I shouldn’t be surprised, given what you’re wearing. Where did you even get that?”
She pointed her fork at my blouse. It was one of my mom’s old pieces. For some reason, my mom had left all her favorite custom pieces—the ones she hadn’t had the heart to sell. I’d never been allowed to wear any of them, but this morning, I’d put one on. The need to feel closer to my mom had been stronger than the guilt.
Some of my favorite memories of my mom were when she finished a piece. Whenever she had, we’d gone to a fancy restaurant, just the two of us. There, we’d drunk fancy drinks and ordered every dessert off the menu.
Those nights, my mom had been happy.
Those had been thebestnights.
My mom had been obsessed with Victorian clothes, and her pieces were inspired by the era. A few years ago, she’d started adding a modern twist on her designs and never looked back. The blouse was loosely based on the Garibaldi-style blouse. It was lilac, with a high lace collar, long sleeves, and pearl buttons.
I probably shouldn’t have worn the blouse. Now I missed my mom more than I had before I decided to wear it. Now missingconsumedme.
“What’s wrong with it?” I finally asked.
Jules wrinkled her nose. “The collar’s awful.”
“Yeah, Madison,” said Claire, ripping a chocolate-chip granola bar open with her teeth. “It’s pretty bad.”
The collar was my favorite part because it was my mom’s. She’d been so proud of it. I remembered the night we’d celebrated it: my mom’s rare laughter as we walked barefoot down the beach underneath the chilly February night sky, our bellies full, and our minds wired with too much sugar.
“My mom made it.”
“It’s still bad,” said Jules. “And it’s not your style.”
This was true. While my style was preppy—I loved ballet flats, sweater vests, classic denim, and blazers—the modern Victorian style my mom loved wasn’t my personal taste. High collars and loose-fitting blouses were things my mom loved, not me.
I glanced down at my outfit, trying to envision how it looked to other people. I’d paired the blouse with a pleated skirt, sweater tights, and flats. I’d styled my hair in a crown braid, so everything tied together. I thought I’d balanced the outfit well enough with my own style that it wasn’t too jarring, but, apparently, I’d been wrong.
“I thought it was cute” was my pathetic defense.
“She looks hot, Jules,” said Alex. He took off his baseball hat, shook his shaggy dirty-blond hair like a dog after a bath, and added, “Especially that skirt.”
Jules threw her napkin at him, and it bounced off his forehead and onto his pizza. “Shut up, Alex.”
He laughed.
Jules turned her attention back to me. “Don’t wear the blouse again, okay?” She fixed her gaze on something over my shoulder and leaned forward. “Tanner’s right. It’s gotta be drugs. I haven’t seen him eat lunch all week.”
“Who are you talking about?” I asked.
“Roo,” she explained. “I’ve been watching him the past few days since he’s your tutor now. He never eats.”
“Yeah,” chimed in Claire. “He gets the free lunch and only drinks the milk. He puts everything else in his backpack. Like, why take all that food if you’re not going to eat it?”
Jules unwrapped another cupcake while saying, “Hardcore drugs can suppress your appetite, you know.” She took a bite, and sprinkles scattered everywhere.
“I’ve seen him talk with Matt Stark a few times by the bike racks,” said Alex casually. “Matt is definitely a stoner.”
I spotted Liam. He was sitting two tables behind ours, alone. Sure enough, he only had one of those small milk cartons and no food.
“Maybe he’s not hungry,” I suggested, turning back around.
