Page 43 of The Design of Goodbye
“Because I think—” I fumbled nervously with the string of my hoodie. “I think something bad happened to you, and it didn’t feel right to trick you into telling me.”
The way he looked at me? It was as if he saw me differently—like I was suddenly a totally different person. It made my heart race and kind of took my breath away.
“Oh.”
I hated he hadn’t denied my accusations. I’d wanted him to deny it and tell me he hadn’t been through something horrible. That, instead, he’d gone on a life-changing trip to Europe or something equally as amazing.
“I don’t like that you got hurt in the process,” he finished, “but thanks.”
I couldn’t get myself to speak, so I checked the time. I had twenty-three minutes before I had to face all my classmates. I blinked because tears were practicing karate behind my eyes.
“Madison?”
“Yeah?” I whispered.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
I wasn’t. Since last night, sadness had wrapped its arms around me like a cocoon. At first, it’d felt comforting but then it squeezed, squeezed,squeezeduntil I could no longer breathe. If it ever did let go, which I was certain it never would, I’d collapse in a breathless mess.
He was blurry when I finally looked back up. “I’m not crying.”
“I don’t mind.” He winced. “That came out wrong. I meant, I don’t like that you’re upset, but don’t feel embarrassed about crying in front of me.”
Of course I was embarrassed about crying in front of him. First, I barely knew him. Second, I’d already done it once.
“I’m not crying.”
“You’re not crying,” he agreed.
It was his turn to glance at the time. And while it didn’t make him almost cry, he slumped in his seat, defeated.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“You don’t need to worry about—”
“Tell me,” I said. “Please?”
“I need to finish writing the conclusion to my English essayandtype the whole thing before school starts.”
He wouldn’t finish in twenty minutes. Unless...
“I’ll help.” I sat up, glad to have something to keep my attention off the pictures. “Rip out what you’ve written so far, and I’ll type what you have on a computer—it’s faster than on my tablet. You can hand me the conclusion when you’re done.”
He blinked slowly as he processed my offer. “You don’t need to do that.”
“Not many people know this about me,” I started, grabbing his notebook and ripping out the finished portion of his essay, “but I’m an amazing typist. I can type over eighty-five words per minute.”
“Impressive.”
“You’ll finish if I help,” I stated. “And it’ll keep my mind off stuff, which I desperately need.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Thank you.” Relief melted off him. “Mrs. Marcus will appreciate me submitting my essay the correct way.”
“You have Mrs. Marcus? She’s terrifying. I heard, one time, she yelled at a student for like twenty minutesduring classbecause they turned in a handwritten essay.”
