For a brief second, I wish I were busy calling florists to get the best deals for flowers and decorations.
The sadness must show on my face, because Carmen grabs the paper heart out of my hand and reads it.
“Who does this guy think he is?” Carmen says. “You’re over student government and you can make your own decisions. Next.”
I nod and read my next paper heart. It’s from a boy named Greg. I only know who he is because he’s on the baseball team. At least I know that much, so his paper heart makes sense.
Roses are red, violets are blue, it would be an honor to get struck out by you. —Greg
I laugh as I read it out loud. “Do you think he wrote it or one of his teammates?”
“Who cares? He’s cute!” Carmen says.
Jess eyes her. “When I liked him sophomore year, you said he was too short.”
“Yeah, for you,” Carmen says. “Not for Ella. Find someone you can wear your Jimmy Choo heels with to the Valentine’s Day Dance.”
“Well, Miss Five Foot Two over here takes all the tall guys like Pete,” Jess says. She says it staring at my last paper heart like it could be from him.
“I know what you’re thinking, and no, it isn’t,” I say.
“How do you know? Everyone wants our high school’s best couple to get back together.”
My cheeks warm. That may be true, but there’s no way this is from Pete. People sometimes get creative with their paper hearts, but this one is beyond. Before I can argue that it isn’t Pete, Jess’s long arm reaches across the table and she snatches the paper heart from me. I try to grab it back, but she’s already unfolding it. When it’s fully opened, she frowns.
“What?” I ask. “Who’s it from?”
“It doesn’t say,” she says, frowning again at the letter. “It doesn’t really say anything.”
“What does that even mean?” Carmen asks, reaching for the paper.
“Can you guys be careful, please?” I whine. “You’re going to rip it.”
Carmen ignores me and grabs the letter from Jess’s hands. When she’s done reading it, she looks at me.
“She’s right. It’s from another weirdo.”
“Can I be the judge of that, please?”
Carmen pushes the paper across the table to me. I read it once and then twice, like the words will magically click into some sort of meaning—but they don’t. I blink at the three words that I don’t understand: Clover and Gold.
“Oh come on. Why am I the only one who doesn’t get to know?” Katie complains. I hand her the paper.
“Do you have any idea what that means?” Carmen asks.
I shake my head as Jess whips out her phone and begins to type. “Nothing comes up on Google,” she says.
“Sorry, girl,” Katie says, sliding the paper back to me. “I don’t know what it means either.”
I frown. “But, guys, what do I—”
“Just forget about it,” Carmen says, then starts talking about the game tonight. But I don’t care about the game, I think, staring at the watercolored piece of paper in front of me. I care about who sent me this mysterious paper heart.
* * *
Once the bell rings, Jess and Katie go in one direction and Carmen and I head in the other. She has study hall now, so she always comes with me to my locker because it doesn’t really matter if she’s late.
“So are you actually going to the game tonight?” Carmen asks once we get to my locker. She pulls a lip gloss out of her white leather backpack, and I get a whiff of strawberries as she puts it on in front of the mirror hanging on my locker door.
“Maybe,” I answer.
She blinks at me. “Why do you always do this, Ellie? Please, for me? I’ve been talking to Anthony…and I could really use my best friend there.”
“Anthony? Basketball Anthony Barbo?”
She smiles. “Yeah, I think I really like him. We’ve been texting a lot. I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I didn’t want to jinx it or…” She trails off, looking down.
“Wow. That’s great,” I say, trying to sound supportive and not completely surprised since we normally tell each other everything right away. “Really. I can totally see this.”
She looks back up. “So, will you come to the game?”
“I promise to think about it,” I say, and I smile because I do desperately wish I could be the person she remembers. It’s just not that simple. She narrows her eyes at me in a way that makes me feel like she’s looking for her best friend.
I’m about to say something when the bell rings and I quickly forget what it was. I sigh.
I’ve been holding out hope that one day—maybe, just maybe—I’ll remember why I left the Valentine’s Day Dance early by myself. Why I broke up with Pete three weeks before the dance when we were Arlington High School’s most perfect couple. Why I can’t remember putting those three items in my secret hideaway.
But if I can forget something that I was just thinking about a second ago, how on earth am I supposed to remember all that?
“I—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“We’re already late,” she says. “I’ll see you later.”
When she leaves, I don’t chase her and tell her that I’ve changed my mind. That of course I’ll be her wing woman.
Instead, I open my backpack and look at my mysterious paper heart again before walking to class.
People like to use the phrase on brand, especially when they’ve figured theirs out. But what if you don’t know what your brand is yet? What if you think your brand is one thing and it’s completely different? Like when Dunkin’ Donuts dropped the “Donuts” from their name but kept selling donuts? Talk about delusional.
I guess if someone were to ask me how I viewed myself before the accident, I would’ve said your typical high school girl who works hard but also likes to have fun with her friends. Aside from my type A tendencies, which sometimes get the best of me, I would have said my life was pretty great. On the outside, it may even have appeared picture-perfect.
It wasn’t until after my accident that I realized that might not be my brand after all. Or at least, that wasn’t how other people saw me.
When the news broke that I was in the hospital, more people than I ever imagined sent me flowers. When the flowers died, my mom and sister kept the cards for me in a shoe box so I could read them once I was up to it. One day while I was on bed rest, my sister came to my room to bring me water. I don’t remember what prompted me to ask to see the pile she saved for me. Maybe I was in a good mood that morning—but all I remember is feeling the complete opposite later.