Ashley handed me the shoe box, and I read the cards one by one. None of them were mean, per se, but the messages behind the wording started to get to me. A girl named Sadie wrote, I know we haven’t been friends since middle school after that sleepover but I just really wanted to let you know I’m thinking about you and I hope you’re okay. I had never really thought about how we drifted apart, but she was right—we did. I’d never realized there was a real reason, though.
To be honest, I didn’t even know what sleepover she meant. For the most part, my sleepovers were pretty typical. We would paint our nails with the newest Essie shades or do facial masks. We always did karaoke. Sometimes we’d play a game called Truth or Text, which is basically Truth or Dare but instead of a dare, the person next to you can send a text to anyone in your contacts. I was happy just painting nails, but my friends insisted that we play, and I, being the pushover I am at times, agreed. The game got tense, especially when embarrassing texts were sent. Carmen said that was what made it so fun. But maybe it wasn’t fun for everyone?
There was another card from a girl named Alex McCormack that said I know we’ve had our differences but that she donated to GoFundMe because no one should have to go through what I did. Another from a girl who has been in my homeroom for the past three years who started off by explaining who she was because I probably didn’t know. It wasn’t that she intended to be hurtful—she finished the note saying that she can’t wait until I’m back on my feet. But it hurt, like all these cards did. They were all heartfelt well-wishes, but to me the underlying message was that people didn’t see me the way I wanted to be seen. I read between the lines—they saw me as someone who didn’t care about anyone but myself.
The worst part though, was that maybe they were right.
I remember touching the bandages on my chest and wondering if I was ugly on the inside too. I quickly shoved away the thought. If my mom saw me crying one more time, she’d make me see my new psychiatrist until I was twenty. But the thing about thoughts you try to shove away is that they push back harder than most.
As I started putting the cards back in the shoe box, I vowed to be different. I still didn’t know what “brand” I was, but at that moment I realized I’d rather it be anything else.
Still, rebranding yourself is easier said than done. That was months ago, and at this rate, I might as well wait until college.
I sigh before staring at my watercolored paper heart again, wondering who the sender could be. At least the message isn’t like any of the get-well cards, I think, but I still have this feeling in me that I’m supposed to know what Clover and Gold means—or that I did once, anyway.
Like this mysterious paper heart shouldn’t be so mysterious at all.
Chapter 3
After school I’m helping my mom make dinner when Ashley comes in the kitchen to say she’s going to the game with Steve and then to the Daily Planet. Normally, everybody goes to the diner after a big win, but Ashley isn’t the type to go to school functions. She claims she gets claustrophobic, but that doesn’t stop her from going to see weird indie bands she likes. I eye her suspiciously, wondering if she’s really going to some sketch concert at the Chance she doesn’t want my parents knowing about instead.
My mom looks up from the taco recipe I found on Pinterest while I slice onion for the guac. “Yes to the game, but Steve has to drive you back afterward.”
Ashley’s eyes blink rapidly underneath her heavy cat eyeliner and then she lets out a loud whine. “It’s not fair!”
My mom puts down her knife. “How’s this not fair?”
“Because you don’t need to do anything. Steve is going to drive me there and back. And besides…” She starts looking at me now. “Wasn’t Ella’s curfew like eleven?”
The way she said wasn’t in the past tense makes me frown. I’m still very much here in front of her face. But this is between her and my mom, so I’m not getting in the middle.
“Yes, but—” my mom starts.
“So mine should be eleven too,” Ashely interrupts, crossing her arms for effect. Ashley has been getting into more and more confrontations with her lately, so I’m not at all surprised, but my mom’s eyes widen. She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something but then shuts it again, pressing her lips together. Then she pulls her scrunchie tighter. It’s what she does when she’s about to cave and make a last-effort Monopoly deal during family game night. I guess she’s about to cave now too.
“Is anyone else going that I know?” my mom finally asks.
“Everyone is going,” Ashley insists. “You don’t need to worry at all.” She uncrosses her arms. “Please? I really want to be there.”
Her eyes start to glisten, like she’ll cry if she has to. I know the feeling all too well. There have been so many times I pleaded with my parents because missing something felt like the end of the world. I’m ready to hear my mom ask a follow-up question, but she turns to me, putting me right in the middle, which I’ve been trying to avoid.
“Are you going?”
I open my mouth, but Ashley beats me to it.
“Yes,” she answers for me.
I snap my head toward her, ready to argue, but when we lock eyes, hers say please do this for me. I’m begging you.
First Carmen and now her. They’re acting like tonight is life or death. It seems ridiculous to me now, but there was a time when this game would’ve meant the world to me too. One of the last basketball games of senior year. Celebrating afterward with the team at the diner, where we always got free milkshakes with our meals because the waitresses would say it was another taste of victory.
“Well, if Ella goes with you, you can go. I prefer that you two stick together in case of emergency.” Then she turns to me. “But only if you’re feeling up to it, sweetie.”
Ashley bites her tongue even though the look on her face says her thoughts are sizzling like the taco meat in the frying pan.
The thing is, you can’t tell my mom she’s being ridiculous or overprotective when she’s gone through what she has. I can’t even imagine how fast my mom’s heart dropped when the doctors called to say I was in the ICU. Or how she felt waking up my dad and sister so they could all drive to the hospital together.
Ashley can imagine it, though—she lived it.
That’s probably why she doesn’t have a tantrum right now. I don’t remember being so dramatic when I was her age, but Ashley is the queen of using emotional outbursts to get what she wants. She nods calmly now, though, and without another word, it’s settled: Ashley can go to the game and to the diner afterward…if I go.