I tried to find out why I left the dance early, but nobody knew, not even Carmen. I’d know if she was lying. She does this thing where she blinks really fast. But when she says she has no idea why I left early, her eyes stay wide-open, so I believe her. I used to ask every once in a while, just to make sure, but I could sense she was getting annoyed, so I stopped.
Still, I find it hard to believe that all I did in those eleven weeks was study, even if that’s what I told my parents and even if the events seem trivial to my friends. When you get to high school, people tell you these are the days you’ll remember the rest of your life. That’s all I want—to remember them.
I remain seated on my floor, staring at the items, trying to remember how they got there. But my head goes completely dark, like a movie theater does right before the feature, except nothing happens next for me. I hold the rose in my hand, hoping it might trigger some memory but the smell from the dried petals is so faint it’s barely there at all.
I sigh. The only person who might know anything about it is Pete. He most likely gave me these things before I broke up with him. I’ve wanted to ask him plenty of times, but each time I’m tempted I get a heart-wrenching flashback of him coming to the hospital and holding my hand, basically pretending to be my boyfriend, because I asked for him when I woke up. He wasn’t spiteful about how I had ended things with him, proving that he was the perfect boyfriend—perfect human—until the very end, and even after. It’s why I vowed to leave him alone and never ask him about the items in my secret spot. Prying seemed so selfish—why dredge up hurt feelings?
But it’s been almost a year, I think. He’s definitely over it by now.
If I can just get him to tell me why these items were important enough for me to save, I can remember those eleven weeks. Then maybe, just maybe, I can move on once and for all….
I head to my closet, selecting two outfit options—the jean jacket I made freshman year with my last name on the back and a maroon long-sleeve T-shirt that says i have more spirit than you in gold lettering. With the hangers in hand, I head down the hall to Ashley’s room, her emo music growing louder and louder. When I get to her door, I knock and the music is lowered.
“One second!” she yells. Then there are shuffling sounds.
She opens the door and I enter her room, which is the polar opposite of mine. Band posters are tacked all over the walls, clothes are piled all over the floor. It looks like she just tried everything on in her closet. She’s wearing a leather jacket I’ve never seen before and ripped jeans. She and Steve are definitely going to some concert.
I shake my head. “Which shirt do you want to wear? You have to at least look like you’re going to a game.”
She breaks into a large smile. “Really?”
Ashley jumps off the bed and squeezes me tightly. I run down a list of the times I remember her hugging me: When I woke up in the hospital. When she graduated from middle school. When I took her and her friends to play laser tag for her fourteenth birthday. When I gave her a pair of gold hoops two years ago for Christmas. When she lost one of the earrings and I told her I wasn’t mad, even though I was secretly annoyed.
When she releases me, she grabs the jean jacket and squeals, “I’ll go tell Mom!”
Chapter 5
Steve’s car is exactly like I thought it would be. There are papers with scribbled-out song lyrics. A random sock on the floor. His guitar sits next to me in the backseat because his trunk is too small. It’s a tight squeeze, but I try to be grateful for the ride. I hold my purse in my lap tightly, as if dropping it could contaminate it. I decide Steve’s new nickname is Skeevy Stevey.
Every time a car horn blares, my heart jumps. Someone beeps at us as Steve barrels through an intersection. “The light was yellow,” he insists.
I nod, even though I’m nervously staring at the floor of the car near my feet instead of the road.
“Where’d you go for pizza?” I ask, spotting a pizza box crumpled up underneath the front seat.
“I didn’t have pizza,” he says, turning around, but then he spots the box too. “Ah, from last week. Forgot to chuck that.”
It’s official: he’s even messier than my sister. How is Ashley not completely turned off by him? He may be a senior, but that doesn’t excuse the rest of him.
To my surprise, Ashley doesn’t even grimace. She’s sitting in front of me, so I can see her reflection in the rearview mirror. When we were younger, we had unspoken assigned seats in the car—she always sat on the left side, and I took the spot on the right. We had this secret code: if she squeezed my hand three times, it meant I love you. Watching her now, I wish she were in the back with me, but she’s up front helping Steve navigate. We’re picking up one of his friends from school, but they must not be that close, because Steve doesn’t know how to get to his house.
“Turn left here,” Ashley says, checking the GPS on her phone.
“This is definitely not the fastest way to Jason’s. It must be the long way.” Steve shakes his head and lowers the music.
“This is what Google Maps is saying,” she insists. “It’s the left, right here.”
We turn onto a road glowing with streetlights, heading downtown.
“I heard Pete’s leading the team in points this year,” Steve says, looking back at me in the mirror, but I don’t give him a reaction.
“Cool,” I say casually.
“Do you think you’ll talk to him after the game?” he asks, smirking.
“Don’t ask her that,” Ashley says, then turns to me. “You don’t need to answer him.”
“What?” Steve asks, dumbfounded. “It was just a question.”
“It’s fine,” I say, trying not to be surprised that my little sister is defending me. After all, she isn’t so little anymore. But since when does she think she needs to protect me?
“Yeah, I probably will say hi,” I answer, when really that’s the only reason I’m going.
“What do you think of him with Molly?”
“Steve!” Ashley hisses.
“What? She doesn’t know?” Steve asks as Ashley gives him a death stare.
“Know what? Who’s Molly?” I ask.
“Some freshman,” Ashley says. “I don’t know if they’re together. I just saw them together after the game last week and I didn’t tell you because I don’t know if it’s anything.”
“Oh, got it,” I say. “No worries.”
But my chest tightens because I am worried. Not because I care who Pete’s maybe talking to, but because this might ruin my whole plan. Will I want to ask him about a rose he might have given me if he’s sitting next to some new girl? I really should’ve thought this through.