It’s a joke, but she sighs in response and mutters, “Don’t I know it.” Then, catching me catching her, she adds, “Two more months, hon. Everything will be different in two more months.”
* * *
—
Before it’s time for bed, I tell Joe’s mother I need some air; she doesn’t ask any questions and lets me head outside. I go back to the stairs, expecting to find Jasmine there. But she’s not. I walk the rest of the corridors, and still I don’t find her. I search Joe’s memory to find which room she lives in—but I also discover that Joe knows to never knock on her door. She’s never told me why. We’re hallway friends, not room friends.
I’m sorry I’m not going to get to tell her goodbye. Even though, of course, I wouldn’t be able to tell her goodbye at all.
* * *
—
It’s only when I’m back on the floor of our room, trying to find the best position for sleep, that I think about Rhiannon and the fact that I still haven’t answered her. It feels more complicated now. She wants me to say something, but what if the thing I have to say is This is why I can’t do this? Life will always get in the way. Whether it’s my own life or the lives of others—it doesn’t really matter. It’s just life, and it’s rarely convenient, and if I have to choose between the person in front of me and the person who isn’t here, it’s the one who’s here who will always be more important.
Say something?
Right now, all I feel I can say is I can’t.
NATHAN
He could be anyone.
Any teacher in my school. Any student. I’ve only seen him as an adult, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be my age.
I have no idea what the rules are. Or if there are any rules.
Don’t let it get to you, I tell myself. That’s what he wants. Don’t give in to it.
But he could be in any car that passes. He could be in any store I walk into.
He could take over my mother. My father.
It’s not paranoia if the threat is real. But it feels more like paranoia when you’re the only one who knows about the threat.
The emails have stopped. It’s like he knows he doesn’t have to bother.
He’s gotten to me.
* * *
—
“You’re a mess,” Rhiannon tells me. “Why are you a mess?”
We’re at a diner midway between her town and mine. Nobody we know is around. We want it this way.
I wonder what makes her think I’m a mess. I actually tried to dress well to see her. I am buttoned up. Laces tied. Khakis ironed flat. But some wrinkles are coming through.
“I’m not a mess,” I say.
She takes a sip of her milkshake. Seriously considers me.
I give her my best smile.
“Nope,” she says. “You’re definitely a mess.”
I am trying so hard not to be. I am trying hard not to think he’s the old man two booths away. Or the waitress. Or the guy coming out of the bathroom, looking at Rhiannon as he walks by.
She reaches for one of my fries.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I’m a mess, too.”
Before I can contradict this, she goes on.
“Why hasn’t A given me some kind of sign? I mean—okay, I guess what I’m really asking is: What if A’s already forgotten about me? Do you think that’s possible? What if it was all in my mind—not that A was here, but that it meant what I thought it meant? I know A wanted me to move on. I have moved on—but I also haven’t. But what if A has? What if I’m the only one who can’t stop thinking about it?”
I know this is why I’m here, so she can say all these things out loud. Because who else can she tell? I am her only-case scenario.
And the joke is that I have no idea what to say to her. She’s talking about love, and I know more about table tennis than I do about love.
“There’s really no way to know, is there?” I say. “I mean, you’re looking for the Wizard of Helpful, but I’m afraid I’m just another jester at your service. And I don’t even know that many good jokes.”
I’m serious, but she laughs. Not a big ha ha, but an appreciative hmph.
She checks her phone and puts it down again.
“I can’t stand knowing A is out there and not knowing anything else. And I also can’t stand the fact that if A isn’t out there—if something’s happened, if A has disappeared—then I will never know. Silence can mean way too many things.”
I want to ask her why she doesn’t think he could be with us right now, right in this room.
“Ugh,” she groans. “I’m only messing you up more, aren’t I? You’re nice to listen to me. I know there aren’t any answers. But to hold the questions inside all day, every day—it makes me feel like such a fraud, because what I’m thinking is so different from what I’m saying to everyone.”
“You can tell me anything,” I assure her. “I just won’t have anything remotely intelligent to say about it. I’ve totally got your back, but I’m only armed with a water pistol.”
“You’re such a dork.”
“Yeah, but I’m your dork, right?”
“Of course.”
I wonder if Rhiannon and I are like strangers who were sitting next to each other during a bus crash. We both survived, and we can talk a lot about that, and about what it’s like after. But the further the topic gets from bus crashes, the more it might feel like we’re fellow survivors rather than friends.
She checks her phone again. Looks at it. Presses a few keys.
“What?” I ask. “What is it?”
Not that it’s any of my business. But even if I’m no love expert or even a girl expert, I can tell something’s happening.
“It’s A,” she says. “A wrote.”
She’s not thinking about how loud she is. But I am. I don’t want anyone else to hear. Because anyone else could be anyone.
After about four minutes of her reading and, presumably, rereading, I ask, quieter, “What did A say?”
She doesn’t answer. She just hands me her phone.
“See for yourself.”
It’s not a post on Facebook; it’s an email from a gibberish address.