I pull back from the newspaper and forget to pay close attention to anything new that might be going on with Colleen or Gretchen. At work, I coast through the motions. Dakota texts and I always reply, but I never give an actual answer or set a date when she asks to hang out or see me. Same for Johnny. All I can bring myself to concentrate on is what’s in front of my face at any given moment and Grandma Lou.
On the second Friday of November, we see our first snow. Dad always loved the first snow, before the sludge has piled up along the side of the road and everything is so wet and cold, it never gets a chance to properly dry. There’s an electric energy in the air and everyone at school is a little bit more distracted, a little bit rowdier. In response, some teachers are desperate to keep our attention and others are just as ready for an excuse to mentally check out.
As I’m digging through my backpack, looking for a highlighter for world lit, my phone lights up. I hold it inside my backpack, because Mr. Ramirez has a history of confiscating phones, and check my messages.
DAKOTA: Is it as easy to skip school as it is on TV?
I grin and type back: I’ve never tested this theory.
DAKOTA: I don’t mean to be pushy, but I feel like you might be avoiding me, so I might actually be outside your school.
I lean forward at my desk and squint in the direction of the parking lot. Through the slowly drifting snow, I see two headlights flash three times in quick succession.
DAKOTA: Flashing you.
DAKOTA: Get your head out of the gutter.
I’ve never skipped school, I type.
DAKOTA: Never?
ME: I wouldn’t even know how.
DAKOTA: People are always asking for a hall pass in the movies. You could start there?
I guess it’s worth a shot. I raise my hand.
After a minute, Mr. Ramirez turns his back to the whiteboard, where he’s been writing vocabulary words. “Yes, Miss Herbert?”
“Can I use the restroom?”
“I don’t know, Miss Herbert. Can you?” When his tired teacher joke doesn’t get a response, he rolls his eyes and motions for me to go.
With his back to the classroom again, I quietly slide the contents of my desk into my backpack and slip out the door. Most teachers don’t say anything to students who take their backpacks to the bathroom, because no one wants to be the teacher who makes a student fess up to needing to take whatever menstrual products are in their bag into the restroom. But Mr. Ramirez is totally not that considerate, so I tread lightly as I make my way out the door.
Once I’m in the hallway, though, sneaking out to the nearest exit is actually as easy as it is on TV. Dakota is waiting for me with the car door open just past the fountain (which is never actually turned on) in front of the school. I can practically feel the eyes of every student and distracted faculty member as I make my great escape.
The moment the door shuts, Dakota’s hand closes over mine as she pulls me close for a hug. “I missed you!”
“Go, go, go!” I say, the adrenaline racing through me as I let out a squeal. If I weren’t so scared of getting caught, I might have savored that hug for just a moment more.
Her tires spin for a moment before we take off, out of the parking lot. For the first time in a while, I let myself feel like someone could rescue me.
I don’t ask where Dakota is driving or what her plans are. I just watch the snow cascade over us through the glass of her sunroof until finally, she pulls up to the diner a few blocks from my house. It’s a place that’s been around forever and whose sign simply reads Diner.
“You hungry?” asks Dakota.
I think about my forgotten bagged lunch still sitting in my backpack. Today with the snow, our usual spot outside wasn’t available, so I didn’t even bother searching out Matt and Ches and instead holed up in the journalism room, digging through more search pages, looking for anything that might hint at some kind of cure or treatment for dementia. I’d gone so far as to use a translating website to read an article published in a Latin American medical journal.
“Definitely,” I say.
Inside, Dakota orders a hot chocolate and I order a coffee. She shrugs out of her black puffy jacket and rubs her hands together before sitting on them. Her shirt is a plain white undershirt, threadbare from countless washes, and I can see her black bra underneath. A few stray snowflakes melt into her hair as she peruses the menu.
“So I guess you’re going home soon for the holidays, right?” I ask.
“This is home,” she says with a shrug. “Wherever I am is home.”
“Oh, I just mean that I thought you’d be going back to LA, maybe?”
She shakes her head. “Some people will probably make a short trip back for Thanksgiving, but a few of us stragglers without family to go home to will probably stick around.”
I nod, unsure of what to say. Before the last two weeks, I would have invited her and any other crew in need of a place to go over the holidays. But there’s no telling what state Grandma Lou will be in over the next two weeks.
We place our order: blueberry pancakes to share, chicken-fried steak for me, and a veggie omelet for Dakota.
Dakota rocks back and forth in the booth for a moment before saying, “So I feel like I did something? Like I said something? And now you’ve been distant.”
I shake my head, but the words aren’t there. Every time I try to open my mouth to speak, tears begin to well.
Dakota reaches across the table and takes my hand. “You can tell me, Faith. If I did something, you can tell me.”
I nod, mostly to myself. It’s not that I don’t want Dakota to know, but saying this out loud is something I can’t take back. There’s a permanence to it. Some kind of finality. And even though I know there’s no cure for dementia and Grandma Lou will likely not live to see one be discovered, saying she has dementia, telling someone else, makes me feel like in some way I’ve given up on the idea that things could ever go back to the way they were. I clear my throat, forcing back every tear. “Grandma Lou has been diagnosed with dementia.”
For a moment, something that looks like relief passes over her face, but it’s immediately replaced by a deep sympathy. “Oh, Faith. I’m so sorry. God, I’m such an asshole. I can’t believe I made this about me. Of course you have a whole life outside of me and . . . is there anything I can do?”
I shrug and a tear slips down my cheek. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”
“Is she getting good care? Is that something . . . can she afford that?”
My pride bristles, but a fresh tear rolls down my cheek and I quickly wipe it away. “We’re fine, I think.” I pause. “When I got home from visiting the set that one night, she was gone. I couldn’t find her anywhere. And she was just gone. It wasn’t like she’d run out for an errand. She left her phone, coat, and wallet.”
My phone rings. Matt. I quickly silence it. He’s probably just wondering why I’m not at school. I think he’ll actually take a little too much joy in the fact that I’m skipping school for the first time.
“Why didn’t you call me? I could’ve helped you look for her. Or at least been with you.”
I think about the feeling I had when my call to Matt went straight to voice mail and how he texted, promising to call me after his movie. I’m sure Dakota would have answered, but she was busy. She has an actual job.