“When the police finally found her, she was in her housecoat and slippers. She was so disoriented, like that one episode of The Grove a few years back when Henrietta woke up in a different timeline.
“I knew that Grandma Lou was right there in front of me, but her whole body felt like a shell. People kept saying stuff like that to me when my parents died, that their souls had left their bodies. I was so mad that they wanted to be cremated. Now I get it, but at the time, I couldn’t stomach the thought of their bodies no longer existing. That night, though, when the cops brought Grandma Lou back home, I finally understood. She was right there, but she wasn’t in her body. She was gone. The Grandma Lou I knew was still gone.”
Dakota unwraps her silverware and hands me her napkin. I realize now that I’ve been crying this whole time. Never-ending tears roll down my cheeks, pink with warmth.
“Let’s have Thanksgiving together,” Dakota says.
“I—I don’t think we’ll be doing much of a big thing this year. Honestly, it’s just normally the two of us and sometimes Miss Ella. We don’t really go all out.”
“It’ll be good,” Dakota promises. “I can invite some people from the crew. We can do it at my place if you don’t want to do it at your place.”
“But what about Grandma Lou? What if it’s a . . . bad day?”
“Then we’ll cancel,” she says simply. “I’ll come over with pizza and a movie to keep you company. That’ll be that.”
I let out a hmmm sound. A white girl with a body like mine, but shorter and more shapely, walks past us. Her jeans are low-slung on her hips, and despite the weather outside, all she wears is a black sweatshirt with the hood covering her head, blond curls tucked inside. She studies me and then Dakota, her eyes darting between us. I feel a little exasperated and almost find myself just saying, Yes, she’s who you think she is, but I don’t want to cause a scene or bring Dakota any unwanted attention.
“Friendsgiving,” she says, pulling my attention back. “Maybe Matt and Ches can even come over after their family dinners.”
Matt is always desperate to get out on Thanksgiving. His family eats their turkey so early it might as well be brunch. And Ches hates Thanksgiving on principle and usually spends the whole day lecturing her mother and brothers on how it’s a holiday rooted in racism and colonialism. (It’s a whole spiel.)
“I’ll order a turkey,” Dakota says. “And a tofurkey. We can go out and buy decorations. It’ll be fun. I think you need fun, Faith Herbert.”
“Friendsgiving.” I test out the word. “I know Grandma Lou would love it. Mainly because she loves you.”
The waitress comes back with our food, and we eat in contented silence for the most part. Dakota cuts the pancake like a pizza, which she swears she’s done since she was a kid. We talk a little more about memories from our pasts. The kind of memories that would make most people sad, but they’re memories that Dakota and I cling to. The way her mom only bought groceries from gas stations and how my parents would let me go to midnight movie showings of their favorite franchises or the way her mom would play with her hair as she fell asleep or how the thing that scared me most used to be my parents fighting, but now I panic every time I realize it’s harder and harder for me to remember the sound of their shouting voices as I would lie quietly in bed, begging for everything to be all right.
Dakota never had an easy life, and I do feel bad for her at times, but I also know what a strange pain it is for people to feel sorry for you. So I brush any sympathy for Dakota away, and I don’t cringe when she tells me details of her stories that are huge red flags of a shitty parent. Instead, I let her enjoy the good and hold on to it, and she does the same for me.
Dakota insists on buying. “You can’t tell me your grandma’s sick and not let me buy you some pity pancakes. That’s not how that works.”
“I’m going to remember this,” I tell her. “Pity pancakes. Someday it’ll be me buying and you who needs the pity.”
She laughs. “Fair enough.”
Our whole table shakes, plates and glasses clattering as someone smacks their hand down on the table.
I look up to find the girl with the curls and the sweatshirt.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
“Whitney,” Dakota says.
The girl lifts her hand, and there on the table is a tiny little tablet. A+.
“I told you I’d find you,” the girl says through gritted teeth. Her eyes are bloodshot and the color is gone from her cheeks. “But you underestimated me.”
“Whitney.” Dakota touches her hand. “Maybe we could talk about this outside. You’re making a scene. You don’t want to do this.”
Whitney turns to me, a demented smile playing at her lips. “She has a type, you know.”
I shrink back in the booth.
Dakota’s grip on her hand tightens. “Don’t you dare talk to her, Whitney. Don’t make me call the cops. You’re not supposed to be here.” Dakota takes the A+ and drops it in her glass of water; it slowly begins to dissolve.
Dakota stands and motions for me to do the same. “Let’s go. Whitney, I’m serious. If you violate your restraining order again, I won’t be so forgiving.”
Restraining order? That kicks my heart rate up. Is this Whitney girl violent? I lead the way to Dakota’s car and Whitney silently follows, close on our heels.
“Get in the car,” Dakota says under her breath.
Even as our doors shut behind us, still Whitney is there, standing right in front of the hood of the car. Luckily, when Dakota pulled through this spot, no one else parked behind us, so we can still back up without confronting Whitney. She smacks both hands down on the hood of the car, startling me, but Dakota is unshaken. I can’t even begin to imagine all the crazed fans she’s had to deal with. I am sufficiently freaked out.
Whitney continues to hit the hood of the car as Dakota slowly backs out. I don’t know how she’s keeping her cool. Dakota backs up straight into the street as soon as the traffic is clear, and the moment she’s sure there are no pedestrians, she speeds off.
After a moment of weighted silence, I finally say, “Who. Was. That.”
She shakes her head. “Someone from a past life. No one you need to worry about.”
“No,” I tell her, a firmness in my voice I barely recognize. Something about the way Whitney said Dakota had a type and the A+ she smacked down on the table; none of it sits well with me. “I just spilled my guts to you. Your turn.”
After considering this for a moment, Dakota pulls over into an alleyway not far from my house.
Snow continues to slowly drift down around us, and Dakota shifts into park and takes off her seat belt. I wait for her to say something, but instead she leans forward as she twists her hands around the steering wheel. I can’t imagine anything she could possibly say that would make her whole body react in such a way. It’s easy to feel like I know Dakota so well. The details of her life are all over the internet, rehashed over and over again. But in all reality, we’ve only hung out a handful of times, and everyone has secrets—even me.
“You can tell me anything,” I promise her. “You don’t owe me an explanation, but I am really freaked out right now. For myself, yeah, but really for you. Are you okay? Are you in danger?”