After he is gone, she continues to look out over the gravel driveway into the yard and setting sun and I look at her.
“Autumn,” she says. I start in my seat and stop breathing. She still stares straight ahead. “Try to marry your first love. For the rest of your life, no one will ever treat you as well.”
She turns to leave then and closes the door behind her.
Suddenly it is very quiet outside, and the glitter is gone from the grass and leaves, and even though the sun is only beginning to set, I think soon it will be too dark to read. I close my book and stand up.
I’ll go inside and make something for dinner and read more later. I will have to wait for the magic to come back before opening it again. I’ll wait until I remember that Aunt Angelina is happy with her life and that I will marry my first love. It will only be the first time once.
31
Sasha and I are walking to the drug store, even though she could borrow her mother’s car and drive us. It takes up more of the long, hot day if we walk, makes it more like an adventure than just something to do. Against the sound of the cicadas, our sandals smack on the sidewalk as we hike our way toward Main Street. We stop along the way to scratch bug bites on our ankles and make sure our bra straps aren’t showing from under our tank tops. We are talking as we walk, in spite of the clouds of heat that puff down our throats with each breath.
When we get there, we will sigh in the air conditioning and run our fingers through our hair. Perched side by side atop the layer of magazines on the bottom shelf of the massive stand, we will flip through articles about sex and hair. We will even balance the month’s massive bridal book on our knees and look at the white dresses and rings with a sort of reverence. Afterward, we will stroll through the aisles and pick out lip gloss and candy, nail polish and sodas. We’ll walk back to my house then, and in my room we will stretch out on my bed, our bare legs brushing, and read the magazines we bought and eat licorice.
This is the background of our day together, but the real purpose of being together is talking. Sasha and I can talk about nearly anything, and when we talk, we talk for a long time, a whole day even.
There is a sudden lull in our conversation, an unnatural pause after my story about last night’s date with Jamie. I look over at her, but she stares straight ahead down the sidewalk as if there is someone waiting for her there.
“I have to tell you something,” she says, still staring at the invisible person.
“What?” I ask. My mind is already tabulating all the possibilities; I’m the sort of person who tries to figure out the end of the book as she reads it and my conversations are no different.
“I think I’m going to break up with Alex,” she says.
“You can’t,” I say, as five different threads run through my mind and I try to sort through all the thoughts and reactions: jealous that she is so brave, smug that Jamie and I lasted, worried for Alex, surprised—
“I’m going to,” she says. “I’ve already decided really.”
“But why?” I ask, the shock momentarily overshadowing all the other reactions. She shrugs and looks down at the sidewalk to frown. Up ahead, I see the corner where we will wait at the crosswalk. In our impatience with the heat, we will push the button again and again, and even though we know it will not make the green letters appear any faster, we will stare at the sign expectantly.
“I still love Alex,” she says, “in a way. But I don’t feel about him the way I used to. Nothing is romantic anymore. It’s more like we’re old friends.”
“But that’s what long-term relationships are like,” I say. “You can’t just throw him away.”
“I’m not throwing him away,” she says. “But I’m not in love anymore and I need you to support me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I stop walking and we turn to each other. I hug her and she holds me back. We’re both dewy and hot to the touch. “I’m just surprised. And sad.”
And jealous, and smug, and worried.
We let go of each other and continue our walk and our day together.
32
The breakup happens and there are days of discussion. Jamie is annoyed with Sasha, but I defend her right to end the relationship. The boys are vague in their reports on how Alex is doing. They try to tell us that they don’t talk about Sasha when they hang out, but that is too ridiculous to be true.
In August, Angie gets a new boyfriend, also from Hazelwood High, but this one is, to our amusement, on the football team and rather preppy. Angie warns us about this first, swearing that he is actually very cool and knows all sorts of good music. I wonder what kind of warning he is receiving in turn about us.
We make plans to meet Angie’s Dave on a triple date to the movies. Brooke and Noah ride with us to the mall and we laugh and wonder aloud about Preppy Dave. I’m determined to like him for Angie’s sake, but I worry a bit about the boys.
“This is going to be hilarious,” Jamie says.
“Don’t tease him too much,” I say.
“I’m not going to be mean to him,” Jamie says. He rolls his eyes even though he’s driving and I glance at the road for him. “But we might need to do a tiny bit of hazing, you know, just to make sure this prepster is good enough for Angie. Right, Noah?”
“We can’t have Angie with someone who doesn’t deserve her,” Noah says.
“You will both behave,” Brooke says. I twist around in my seat to watch her glare at Noah. “Or you will both be in trouble.” She turns the glare over at her cousin in the driver’s seat, but he obviously can’t see her so she smacks the back of his head.
“Hey!” Jamie says. He reaches one hand back and grabs at her knee; the car swerves and we all laugh and scream. Brooke squeals the loudest as Jamie pinches the soft place above her kneecap and we laugh again. Jamie rights the car again and we speed down the road, talking loudly now above the radio and laughing as we trade threats back and forth with the boys.
I feel a pang of guilt knowing that Sasha and Alex are at home while we’re all out without them, but it’s just the way things are now. Maybe someday they’ll both be seeing other people and we could have a quintuple date.
***
Angie, with new pink streaks in her blond hair, is waiting for us at the food court with a tall broad-shouldered boy who has vibrant red hair. She waves enthusiastically when she sees us and tugs on his hand as she points. She is wearing the authentic poodle skirt she bought last spring, and he’s wearing a polo shirt. They couldn’t look more odd together if they were different species. He looks nervous as we approach and that immediately endears him to me.