Send Me a Sign

Was this whole CD songs that mocked me? I shut it off and pulled into a spot in front of the salon. The door was open and I could see the customers inside. All girls from my school in chatty, smiley groups.

 

Predance preparation had always been a Calendar Girls gossipfest. We rotated whose house we got ready at and brought in nail and hair stylists so we could nibble and giggle as we were pampered. Fall Ball meant I should be at Lauren’s right now.

 

My chest tightened. I coughed and punched the steering wheel, clipping the horn. The girls inside turned. I flushed as they gave puzzled looks, half waves, then turned back to each other and laughed. It wasn’t worth it. Why did it matter what my nails looked like?

 

I put the car in reverse and drove home.

 

Gyver was waiting on his driveway when I pulled into mine. After spending so many nights wishing he’d acknowledge me, I cursed as he sauntered over and opened my door. “Did you listen to it?” There was an unnerving intensity in his voice.

 

“I listened.”

 

“And?” He leaned down and offered me a hand.

 

“I don’t know. Is there an answer you’re looking for?” I ignored his hand and stood.

 

“That’s your whole reaction?” He hadn’t stepped back; I was squeezed between the open door and him. I fought the urge to hug him and inhale his familiar scent—the smell of my childhood and seventeen years of Saturdays.

 

I rubbed my throbbing forehead and closed my eyes. I wasn’t going to cry. “What do you want me to say? Yes, I’m superstitious. Yes, I like cheerleading. Great.”

 

“How much did you listen to?” His voice tightened.

 

“Enough. Thanks. I have to go get ready.” I put a hand to his chest and pushed gently. I needed space and air before I choked.

 

He stepped out of the way but caught my arm. “Listen to all of it, Mi.”

 

I masked pain as annoyance. “I will. God.”

 

“You know, for someone who’s always looking for signs, you’re pretty blind to the ones I’ve been giving you for years.” His thumb caressed the inside of my arm before letting go. “You see what you want to. Maybe you’re looking for signs you won’t get better because it’s easier to give up.”

 

He was walking away. “So is this it?” I called. “You’re back to ignoring me because I didn’t like the mix. Friendship over again?”

 

He spun and walked back. “You’ve made your priorities clear over and over. I knew we were done the day you switched your lucky necklace for one The Jock gave you. If he was more important to you than your superstitions, more important than …” He locked his jaw, looked at the ground, and gave his head an angry shake.

 

“I lost my necklace! I would never have taken it off. Ryan bought me a replacement because I was so upset. What was I supposed to do? Not wear it? What is this really about? You feel threatened by him?” I scoffed on the last word.

 

It was a minor lifetime before he lifted his eyes from the crack in the driveway to drill them into mine. “I won’t watch you self-destruct. You can’t ask me to do that.”

 

This time he didn’t stop when I called after him. The door banged shut and I was alone. I wasn’t going to cry, but I couldn’t stop the choking coughs.

 

 

 

“Let me see.” Mom held out her hand for one of mine when I entered the kitchen.

 

“I didn’t like any of the colors,” I lied.

 

“Well, we have polish. If you can’t find one you like, I’ll run out to the store.”

 

I wanted to get upstairs and give myself room to think. And breathe. I forced words around gasps and hid shaking fists in my pockets. “I’ve got something.”

 

I sank to the bathroom floor with a bottle of Merlot Mission polish and smeared some on my unsteady hands.

 

Ryan. It couldn’t go on this way. I clung to his hand, clung to him, because I was scared. But it wasn’t fair; I couldn’t keep pretending to feel more than I did. And I wasn’t the only one pretending; he knew we didn’t work. The question was: Which of us was brave enough to say it? My lungs and heart clenched: more good-byes. I bent over, bracing my hands on my knees, and tried to take deep, slow breaths. All I accomplished was convulsive coughs.

 

Blowing on my nails caused another coughing fit—I needed to calm down. I gulped air and stood up. Too fast. The room spun and I steadied myself on the towel rack.

 

I yanked my dress from the closet, spilling memories from the shopping trip I’d had with Mom. Finding a formal dress that covered a port wasn’t easy. Mom had vetoed anything in black or white—saying both colors made me look “washed out and sickly.” I’d bitten back a laugh and let her choose. She’d settled on a mint one-shouldered dress. It was important to her, so despite the amount of fluff and tulle in the skirt, I’d agreed.

 

I tugged it on and zipped it up. Stuck a rhinestone clip on my wig, painted on some makeup, and headed downstairs, pausing a moment on the landing to clench and unclench my hands until my pulse calmed.

 

Tiffany Schmidt's books