Dill didn’t mind walking the couple of miles to Lydia’s house. It had just rained, and the streets were covered with wet leaves; their earthy tobacco scent hung in the air, mixing with the spice of wood smoke. A wispy veil of clouds covered the sky and the bright waxing gibbous moon. Dill pulled the denim jacket (that Lydia had picked out) tighter around himself and buttoned it. While he walked, he rehearsed what he’d say. I’m sorry. I was wrong. I only want what will make you happy. Even his church sign had been semihelpful (this once): GOD DOES NOT FORGET THE SINNER, HE FORGETS THE SIN.
I could use some forgetfulness. He knocked on Lydia’s door, his heart racing. Her dad answered.
“Hello, Dill. How are you?”
“I’m good, thanks. Is Lydia home?”
“Yes. Come in, come in. Lydia?” he called upstairs. “You have company, sweetie.”
Lydia appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing yoga pants and a hoodie, her hair in a messy ponytail. When she saw Dill, she folded her arms and glared at him for a moment. Dill gave her a kicked-puppy-dog look. She waved him upstairs and stalked back to her room. Dill started to head up.
“Hey, Dill, before you go, remind me to show you this new Strat of mine, okay?” Dr. Blankenship said.
“Will do.” He went upstairs.
Lydia sat at her desk, composing a document on her new laptop. It appeared to be a college admission essay. She didn’t turn around when Dill walked in.
Dill took in the ordered chaos of Lydia’s room. The sheer amount of visual information always overwhelmed him. Records. Books. Magazines. Posters. Photos. Stuffed animals. Weird antiques, including a terrifying dental phantom from the 1930s that her dad had given her. Clothes and shoes, everywhere—all representing her ever-shifting obsessions. What was different this time were the piles of marked-up college admission essay drafts. Half-filled-out college and scholarship applications. The incidents of a life moving forward with great velocity and determination.
Her room always made him feel wistful and envious for the abundance in which she dwelled—a stark contrast with his even starker room. The piles of college materials didn’t help. Her bed creaked as he sat on it behind her.
Lydia still didn’t turn around. She highlighted a line and deleted it. She appeared determined to make this hurt. “So. Talk.”
Dill faltered. His carefully planned apology speech—formulated on the walk over—evaporated. “I’m—I’m sorry. For the stuff I said.”
Lydia continued typing.
“And I’ve missed you.”
Typing.
“And I want us to stay friends.”
Typing.
“And I’m starting to feel stupid now, so I’ll leave.” Dill rose from the bed with another creak.
Lydia turned her chair around and sat cross-legged on it.
“All right. I accept your apology. But seriously. I can’t deal with the continued drama. I have too much to think about. So it has to stop, Dill. I mean it.”
Dill sat back down on the bed. “I can’t promise that I’ll be all smiles every time something reminds me that you’re leaving. That’s a promise I can’t keep.”
Lydia got up and walked over to her candle shelf (yes, a whole shelf) and lit two of her autumn candles. “I’m doing a mélange of autumn leaves, combining top notes of cider and cinnamon with a firewood-scented candle, bringing in bottom notes of cedar, birch, and vanilla. I should become a candle sommelier. Is that a job?”
“Did you listen to me?”
“Yes, I did. And I don’t expect you to be happy. I expect you to not allow your unhappiness with the situation to manifest in the form of unhappiness with me personally.”
“Okay.”
“If the tables were turned, that’s how I’d roll with you.”
“Okay.”
“I promise that not a teeny little thing I do regarding college is with the intention of hurting you. And I also promise that I have very good reasons for protecting your privacy by not talking about you on my blog. So promise me in return that you’ll start doing an amazing job of not taking out your issues on me for committing the sin of trying to make my life better.”
“Fine.”
“Say it.”
“I promise.”
Lydia’s face finally softened. “Look. I’m not happy we’re getting separated either. I get that what I’ll be doing might be more fun than what you’ll be doing. But I’ll miss you. I missed you this week.”
“That’s an understatement to say that what you’ll be doing might be more fun than what I’ll be doing. It will be more fun.”
She sat next to Dill on her bed. “Come on,” she gestured. “Hugs.”
Dill gave her a long hug. Her hair smelled like oranges and magnolia blossoms. He hadn’t realized how long his heart had ached with a low-frequency hum until the ache melted away at that moment. And then there was the thrill of hugging Lydia on her bed—which was its own thing. If only.
“So. Where’re you at in the process?” Dill asked.
She flopped back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. “My NYU early decision application is due in two weeks or so. That’s the biggie. I’m polishing my essay now.”
“Good luck,” Dill murmured.
She sat up. They regarded each other for a moment.
“It’s not too late,” she said.
It was Dill’s turn to flop backward onto the bed. He covered his face with one of Lydia’s pillows. “I can’t,” he said through the pillow. “I even talked with my mom about it.”
“And?”
“And how do you think? She went ‘Sure, Dill, go off to college and have fun and learn about evolution and pay tuition and go to class instead of working, and I’ll hold down the fort here and it’ll be cool.’ No. She crapped herself, obviously.”
“You knew she would. Why are you letting that weigh on your decision?”
“Um, because she’s my mom.”
“And the Bible says you’re supposed to respect her.”
Dill rolled his eyes. “Don’t. Come on.”
“You come on. Do you honestly believe that your mom’s not wanting you to go to college is in your best interest as opposed to hers?”
Dill sat up again. “I don’t know what I believe anymore. About anything. There’s definitely part of me that thinks that whatever’s in her best interest is in mine too.”
“How do you figure?”
“Because she’s my mom.”
“Fantastic answer. Hang on.” Lydia put an imaginary phone to her ear. “Hi, Debate Trophies ‘R’ Us? Yes, I’ll need one of your premium models.”
“You’re hilarious. Look, it’s just not happening.”
Lydia flung her hands up. “Whatever.”
“Now you have to promise me you’ll stop bugging me about college.”
“Nope, not gonna do that.”
“Why do I have to make all the promises?”
“Because I’m asking you to promise to stop being lame, and you’re asking me to promise to stop being awesome, which I cannot, in good conscience, do.”
“Please don’t make me feel shitty for making the choices I have to make.”
Lydia got up from her bed, walked over to her desk, and opened a drawer. “Nope again. But I will allow you to change the subject temporarily.” She pulled her old Mac laptop out of the drawer and wound up the power cord.
She returned to Dill and dropped the bundle in his lap. “Here. Merry early Christmas, happy late birthday, happy Halloween, happy whatever.”
Dill’s jaw dropped. “Wait. Hold on. You’re giving me this? Are you serious?”
“Yep. I don’t need two computers and I got a new one for college. That one’s about four years old. It’s what I started Dollywould on, so it’s got a lot of sentimental value to me. So maybe don’t break it. It still works pretty well. A little slow sometimes.”
Dill hugged Lydia again, knocking her glasses crooked. “Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you.”
“Okay, easy. Don’t thank me by breaking my glasses. Oh, and the best part is that because I’m not an awful, gross dude, the keyboard is one hundred percent semen free.”