If Dad were still here, would he be able to explain how to make Teflon work in my favor? How to let that barrier down occasionally and who to let in?
If Dad were still here, everything would be different. Tomorrow we’d be making pancakes and going golfing. Maybe I’d even finally figure out how to play. I used to tag along just so I could ride in the cart, hand him clubs, and have four hours of his attention. If Dad were still here, tomorrow I wouldn’t be putting on black and dueling with my grief.
I don’t want to go to the memorial tomorrow. I’m not ready to say good-bye again. I want to shut the door on those feelings—the ones that might consume me if I ever allow myself to acknowledge them—and run away. I thumb through the index of Dad’s book, knowing there’s probably a section on “repressed emotions”—and that’s the closest I’ll be able to get to him helping me deal with his death.
I shut the book’s cover. I should have told Mom “no” when she asked for my help with planning. Instead, I chose caterers and florists; picked out hors d’oeuvres and flowers. Called all our relatives to invite them, which meant listening to all of their reminiscing and tears. And I made sure we were stocked up on tissues, because every time I had to ask Mom a question, she would cry and I’d feel guilty for not being able to answer it myself.
There’s a quiet sneeze over the monitor—it isn’t followed by any other sounds, but I click on the video. Sophia’s in the same position as the last fifty times I checked.
I wish I had something to do—anything. Anything but sitting here thinking about Dad … or Jonah.
Which is just pathetic, because I’m sure I haven’t crossed his mind once since he walked away and left me standing at his locker.
11
Jonah
6:20 P.M.
TIME TO BEG
On the drive back to Carly’s house I plead with her to listen to me, but she’s stubborn. She’s always been stubborn. It’s a cute personality quirk when she’s arguing about which movie we should watch, or which MLB pitcher is best, or with her father about extending her curfew, or with my mother about making me move to Hamilton for the second half of senior year. Tonight it’s not cute—it’s damn infuriating.
There’s no convincing Carly the flyer is nothing more than a piece of paper—one Brighton had shoved in my hand a few weeks back as part of her never-ending campaign to save my soul through volunteer work, and that I, in turn, had tossed on my backseat.
No, Carly had found it, googled Brighton, and decided she was the kind of girl I’d go for and the reason behind my so-called change.
“She’s even got dark hair—I know that’s your type and why you were so weird about me dyeing mine.”
“I wasn’t weird about it; I was surprised.” I reach out to touch her hair, but she leans away. “And Brighton’s definitely not my type. There’s not a girl in Cross Pointe who is less my type.”
“How many girls did you have to go through before you figured that out?”
“I’m not a cheater,” I say through gritted teeth. After two years together, how could she even think that?
“Funny, that’s just what Daniel Diggins said.”
“That’s really helpful, Carly. Bringing up your ex is exactly what we need right now. Too bad you didn’t warn me I’d be driving around all your baggage tonight. I would’ve asked Mom to borrow the SUV.” She hates when I get sarcastic, but I can’t stop myself. I’m almost shaking with furious helplessness. “You dated Digg three years ago. You’re really going to blame me for his screw ups?”
“Jonah …” Her eyes are on her hands as they pick at the crumbs collected in the seams of the seat. “I don’t want to end it like this. Let’s stop fighting. It’s just … over.”
I know how to argue back when she’s pissed off; I don’t know how to handle her sadness. I’ve never been able to handle her sadness. Not the time she accidentally ran over a squirrel and cried for hours. Not when she got a rejection letter from her top choice for college. Not when I had to look her in the eyes and tell her I was leaving Hamilton High. And none of the times lately when she’s seemed depressed and distant—like she’s still a zip code away even when I’m sitting right next to her.
And not now, when she’s blaming me for something I’ve never even considered and all I want to do is yell that I’m innocent and that she’s acting insane.
“How can I convince you I’m not lying?”
“You can’t.”