Shoshanna’s little Monday Morning Cheerleader Surprise did get me thinking though…
At work that afternoon, I locate Joni in the bread aisle, restocking the pumpernickel and cinnamon raisin.
“Wassup, homie?” she asks. She’s wearing a tank top that has a picture of the Spice Girls on it. I think she’s wearing it ironically, but you can never be sure with her. One of her earrings is in the shape of a question mark. The other is an exclamation point. I guess the stud in her nose could be considered a period.
“Hey.”
She holds up a bag of bread with a grin. “Look, this is your bread.”
I glance at the loaf and then back at her, trying to figure out what the hell she’s talking about. “Huh?”
She points to the writing on the package. “Rye bread. See? Ry bread? Your name is Ry. This is your bread.”
I shake my head. “You do realize you’re nuts, right?”
She points to a different loaf of bread with a dorky grin. It’s banana nut bread. Nuts for the nut. I roll my eyes, and she laughs and shelves the package of rye. “Yeah, so I’ve been told.”
“Good. As long as you’re aware, then it won’t be too much of a surprise when someone finally has you committed.”
“Noted.”
“So we’re playing Clinton Central on Friday,” I say. “It’s an away game, so we’ll be on your home turf. Want to come?”
Joni purses her lips. “I don’t know, Ryden. I’m trying to stay away from school-oriented social events. It’s bad enough I have to spend all day with a building full of people who know every embarrassing detail of my life. Spending after hours with them too? Not so much.”
I nod. “Makes sense. Okay, well, just thought I’d ask.”
I walk away but feel her eyes on my back right up until the moment I round the corner.
Chapter 22
As the scout’s visit looms closer and the promise of UCLA grows clearer, the possibility that I might not find the other journals before leaving town next year starts to become real. I feel myself panicking just a little more each day.
My house and Alan’s house have been completely scoured from top to bottom. I’m clearly not able to search Meg’s house, but Mabel swears she’s looked and looked and there’s nothing else, and I’ve even been to the storage unit a couple of days this week before dropping Hope at day care, just to check again.
Meg didn’t really have any other friends besides Alan, and her aunts and uncles and cousins are all scattered around the country, so there’s no one else I can think of who she would have left the journals with. But they’ve got to be somewhere, goddammit.
On Thursday, I skip lunch and drive to Meg’s oncologist. He’s the only other person who she saw on a regular basis during those last months. Yeah, I’ll admit it: we’ve gone way past desperate.
I try to ignore the waiting room full of sick-looking people and explain to the receptionist that I need to see Dr. Maldonado.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asks.
“No. I don’t have canc—I mean, I’m not here for anything medical. I just need to talk to him for a couple of minutes.”
She studies me over the top of her glasses. “What is this in reference to?”
“That’s private.”
“Well, I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let you in to see the doctor without a reason. He’s very busy.” She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms as if she’s a bouncer at a club.
I run my hand through my hair. “Fine. It’s about Meg Reynolds. Can you tell him that, please? He’ll know who she is.” I nod to the phone. The sooner she calls the doctor, the sooner I’ll leave her the hell alone.
Her face gets softer. “Meg Reynolds? My goodness, I never thought I’d hear that name again. We miss her so much around here. Were you a friend of hers?”
She looks at me so kindly, one side of her mouth turned up in a half smile brought on by some memory, and I suddenly don’t want to tell her who I am. Clearly this woman liked Meg—loved her even. I can’t tell her I’m the guy who singlehandedly brought on her demise.
“Yeah, we were friends,” I say. “I’m…uh…Alan.” I clear my throat. “Can I speak with the doctor for a minute or two? I promise it won’t take long.”
She nods. “Of course, dear. Have a seat. I’ll call you in as soon as he’s finished with his current patient.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m following the receptionist down a small corridor and into an office. Meg’s doctor—I assume he was Meg’s doctor; I’ve never actually met him before—is sitting at his desk, typing away. He’s an older guy, but really well put together, with slicked-to-the-side white hair, a close shave, and a perfectly knotted tie.
“Dr. Maldonado, this is Alan,” the receptionist says and then leaves us.
Dr. Maldonado looks up. “Have a seat, young man. I hear you were a friend of Megan Reynolds.”
“Yeah. I mean, yes, sir.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Such a bright young woman, she was.”
“Yes.”