They all glance at each other, looking uncertain.
“We’ll think of something,” Jay promises.
I smile at them. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would do without you guys.”
* * *
It’s the end of school. I need to hurry home without running into anyone. But it’s difficult to avoid people when you can’t even get to your locker without bumping into a dozen shoulders. As I’m packing up my books, someone taps me on my arm.
It’s Oliver. Again.
“Hey. Whatcha up to?” he asks me.
“I’m about to leave.”
“Cool—where?”
“Home.”
“Oh.”
I shut my locker and walk toward the front doors without another word.
“Hold up—” Oliver says as he follows me down the hall. “I was gonna ask you if you wanted to do something.”
“Sorry, I’m busy.”
“It doesn’t have to be too long,” he says. “Maybe we can grab some ice cream.”
“I told you, I’m busy,” I say without looking at him. “Why don’t you hang out with your other friends?”
“Did I do something wrong?” Oliver asks, scratching his forehead.
I don’t feel like explaining it to him. I shouldn’t have to. “I’m just not in the mood, okay?”
“For ice cream?”
I turn to him. “For anything.”
“Just two scoops,” he insists.
“Oliver. I said no.”
“One scoop.”
It’s like he can’t hear me. I walk off again, leaving him standing there.
“C’mon!” he shouts down the hall. “Pretty please!” His voice is loud and desperate. “It’s on me!”
Maybe it’s the empathy from being a writer that makes me stop walking. Or maybe it’s Sam’s voice inside my head. Reluctantly, I take a deep breath and turn around.
I narrow my eyes. “It’s on you?”
* * *
“I’ll have three scoops of pistachio, hot fudge, some marshmallows, whipped cream on top, rainbow sprinkles, and don’t go easy on it,” I say to the man behind the glass. I turn to Oliver. “What are you having?”
“Uh, one rocky road, please…”
* * *
We find a pink table in the corner of the ice cream shop. The place is a little empty. Oliver hangs his jacket behind his chair before sitting down. Both of us picked cups instead of cones. Oliver eats slowly, swirling the whipped cream with his spoon.
“Thanks for coming,” he says after a while.
“What made you want ice cream?” I ask.
“It’s Thursday.”
“What about it?”
Oliver points at the window behind me. There’s a poster of a crudely drawn cow with discounts painted over cartoon udders. THURSDAY: FREE TOPPINGS! The image is a bit disturbing, if you ask me. I turn back around and try to erase it from my mind.
I take another bite of ice cream.
“Sam used to get pistachio,” Oliver says.
“I know.”
“Except he preferred a cone.”
“I know that, too.”
Oliver doesn’t say anything. He stares at his spoon, looking sad all of a sudden. Maybe I should be more sensitive.
“Just so you know, I’m not mad at you,” I decide to tell him. “It’s your friends I don’t care for.”
Oliver nods. “That’s fair. They kinda suck.”
“Then why do you hang out with them?”
“I don’t know if you noticed,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “But my best friend’s dead.”
My face turns to stone.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t—” He swallows.
I reach out a hand to calm him, and say, “No it’s alright, Oliver. Really.”
He takes a deep breath and lets it out.
I pick up my spoon and we resume eating ice cream. Although neither of us is in the mood anymore.
“Sorry to bring him up,” Oliver says again, some guilt in his voice. “I didn’t mean to make this depressing.”
“It’s okay … I don’t mind talking about Sam.”
“That’s good to know.”
A half hour passes and we finish our ice cream. I check the time. It’s a quarter past four. “I should probably get going.”
“Already?”
“Yeah, I’m a bit tired,” I say as I rise from the table.
“You don’t want to, I don’t know, see a movie or something?” Oliver asks out of nowhere.
“I really shouldn’t.”
“Sam told me you like musicals,” he says randomly. “It’s iconic musical month at the theater. It’s right down the street.”
“I don’t know, Oliver…” I say, trying to let him down easy. “What are they even playing?”
“It changes every week,” Oliver says. He checks his phone. “Tonight is … Little Shop of Horrors. Have you heard of it?”
“Of course I have. It’s one of my favorite musicals.”
“Mine too.”
“I’ve seen it a dozen times.”
“Same.”
“You know, I even tried making Sam watch it with me,” I say, sitting down again. “But he wouldn’t. He said it sounded scary.”
Oliver laughs. “It’s not supposed to be scary!”
I lean into the table. “I know! But you know Sam. He doesn’t like musicals.”
“Oh my god—that was so annoying about him,” Oliver says with an eye roll.