I touch his forearm. It’s a reflex; I do it with residents all the time without thinking about it anymore. This is different but I realize it too late. I pull back as casually as I can while hoping my face isn’t turning as red as it feels.
“Thanks,” he says. “I have to get back. We’re unpacking all her stuff.”
“Okay. But … more importantly … about my singing?”
“Right, my honest opinion … A for effort. And guts.”
“Don’t worry; I’ll keep my day job.”
I watch David cross the room and disappear down the hall. I’ve heard people say only good friends can tease like we just did. I’ve never told anyone, but I don’t think talking this way is a reward. It’s an invitation, to skip over all that shaking hands and small talk nonsense and get on with the real stuff.
I accept.
*
Around noon I’m finally up to riding over to Zumi’s, or at least I can’t put it off anymore. When I get there no one answers the door. The car is gone, assuming they still have the same one. I’m partly relieved. But I can’t just leave the box on her porch.
I ride over to Connor’s. I feel bad about leaving him the box and the news, but it’ll be better coming from him. He and Zumi have been best friends since diapers. Their moms joke about how they were thrown together so soon after being born that they imprinted on each other.
When Connor answers the door I can’t tell if he’s surprised to see me. Before I can say anything, the door opens wider and there’s Zumi.
“What are you doing here?” she says, glancing at Connor like maybe he knows.
“I … I went to your house first.” I hold out the box. “This is for you guys.”
Connor reaches for it but Zumi stops him and asks, “What is it?”
“It’s some of your stuff, I guess. From Annie. She dropped it off last night—”
Zumi snorts. “Annie went to your house? I doubt it.”
I just stand there. I don’t know how to tell her what happened.
Connor steps forward again and takes the box. He sets it on the porch and pops it open. Whatever’s in there—I can’t see from here—makes Zumi’s face pinch.
“She gave this to you?” The anger is gone from her voice, replaced by bewilderment. “Why? Have you guys been talking?”
“No, she just showed up. She … she said they’re moving to Paris. They left last night—”
Zumi’s puzzlement disappears and she rolls her eyes. She squats by the box and pokes around. She picks up an old sweatshirt of Connor’s that I recognize from the splash of green paint on it. “Come on, tell the truth for once. Where did you really get—” She stops abruptly.
“I don’t know why she gave this to me,” I say. “I think she just couldn’t face telling you good-bye. Maybe she—”
“Get your keys,” Zumi says to Connor. “We’re going over there.”
“Now?” he says. He looks like he’s about to argue, but then he softens and reaches inside the house to the bowl by the door and grabs his car keys.
Zumi stands and walks by me. Connor closes the door and follows her.
“What about the box?” I say. “Do you want—”
“Just leave it!” Zumi calls back over her shoulder. “Just … just leave.”
They climb into Connor’s car and drive away.
I look in the box. On the top of miscellaneous knickknacks is a framed photo of the three of them in the seventh grade. Annie stands by monkey bars, her arms crossed, trying to look cool. Connor sits on a high bar, and Zumi hangs upside down by her knees between them, arms outstretched, her stomach showing. The few times I saw the inside of Annie’s bedroom, this photo sat on her dresser. She said it was a present from Zumi on her twelfth birthday.
HAMSTER IS ACTIVE
HUMMINGBIRD IS HOVERING
HAMMERHEAD IS CRUISING
HANNIGANIMAL IS DOWN
HJ stands nose to nose with herself at the bathroom mirror again. I’m on the toilet lid, knees under my chin, not closely observing the process. Saturday night is prime TV binge-watching night, but I’m feeling … disconnected. Maybe I should go back to the Silver Sands. I could help Ms. Li set up her room if they’re not done. When I left, David was still there with his parents working to help her get settled. It’s unusual for someone his age not to cut out first chance they get— “Mel?”
I realize it’s the third time HJ has said my name. She’s holding her eyeliner pencil high, ready to draw freckles on her bare spot, watching me.
“Hmm?”
“Something wrong?”
“Nope.”
“You sure?” she asks. When I nod, she says, “You doing anything tonight?”
“Nope.”
She looks back to the mirror, at her eyes, not her cheek.
“Fuck it.” She tosses the pencil on the shelf. “Yes you are.”
She turns the water on full blast, hits the soap plunger a few times, and rubs her face hard with both hands. The same way I do every afternoon for work.