“Don’t remind me. I have to take three on-site finals tomorrow. I’m not looking forward to it.”
“Where?”
“Your school.”
“So I’ll wait for you. Out in the hall.”
“You would do that?”
“Sure. If it’ll make you feel better knowing I’m there.”
“I would like that. So much.”
“Then it’s done. I’ll be there. And just think: when you finish, it’ll be summer. Officially. Am I gonna be able to get you down to the beach and on a surfboard in the next two months?”
“I hope so.” And I mean it.
“Good. I can’t wait.” He flashes the remote at the TV. “Ready to watch Ben?”
“Definitely.”
Evan presses play, and the DVD starts with a couple jerky movements but steadies itself quickly. And then there’s Ben hopping across the stage. He’s so cute, I can’t stand it. I actually tear up watching him. The DVD is about an hour long, and it’s bittersweet to see the twenty minutes I missed, especially the part where a kid sings half of a peppy song with his back accidentally turned to the audience. By the end of it, I’m bawling. I promise Evan they’re happy tears. Ben steals the show, and I’m pretty sure I’m not saying that because I’m biased. He could probably earn big money being one of those annoying kid actors.
“I wish I’d seen the whole thing for real.” I sigh, leaning back into the couch cushions. “That was the best.”
“So you’ll go to the next one. And the one after that. I’m pretty sure that’s not gonna be Ben’s last starring role.”
I laugh. “I think you’re right.”
We sit in silence for a minute, watching the dark screen of the television until Evan grabs the remote and switches the TV back to the regular stations. My stomach clenches, because the news is on. They’re at Pacific Palms High School. They’re standing in the courtyard. In front of the memorial wall. There are lots of flowers. And solemn faces. My former PPHS principal is behind a podium saying important things. Evan aims the remote at the screen to change the channel, but I hold his wrist steady.
“Don’t,” I say. “We should watch.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod. So we do. We watch. And then I see Evan’s mom. She’s holding the hand of a woman who looks just like her. On the other side of her, holding the woman’s other hand, is Evan. And of course they’re there. PPHS will reopen in the fall, and they dedicated the official memorial wall today. And Evan’s cousin’s name is on the wall. Connor Wallace. They must’ve filmed this earlier. After morning finals and before he picked up the DVD of Ben’s play and brought it here.
“My aunt,” he mumbles. “She needed us.”
“That must’ve been so hard.” I squeeze his hand. “I’m sure you miss him a lot.”
“Every day.” He stares at the screen. At his mom. At his aunt. At himself. “He was one of my favorite people. He was an only child and I was an only child, so early on, we decided we’d be like brothers.”
I pull my legs from Evan’s lap so I can wrap my arms around him. I squeeze him tight. “I’m sorry I haven’t asked about Connor. I should have. But I wasn’t sure if I could handle talking about it, which is so selfish and wrong.”
“I understand.”
“It’s hard to miss someone.”
The muscle in his jaw ticks. “It sucks to miss someone.”
“Did you see him a lot? Even living so far apart?”
“Every summer and every spring break. It’s not exactly hard to get people to visit when you live in Hawaii. We grew up surfing together, so that’s pretty much all we did when we saw each other.” Evan smiles thoughtfully. “But he threw lemons at rental cars, too. You know, just to fit in.” He pinches my elbow.
“So you were totally BFFs!”
He laughs. “Yep. Pretty much.”
“Evan, I’m so sorry.” I hug him again. “I really am.”
When I pull back, he sits there looking at me so gently with his big brown eyes. There’s a rip at the hem of his T-shirt and another one on the knee of his jeans. There’s stubble on his chin and a pimple on his forehead. There’s a scar on his right arm where he told me he got nailed by the skeg of his surfboard when he was in middle school. He isn’t perfect. There’s the pain of loss underneath the surface of him, but he’s managed to let people in despite it.
“You’re a good person,” I say.
“So are you.”
chapter forty-two