I hear them come inside. I hear Sam go into his room and shut the door.
Sam, I think. I’m trying. I’m trying to understand. Really, I am.
===
At school, I still spend my lunch hour in the library. I just can’t deal with all those people in the cafeteria, most of whom I still want to avoid. Today, as I settle in at a study table and start doing some homework, I see Grace enter the library, her eyes searching around, and I think about ducking my head. But she spots me and walks to the table and sits down.
“So this is where you go,” she says, gazing around the big room, like she’s never been in there. There are a few other kids here, and Mrs. Jansen, the librarian, is typing things on a computer at the information desk. “Can we talk?” she says.
One of the kids shushes her, and Mrs. Jansen stares over.
We haven’t spoken since that horrible party, so why now?
“I’ve got some studying to do.”
She sighs. “Fine.” She gets up and walks to another table. She takes out a notebook and starts writing. I try and focus on my work, but I keep stealing glimpses at Grace, scribbling ferociously. Finally, she rips the sheet, folds it, and walks back over. “Here,” she says, flashing a pleading look. I take the note and she walks out.
I set the paper down. I’ll read it later, I think. But as I study my chemistry text, I keep seeing the folded square in the corner of my eye. I can’t focus with that note sitting there. So I shut my book and unfold the note and read:
Beth–
Until we can have a real conversation, I just wanted to say I’m sorry about that dumb party and the way Tark and the others treated you. I really enjoyed spending time with you and I thought we were going to be friends again, but if you don’t want to, I understand. But I don’t want you to think that I was being fake or anything. I really have missed you and I wish I could go back in time because I wasn’t a good friend to you after Sam disappeared and I’m sorry about that. I really am. And I want to make it up to you. Maybe we can talk or hang out again soon. (I hate writing!) Talk to me soon. Please?
Your friend,
Grace
I fold the note and put it in a pouch in my backpack. I try working, but mostly I sit there, staring off at nothing, and it’s like a knot in my stomach loosens—a knot I never knew was there.
===
The next day at school, instead of going to the library, I go to the cafeteria. My belly churns when I step inside, the noise and smells a bit much for me to take. I see Chita in our old spot, with Darla. I see Donal and Brendan and the other guys.
I walk over close to Grace’s table and motion for her. She gets up and heads toward me, a cautious look on her face. “Hey,” she says. She looks back at her table. “We can clear a spot for you?”
“No, it’s okay. I’m going to sit with Chita and those guys,” I say, gesturing over to the table. “But I wanted to thank you, for your note.”
She smiles. “I really do hope we can hang out sometime,” she says. “Or something.”
“Sure,” I say. “I’d like that.”
“Good,” she says. I can tell she wants to hug me, but I can’t deal with that, not in front of all these people
“Can it be just us?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says.
“Thanks.” We just stand there, not sure what to say. “Well, I better join my friends over there.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll see you.”
We both walk to our respective tables, the places where we belong.
“Any space for me?” I ask when I get to mine.
Chita nods, and scoots down and clears a spot on the end of the table. I’m relieved she doesn’t make a comment about me talking with Grace.
“Is your head okay?” Darla asks.
“I’ll live, no thanks to her,” I say. Chita elbows me.
Donal hasn’t yet looked up from his food. He probably hates me. I unwrap the sandwich I brought and start eating, and eventually everyone starts talking about whatever it was they were talking about before I intruded. It’s fine just to be there, sitting at the table, a part of them.
The bell rings and Chita says, “See you at practice.”
She walks off, the table clears, and it’s just me and Donal, who’s still finishing his lunch. I get up to leave, but I stop.
“It wasn’t a mistake,” I say.
He looks up, and he knows what I mean. He’s chewing something still, and kind of has a dumb look on his face, but it’s cute, too—like he’s trying not to break into a big grin and chew and talk, all at once. I grab my stuff and bolt before he can say anything and I make it to my next class just as the second bell rings.
===
Saturday turns out to be a windy, cold gray day. I regret suggesting the park as a meeting place, but I’ll make do. I wear a sweater, my heavy coat. I tell Mom I’m going shopping, which is believable only because Christmas isn’t too far away.
On the drive over I try to imagine what Tony looks like. But he’s a blank. Like most everything about Sam’s time in Anniston.
I park in the little lot and sit in the car. No one else is here, due to the cold. Perfect. The trees are mostly bare, except for the tall skinny pines, which line the edges and provide a kind of barricade against Fifteenth Street. The shrubs that shield the park from the back of Central’s football field are bare, too, so I can see the school in the distance. It’s a little depressing.
Soon a white Honda drives up, a woman at the wheel, a shadow of another person in the passenger seat.
I get out of my car.
“Hello,” the woman says as she steps out of her car. She’s African American, wearing a tan overcoat and high-heeled boots. “Lorraine Johnson,” she announces, walking over and extending her hand.
“Beth Walsh,” I say, shaking her hand.
“This is Tony,” Lorraine says, and the boy shuffles forward awkwardly. He’s lighter-skinned than his mother, with close-cropped dark hair, and sort of bulgy and intense-looking brown eyes.
“Hi,” I finally say.
“Hi,” he says.
His mom looks around at the park, puts her hands in her coat pockets. “You kids going to get cold out here?”
“We should be okay. And we can always sit in my car,” I say.
She eyes me suspiciously. “Thanks for meeting with him,” she says finally, forcing a smile and pulling him next to her. He’s staring at me with those eyes and it makes me a little uncomfortable, so I focus on Lorraine. “We felt horrible about everything, you know,” she says. “We had no idea. It’s just . . .” she continues, trailing off. “How is he? How is Sam?”
Now that I’m face-to-face with these people, that anger I felt a few days ago feels misplaced. “He’s okay,” I say, which seems true enough.
“That’s good,” she says, forcing that smile again. “That’s really good. Right, honey?” she says.