“Yes. Yes, you do. Even though she lied to you.”
“And maybe buy her a present? Like an Edible Arrangement. Or a pair of those odd-duck pajamas that you like so much.” I stare at Miney’s desk. I don’t want to look at her suitcase. Or at her. She already looks gone.
“Maybe skip the gift.”
“Everyone likes fruit dipped in chocolate.”
“Trust me on this one.”
“What if she doesn’t forgive me?” I picture my empty lunch table again. If Kit doesn’t forgive me, maybe I could join José and Mullet and Chloe’s table, which is only three over from mine. The new acoustics and perspective would take some getting used to, but I could do it. Although they are not as fun to look at and be with as Kit.
Miney shrugs.
“Kit’s loss. There are other girls in the world.”
“Don’t go,” I say, though I don’t really mean it. I am just putting into words the urge I have to throw myself at her legs to keep her from leaving, like I used to do to my mom when I was a little kid. I realize she needs to return to school, that my own feelings on the matter should be irrelevant. “By the way, your physics tutor can’t be that smart if he doesn’t realize how great you are.”
Miney smiles the old Miney smile, the kind she used to wear all the time, and then she envelops me in a huge hug. Though I don’t feel like being hugged, I let her, because she’s my sister and my favorite person in the world and in a few hours she’ll be far, far away.
“I love you, Little D. Just the way you are. So yeah, you can change, but don’t ever really change, okay?”
“Okay,” I agree, though I have no idea what that means at all. “I’m scared, Miney.”
“All the best people are,” she says.
“People are surprisingly nice to you when they discover you killed your father,” I announce at lunch, toying with a new persona now that my secret is out. Jokey, as if I’m not drowning in shame, as if treating this as something light can make it bounce right off me. I’m, of course, back at my old table. I haven’t seen David since McCormick’s. Jack, who always seems to appear just when I do and do not need him the most, was somehow miraculously at the restaurant with Evan. He drove me home. I was too shaken to register that it was my first time seeing him since my mother’s confession. For that five-minute ride, he was Uncle Jack, and he delivered me to my mother, who took one look at my face and went straight to the bathroom cabinet to get me a Valium.
What happened in McCormick’s went viral, just like David’s notebook, though in my case through texts and whispered conversations. You can still Google my name without finding a thing.
“Stop saying that,” Violet says, though she doesn’t flinch. Both she and Annie spent all of Sunday on my couch, after showing up at my house armed with pizza and a jumbo-size bag of M&M’s. At first, I didn’t say a word, and they didn’t ask. We just sat and ate and watched television, and instead of resenting them, I appreciated that they were being delicate with me. Remembered that they had always been my tribe. Only later did the words start to form, and once I started talking I found I couldn’t stop.
“My dad and I both wanted a Snickers bar,” I said, staring straight ahead. I couldn’t bring myself to look at them. “That’s why we went out that night. But we told my mom we were just going to get milk. And my dad made me drive because he wanted me to get extra practice. You want to hear the strangest thing? The accident happened on the way home, and the milk carton was still sitting in the backseat. Not crushed, not even, like, a little bit dented. So weird. I still have half of the Snickers bar. I keep it on my desk, like some sick souvenir.”
“It would be totally inappropriate of me to make a ‘no use crying over spilt milk’ joke, right?” Annie asked, and for reasons I can’t explain, both Violet and I thought that was hilarious, and we laughed until we all had tears running down our faces. I realized then that maybe humor could help me through. Another way to bend time.
“It was an accident. It really wasn’t your fault,” Annie says. This is their new favorite mantra. Again with the words accident and fault, as if they are made of magic. I am absolved. Poof. It’s all better. I don’t mind hearing it, because I need everything I can get. I shouldn’t have waited so long to talk to my friends. They’ve been so supportive. The opposite of David.
“I don’t get why your mom wanted you to keep it a secret in the first place,” Violet says.
“She was just trying to protect me,” I say, and then I can’t help it, I reflexively look over to David’s table. But he’s not there. He’s a few rows over with the kids from Academic League. He catches me looking, and I quickly turn my attention back to the girls. “If no one knew, then maybe it wouldn’t define me. And you know my mom. She’s totally hard-core about everything. She makes me drive to school every day and run all sorts of errands, because she’s worried that driving will become a thing for me. Like a phobia.”
“Is it working?” Annie asks.
“Sort of,” I say. “I still get a little shaky in the car, but it gets a tiny bit easier each time.”
I have already warned my friends that the girl they used to know and love is gone. That they should give up trying to revive the old me. I’m not braver or stronger, as my mom hoped. I’m a new version. Possibly someone they could one day like better. Who knows? Maybe I’ll turn out funnier.
My mom has found me a therapist who specializes in grief counseling, and she got herself one too. She’s even talking about us seeing a third psychologist we can talk to together. We are mobilizing.
“Vi and I have decided to go stag to prom, and we’ll be taking Uber. No driving needed. So will you come with us? Just us girls?” Annie asks. “Please, please, please!”
“Sorry, I can’t,” I say.
“Why not? If I can go and watch Gabriel and Willow make out all night, you can at least come and pretend to have fun.” I shrug. My dad would have been excited about prom. He would have taken a thousand pictures of me and posted them on Facebook without my permission and begged me to text him the DJ’s playlist.
“Come on!” Violet whines.
“Sorry, guys.”
“It’s David, isn’t it? Forget about him. He’s a weirdo,” Annie says. “Obvi we’re no longer Team David.”
“This is not about David,” I say, though maybe it is, just a little bit. Because perhaps for a second there, before David was the enemy, I had pictured both of us dressed up and slow-dancing to some cheesy song. I had pictured another night just like at Dylan’s party, when he looked at me like I was something worth looking at, when I allowed myself to forget.
After what happened at McCormick’s, he sent me only one text. It was composed of two words: I’m sorry.
I might have killed my father, but I think even I deserve better than that.