Parallel

8

THERE


Thursday, October 30, 2008

(the day before Halloween)


“Ugh, hurry up!” I shout at the red brake lights in front of me. Of course, the day I have to be at school super early, there’s a torrential downpour. I left my house six minutes ago, and I still haven’t made it through the first intersection. The traffic lights must be out. Up ahead, lightning zigzags across the sky. I brace for the thunderclap, but still jump when it comes a few seconds later.

The clock on the dash clicks from 7:16 to 7:17. Crap. Dr. Mann’s review session started two minutes ago. With our midterm just over five hours away, this is my last chance to get a handle on the two concepts I still don’t understand before I have to write about them. I accelerate, riding the bumper of the black Toyota in front of me, willing its driver to go faster.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon—”

The Toyota stops short and I slam on my brakes to avoid it. My bag flies into the dashboard, spilling its contents onto the passenger-side floor. The car behind me leans on its horn.

And . . . standstill. Again.

“Could this day be any crappier?” I mutter, then instantly feel guilty for it. Yes, this day could be much crappier. Ilana could still be in a coma. I could be the one in that hospital bed surrounded by machines, my face swollen and bruised. And I’m bitching about a little traffic?

The first three days after the accident were the worst. The doctors weren’t sure Ilana would ever wake up, and they warned that even if she did, there was a good chance she’d spend the rest of her life in a permanent vegetative state (a phrase I made the mistake of Googling). Yet despite the scary medical speak, the idea that Ilana might not be Ilana anymore just wouldn’t compute. I kept waiting for her to saunter into the waiting room and make some snide remark about my outfit. She was fine at the party, I kept thinking. She was fine, she was fine. She was fine until she came around that curve on Providence Road at the exact moment a speeding pickup truck crossed into her lane.

When she squeezed a nurse’s hand on day four, the crowd gathered in the waiting room cheered. I overheard her mom telling Ms. Ziffren that she never knew Ilana had so many friends. I went to the bathroom and threw up. We aren’t her friends. The four girls huddled in the corner wearing pink rubber “Awaken Ilana” bracelets are her friends. The rest of us are spectators to a disaster we can’t comprehend.

Thank God she woke up. Exactly a week ago, on day twelve. She couldn’t have any visitors for a few more days after that, but as of yesterday, non-family members are allowed between four and six o’clock. I was the first person in. Ilana took one look at the flowers I’d brought and pronounced them “grocery-store ghetto.” I was elated.

But then she started asking me how long I’d been there. Every ten minutes, as if she hadn’t already asked. Her doctor told me that was normal for someone with hemorrhagic damage to her medial temporal lobe. I just looked at him. Nothing about this was normal.

The Toyota in front of me starts moving again, and I finally get through the first traffic light, which, as I suspected, is dark. After that, the pace picks up.

So does the intensity of the storm. By the time I reach the annex lot, the rain is coming down in sheets. As I’m slowing for the turn, another bolt of lightning rips across the sky, this time with a crack of accompanying thunder. The sky is the color of a bruise.

I flick off my turn signal and speed up again. There’s no way I’m walking all the way from the annex in this. I make a left into the senior lot, gunning it for the front row. Right by the side door there’s a spot with a RESERVED—HANDICAPPED sign, where I parked for a few days after I hurt my foot. I used to think that you’d get towed if you parked there, but now I know that it’s not an official handicapped space. Those are in the visitor’s lot on the other side of the building. The one in the senior lot isn’t blue and doesn’t have a wheelchair painted on the asphalt, which is good, because no one who parks there is actually handicapped. Any athlete with an injury is eligible for a permit to park there. But handicapped privileges are not a first-come-first-serve situation—mine were revoked when Gregg Nash tore his ACL in the Homecoming game last weekend. Star kicker trumps former cross-country runner. The fact that Gregg’s regular parking spot is four spaces away from the handicapped spot appears not to have factored into the analysis.

“Thank you, Gregg,” I say as I pull into his regularly assigned space. The lot is only about a quarter full, which isn’t surprising, since school doesn’t start for another forty-five minutes. Caitlin’s here, of course (she comes early every day to get ahead on her lab assignments), and Josh’s Jeep is in its regular spot. I don’t know whether it should be encouraging or terrifying that he came early for the review. If he needs help with the material, then I’m a lost cause.

When the semester started, I fantasized about the two of us studying for this test together, laughing as we quizzed each other with homemade flash cards. But that scenario would require us to be dating, or at the very least, to be friends. Josh and I are neither. We’re still cordial, but I’m pretty sure he’s dating Megan now, and apparently that means our permitted interactions are limited to polite smiles and the occasional wave. Not that I’ve had time for lengthy conversations. The last two weeks have been a series of identical days: home to school to crew practice to the waiting room at Piedmont Hospital, then back home again. Sleep. Then repeat. I still catch myself thinking about Josh—every time I see him or my astronomy textbook or the stars on my ceiling—but I’ve stopped pining over him.

Okay, I’m pining less.

Lightning flashes, followed by another crack of thunder. I see a girl from my class battling with her umbrella as she darts across the front yard toward the main entrance, splashing mud with each soggy step. If I’m going to this study session, I should go now.

Backpack over my head, I make a mad dash for the side door. Thankfully, it’s unlocked. I take a moment to collect myself before continuing down the hall to our classroom, peeling off my raincoat and fluffing my damp hair. The hallway is still semi-dark, and most of the classrooms along it are completely black behind their closed doors. Only our room and the chem lab look inhabited. Dr. Mann’s door is swung open, light streaming out from inside along with the distinct sound of our teacher’s voice.

I’m not sure why I do it. Maybe because there’s a light on inside. Maybe because the door is slightly ajar. But as I’m passing the chem lab, I glance in through the vertical window and see them. Caitlin is talking. Josh is smiling. Alone in a half-lit room.

My breath catches in my throat, even though I know instinctively that it’s not what it looks like. There’s nothing going on between them. Nothing scandalous, anyway. They’re bent over a piece of paper, intently discussing its contents. My mind calmly considers the possible reasons for this early morning meeting. They’re doing homework. (For what class? They’re not in any together.) Caitlin is helping Josh study for our midterm. (Why didn’t she offer to help me?) They’re partners on some extracurricular science project. (Like what? And why hasn’t either of them mentioned it?)

None of these explanations makes sense. And none of them makes me feel better about the fact that if I hadn’t come in through that side door, I never would’ve discovered what Caitlin obviously doesn’t want me to know: She’s been hanging out with Josh.

Even if it’s totally innocuous, why hasn’t she told me?

And why is Josh smiling at her the same way he smiled at Albireo, the breath-catching blue and gold double star at the tip of Cygnus’s beak? (Annoyingly, my test-prepped brain now proceeds to rattle off the facts I’ve learned about Albireo in the weeks since Josh pointed it out to me, like an idiot savant on amphetamines: 380 light-years away from the Earth. Thought to be a gravitationally bound binary system with an orbital period of seventy-five thousand years. Loved by astronomers for its striking beauty, which is easily seen at low telescopic power.)

Move. Away. From the door.

Part of me wants them to see me, because it’ll force them to explain what they’re doing. But do they owe me an explanation? Josh has made it clear that he’s not interested in me, and even if he were her type (which he isn’t), Caitlin would never go after a guy I liked.

Then again, we’ve barely spoken to each other since the accident. We talk at lunch, of course, but not at all after school. I’ve been blaming crew practice, college applications, and a fictitious new cell phone plan with fewer minutes, but the truth is I’m hiding from her. If Caitlin knew how much time I’ve been spending at the hospital, she’d want to know why, and I can’t tell her why. Mostly because I know how she’d react if she ever found out what I did, but also because I can’t bear to say the words aloud. The refrain in my head is excruciating enough; speaking it would put me over the edge. If I hadn’t, Ilana wouldn’t. If I hadn’t, Ilana wouldn’t.

I pull myself away from the door and hurry down the hall to G103, where a dozen kids from class are gathered, listening to Dr. Mann describe the phases of stellar evolution. Most of them look as panicked about our test as I feel. Megan is sitting by the window that overlooks the parking lot, her yellow backpack propped up in the vacant seat beside her. Saving it for someone. She keeps glancing outside at Josh’s Jeep, no doubt wondering where its owner is. She obviously doesn’t know he’s with Caitlin, either. So they’re hiding it from both of us.

I slide into an empty seat and pull out my notebook, resolving to focus on nothing but astronomy for the next twenty minutes.

“We have time for one more question,” I hear Dr. Mann say.

My head snaps up. Already? I’ve absorbed about ten percent of what’s been said since I arrived and written all of three sentences in my notebook. The rest of the page is covered with doodled stars and lines connecting them.

My hand shoots up. “Hubble’s law,” I call out, before he can call on someone else. Dr. Mann meets my gaze and nods for me to continue. “I understand that the universe is receding from us,” I say, “and that we’re receding from the rest of the universe at the same rate . . . right?” While I said I understood this, the truth is I’m only half-sure of what I just said. But Dr. Mann nods. “But how is that possible? Everything can’t be receding from everything, can it?”

“Ah,” Dr. Mann replies. “Excellent question. And one I came prepared for.” He roots around in his pocket, coins clanging against one another, and pulls out a red balloon. “Imagine that this is our universe,” he says, holding up the balloon. It’s covered in black marker dots. “And that each of these dots is a cluster of galaxies within our universe.” I hear Megan giggle. There’s a half-eaten piece of butterscotch candy stuck to the old man’s sleeve. “Hubble’s law says that the distances between these clusters are continuously increasing and, most significantly, that our universe is itself expanding.” Dr. Mann puts the balloon to his lips and begins to inflate it. As the balloon fills with air, the dots get farther and farther from each other. The butterscotch candy dangles from a strand of tweed.

“You said our universe.” Josh’s voice catches me by surprise. I turn to see him standing in the doorway, holding his notebook, a folded piece of paper on top.

Dr. Mann stops blowing and smiles.

“Ah. An observant listener.” The old man’s smile is enigmatic. “Ms. Barnes asked about Hubble’s law, which refers to the behavior of galaxies within our universe.”

“Wait, there’s more than one universe?” I ask, confused again.

“Of course,” Dr. Mann says, as though this is the most obvious thing in the world. “Haven’t you seen Star Trek?” There’s a smattering of laughter from the class. Dr. Mann ties off the balloon and volleys it to me. It lands in the center of my desk. “But let’s focus on this one for today,” he says, just before the bell rings. “Our universe has enough troubles of its own.” He says something else after that, but the shrill sound of the morning bell drowns it out.

I catch up with Tyler on D Hall. Except for a short bout of hysteria the night of the accident, Tyler has been his steady, pragmatic self since Ilana got hurt. Shaken, but not completely derailed by what happened to her. And why should he? He didn’t orchestrate the chain of events that put Ilana in that truck’s path. It was what I said to him that lit the fuse.

“You look like crap,” Tyler says when he sees me. “When was the last time you washed your hair?”

“Shut it. I’ve been in study mode.” Tyler doesn’t know how much time I’ve been spending at the hospital, either, or how little sleep I’ve been getting since the accident. “Hey, has Caitlin said anything to you about Josh?”

“Your Josh?”

“He’s not my Josh anymore,” I tell him. Because he’s Caitlin’s? It’s just a tiny kernel of doubt, but it’s there, lodged in my brain. Does she like him? Does he like her?

“What happened?” Tyler asks.

I shrug. “He wasn’t interested.”

He rolls his eyes. “Are you an idiot? Wait, don’t answer that. Of course you are. Barnes, the guy got all googly-eyed every time he looked at you.”

“He did not.”

“Yeah, because I would make that up.”

“If he was so interested, why didn’t he ever do anything about it?” I challenge.

Tyler stops walking and looks at me. “Why are girls so ridiculous?”

“What’s so ridiculous about wanting a guy to make the first move? And not some subtle, maybe-you-like-me-maybe-you’re-just-being-nice crap, either. What happened to the grand romantic gesture?”

Tyler considers this. “How grand are we talking here?”

“It’s too late,” I tell him. “He’s with Megan now.” That’s not what it looked like this morning. The kernel becomes an acorn of envy and fear.

“Hot Megan?”

I glare at him.

“I meant, ‘Megan who looks like a troll’?”

“Nice try,” I say, punching him in the arm. “I’ll see you later. Gorin hates when I’m late.” I pick up the pace to get to class. “Oh,” I say, stopping again. “Don’t tell Caitlin I asked about Josh,” I tell him.

“I’ll add it to the list,” he says.

I’m so preoccupied with the Caitlin/Josh mystery that I forget about my looming midterm until the lunch bell rings. My plan to sneak my lunch bag into the library for a last-minute cram session is thwarted by the throngs of kids with the same idea. All those wild-eyed people frantically turning pages threaten to throw me off my game, so I opt to study in the cafeteria instead. Caitlin and Tyler are at our regular table, with a couple of guys from the golf team. I slide in next to Caitlin and open my textbook. WHAT WERE YOU AND JOSH DOING THIS MORNING? my brain screams.

“I saw your car here early,” I say casually, keeping my eyes on the page. Beside me, Caitlin bristles.

“Could you move your book, please?” she snaps. “It’s digging into my arm.”

“Sorry. Jeez.” I scoot my book over and try again. “So, were you—?”

“I thought you were going to study in the library,” Caitlin says, not looking at me.

“I tried. But everyone else from my class was in there. Their stress was stressing me out.”

“Your stress is stressing me out,” Tyler says, not looking up. “I’m in the middle of a very important word battle here.” He and Efrain are sitting side by side, playing Words with Friends on their phones.

“Fine,” I reply, shutting my book. “I’ll go back to the library.”

“And . . . BAM. Toenail. Seven letters and a triple word.” Tyler waves his phone in Caitlin’s face. “Tell me I’m not a Scrabble genius.”

“You’re not a Scrabble genius,” Caitlin parrots. Something across the room catches my eye. A cheerleader, doing some sort of signal with her hands. She’s looking right at our table. I see Tyler see it, too.

“Oh, yeah?” Tyler’s voice is grander than it was a second ago. More dramatic. I see him glance in my direction, hesitating for a moment before continuing. “Let’s take a poll,” he says then, and stands up. When he does, his voice gets even louder. “Listen up, y’all!” he shouts as he mounts his chair. “I only have a few seconds before some nice, hardworking faculty member will force me to get down.” There’s a ripple of laughter as the cafeteria gets quiet. Tyler steps from his chair onto the blue-and-white-checked table, crunching a half-eaten chocolate chip cookie with his heel. What is he doing?

“Raise your hand if you’ve played Words with Friends with me,” Tyler calls to the crowd. At least thirty people raise their hands. “Keep your hand up if you’ve ever beaten me!” The hands go down. “I think that qualifies me as a Scrabble genius, don’t you?” There’s some cheering and scattered applause. “Well, my friend Caitlin here disagrees,” Tyler shouts. Jovial boos fill the room. Caitlin leans back in her chair, smiling serenely, waiting for the punch line. Through the walls, I hear a rumble of thunder from outside.

My eyes search Tyler’s face. Where is he going with this? Ms. Kirkland, our ornery assistant principal, hurries toward our table. I scoot my chair forward and make room for her, willing the old broad to hurry.

“How am I gonna prove her wrong, you ask? With a fifteen-letter word.” Tyler has the crowd captivated, expecting the joke. He looks over at a table of cheerleaders outfitted in blue and orange for today’s pep rally. “Can I get an I!” he calls to them.

“I!” they shout, clearly prepared for this.

“L!”

“L!” comes the echo. Pom-poms materialize. A couple of the girls are standing on their chairs, making Ls with their arms.

“O!”

“O!” Arms go overhead. More of them are standing on their chairs. Ms. Kirkland yells for them to get down, but everyone ignores her.

On the “V,” Tyler’s voice breaks just a little.

There’s no way he’d—

He plows through the next eleven letters, not waiting for his echo.

“E-Y-O-U-C-A-I-T-L-I-N!”

Oh, yes. He would.

Caitlin’s eyes widen. Her smile disappears.

This is a disaster.

“What’s that spell?” Tyler shouts. The crowd has reached fever pitch, hooting and hollering and banging their fists on the tables. Tyler raises his hands above his head, ready for the grand finale.

“I! LOVE! YOU! C—”

Before he can finish, I grab his leg and dig my fingernails into his calf.

“Ouch!” he yelps. “What was that for?”

“What are you doing?” I hiss, sharply aware of the fact that everyone in the cafeteria is staring at us.

“What?” Tyler replies. “You said she wanted a grand gesture.” His eyes go from me to Caitlin. He sees immediately that this has not gone how he hoped.

“What did he mean?” Caitlin’s eyes are boring into the side of my face, while mine are pinned on Tyler, willing him to jump in and help me out. I’m not sure how exactly he could fix things at this juncture, but some effort would be nice. “Abby,” Caitlin repeats, her voice like ice. “What did Tyler mean?”

The cafeteria is completely silent. Ms. Kirkland just stands there, clearly at a loss for her next move.

“Can I talk to you in the hall?” I ask meekly.

“No. Answer the question. Why did Tyler say, ‘You said she wanted a grand gesture’?”

“I was talking about Josh,” I tell her, keeping my voice down. “What he would’ve done if he’d been interested in me. Tyler must’ve taken it the wrong way.” I shoot a how-could-you-be-so-stupid look at Tyler, who’s still standing on the table.

“That’s all you said?” Caitlin asks. In the fluorescent lights, the skin under her eyes looks greenish gray, the way it looked at the Young Leaders brunch the morning after prom last year, after we stayed up all night watching Sex and the City reruns and eating Twizzlers while our dates were passed out in lawn chairs by her neighbor’s pool. She’s wearing concealer now, just like she did that morning, which she must’ve borrowed from her mom because Caitlin doesn’t own any. There’s a dot of skin-colored goo stuck to the inside corner of her left eye. “Abby.”

For a split second, I consider saying yes. Yes, that’s all I said. Omitting the rest of it, the worst of it. Feigning ignorance and innocence. No, Caitlin, I have no idea why Tyler would’ve told you he loved you in front of two hundred people. I was as surprised as you were. I know Tyler would back me up, because that’s the kind of friend he is. What kind of friend am I?

“I told him you liked him,” I say quietly.

Caitlin doesn’t react, as if what I’ve said didn’t compute. “What?” she says evenly.

“I told him you had feelings for him but didn’t want him to know.” I close my eyes as I’m saying it, bracing for her reaction. There isn’t one. When I open my eyes, Caitlin is walking away.

“Caitlin!” She ignores me. “Caitlin!” I yell, no longer caring who hears me (which is good, since everyone can). “Can I just explain—”

Caitlin spins on her heels. “Explain what?” she shouts. Her eyes are blue icicles. “How mind-blowingly self-absorbed you are? How it’s all about Abby, all the time?”

“So she doesn’t like me?” Tyler asks, sounding about as confused as I feel. Caitlin thinks I’m self-absorbed?

“This didn’t have anything to do with me,” I protest. “I just thought—” She doesn’t let me finish.

“God, Abby, you’re such a cliché,” Caitlin spits. “Ohmigod!” She lifts her voice, mocking me. “Do you think Astronomy Boy likes me? Ohmigod, I can’t run cross-country anymore! Ohmigod, what about my precious Plan!” Behind me, someone giggles. “God forbid some stupid detail doesn’t turn out exactly the way you planned it. How would you ever recover?” Her words drip with sarcasm and disdain. “You want to know why Josh wasn’t interested in you?” Caitlin asks coldly, her voice authoritative, like she knows something I don’t. “It’s not a big mystery, Abby. You’re just too self-involved to see it.” She looks me in the eye then, her gaze like steel. “You’re more work than you’re worth.”

Something in me snaps.

“Ohhhh. So we’re talking about who’s easier?” I fire back. “I guess you win then.”

“Excuse me?”

I raise my voice and address our audience. “You’d think that amazing brain of yours might’ve picked up on the fact that he was married,” I say derisively. The cheerleaders look at one another with arched eyebrows, wondering what I mean, but of course Caitlin and I are the only ones who know about Craig. The thing she’s most ashamed of. Her greatest regret. “But I guess you just couldn’t be bothered to worry about that stupid detail?”

Caitlin’s mouth drops.

It’s as if the room expands in that moment, like the surface of Dr. Mann’s red balloon. My stomach clenches and unclenches like a fist.

What did I just do?

“You’re a bitch,” Caitlin says, her voice hollow. “A self-absorbed bitch.” She doesn’t spin on her heels the way I would. She simply turns and walks out of the cafeteria. Tyler steps down off the table and follows her out. Heads turn, watching them go, then the attention snaps back to me. It occurs to me that I should do something—blink, sit down, leave the lunchroom—but the effort of those actions feels overwhelming. I can’t move.

The bell rings and the gawkers disperse. Efrain appears in front of me, holding my bag. “C’mon,” he says, his voice startling me out of my stupor. “I’ll walk you to class.” I nod weakly and follow him out.

Efrain steers me to my classroom and leaves me at the door. “Good luck on your midterm,” he says, holding out my bag. I choke on a laugh. I’m supposed to take an astronomy test right now? Poor Efrain just stands there, not sure what to do. There are flecks of dried hair gel on his ear.

The warning bell rings.

“Hey, guys.” Josh is walking up, pencil tucked behind his ear as always. When he sees the look on my face, his smile fades. “What’s going on?”

“Caitlin and Abby just had a blowout in the cafeteria,” Efrain explains, keeping his voice low. “I gotta go,” he tells us. “I can’t be late for bio.” He hands Josh my bag, pats me awkwardly on the shoulder, then takes off down the hall.

“We should probably get in there,” Josh says. His voice sounds distant, like he’s talking from behind a pane of glass. I stare vacantly into the classroom. Everyone is in last-minute cram mode, flipping frantically through their notes. All except Megan. Her eyes are glued on us. When she sees me see her, she quickly looks away. You want to know why Josh wasn’t interested? Caitlin’s words slice through me. You’re more work than you’re worth. My throat tightens.

“Abby?”

“Yeah, okay.” I force myself to put one foot in front of the other, shuffling toward my desk, when what I really want to do is run screaming from this room. From my life. From myself.

I reach my seat. I sit. Every motion mechanical. Every gesture forced.

I tell myself to focus. I tell myself to stop thinking about the fight and start thinking about this test. A test that’s worth 40 percent of our grade. A grade that could single-handedly destroy my GPA.

This test. My grade. The weight of their importance is barreling down on me, crushing me, overpowered only by the roar in my brain. A sound like static is screaming in my ears, drowning everything else out.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t think.

The roar intensifies.

“Astronomers!” Dr. Mann announces as he comes through the door, carrying a stack of blue exam booklets. “The time has come to see what we’ve learned!” Grinning like he’s handing out candy, Dr. Mann begins to distribute the test booklets.

I can’t do this. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. Just breathe, Abby. I try to envision myself calmly taking this test, steadily answering multiple-choice questions and filling in blanks. I try to recall the things I know. But all I see is Caitlin’s face. The hurt. The anger. The disgust. All I hear is static.

A couple of years ago, two days before Christmas, a commuter plane crashed just off the coast of Charleston, killing fifty people onboard. Knowing that Caitlin and her parents were on their way to Charleston, I panicked. When she didn’t answer her cell, I assumed the worst. My best friend was dead. I spent the next three hours in the fetal position on my bedroom floor, unable to imagine my life without Caitlin. I’m close with my parents, but Caitlin is the sister I never had. The voice I trust more than my own. It wasn’t just that I had lost my best friend; I’d lost a part of myself. Or so I thought. At five o’clock, Caitlin finally called me back. They’d gotten on an earlier flight, and Caitlin had taken her grandmother out for the afternoon, without her cell phone. I still remember how it felt to hear her voice. The relief, the gratitude, the joy. The sense of wholeness I experienced in that moment, the profound sense of peace. I also remember how I felt before she called, when I thought I had lost her forever. It’s how I feel right now.

“Okay, class.” Dr. Mann’s voice sounds far away. “You may begin.”

I look down at the typewritten test booklet, but the words might as well be in German. Caitlin’s voice echoes in my head. You’re a self-absorbed bitch. I earned the bitch comment by bringing up Craig in front of a room full of people, but where’d the self-absorbed part come from? You’re too self-involved to see it. Is that really what she thinks?

My classmates scribble furiously as the wall clock counts minutes with an audible tick. I blink repeatedly, but everything is a blur. The page. My thoughts.

The bell rings.

I haven’t written a word.

There goes my future. The thought doesn’t faze me. Like a robot, I write my name on my exam and pass it forward, where Dr. Mann stands collecting them. Not wanting to be anywhere near here when he notices that mine is blank, I’m out the door before he dismisses us, headed straight for the parking lot. I can’t go to newspaper right now. I have to get out of here. If I go quickly, no one will notice. I’ll probably get written up for skipping, but I’ll deal with that next week. Say I got sick or something. As long as no one sees me leave—

“Abby!” My hand is on the side door when he calls out to me. It’s Josh, of course, looking all gentlemanly and concerned. I let go of the handle as he walks toward me. So much for a stealthy exit.

“How’d it go?” he asks.

“I left it blank,” I say. Then, inexplicably, I laugh. It’s a joyless, bitter sound.

“Do you want to talk about what happened at lunch?” Josh asks. His brown eyes search mine, as if the answers to other, unspoken questions are hidden there. I don’t answer, and he doesn’t press me. The warning bell rings.

“Am I too much work?” It comes out ragged and rough, and the second the words are out, I want to take them back. “Never mind,” I say quickly, looking away, trying to swallow the tears that went surging up from my chest as the words fell out. Josh catches my hand in his.

“Anything worth having takes work, Abby,” he says softly. The noise in my head quiets as my eyes meet his. My next breath is easier.

“Do you want to maybe hang out after practice today?” I hear myself ask. “Maybe see a movie or something?”

“Oh, I, uh . . .” Josh breaks our gaze, glancing down the hall to where Megan is busy trying to look busy at her locker. Is it that transparent when I do it? Note to self: When feigning preoccupation with bag packing, don’t put your textbook in your backpack, then take it back out again. “I’m supposed to hang out with Megan,” he says apologetically.

“Of course,” I say, trying to sound breezy. “Duh.”

“Maybe the three of us could do something?” he offers.

“Nah, that’s okay,” I tell him, practically pushing him out of the way. “I’ll probably be working all night tonight anyway. The November issue of the Oracle comes out next week, so things are crazy. See you at practice!” I wiggle my fingers at Megan as I pass her (my attempt at a friendly, I-didn’t-just-ask-your-boyfriend-out wave), then bolt for the main hall.

By the time I get there, my left foot is throbbing. The punctures healed without infection, but I’m still not supposed to put my full weight on it. I slow to a hobble. So much for ditching sixth. Now that I’m on the main hall, I won’t be able to make it out of the building before the bell rings.

With next Wednesday’s deadline looming, the editorial staff is working in overdrive to get everything done, making me feel guilty for almost bailing on them. Sixth period passes quickly as I field questions and review layouts, all while trying not to think about the fact that in the span of the past ninety minutes, I have (a) lost my two best friends, (b) blown my astronomy midterm, and (c) asked out a guy who is dating someone else. How quickly a person can implode.

I leave the newspaper lab a few minutes before the bell with the excuse of needing to stop by Ms. DeWitt’s office before the end of the day. Instead, I go straight to my car. Caitlin’s Jetta is already gone.

Scattered leaves and wet pavement are the only signs of this morning’s storm. Now the sky is dotted with white puffy clouds. I squint as the sun beats through my windshield, irritated by its persistent brightness.

When I get to the boathouse, I put myself to work checking the nuts on the outriggers and greasing the seat slides while the rest of the team trickles into practice. Once out on the water, I discover a major advantage crew has over cross-country: the distraction factor. When you’re running, all you can do is think. When you’re coxing, you don’t have time to think. Since I’m the one in charge, I have no choice but to give the guys my full attention as I steer the B boat down the river and back, grateful that Megan and Josh are fifty yards away in the A. Before I know it, the sun is fading, and Coach is blowing his whistle for us to return to the dock. Thank God this day is almost over.

As I pull into the garage, I can see my mom through the garage-door window, peeling carrots over the sink. The last thing I want to do is rehash the fight. Or the test. Or listen to my mom reassure me that everything will be okay. A positive outlook is her default response to adversity, and right now, I’m content with keeping my bleak one.

“Hey! How was the midterm?” she asks the instant I open the back door.

“Horrible.”

Her face falls. “That bad?”

“Worse.” I move toward the back stairs before she can ask if I want to talk about it. “I’ll be in my room.”

“Your SAT score came,” she calls after me, sounding hesitant. “Envelope is on the table.”

I turn and look. A single white envelope stands out against the dark cherry of the kitchen table. I walk back to the table, pick it up, and turn it over in my hands. “I wasn’t expecting this till Monday,” I say.

“I know.”

We both stare at the envelope, at the small white rectangle with my name on it. “I don’t want to open it now, okay?”

Mom nods. “Just wanted you to know it was here, honey.”

I carry the envelope with me upstairs. What a fitting finale to what might actually be the worst day of my life. It seems crazy that a person’s future could depend so heavily on one number. But without a solid SAT score, top schools won’t even look at you. Unless, of course, you give them one of those this-is-why-I-suck-at-standardized-tests essays to explain it all away, but that generally requires having or feigning some sort of learning disability. For a second, I’m envious of Caitlin.

Envelope still in my hands, I kick off my shoes and climb under the covers. I lay the envelope beside me and stare up at my star-covered ceiling. My plan was to re-create Cygnus, but what I ended up with looks less like a diving swan and more like a deformed cross. I draw my left knee up to my chest, feeling for the scar on my foot. So much has changed since that night. I’m not running cross-country anymore, Josh and I barely talk, and as of four hours ago, I no longer have a best friend.

A lot can happen in five weeks.

You’re a self-absorbed bitch.

A lot can happen in five minutes.

I sigh and roll over onto my side, curling my body around the envelope. The contents of this innocuous-looking rectangle will determine my future. For a girl whose practice scores are all over the map, that’s terrifying. If my score isn’t within the median, I’m screwed. Panic starts to creep in. It sprouts in my stomach, then spreads to my chest. I’ve wanted to go to Northwestern since Career Day in seventh grade, when Brandon Grant’s mom, a features reporter for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, came and spoke to our English class. Ava Wynn-Grant. She was so stylish in her navy pants and cropped blazer, and so articulate. I literally wanted to be her. She was a journalist, so I wanted to be a journalist. She went to Northwestern, so I wanted to go to Northwestern. And every scholastic decision I’ve made since then has been with those two goals in mind.

I wonder what path I’d be on if Ava Wynn-Grant had been an attorney or an actress instead.

Heart pounding, I slide my finger under the envelope’s white flap and slowly inch it open. When I see how I did—not a Caitlin-level performance, but better than I was expecting—my eyes well up with tears. The only person I want to share this with isn’t speaking to me. I tuck the envelope under my pillow and lie back against it, squeezing my eyes shut. The noise is still there, that sharp static from this afternoon. I give in to it, letting it drown everything out.

There’s a soft knock at my door. When I open my eyes, my dad is standing in the doorway, holding two bowls of ice cream. What daylight was left is now gone.

“What are you doing home from work?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.

“It’s seven thirty already,” he replies, nodding at the clock on my nightstand. “I brought you a snack,” he adds, holding up one of the bowls. “Cookies ’n cream.”

I manage a smile, scooting over to make room for him on the bed. “Did Mom authorize this?”

“Your mother is busy making some very complicated-looking chicken dish that will likely not be ready for consumption until next Saturday. I figured we needed something to tide us over.” He sits down next to me and hands me a bowl. We eat in silence for a few minutes, both flipping our spoons over before each bite so the ice cream lands squarely on our tongues.

“I heard you had a rough day,” he says, pecking at a big chunk of Oreo with his spoon. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Caitlin and I got in a fight.”

He looks surprised. “That’s not like you two.”

“I know.”

“What happened?” he asks me.

“I told Tyler that Caitlin liked him. Things just kind of snowballed from there.”

“I take it she didn’t want you to?”

“Worse,” I say miserably. “It’s not even true. And I knew that, but at the same time, I had this feeling that maybe she liked him, even though she didn’t know it yet.” I shake my head, appalled at my own carelessness. “I’m an idiot.”

“Maybe not your finest moment,” Dad concedes, “but it certainly doesn’t sound unforgivable.”

“Caitlin was really upset,” I tell him. “She said some pretty awful things to me.” My eyes fill with fresh tears.

“Well, if I know Caitlin, there’s something else going on.” He pauses, then adds gently, “And if I know you, dear daughter of mine, that isn’t how the fight ended. So what’d you say that you now wish you hadn’t?”

“Am I that predictable?”

“Predictable? Not in the least. Prone to impulsive emotional outbursts?” He smiles. “On occasion.”

I look down at my striped comforter. There’s a black pen stain next to my big toe. “I was so mean,” I whisper. “She’ll never forgive me.” A tear begins its descent down my cheek.

“You won’t know that until you apologize,” he says.

I want to tell him he doesn’t know Caitlin as well as I do, but instead I just nod. The tear drips from my chin to the comforter, forming a perfect wet circle.

“Well, I better go check on your mother,” Dad says then, standing up. “Make sure she hasn’t ruined any more appliances.” I giggle through my tears. Two weeks ago she killed our blender trying to puree a duck.

“I’ll be down in a few minutes,” I say. He nods, then bends to kiss my forehead.

“You two will work this out,” he whispers. “It might take some time, but you will.” I nod, blinking back the tears hovering on the edge of my eyelids. Dad straightens back up and heads for the door.

My cell phone is lying next to me on the bed. I don’t really expect her to answer, but I dial Caitlin’s number anyway. It goes straight to voicemail. I try Tyler next. To my surprise, he picks up on the second ring.

“I get it,” he says after my profuse apology. “You’re you.”

“What does that mean?” I prepare to be offended.

“You thought you could micromanage this the way you try to micromanage everything else,” he replies. “You thought we’d make a good couple, and you figured you could make it happen. But you can’t plan a relationship like you’ve planned your career path, Barnes. Doesn’t work that way.” I hear him smile. “But good try.”

“I shouldn’t have lied,” I say. “If I’d just kept my mouth shut, you wouldn’t have broken up with Ilana, and—”

“Hold up there, chief. I’d been planning to end things with Ilana all week. Why do you think I got so blitzed at the gala?”

A thin layer of guilt melts away.

“So you don’t hate me?”

“I don’t hate you. I might be planning a very public humiliation as payback, but I don’t hate you.”

I smile too now, relieved that I haven’t lost both of them. “Have you talked to Caitlin?” I ask then.

“Only for a minute,” he says. “She had a meeting with DeWitt right after lunch.”

“What for?”

“Dunno,” he says. “She wasn’t exactly chatty.” His attempt to sound casual about it makes it worse. Behind the words, his voice is heavy with disappointment.

“I really am sorry I messed things up for you guys,” I say for the fifth time. Downstairs, our home phone line rings.

“Not all’s lost,” Tyler says. “Elmo told me afterward that if Caitlin didn’t want me, she’d take me.” “Elmo” is Eleanor Morgan, Andy Morgan’s little sister, a perma-bubbly redhead who I suspect might sleep in her cheerleading uniform.

Before I can remind him that Andy would kick his ass if he ever even attempted to hook up with Eleanor, there’s a knock on my bedroom door. My dad is back.

“Phone’s for you,” he tells me. “It’s your astronomy teacher.”

“Really?” Dad nods. He sets the cordless phone on my dresser and disappears again. “Call you later,” I tell Tyler.

“Tell Dr Pepper I said hello.”

We hang up, and I reach for the cordless. I don’t know what I’m going to tell Dr. Mann when he asks why my test was blank. The truth, I guess.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Barnes! Gustav Mann here.” I smile. As if, with that accent, it could be anyone else.

“Hi, Dr. Mann. How are you?”

“A little concerned, my dear. What happened this afternoon?”

“I got in a fight with my best friend right before the test,” I say, aware of how juvenile it sounds. But if Dr. Mann thinks it’s childish, he doesn’t let on. “I was prepared for our exam, but I just couldn’t . . .” My voice wobbles.

“Ah. I thought it might be something like that. I’m very sorry to hear it.”

“I’m willing to do extra credit,” I tell him. “As much as I can. I know it probably won’t be enough to make up for the zero, but I’d like to do it, anyway.”

“Let’s see how well you do on the midterm first,” he replies.

“You’re letting me retake it?”

“Of course. Tomorrow morning, if you’re up for it. Now, there will be a penalty, I’m afraid. School policy is explicit about that. Your test will have to be graded out of a total of ninety possible points, instead of a hundred.”

A ten-point deduction. That’s it? With the curve, there’s a decent chance I could still get a B. A respectable, Northwestern-worthy B.

“I just ask that you refrain from further study,” the old man is saying. “What you knew today is what you should know tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course,” I tell him. At this point, I’d eat a cockroach if he asked me to. “You have my word.”

“Excellent,” he replies. “I’ll see you tomorrow at seven, then.”

“Dr. Mann?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Why are you giving me a second chance?”

Inexplicably, the old man chuckles. “I’ve learned, Ms. Barnes, that a person rarely gets just one chance at anything. There are second chances everywhere, if you know where to look for them. Look deeper, remember?” He pauses for a beat. I imagine him smiling on the other end of the line. “I’ll see you in the morning, dear.”

Before I can thank him, he’s gone.

Buoyed by this unexpected bit of good fortune, I head down to the kitchen, where Dad is snacking his way through our pantry while Mom braises onions. I tell them about the retest but opt not to share my SAT score. Caught up in her coq au vin, Mom doesn’t ask about it.

As we’re finishing dinner, the doorbell rings. “Are you expecting someone?” Mom asks, taking in my coffee-stained sweatpants and ratty T-shirt. I shake my head, making eye contact with my dad. It has to be Caitlin.

“I’ll see who it is,” I say.

I make it to the door and stop. Should I apologize first? What if she doesn’t apologize at all? I’m still trying to decide on a strategy when the doorbell rings again. Not wanting her to leave, I fling open the door.

“Hey.”

I blink in surprise. “Josh! Hi.” I step back, suddenly intensely aware of the fact that I am wearing sweatpants that haven’t been washed in a week. “What are you doing here?” I ask. His face falls a notch. “I just meant . . . I thought you had a date with Megan?”

“It wasn’t a date. We were just hanging out.”

“Oh,” I say, stepping onto the front porch and closing the door for some privacy.

“So . . . how are you? You seemed pretty shaken up this afternoon.” His forehead crinkles with concern. “Did you and Caitlin work things out?”

“Not yet. I’m sure we will, though.” My plan was to convince him with a winning smile, but now it feels like too much effort. So, I burst into tears instead. “No . . . we . . . won’t,” I manage between sobs. “She . . . hates . . . me.”

Josh steps forward and envelops me in a hug. At first it feels awkward, like the hug doesn’t quite fit, but then he slides his left arm up a few inches and I tilt my head to the right, and suddenly it works.

“Fights suck,” he says simply, his voice right next to my ear.

“She’s my best friend,” is all I can think to say.

“I know.”

“I don’t know what to do,” I tell him, my face pressed against his shirt. “I’m so sad, but I’m angry, too, you know? Like I’m not sure I want to make up with her.”

“You don’t have to figure everything out tonight,” he says softly.

I pull back, sniffling, and eye him with mock suspicion. “Why do you look like a teenage boy when you’re clearly not one?”

“Glad I have you fooled,” he says, and smiles. “Hey, do you want to go somewhere?”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

“I need to change first. . . .”

“No, you don’t. Gray sweats are perfect for where we’re going. Go tell your parents you’ll be back in an hour and grab a jacket.” He looks down at my bare feet and smiles. “And don’t forget shoes.”

“But—”

He doesn’t let me finish. “Do you want to come or not?”

“Yes! I’ll be right back.” Through the door and halfway up the front stairs, I realize I’ve left him standing on the front porch. “Come in if you want!” I call over my shoulder. “My parents are in the kitchen!” It dawns on me that he’s never met my parents, making it a little weird for both of them if he were to just stroll in. As I’m entering my bedroom, I hear the front door close. Did he come in or go out?

I grab my sneakers and hoodie, splash some cold water on my tearstained cheeks, and head for the back stairs, at which point I hear my dad bellow, “So you’re Astronomy Boy!” I bound down the stairs before he can inflict any more damage.

“Josh and I are going out,” I announce when my feet hit the linoleum. “We’ll be back later.” Before my mom can comment on my wardrobe selection, I grab Josh’s hand and pull him out the back door.

“So where are we going?” I ask as Josh opens the passenger door of his Jeep. The interior smells like fresh-cut grass and Ivory soap. There’s a beach towel in the backseat.

“To visit Cygnus,” is all he says.

A few minutes later, we pull up beside the pond in his neighborhood and park. “The streetlight is burned out,” he says, and points. I press my face to the window, peering out into the darkness. My breath fogs the cool glass. “Come on,” he says, pushing open his door. “It’s a near-perfect moon.”

I follow him down the little dirt path to a wooden swing by the water’s edge. The ground is still soft from today’s storm. As many times as I’ve driven past this pond on my way to Tyler’s, I’ve never noticed the swing.

“I figured Cygnus could commiserate,” Josh says as we sit. “He knows what it’s like to be separated from his best friend.” The wooden seat is cold beneath my sweats, but not wet. Someone must’ve dried it after the rain. We tilt our heads back and look up. Dozens of pine trees form a horseshoe around the water, blocking the light from nearby houses, the closest of which is at least a hundred yards away. The moon, low in the sky, is barely a sliver. With so little light pollution, the sky is thick with stars.

“Did he ever get him back?” I ask, slipping out of my muddy shoes and pulling my bare feet up under me. “I know he went looking for Phaethon, but were they ever reunited?”

“Absolutely.”

I look over at him. He’s staring intently at the sky. “You’re totally lying to me right now, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” he says without missing a beat. We both laugh, and an ease settles over the moment. Even after the day I’ve had, I feel oddly at peace right now. The world seems bigger, the universe infinitely more vast. As if there’s room for everything that happened today. Enough space. I inhale, letting the crisp night air fill my lungs, feeling my rib cage expand. When I exhale, the only sound I hear is my breath. The static is gone.

“So, I keep thinking about something you said today,” Josh says then. “It’s been bothering me since you said it.” He’s looking at me now with the same intensity he’d previously directed at the sky. “You asked me if you were too much work. Why would you ask that?”

“It’s something Caitlin said,” I tell him. “Today, during our fight. She said it was the reason you weren’t interested in me.” I look down at the still-wet grass, barely visible in the darkness. “I’m more work than I’m worth.”

“Who says I’m not interested?”

I nearly swallow my gum.

“As I remember it,” he says, “you informed me that I should date another girl, which I—quite reasonably, I think—took to mean that you weren’t interested.”

“You never asked me out,” I say defensively. “You had, like, a zillion opportunities.”

“A zillion, huh? Like the night you told me you already had plans with friends? Or how about the night you said you had to go to your mom’s museum opening? You’re a very busy girl, Abby Barnes.”

“Yes, but you could’ve suggested another night,” I point out. “Either of those times. But you didn’t.”

“I wasn’t aware that I was being timed,” he teases.

“You weren’t being timed,” I reply, heat creeping up my neck. “But if you were so interested, then why’d you say ‘thanks’ when I told you about Megan?” I demand. As I’m asking, I realize I don’t care about his answer. I just want him to kiss me.

“How’s a guy supposed to respond when the girl he’s crazy about tells him he should date another girl?” Josh keeps talking, not even pausing to gauge my reaction. Who is this person and what has he done with the dorky guy in spandex and boat shoes? “Wait, don’t answer that,” he says. “I think I know now. I’m supposed to say, ‘Don’t be silly, Abby. I want to date you. Are you free tomorrow night?’”

“You weren’t supposed to say anything,” I tell him. “You could’ve just been honest.”

“I can do honest,” he replies. “Don’t be silly, Abby. I want to date you. Are you free tomorrow night?”

It takes me a few seconds to realize that he’s waiting for a response.

Astronomy Boy just asked me out on a date. I’m still staring at him when he says, “Just so you know, I will be forced to treat silence as acceptance.”

And just like that, this day that went from bad to worse to the worst day ever redeemed itself with one perfect moment.

“Halloween might sound like a weird night for a first date,” Josh is saying, “but I think it’s appropriate for the girl who took me trespassing the last time we went out.”

“What about Megan?” I ask, when what I want to say is, Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.

Josh shakes his head in mock disapproval. “See, here I thought I was the clueless one, because I’ve never had a girlfriend before. But it turns out you’re even more clueless than I am.” He turns to face me, and this time, I meet his gaze. “I like you, Abby,” he says softly. “I have from the beginning. Ever since the moment you told me you were fated to be in Dr. Mann’s class.” His face, so close to mine, blurs slightly. “There have definitely been some moments when I’ve doubted your sanity,” he says with a laugh, wrapping his hand around my bare left foot, his palm covering the tender flesh of my scar. “But oddly, those moments only made me like you more.” I look at his hand, imagining what it would feel like on my calf. My thigh.

“So maybe you’re the crazy one,” I say.

“Crazy about you,” he says, with an uncharacteristic confidence that makes my cheeks flush. His face gets serious. “I was never uncertain. I just wanted to get to know you first, so I’d know exactly what I was getting into if I ever got the chance to do this.” Cupping my chin with his hand, he kisses me. The kiss is gentle, but not tentative. I close my eyes, tasting his cinnamon-sweet breath, feeling the softness of his lips. His hand slides off my cheek to my shoulder and then down my left arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake. My whole body is drumming with pleasure. When his thumb reaches my elbow, he wraps his fingers around the crook of my arm and pulls me gently toward him. “So is that a yes?” I hear him whisper, right before he kisses me again.

I pause long enough to smile. “Yes.”