Giddiness now in check, I look back at Mr. Ellis, who is consulting a notebook on top of his desk. With his pointer finger as a guide, he scans a list. Then he looks up at me.
“London Lane, did you bring your permission slip today?” Everyone in the class turns to look at me. I can’t help but flush because of the attention. For the moment, my grin is gone.
“Oh, sorry,” I say, leaning over to snatch my bag from under my seat. Unless I put it there yesterday and forgot to remind myself, I know the permission slip isn’t inside. Yet I make a show of looking for it.
“Sorry,” I say after a few seconds. “I guess I forgot it again.”
“Then you’ll have to go to the library,” says Mr. Ellis.
“Okay,” I say, standing up, bag in hand. My face burns as I walk to the front to take the hall pass from Mr. Ellis’s outstretched hand. I leave the classroom, and in the hallway my embarrassment quickly subsides. For forever, this is the type of slipup that I will loathe: the little mistakes that make me seem spastic.
But not today.
Today there is snow on the courtyard.
Today there is Luke.
9
Despite falling flakes obstructing my vision, I see Jamie’s silhouette in the front window as I trudge around the corner to her street.
“Why aren’t you wearing that cute coat you bought when we went thrifting?” she asks, even before the front door to her 1970s house is all the way open. “And why are you dressed like you’re exploring the Arctic?”
“Why were you watching for me?” I answer her questions with a question as I kick snow off my boots and push past her into the entryway. I start to unravel.
“It’s dark,” she shrugs. Jamie will never admit it, but toward me, at least, she’s very protective.
“Why did you walk here, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” I say, tossing wet hair out of my face. “Seemed like a good idea.”
I finish unwrapping and then neatly stack my winter wear on the entryway bench. But not without grabbing my cell phone in case Luke calls tonight.
Just as we’re ready to head to Jamie’s room, her mother pops her head around the corner and beams at me. She’s wearing a retro print apron over her power suit.
“Hi, London!” she calls.
“Hi, Susan,” I say with a friendly wave. Jamie rolls her eyes, grabs my hand, and pulls me in the direction of the stairs.
“How are you, sweetheart?” Susan asks as we pass.
“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” I call as I’m dragged down to Jamie’s lair in the finished basement.
Halfway down the stairs, my mom calls to make sure I made it safely. I quickly tell her I’m fine and hang up.
Thirty minutes later, I’m on Jamie’s bed, trying not to get bloodred nail polish on her comforter.
“Why do you have that weird look on your face?” Jamie asks. “You’re making me nervous.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m just happy.”
“About the weirdo?” Jamie teases.
“He’s not weird; he’s hot,” I say back.
Jamie shrugs.
“So, what’s the deal? Do you remember having babies with him or something?”
I set down my polish and look at my best friend intently.
“No,” I say in a whisper. Jamie scoots closer to me. “I can’t remember him at all.”
“Then what’s the point?” she asks, rolling her eyes and looking disappointed. She refocuses on her nails. “Why bother?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” I say. “If you think about it, it’s not that he isn’t in my future.”
That gets her attention. She looks up. “Huh?”
“Well, I reread my notes from this week. Monday, I didn’t remember Luke from Tuesday. But then on Tuesday, I talked to him and stuff. See?”
“Uh… no.”
“He was in my future on Monday, I just didn’t remember it. It’s not that he isn’t in my future….”
“Then it’s probably because he’ll do something bad to you. You’re blocking him.” Jamie sets down her nail polish and looks at me seriously. “London, you should stay away from that guy.”
“It doesn’t necessarily mean something that bad,” I say, wanting to defend Luke. “I mean, he’s not going to kill me or anything.”
“How do you know?” Jamie asks.
“I just know!” I say, not really just knowing. But logically, I remember way into the future, so I assume that I won’t be murdered anytime soon.
“Okay, okay!” Jamie playfully shouts, holding up her palms in surrender. “I just think maybe you should aim a little higher.”
I don’t answer, for fear of what’s coming next. I brace myself for the conversation that my note this morning told me we’d have here tonight.
“Take Ted, for example,” Jamie begins. She means her detention monitor, who also happens to be the Driver’s Education teacher. Who also happens to be married.
“What about him?” I groan.
“Hey, that’s not nice,” Jamie says with a babyish frown.
“He’s married, Jamie,” I say without looking at her.
I try to avoid remembering holding Jamie’s hand at the side of her hospital bed after a bottle of pills doesn’t work, but trying not to think of the memory only makes it burrow itself into my brain.
“He’s unhappily married, and he’s a really great guy.” Jamie defends Mr. Rice as I defended Luke. I can’t help but think of her own unhappy marriage to come, of stories of her parents’ unhappy marriage that may have influenced her in some way.
It reminds me of a note I read this morning from last week.
“Hey, how’s your dad?” I ask casually. Jamie and I will spend a college spring break at his house in L.A. “Didn’t you visit him recently?”
She gives me a funny look. “Why are you acting like you know him? You’ve never even met him.”
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “Anyway, how was the trip?”
Jamie eyes me skeptically and applies some polish. “We already talked about this. The trip was fine. He’s fine. His lame new wife is still lame.”
“I wonder if my dad has a lame new wife,” I say under my breath.
I tighten the cap on the potent red polish. “Do you have any black? My nails are chipped,” I say, surveying the damage.
“Red on the bottom and black on the top, huh? Very school-spirited of you,” Jamie comments as she digs through a basket of tiny glass bottles in every color. She finds black and tosses it my way. Still, she’s focused.
“What’s with the dad talk all of a sudden?” Jamie asks, but doesn’t let me answer. “They’re gone. End of story. Anyway, stop trying to change the subject. I’m serious about Ted. He’s really great.”
“Uh-huh,” I murmur as I paint.
“He asked me to meet him after school on Monday,” she says, as if it’s the most natural thing on earth. I stop painting midnail.
“Jamie, seriously, you can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
