She laughs like it’s a game. She can’t see what this fling will do to her down the line, but I can.
“Why not? I’ll tell you why not.”
“Go ahead, I’m listening,” she says, but she picks up a bottle of hot-pink polish and goes to work on her toes.
“He’s a teacher; you’re a student. He’s an adult; you’re a minor. It’s illegal, Jamie. He could get fired and sent to jail.”
“He won’t. That never happens.”
That never happens? Do we live in a world where this is so common that Jamie has grounds to say “that never happens”?
I ignore her and go on.
“He’s old.”
“He’s only twenty-four,” Jamie answers. “And have you not seen him? He’s totally hot.”
I think of passing Mr. Rice in the hallway next week: she’s right, he is hot. But that doesn’t make this okay.
I mentally consult my notes and recall the couple of mentions of guys Jamie has associated with recently. “Don’t you like Jason? Or Anthony?”
“They’re boys. They’re fine distractions, but Ted is a man.”
“He clearly has issues if he’s pursuing a high school girl.”
“I’m not just any high school girl. And really, London, you can’t change my mind. I like him! Why can’t you just be happy for me?”
My argument is going nowhere, so I bring out the big guns.
“Do I have to tell you how this will end?” I ask softly.
Jamie’s head whips in my direction. She meets my eyes. In hers, I see a fire blazing.
“You won’t tell me that I’m going to get caught cheating, but you’ll happily wreck things with Ted?”
“Not happily, it’s just that I…”
“Stop,” she says, holding up a palm. “I don’t want to hear it. We’ll just see. Okay? We’ll see how things turn out. You could be wrong.”
“I’m not,” I say confidently.
“Whatever,” Jamie snaps.
We are silent for a few moments. I consider the long walk home in the snow, and eventually I take one for the team.
“Sorry, J, I just worry about you.”
“I know you do,” she says. “But stop. I’m okay.”
“I know you are,” I say.
“Seriously, London, listen to me,” Jamie begins, sitting up taller on the bed. “You can mess with your own business however you want, but keep those memories about me to yourself. It’s weird enough knowing that you know how things will go for me. I’m not one of those people who go to palm readers. I like surprises. Just let me live my life.” Before I can open my mouth, she adds, “Please?”
“I will,” I promise sadly.
“Thanks,” Jamie says with a weak smile.
I think we’re okay now, but as we walk out of her bedroom to head upstairs for a spaghetti dinner, Jamie mutters, “You better write that down in your little notebook so you don’t forget it.”
“Don’t worry,” I say softly. “I will.”
10
I’m in the cemetery.
My mother is sobbing to my right. There is a menacing stone angel to my left. Across a semicircle of black-clad mourners, a few faces stand out: an older woman with a white lace handkerchief, a younger woman in a low-cut dress, an imposing bald man who looks like a brick wall.
My eyes are stuck for a moment on a small black brooch attached to the older woman’s sweater. From where I stand, it looks like a jeweled beetle, and it seems oddly fancy for a funeral. Then again, I vaguely remember reading an article later in life about Egyptians being buried with beetles. Maybe it’s significant to her. Maybe she just likes bugs.
Tentatively, I inhale, fearing the stench of rotting corpses, but instead I smell two of my favorite scents: grass and rain. Some of the mourners have umbrellas. Some are getting wet.
I look at the path leading to our gathering: it is dirt and rock, mostly dirt in some places. Because of the rain, there are footprints there. Some small; some large. Lots of footprints.
I want to walk through the footprints and mess them up, but I don’t. Instead, I stand still in the rain, wondering what’s going on.
11
Eyes adjusted to the October morning, I try to read the note in the dark. No go.
I roll to my side and edge out from under the cozy comforter. Reaching to turn on the bedside lamp that I’ll have for years to come, I knock over a cup of water that I don’t remember leaving on the nightstand.
Rookie mistake.
Quickly, I snap on the lamp and mop up the small puddle with my pajama sleeve. The PJs are red thermal; I don’t remember putting them on.
Situation under control, I sink back against the pillows. Squinting from the light, holding the note inches from my nose, I read.
10/24 (Sun.)
Clothes:
—Red thermal pajamas most of the day
—Long-sleeved teal sweater and skinny jeans (Mom and I had dinner at Casa de Amigos… spilled hot sauce on upper thigh of jeans… check to see if stain’s out)
School:
—Take Span.-Eng. dictionary to Spanish for translation exercise
—Anatomy quiz (check out study guide by the computer before school)
—Start on graphic design project
Other:
—J was still weird today about Friday’s conversation (told me again NOT to tell her anything about her future)
—Notes about J & me talking about dads made me curious… snooped in Mom’s room today while she was out. Insane what I found. Envelope in my right desk drawer. Not sure what to do except keep it hidden from Mom for now.
—Luke didn’t call again today (read back; he sounds awesome minus the no-calling thing)
I fling off the heavy quilt and plod over to the desk. I grab the study guide from the top and the overstuffed envelope from the drawer. On my way back to bed, my eyes wander to the framed photos of me and Jamie dating back to what looks like junior high. There is a silly collage with photos and magazine cutouts that I can only guess Jamie and I made together. It’s juvenile, but I like it. Without being able to remember for sure, I assume that things were a whole lot simpler then.
Half an hour later, my mom knocks and I rush to cover up the pile of contraband. When I don’t answer, she opens the door anyway.
“I knocked,” she says.
“I know.”
She looks at me quizzically in response to what I can only assume is an expression that is equal parts anger and guilt.
“You’re going to be late for school,” she says.
“Okay, I’ll hurry,” I say back.
“What’s up?” she asks, a funny expression still plastered on her face.
You tell me, I think to myself.
“Nothing, why?” I say instead.
“You seem… off. You seemed off last night, too,” she says, one hand on the open door and the other on the frame.
“Well, I’m not,” I retort. She holds up her hands in surrender.
“Okay, fine, London. Just get moving. You’re going to be late.” She turns and closes the door behind her.
Twenty minutes later, during the ride to school, she interrupts my thoughts.
“Is this because of that boy?”
