If Julia had been there, I could have gotten through today okay. Safely.
We were the last group to go, and when the bell rang Mel was still talking. Gladwell said, “Thank you all for a wonderful presentation,” raising an eyebrow at me because I hadn’t said a word the whole time. (But she didn’t give Patrick the eyebrow. Apparently clicking a mouse counts as talking.)
Everyone left except us and the other two groups that had spoken. Of course they got their grades fi rst. Caro disappeared into the hall before we got ours, though, because Beth gave her a look, and so me and Patrick and Mel were left standing there.
“You know,” Mel said, “I thought about you when I was talking about Huck and Jim’s friendship.”
I (stupidly) nodded, figuring Mel was about to head off into one of his tangents where he asked me if I liked tacos or something, but instead he said, “You must really miss Julia. I mean, you never talk about her or anything, which is kind of weird, but I can just tell you do. I talked to her at parties a couple of times, you know. She had a great laugh. I remember this one time—” He kept talking and I thought about taking my copy of
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I could actually see myself doing it. I wanted to do it.
I wanted to do it so badly it scared me.
Patrick cleared his throat. I looked at him, surprised.
He looked away, of course. Mel glanced at him too but kept talking to me. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I don’t think Julia would have wanted you to be so sad.”
I forced myself to nod. A few conversations at a party and Mel was qualified to tell me what Julia wanted? It was like being in freaking Pinewood or talking to stupid Laurie, where everyone was so sure they knew J and what she thought about her life and me even though they’d never met her.
“See, the thing about grief is—” Mel said, and Patrick shifted the laptop he was carrying, his elbow clipping Mel’s side.
“Sorry,” Patrick said. “Hey, can you go grab the CDs?
I left them on the bookshelf in the back. I would get them, but I have to put all this stuff away before my next class.”
“Sure,” Mel said and patted my arm before he turned away.
“Thanks,” I told Patrick, and I meant it. I thought he understood, and it was nice that someone knew that people telling you what you should feel sucks.
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“Sure. The anger will go away, you know. Mostly, anyway.”
“What?” That wasn’t understanding at all, and I felt so stupid for thinking, even for a second, that someone could really get how I felt. It pissed me off.
He took a step back. “Never mind.”
“No, go on. You were going to, what? Tell me I’m not sad, I’m angry at myself? Wow, you’re a genius. Con- gratulations on observing the obvious!”
“You know what I mean,” Patrick muttered.
“Whatever.” I started to walk away. Hearing my grade could wait. I just wanted to get out of there.
“You’re angry at her,” he said. “At Julia.”
I kept walking like I didn’t hear him. But I did.
I should have just left it at that, but I had to sit through lunch and the rest of my classes, and even though I ignored Patrick I knew he was there. I saw him sitting in physics with both hands clamped to his lab table like they were bolted to it. He got up and left when we still had twenty minutes to go, saying he had to use the bathroom and never coming back.
And did anything happen to him? Did the teacher realize he was gone and report him? Of course not.
I got mad then. I got really mad. It was okay for him to leave class early, because he was smart and not 223
a freak like me? It was okay for him to skulk around hallways and not talk during class presentations? But me not wanting to talk about Julia with the losers I’m stuck seeing in class?
Well, something must be wrong with me, and I shouldn’t be so sad. But wait! I’m not sad, I’m mad at Julia!
I raised my hand and asked to go to the nurse’s offi ce.
I told the nurse I had cramps. She let me lie down and went off to gossip with the secretaries. I used her phone to call Dad. He was on a conference call, but his secretary put me through.
I told him he didn’t need to pick me up. I said I was going to the library. I said I was going with Caro. I said she was going to give me a ride home. He said, “That’s wonderful, sweetheart,” and sounded so happy. The “sweetheart” didn’t even sound forced.
I should have called him back and said I’d changed my mind or something. Should have, should have, should have. Instead I flipped through the school directory in the nurse’s desk and wrote down an address. Patrick lives in Meadow Hills, over by the golf course.
I took the bus there. His house looked like every other one on the street, white with big columns and a stained glass window over the front door. A woman shouted,
“Come in!” when I knocked.
