She laughed. “Besides that. Remember when Beth told me to ask Mel if Joe was going to a party, and I told Mel I thought Joe was hot and acted like I—?”
“Wanted to hook up with him?”
Caro nodded. “Right. Beth did all that for a reason.”
“Because she wanted Mel to think you liked Joe instead of him.”
“Yeah, but here’s the thing. I never told Beth what happened with Mel. I didn’t tell anyone because it was so humiliating. So Beth never knew I liked Mel, which means—”
“Crap,” I said. “It means Mel remembers what happened at the party—and told Beth about it. Why would he do that?”
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“I don’t know. But I guess when he and I talked in English and stuff, it was just talking. I guess he’s always liked Beth.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. That one time he asked me to go to the movies with him, I could tell he liked you.”
“Well, it doesn’t really matter now,” she said. “And, okay, what exactly was that movie thing about? Not that you aren’t—I mean, it was just—”
“Very random?”
“Yeah.”
I shrugged. I knew why Mel had asked me to the movies. He’d done it for Patrick, just like he’d asked me all those questions. No wonder he’d never looked interested in my answers. “I think your hair’s done.”
Caro looked at me, and for a second I thought she was going to say something. That maybe she had an idea of what had happened with me and Patrick.
But she didn’t say anything, and we just rinsed her hair out.
“It looks good,” I told her when it was done.
“Thanks,” she said, and I made a face at her.
“No, for real,” she said. “Thank you.”
240
I knew what she meant. She was thanking me for being there, for listening.
“It’s not a big deal,” I said, but it kind of was to me.
For me. No one has said thank you to me for real in a long, long time.
241
152 days
J—
There’s some other stuff I need to tell you, okay?
Caro and I are still talking. I’ve even gone to her house a couple of times. Don’t get me wrong—it’s not like I tell her stuff or anything like that. I know she’s Corn Syrup, who trails Beth around school like a whipped loser. But she makes fun of herself for it, and . . . I don’t know. She’s not that bad.
God, this—just doing this, just writing to you—it’s hard. I’ve never been nervous talking to you before, but I am now. I’ve wanted to tell you everything, but I would look at this notebook and think of what I said to you before and hate myself.
Talking to you used to be so easy and now . . . now I don’t know. I don’t know anything.
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I wish I wasn’t so angry. I wish I was a stronger person, a better one.
Mom and I talked the day after . . . after Patrick.
She picked me up from school and drove me home.
She followed me into the study when I went in there to do my homework and started talking. She said she was sorry she’d pushed me to go to the mall, that if she’d hurt me by talking about getting a haircut she didn’t mean it.
You should have heard her, J. I always wanted her to sound the way she did then. I wanted that pleading note in her voice. I always wanted her and Dad to feel the way I did around them. I wanted them to realize that you can be in a room with someone and yet not really be there to them.
And yeah, it felt okay. But it didn’t feel great. I sat there, watching her talk and trying so hard, and I—I felt sorry for her. For Dad. Things had changed so much for them so fast, and here she was stuck at home with me in the middle of the afternoon. She wasn’t working on a paper or going over stuff for a class or talking to Dad or doing the things that used to make her glow.
She and Dad might not have noticed me before, but hell, at least they were happy.
“I’m sorry,” I told her. “I’m—this really sucks.”
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“Amy,” she said, her face crumpling. “Please don’t say that. Your father and I are trying so hard, and if you
