You’re late.
—
I HEADED OUTSIDE TO TAKE the next step. When I reached the outermost white line of the football field and took a deep breath. Then I used Anna’s phone and called the first number she’d sent the picture to.
As it rang, I couldn’t help but picture it vibrating in Mr. Matthews’s pocket, his fingers reaching in to picking it up. Couldn’t help but wonder what his face might look like when he saw her name on his screen.
No one picked up. And when the phone finally stopped ringing, I was dumped into a generic voice mail box.
My hands were shaking so hard that I had to hit the button twice to hang up.
Then I tried calling the second number.
It rang three times before a voice came on the line. A cold, mechanical voice telling me that the number I had dialed was no longer in service. I listened to the message four times before it sank in and I slowly hung up.
I sat down in the grass, my nerves shot. I’d thought Anna’s phone would provide answers. Instead, I only had more questions.
I PAGED THROUGH MY FRESHMAN yearbook after I got home, searching for someone with the initials PF. I went carefully through each grade, all the teachers, all the staff. It was strange to see how each individual looked, boiled down to a single shot. Some of my classmates had already transformed within the space of less than a year into someone almost completely different, while others had never really looked like their photograph to begin with—the image missing some essential aspect, flattening them into a pancake version of themselves.
The only one with the initials PF was Penelope Fetts, a junior with shiny dark hair and a wide gap between her front teeth. While I was trying to be open-minded, the birth control pills in Anna’s locker seemed to squarely rule Penelope out.
I did a second sweep through the book, to see if I’d missed anyone. This time, I lingered for a moment when I got to the photographs of me and Anna, which were, as always, side by side. Even in black-and-white, Anna glowed with that wide, unmistakable smile, like a child who’d just been handed a warm puppy. Next to her, I looked sullen, watchful, like I was deciding what I wanted more: to vanish into thin air or to kick the photographer in the shins. Our parents had laughed when they’d seen the photos. “There it is,” they’d said. “They got you both.”
Neither of us appeared in any other photographs. Nick, I noticed, showed up three times—his official school picture, jumping to make a shot in a game, and then in the back row of the basketball team photo. It was only in this last photograph that he was smiling, his teeth shining a brilliant white, a hint of dimple in his left cheek.
It was distracting, that dimple. It really was.
THE BREEZE FLARED AND SKATED along the surface of my arms and neck, cooling the patches of sweat that had formed as we’d run.
“I went to the basketball game the other day,” I told Nick, casting it into the air like confetti at a wedding. I planned to follow up with some astute commentary about the game—totally stolen from Sarah—into which I’d skillfully weave one or two compliments about his playing.
I was thrown off course when Nick nodded and said, “Yeah, I noticed.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize you’d seen me.”
He smiled a little at that. “Our fan base isn’t exactly so vast that it’s hard to take everyone in. In fact”—he raised a finger and closed his eyes for a second before opening them again—“I believe you and Sarah were there together, four rows up near the edge, by the exit that goes out to the bathroom.”
“That’s pretty good,” I said. Sarah and I had actually been five rows up, but I thought I’d let that slide.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t expect to see you there—hadn’t pegged you as a big sports fan.” He paused. “You know, I thought maybe you’d come say hi once it was over.”
I’d wondered about that, how it would feel to make my way over to him, navigating the crush of people who’d descended upon the court after the game—the parents, friends, girlfriends who’d surrounded the various players. It had seemed so public, so vulnerable a thing to do, though, to stroll up to him like that and publicly demand his attention.
“Sarah had to get her parents’ car back,” I lied. “So we left right afterward.”
“Sure,” he said, his voice a fraction stiffer, like it had taken on a protective coating. “I get it. Running is our thing. That’s fine.”
“That’s not—”
I was interrupted by a sharp chirping sound. He paused and then reached into his pocket for his phone. He stared at the screen and laughed.
“What is it?” I asked, both relieved and annoyed by the interruption.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just my mom. She’s decided that her fight against global warming involves texting me every time I forget to turn off a light or mess up the recycling.”
He flipped his phone around and showed it to me.
She’d sent a picture of what I assumed must be his room, lights on. Below she’d written:
Every time you do this, a polar bear pup dies.
“That’s dramatic,” I said.
“I’m getting better about the recycling. Left to my own devices, though, I’d probably end up leaving all the lights in the entire house on. So maybe I secretly hate polar bears.”
“Or maybe you really like seals,” I said.
He smiled. “Good point.”
We could have just gone on from there, not circled back. But I felt that I’d messed up, left behind an incorrect impression. So I tried again.
“I really am glad that I went to the game, you know. And I wanted to say hi afterward, I did.”
He shook his head. “It’s okay.”
“No, I wanted to….I particularly, uh, enjoyed watching your point guarding. And all that ball handling you did. But there were
