“I did get a haircut,” I told her. And I had. Three months earlier.
“That must be it,” she said. “Well, it looks lovely.” Then, to my relief, she turned to Sarah. “Which reminds me—you’re going to need a trim soon. You’re starting to get split ends.”
“I like split ends,” Sarah said without missing a beat. “Love them. Why do you think I haven’t been cutting my hair?”
Sarah’s mom sighed and poured herself some more water. A round of contemplative chewing commenced. I fiddled with the food on my plate, taking a few cursory bites before putting down my fork and focusing on the art on the wall in front of me. Someone in the family was clearly a huge fan of desolate farmscapes, preferably ones with sad-looking horses in the foreground.
Sarah’s mom caught me looking at them. “My uncle painted those,” she told me.
“They’re very nice,” I said politely.
“He used to have a ranch up north. He loved his horses very much.”
Perhaps sensing that my enthusiasm for conversing about horses was limited, Sarah’s dad intervened and addressed the table at large. “Speaking of horses, did you hear someone tried to burn down that old barn again? The one on the Kilmans’ property?”
I hadn’t heard, but it wasn’t surprising. The Kilmans had both moved to an assisted-living facility several years earlier, and ever since, their property, which their children appeared to have no interest in either living in or selling, had been an easy target.
“Tried?” Sarah asked, raising an eyebrow. “How is it possible they didn’t succeed? It’s pure wood and it hasn’t rained in ages. It should have gone up like kindling.”
“I guess their neighbors saw it and were able to get the fire department out before it got too far.”
“They should just tear it down,” Sarah decreed with a wave of her fork. “It’s falling apart anyway.”
“Maybe it’s sentimental for them,” her mom said. “I think Mrs. Kilman’s grandfather built it. Besides, they shouldn’t have to tear it down just because our town has too many men who like to play with fire.”
“Or women,” Sarah said. “It could have been a woman, you know.”
“In theory, but I bet it’s a man. It usually is. There’s something very male about fire. Fire and any kind of property damage, really. Woman don’t do that kind of thing.”
“That’s sexist,” Sarah said.
“It’s not sexist. I’m saying it’s a good thing.”
“Good things can be sexist, Mom,” Sarah informed her.
Her mom ignored her. “I mean, property damage is just so pointless. Burning things, smashing windows, breaking things, scrawling graffiti on walls—it’s always men doing it.”
“Not always,” Sarah said.
“That’s true,” Sarah’s dad chimed in. “Especially graffiti. Just back in the fall, a girl at your school did that.”
Sarah frowned. “I don’t remember hearing about that.” She turned to me. “Do you?”
I shook my head.
“Well, I don’t think she was quite caught in the act,” Sarah’s father said, “but the teacher who mentioned it was pretty sure.” Then he paused and laughed. “I mean, usually there might be other interesting reasons why a girl would be in the boys’ bathroom, but apparently she was alone and the ink was still wet when she came out.”
Wet ink. Boys’ bathroom. A clicking noise started in my brain.
“Wow,” Sarah’s mom said with a laugh. “I swear, I let you go to one PTA meeting in my stead and you get all the dish. So what happened—did the girl get off scot-free? Or did the teacher report her?”
“Report her?” He paused. “I don’t know,” he said, turning his attention back to his food, his shoulders suddenly hunched under his shirt. “That was the last— I don’t know what happened after that.”
The clicking continued, getting louder and louder.
Girl.
Ink. Bathroom.
“Jess?” I wasn’t sure who said it or even if it was the first time. I blinked and found that I was frozen, my water glass halfway to my mouth. The three of them were staring at me, looking worried.
“Are you okay?” Sarah asked.
Slowly, deliberately, I put down my glass.
“I’m sorry,” I said, pushing back from the table. “I don’t feel good.”
“Is there anything we can get you?” Sarah’s mom asked. “Maybe some Advil? Or maybe you need to lie down?”
“No,” I said. “I think I need to go home. I think I need to go home right now.”
Nick is a good guy and he likes you, he said. I’ll delete the photo. You can leave the rest behind you.
It felt like a path. A way to get back into the light, a way back to resembling the person I used to be.
A way back to you.
WHEN WE GOT BACK TO my house, I let Sarah explain to my parents why I was back early as I brushed past them, their faces anxious and concerned. I heard her suggest something about food poisoning or maybe a migraine as I jogged up the stairs. “I’m not sure,” I heard her say. “She seemed fine, until suddenly she wasn’t.”
“There’s migraine medicine in the bathroom if you need it, sweetheart,” Mom called up the stairs. I paused and nodded down at her before I kept going. A migraine was as good an excuse as anything. Plus, a migraine meant being left alone.
When I reached the top of the stairs, I didn’t head to the bathroom, didn’t head for my room either. Instead, I went to Anna’s room.
I pulled her backpack onto the bed and went through her notebooks until I found the right one.
I flipped through it until I came across what I was looking for. The notes between Anna and Lily.
I stared at Lily’s handwriting. Particularly the phrase she’d written in all capitals: SO CUTE.
I looked at the letters carefully. I thought I was right, but it had been a while, and I needed to be sure. Sure that this wasn’t another wrong direction. Another misinterpretation of the facts.
I tucked Anna’s notebook under my arm.
I turned off the light.
Closed the door.
And opened the window.
Don’t think about it, I told myself
