“Who else would it be?” But it wasn’t really as grumpy as I make it sound. Just a tossed-off comment, meant to be halfway funny.
“I didn’t see you last night. Your father was out late, and I think I might’ve fallen asleep on the couch before you got in. How was your date?”
“It was good. Actually.”
“Don’t sound so surprised. I always thought she seemed nice, that Weller girl. Are you going to see her again?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Looks that way.” Then I took a big, deep breath and faced a new path through the world: I decided to take a chance on letting my mother know my plans. Not the easiest thing for a fourteen-year-old guy to do. “I was thinking I’d invite her out on a picnic. So I was wondering if we have stuff around. For a picnic. Like sandwich stuff and fruit and some kind of dessert. Drinks. Because I spent my whole allowance last night, so if we don’t have what I need, I won’t be able to ask her out again until after I get my allowance Friday. Which seems like a really long wait.”
She smiled in a way that struck me as a bit sarcastic. Looking back, anyway. At the time I probably just felt like she was making fun of me.
“Ah, to be fourteen again. Where a week feels like a lifetime.”
She set her magazine down on the drainboard of the sink, which I could see was wet. I wondered why she hadn’t noticed that. She threw her half-eaten apple into the trash bin under the sink.
She opened the fridge and began to root around in there.
“A picnic,” she said. Like it was just such an amazing word that she had to say it out loud. Savor it. “What a nice idea. You really are growing up to be a thoughtful young man. You know that?”
“Thank you,” I said. But I felt bad. Because I never would have thought of such an idea. Not if you’d given me a hundred years to think.
“Where are you going to go for your picnic?”
See? This is why I tended not to share stuff with my mother, who would be horrified to hear I had ever stepped foot into those dark, dangerous woods.
“The park, I guess.”
No answer for a time. Just the sound of her rooting in the fridge. I was thinking that was a lot of cold escaping.
“Well, I think we’re in good shape,” she said, pulling her head out and swinging the door closed. “We have sliced turkey. Ham. Then in the cupboard we have some canned things—tuna fish and deviled ham. Bananas and oranges. You know I don’t like you to have sodas, but if you insist in this case, you can buy your own. But we have bottled apple juice and orange juice if that’ll do. And those cookies you like.”
“Do we have cloth napkins?”
Then I had to look away because of the expression that came over her face.
“Cloth napkins? My, my! Aren’t we the fancy guy? This girl must be very special.”
“Jeez, Mom. Can you just answer a question the normal way for a change?”
“Yes, you can use two of the good napkins. But bring them back! And we have a couple of print tablecloths I wouldn’t mind you using on the grass. I can always bleach them.”
“So I’m set,” I said, eyeing her rosebushes through the kitchen window.
“Looks that way. Is it time for us to have the talk?”
For a minute, I didn’t know what talk she meant. Then I looked away from the roses and into her face, and then I did. Horrifyingly did.
“Oh my God, Mom! Please. No! We’re just going to eat sandwiches. How could you even bring a thing like that up?”
“You’re growing up,” she said. “Much as I hate to admit it.”
“I’m going up to my room.”
Before I could even get out of the kitchen, I could feel my face going beet red. I remember thinking, Right. That’s why I never talk to my mom about real stuff. How could I have forgotten?
I was lying on my back, reading a comic book. Or so it would have seemed to anybody who walked into my room. In reality I had been staring at the same page for probably half an hour.
I was obsessed with the details of making food for a picnic. Obsessed. I couldn’t stop thinking about whether she would like sweet-pickle relish in the tuna, along with the mayonnaise. And how much mustard to put on the turkey. And whether to bring some kind of trash bag for the orange and banana peels, so they wouldn’t just sit around on the tablecloth and look nasty.
I knew it was stupid, and a waste of my time. But the details wouldn’t let me go. So I just lay there, wishing I could think about something else.
Then, a minute later, I got my wish.
Be careful what you wish for.
My mom rapped on the door to my room.
“Someone here to see you, Lucas,” she said through the door.
I flew off the bed. I swear I don’t even know how I made that move, and I never could’ve made it again. It was something like levitating.
I threw the door open. It seemed to startle her.
“Is it Libby?” I asked, my voice sounding out of breath.
“No, it’s Mrs. Barnes.”
“Mrs. Barnes?”
“Yeah. You know. Connor’s mom?”
I know who Mrs. Barnes is, I thought.
I just had no idea why she would be here to see me.
Then, as I was flying down the stairs, I started to be able to think of some possible reasons. And, oh, they were not good.
It was all my fault. I had that in my head already. Something had happened to Connor. He had done something terrible. And it was all because I hadn’t been a good enough friend to him. Mrs. Dinsmore had tried to tell me to be a good friend to him. And I’d gone and fallen down
