When I don’t say anything, she lets out a long sigh. “Em, I am here to help you, but you are the only one who can fix this.”
“I know. I’m working on it,” I say, thinking of the list. But I don’t want to get her hopes up yet. And I don’t know how to tell her this pressure is not helping. Like… at all.
We’re both silent for a long moment, then Kiera finally clears her throat to break the tension.
“Well, I gotta call my mom before my phone goes back in The Locker,” she says, nodding behind her to a closet covered in National Park stickers. “Talk next week?”
I nod. “Yeah. For sure.” Things still feel prickly between us, so I give her a small smile. “Can’t wait to hear about what happens this week with Todd.”
She returns it, but it’s not her usual smile. “I’ll keep you updated. Love you.”
“Love you,” I echo, the screen going dark, the call ending.
Sighing, I lean against the counter.
I hate this feeling.
Everything about this moment feels awful and unfamiliar. I can’t believe I snapped at her. If Kiera were here in Huckabee, and not all the way at Misty Oasis with a time limit on phone usage, I’d ride my bike over to her place to shake off the weirdness.
I turn my head and watch the pasta water instead, the small bubbles growing and growing, slowly turning into a rolling boil. I add the entire pasta box to the pot. Far more than two people can eat in one sitting, but whatever. I can refrigerate it for my dad to take for lunch for the next couple of days.
My phone vibrates, and I grab it, hoping to see Kiera’s name, a final text to say things are fine even though they don’t feel it. But to my surprise, it’s from Blake.
I tap on the notification, and a text bubble appears.
What are you doing tomorrow?
Why? I type back automatically, the response I’ve conditioned myself to ask before I accidentally open myself up to something I might not want to do.
I hesitate before deleting it and trying again. I work in the afternoon, but I’m free before that.
She replies right away. I was going to head to the pool to see if they’re still hiring lifeguards. You want to come?
I groan, tossing my phone onto the counter. The pool. Of course she’s going to get a job there. It’s only the mecca of Huckabee High summer employment, staffed by Jake, Matt, Ryan, and everyone who knows exactly what went down between us.
I can see it now. One sunny day they’ll all be lounging around the infamous lifeguard picnic table, generations of Huckabee Pool employees’ names carved into the worn wood, a historic roll call sitting right alongside a couple of overexaggerated penis drawings.
My name will come up. Matt will get that stoic look on his face that I know so well, jaw locked, eyebrows jutting downward, and before you know it, no matter how much he tries to stop them, Jake or one of the gossipy junior girls will tell the tale of my very public cheating, ruining any chance of Blake not thinking I’m a total shit and my one opportunity to actually have a friend this summer. Which I apparently need more than ever, since things are weird with Kiera now too.
I’m relieved Olivia works at the mall in the next town over. She’d for sure tell her within the first ten minutes.
The daydream fades, and I pick up my phone, making up an excuse.
No… I just remembered I said I’d help my dad—
I pause, trying to think of something moving related.
I said I’d help my dad clean the windows before a showing on Tuesday.
It’s lame, but I send it anyway, sighing as I put down my phone and turn the stove top off. So much for Blake helping me with the list.
I feel in my pocket, my fingertips finding the worn paper I’ve tucked away there, a small comfort.
Maybe it’s the one thing that can help me fix all of this.
7
Scrolling through Instagram at the kitchen table on Wednesday morning, I tap on Blake’s story for the millionth time. It’s a boomerang from an hour ago at the less-than-sanitary Huckabee Pool, the caption reading, “FIRST DAY OF WORK!”
We haven’t talked since Monday afternoon when she said she was hired, and after today I’m sure I’ll never hear from her again. It’ll be super awkward when my dad and Johnny inevitably try to force us to hang out.
Sighing, I take another bite of my cereal and open my photo gallery. I scroll all the way back to the first couple of photos on my phone, taken just before my mom died. I usually avoid them at all costs, but today I’m looking for something.
A picture of my mom’s tattoo.
“Maybe try to figure out more of the backstory for some of them,” Blake had said on our phone call a few days ago. “Maybe that’ll tell you where to start.”
That led me to the only direct link between the list and something I knew about. Something I saw every day.
My mom’s tattoo.
I pause on a photo that my dad took of the two of us at the garden store over by the apple orchard. She’s pushing a bright orange cart around the greenhouse, pretending to struggle from the weight, while I lounge dramatically on top of the cart, two bags of potting soil sitting underneath me.
I swipe right, moving farther and farther back in time. It’s strange to see my mom getting healthier and healthier with each passing picture, when all I know is the opposite. I watch as the dark circles around her eyes fade, her gaunt cheeks fill out slowly.
I pause on another photo, of my mom fast asleep on my dad’s shoulder after a rough doctor’s appointment, then a photo of her and Nina laughing at Kiera’s birthday party, followed by a photo of the
