Authors: Katie Klein
“Yeah, okay.” I ha
ng my dress on the stair
railing as I pass
. Melissa and
I mak
e our way to the kitchen
, while Sarah and Becky follow
Mom to her room.
“I’m no
t doing pineapple,” Phillip says
. “Pineapple is a fruit. It doesn’t belong on a pizza.”
“Y
ou don’t have
to eat that one,” Daniel replies
, punching a number into his cell phone
with his thumb
.
I
open the cabinet and pull
out Mom’s pitcher. Daniel heads
out the front door, cell phone
pressed
to his ear.
“
We
’
re more than halfway there,
”
I inform Melissa.
“
We
’
re up to one-fifty.
”
“That is awesome!” she cries
. “
She is
gonna
flip out.”
I smile
,
grabbing two tea bags from the canister on the counter
.
“Who’s
gonna
flip
out?” Phillip asks
.
“Sarah
,” I say
. “We’re
buying her that two hundred and fifty dollar pink mixer she registered for
.”
“That’s probably the
stupidest
th
ing I’ve ever heard,” he replies
. “
A two hundred and fifty dollar mixer? That
’
s
pink
? I swear
to God
. Wedding
s
make people stupid.
I mean, honeymoons?
Guys don
’
t
need
honeymoons.
And
diamond engagement rings? Who
the hell came up with
that
idea? Ring compani
es,
that’s who. Like if I don’t buy a diamond I don’t love her enough? The bigger it is the more I love her? It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“
Stop whining
.
This isn’t about you.
But
if you haven’t gotten them a gift yet and want to contribute I will gladly accept your money and put your name on th
e card,
”
I tell him.
“So if I give money I won’t have to go shopp
ing for cookie sheets?” he asks
.
“They need cook
ie sheets,” Melissa
says
.
“They need everything,” I add
, “but yeah. Pretty much.”
“Saves me a trip. Ho
w much
?” He pulls out
his wallet.
“
Well, you can make up the difference and give a
hundred,” I say
, throwing out a number.
“Are you for real?” he asks
, eyeing me strangely. “You act like I’m made of money or something.”
I force my eyes not to roll
. “Please.
Your truck is paid for, you don’t pay Mom and Dad rent. You mean to tell me you can’t fork over a measly hundred bucks for your own brother?”
“I was thinking more like twenty.”
“You are such a
Scrooge.” I wrinkle
my nose. “Seventy-five.”
“Fifty,” he counters
, pulling out a crisp, fifty-dollar bill from his wallet and passing it on to me.
I
snatch it before he can
change his mind. “Done.”
“Yeah, yeah. Thief.” He reaches
behind hi
m and sticks
his walle
t in his back pocket. “P
ut Becky’s name on the card, too. It’ll be from both of us.”
“Are
you
for real?” I ask
, raising my eyebrow. “You’re taking her to a wedding
and
you’re covering her gift?”
“Uh-oh! Someone’s getting serious,” Melissa
si
ng
s
, teasing him.
“Can it,” he replies
, lifting both of his midd
le fingers to the sky as he leaves
the room.
*
*
*
“I’m sorry, Becky,” my mom says
, grabbing a
sli
ce of pepperoni pizza. “We usually don’t order pizza on a week night. It’s just that things are so busy with the wedding and the new house. . . .”
“No, this is great,” she assures us. The dining room table i
s covered in candy and tulle a
nd ribbon and paper, so we stand
around the kitchen, eating our pizza
off plastic plates—or
,
if you’
re Daniel, ha
nging over the
sink.
When Dad arrives
he joins
u
s in the kitchen. Because we have company, he ignores his cell phone when it ri
ng
s, asks
everyone, specifically, about their day, and
rags
Becky about her wanting to date Phillip (typical
, father-like
“What is a nice girl like you th
inking?” banter). As we finish eating, Mom gathers
our dirty plates and napkins.
She stops beside me
and examines the scar on
my forehead. “It’s looking
better,” she says
quietly.
I nod.
She smiles. “Do you need anything?”
I take a swig of my bottled water,
studying
the linoleum, and shake my head.
“Well, while you ladies are doing you
r wedding stuff, I’m going to watch golf
,” Dad announces
.
I clear
my throat. “Um, Dad: i
f you aren’t busy tonight . . . I still have that thing with my sink faucet.”
“I know. It’s on my list
,” he says
,
reaching for the Pepsi
bottle
,
pour
ing
a refill.
I sigh, exhaling as he leaves the room. I suppose it does
n’t matter. I mean,
i
t’s not like I
’ll
be living h
ere forever.
My eyes dart to
Daniel,
standing in
the doorway, watching me
, cautious
.
My jaw tightens, smarting from the pressure.
I toss
him a dirty look
, then turn away
.
I l
ie in bed staring at my ceiling
. Occasionally, I glance over at the clock on my nightstand, surprised only a few minutes have passed since I last
checked it. I roll onto my side
and stare at my mirror, where the postcard of downtown
Hamilton is stuck in the
bottom corner. Though I can’t make out the image, I’ve memorized th
e scene. In fact, I’ve studied
the photograph so much it interferes with my memories of that day. Now, when I picture me and Parker sitting at that table, it’s early in the morning and foggy
,
sun waiting to pierce the clouds.
I bury my face in my pillow, suffocating myself, wanting it
all to
just go away
.
I’ve closed my eyes,
drifting to sleep, when I hear the faintest,
tap, tap
, against my window. My eyes fly open. I remain absolutely still, fully awake, heart pounding, holding my breath, waiting to hear the sound again.
Behind my bathroom door, the water from the leaky faucet drips into the sink basin.
I throw back my
covers and jump out of bed, tip
toeing toward my window, the cool floor creaking beneath my bare feet. I reach out, hand shaking, pull back my curtain, then lift one of the blinds.
Nothing.
I twist the blinds completely open and search outside. The moon illuminates the front yard and the cars parked along the streets, proving that everything is quiet: as it should be. I sigh and return to my bed, crawling under the covers, pulling the co
mforter all the way to my chin.
I shut my eyes as tightly as possible and force Parker out of my mind. Instead, I focus on the one sound that
does
exist, and that I
can
hear. T
he one noise that, no matter what, I can always count
on: drip . . . drip . . . drip.
. . .
*
*
*
Prom
, which my mom ultimately decided I could attend,
signifies
the un
official end of the school year.
Forget the
important final
exams left to review and study for. W
ith summer vacation fa
st approaching, no one
care
s. Even some of the teachers have
given up.
Ms
.
Tugwell
, for instance,
resorts
to giving us a complete Jane Austen video tutorial, playing the
BBC
classic
Pride and Prejudice
and the Kate
Winslet
version of
Sense and Sensibility
over the course of the final
week
s
.
My lips turn up
into an almost smile
when I realize
Parker spared himself
five hours of Mr. Darcy. Somewhere, wherever he is, and whatever he’s doing, he’s breathing a sigh of relief. I know it.
It
’
s on one of these
morning
s that
M
s.
Tugwell
stops
in the aisle beside me
, flipping through a stack of papers. She pulls out a packet—my essays, paper-clipped together—and places it face down on my desk. I pick it up and examine the evaluation sheet on top.
Jaden
McEntyre
, Parker Whalen: A+
.
I glance over at Parker
’
s seat. It remains empty.
Then yearbooks arrive, and a new crop of issues spri
ng
s
up. We
pass
them to friends and class
mates in our study halls and during lunch
. Instead of listening to a review of indefinit
e integrals in calculus, we tell
classmates to “Stay Sweet” and “Don’t Ever Change!” Leaving something witty for them to re
member us by—something lasting
.
I ur
ge them to “Have a Great Summer,” t
hen sign my name.
On the seniors’
pages, I’m
voted Best Smile
and Most Likely to . . . yes . .
. Change the World. Savannah ge
t
s
a nod for Most Likely to Forget Where She Parked Her Car.
The minutes and hours
tick
by
,
easing us closer to the inevitable: that final da
y of school, when the bell will
ring, dismissing us forever
.
D
uring the last week of school, and just a few days before graduation an
d the wedding—after my locker i
s
purged of trash
and
left
half empty—I decide
to use a chance moment alone
in the office
to sneak back into M
s
.
Stevens’ office.
Sure enough, the key to her file cabinet
protrudes
from
the tiny hole.
You should really think about
hiding that
.
I turn
the key and
pop
the lock open, pulling on the handle of
the long drawer
until
Parker Whalen’s file
co
me
s
into view
. I quickl
y
slid
e
Parker’s senior photo
out from under the silver paperclip
.