Tick. Tick. Tick.
“You know what I think?” Mr. Kibbits says in a faraway voice, fingering his pencil again. “I think she was growing up that summer, getting wiser and stronger. I think she would have made a hell of a grown-up.”
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“I wish I could have helped her,” I say.
Mr. Kibbits smiles at me. “She would have wanted to help you.”
I swallow hard to tamp down the knot in my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut, and when they open, they fall on the schedule I’m holding in my lap …1st period: Spanish II, rm. 108, Dawson2nd period: English Composition, rm. 222, Brantley3rd period: Sociology, rm. 206, Parkinson4th period: Lunch5th period: Anatomy, rm. 417, Raleigh6th period: Gen. Statistics, rm. 303, Portman7th period: Study Hall, rm. 136, Bell
I glance up at Mr. Kibbits.
“Here’s my schedule,” I say, handing it to him. “Wanna take a look and give me the inside scoop on my teachers?”
His face brightens. He takes my schedule and feigns a look of intense concern.
“My God, you’d be better off getting taught by monkeys.”
We laugh.
“Kidding,” he says. “Although Mrs. Parkinson is a little on the boring side. The word in the teachers’ lounge is that several students have actually lapsed into comas during her class. But you didn’t hear it from me.”
He hands me back my schedule and we smile.
“Sorry I can’t be in your English class,” I tell him. “AP classes are a little out of my league.”
He taps his pencil on the desk again. Now, it’s in synch with the ticking of the clock.
“I’m sorry, too. I don’t think you have a clue how much you’re capable of. But you’ll find out.”
I nod. “Thanks for talking to me,” I tell him.
He nods back, then holds up an index finger. “You know … a teacher’s recommendation is all it would take to transfer you from College-Prep English to AP Comp,” he says. “And if I happened to be the teacher to make the recommendation, then I could pretty much guarantee which AP Comp class you’d end up in.”
I blush and smile.
“Push yourself a little, Summer,” Mr. Kibbits says. “I think you’d do a great job in my class. What do you say?”
I shrug. “I think I’d love your class.”
He nods. “Then it’s a done deal. But rest up this weekend. I’ll work you pretty hard.”
I smile. “I think I’m up for it.”
He smiles back. “I think so, too.”
I whisk a lock of hair off my shoulder. “Thanks. Really.”
“You’re welcome. Really. I think you’re going to have a wonderful year.”
I smile and stand up. I reach out to shake his hand, then feel vaguely self-conscious. A handshake? When the hell did I start shaking people’s hands?
But Mr. Kibbits takes my hand and embraces it warmly.
“You’re going to have a great year,” he repeats.
And, just like that, I believe him.
Thirty-Eight
“I think I’ve found her.”
I pull the front door closed behind me and join Gibs on the front porch. My parents and I finished dinner an hour ago, but the scent of pork chops still drifts in the air.
“Found who?” I ask.
He motions with a nod, and I follow him to the porch steps. He sits on the top one, pulling a piece of paper out of his jeans pocket.
I peer at it. It’s a printout of a web page … a page full of addresses.
“A list of the Jamie Williamses within a hundred-mile radius,” Gibs explains.
“Oh,” I say. “Hey, guess what? I stopped by to see Mr. Kibbits today when I was picking up my school schedule. He said he could get me into his AP Comp class next year.”
Gibs looks confused, then smiles. “Good. That’s exactly where you should be. So anyway, I was surfing the Net for …”
“Unfortunately, I got Parkinson for sociology,” I continue. “But, man, I’m stoked about Mr. Kibbits’ class. A hell of a time for me to have honors aspirations, huh?”
Gibs’ head inches closer to mine as he gazes at me quizzically. “O-kay,” he say. “Anyway, Jamie Williams is a really common name, but I narrowed down …”
I hold up the palm of my hand.
“What?” Gibs asks, more confused than ever.
“What classes are you taking?” I ask him.
“What what? Classes? I dunno … the schedule’s in my car. I’ll show it to you later. Anyway, of the several dozen Jamie Williamses within a hundred-mile radius—you figure the Jamies of the world never venture too far from home—I found three who—”
My hand shoots up again.
Gibs squeezes his eyes shut for a second. “What?” he asks again, confusion tinged with irritation.
I gently pull a strand of hair away from his face. “Thank you,” I say sincerely. “Thank you for trying to track her down.”
His eyebrows arch. “But … ?”
“But I don’t think I want to find her.”
A squirrel scampers across the lime-green lawn, darting nimbly through Mom’s impatiens and climbing a tree. A red bird on a branch of the tree squawks disapprovingly, spreads its wings, and soars into the sky.
I take the paper from Gibs’ hands, fold it, and set it aside. “I don’t think I could take it if I tracked down Jamie and she reacted the same way Chris did, almost like, ‘Shannon who?’ ” I stare at my hands. “I don’t know what I was expecting. I mean, I know they were ‘just kids’ and all, but Shannon has always been larger than life to me, and to have her reduced to that dumb blank stare on Chris’ face … Besides, Jamie wasn’t a real friend. She was just a blip in Shannon’s life.”
Gibs rubs his chin. “But she’s the one who told Shannon she was pregnant. She could tell you things that …”
I fan another mosquito away from my face, then lean back against the porch on my elbows.
“I don’t think it makes sense to try to turn Shannon’s life into some deep, dark mystery,” I say, peering at the lightning bugs that have begun blinking through the evening breeze. Or maybe they’ve been in the air all along, and it’s only just now, when the dusk is descending like a curtain, that I’m able to see the flashes of light. “I know what I need to know. I think it’s time to move on.”
Gibs considers my words, then nods sharply. “Good plan.”
I smile as I study his face closer. “You know,” I say playfully, “I can’t help thinking that although Shannon totally outshone me in pretty much every area of life, I have infinitely better taste in boyfriends.”
He angles his face and brings it closer to mine. My face presses toward his and we kiss. My hands wrap around the back of his neck. Crickets chirp louder as we push closer and closer together.
Beep!
We glance up, startled. Aunt Nic has just pulled into the driveway. She waves at us heartily as she gets out of the car.
“Don’t stop on my account,” she calls, walking toward us.
Gibs jumps to his feet. “Hi …”
“Hi, Gibson,” Aunt Nic says. “Don’t get up. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d bring Summer her paycheck.” She winks at me and I drop my face into my hands.
“I was just leaving … ” Gibs stammers.
“You don’t have to.”
“No, really,” he insists. “I have to be getting home.” He gives me a formal little nod. “Summer. And Mrs. …”
“Call me Nicole, remember?” Aunt Nic tells him. “Or Nic. Nic is good.”