I let out an explosive sigh.
“What?” Mikaela nudges me.
How can I explain it to her? I’m incredibly lucky, I know that much. I could have been spending the rest of the year eating lunch on my own, wondering if I’d done the right thing. But Mikaela and her friends—they let me stay. Why did they even care? I hate to feel suspicious of everybody, but I need to know what I’m doing here.
And yet, I worry that if I question it, it’ll all fall apart, like a dream about flying where you suddenly realize hey, people can’t fly.
“Nothing,” I say. She stares at me. “I just hate these shoes. They’re boring.”
“That’s it? You’re bumming out about having boring shoes?” She snorts a laugh. “Okay. On the scale of life’s major problems, that’s one we can easily address.”
“Yeah, but … ” I make a frustrated noise. This isn’t happening how I imagined it. I blurt out, “Why me?”
“Are we having a philosophical discussion now?” She grins.
“No! What I meant was … ” I take a deep breath. “Why are you guys okay with hanging out with me? You didn’t have to humor me when I just showed up here uninvited.” I stare at my knees, afraid to look at her face. “But you didn’t kick me out.”
There’s silence for a moment. I bite my thumbnail anxiously and listen to the rain dripping off the awning.
“Listen,” Mikaela finally says. “I will freely admit that at first, I was driven by morbid fascination.” Her voice is a little sheepish, and I glance up. She’s staring into the distance with a tiny, embarrassed smile. “I know, I suck. But trust me, I got over it. I can now truly say that I find you a worthwhile person. Regardless of your footwear.”
Still not looking at me, she flicks one of my tennis shoes with a black-painted fingernail. Just like that, the tension is broken. My clenched muscles relax a little.
“Okay,” I say, a little warily.
“Okay,” she says, and sighs.
I try a tentative smile. “My shoes still need help, though.”
“I’m not arguing with that,” Mikaela says, shifting a little to turn toward me. “You know, there’s this thing called a shoe store. You may have heard of it before.”
“Yeah, but I need serious help. My closet is full of cute pink hoodies. I can’t be trusted to shop for myself.”
Mikaela laughs.
I’m trying to make a joke out of it, but inside, my heart is breaking because I’m remembering one of the last times I saw Shiri when she was alive. It was August, right before she went back to college, and we were at South Coast Plaza together, combing the stores for new school wardrobes. Or, more accurately, I was following her around and trying to emulate her as best I could with the limited budget my parents gave me.
“I’m really going to miss doing this with you, Sunny,” Shiri said, throwing her arm conspiratorially over my shoulders, her Macy’s bag flapping against my arm. “It’s been fun.”
Then I do cry. Tears slip out of my eyes as I sit there silently, aching.
Mikaela looks over at me, her dark eyes worried.
“I’m fine,” I manage to croak. “It’s just—God, I’m sick of being such a mess. Everything reminds me of her.”
Mikaela’s voice is soft. “She meant a lot to you.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“Yeah.” I wipe my face with one hand and stare upward, at the rusty metal roof of the awning, and listen to the light clatter of the rain until I feel more under control.
“Hey,” Mikaela says suddenly. She’s not staring at me anymore but messing with something in her purse. “Are you busy tomorrow? Want to go shopping?”
I turn and look at her stupidly.
“Like at the mall?”
“Sure. Or, if you want, I know some cool stores in Santa Ana. Or even Grovetown. Ever been to Thumbscrew? Over on Fifth?”
“In Grovetown?”
“Yeah, I know, Grovetown, right? But it’s the best. The 16 bus stops right there. Come on, we should go.” Mikaela swats me on the arm. “You were complaining about your closet. We have to replace those hoodies with something.”
“Okay. Sure. I just have to let my mom know.” I pause awkwardly. “You know, she wants to meet you now. She’s all excited that I have ‘creative’ friends.” I roll my eyes. “So maybe you can come over afterward and stay for dinner or something?”
The minute the invitation slips out of my mouth, I regret it. I squeeze my eyes shut, press my lips together. She’s going to think I’m trying too hard.
I try to backtrack. “I mean, only if you’re not busy. Either way is cool.”
“Yeah, why not? My mom works a late nursing shift on weekends, so I’d just be doing a whole lotta nothin’ anyway.”
My shoulders unknot a little.
Mikaela finishes rummaging in her purse and, with a flourish, produces a black marker. I frown at it.
“Uh, what’s that for?” I have this horrifying vision of having to stand watch while Mikaela tags the picnic table.
“This,” she says with a grin, “is for your boring sneakers.”
As I walk into the house admiring my feet, I have to admit that Mikaela’s embellishments are a major improvement. Where I once had plain white low-top sneakers whose only adornment was the all-important brand-name logo, I now have shoes that swirl and vibrate with amazing designs, intricate mind-bending spirals and thorny-tattoo-looking black branches. Mikaela has serious talent.
I hope her talent extends to improving my wardrobe. Pastel tops and swim team swag—they just remind me of my old life, and I’m more than ready for a change. I can’t keep getting bogged down in memories, can’t deal with crying every time I’m reminded of the past. I’m done.
Later, when my mom gets home, I make sure she gets the message as if it’s a top story headline: “Reclusive Daughter Finally Ready to Leave House, Be Sociable.” I slide off the bed, run down the stairs, and start burbling about Mikaela like I’m five years old and just made my first friend at school. The funny thing is, I do feel that excited.
“A shopping trip? Oh, honey. That’s great.” Mom closes the front door behind her with a tinkle of the chimes hung on the back.
“Not only that, there’s a vintage clothes store over in Grovetown, and Mikaela wants us to go there tomorrow,” I say all in a rush. “And look what she drew on my shoes!” I show them off, tilting them one way and then the other so my mother can get the full effect.
“Oh, how cute,” she says. “How creative!” She smiles at me distractedly and hangs up her blue sweater in the front closet. I’m a little dismayed. I could pierce my chin and my mom would just say “How unique! How creative! I wish I were your age so I could do wild stuff like that!” It takes the appeal out of just about anything.
Swimming was one of the few things that was mine, and mine alone. Mom would come to my races whenever she could, but she always stepped back when it came to the whole swim scene, when it was me and my friends. And she knew that I was a different person then—not just when I was in the water, but whenever I was with Cassie.
I miss swimming. But I don’t want to be that person anymore.
And … now I have something new that’s mine, whether I want it or not.
“So is it okay if I drive to Grovetown with Mikaela to-morrow?” I take off my shoes and stash them on the shoe rack in the front hall closet. Mom thinks about it for a minute while she brings a paper grocery bag into the kitchen, depositing it on the counter.
“I’m a little nervous about it,” she says, giving me a direct look. “I haven’t met Mikaela yet.”
Anxiously, I clench my hands behind my back. “Well, I asked her if she wants to come over for dinner after we go shopping. You can meet her then. I hope that’s okay. You know I’m always careful.” I stop, press my lips together.