Something looks familiar about it, and on instinct I flip to the front of the book where I’d stashed her note to me. I pull it out. It’s on a half-sheet of paper. I flip back to the folded page and set the note above it, torn edges together.
It’s a perfect fit.
Dear Sunny: I don’t expect you to understand any of this yet, but we’ll always have yesterday … and today, and tomorrow. Maybe one day you’ll figure it out. I never could.
I said in my last entry that I couldn’t explain it even if I wanted to. By now—if I’m right about what’s been happening to me—I think you’ll know what I mean. I know that’s a cop-out, but I’m too weak and scared to try anymore, and all I can think is that if I tell anyone else, I’ll lose them, too. I don’t want to lose you. I’ve already lost Brendan; I’ve lost Mom. When I tried to tell her about Dad, she didn’t want to listen. And I couldn’t prove anything. It’s a curse, being able to do something nobody else can. If it ever happens to you, you have to promise me you’ll be strong. Be stronger than I was.
I love you, Sunny. And tell Mom I love her, too.
I sit on my bed for a while after that, staring at nothing.
Then I pick up the journal again and go downstairs.
Auntie Mina is in the living room with her laptop, the TV on quietly in the background. I can hear Mom in the kitchen, and I don’t know where Dad is. That’s fine, because I have something I need to say to Auntie Mina in private.
She looks up when I walk in and immediately sets her laptop on the coffee table. Silently, I sit down next to her. I think about my words for a moment more, and although she eyes the book in my lap, she doesn’t press me.
“The day Shiri died,” I begin, then stop. I have to swallow past a lump in my throat. “Before I even found out what happened, I got this in the mail.” I pick up the journal, the plain navy-blue book that literally fell at my feet so many months ago, and place it gently into her hands.
With trembling fingers, she opens the cover; flips through page after page, reading some, skimming others. I stay quiet. I don’t point out anything, I don’t ask questions. I don’t even watch her reading—I pretend to look at the television screen, though if you asked me what I was watching, I would have no clue.
After several minutes, I hear her close the cover with a quiet rustle of paper.
Auntie Mina puts her hand on mine.
“Thank you, Sunny.”
I wipe my wet cheeks. “It’s yours. I think you should have it. I’ve already read it.”
“Well,” she says, and then pauses, seems to rethink whatever she was about to say.
What she says is, “Shiri … she was always different.” Her voice is sad, but she doesn’t seem devastated like I was afraid she might be. Like she would have been even a few months ago.
Shiri was different. That was what made her who she was, that was why she was special and why she was so much more than a cousin to me. Why I wanted to be so much like her.
Past tense: wanted.
I realize something more, and I say it to Auntie Mina.
“I’m different, too,” I say, but what I mean is, I’m different from Shiri, not just from everyone else.
“Yes, you are,” she says, and hugs me tightly. Somehow, without explaining it, I’m certain she understands.
The next day, when I see that neither Mikaela nor Cody is at the picnic table behind the art building, I sit down gingerly. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m a little afraid that Becca and David and Andy are all going to turn and glare at me, tell me to leave, but they don’t.
David says hi, shyly, looking up briefly from his sketchbook. Andy nods and continues snarfing down a meatball sandwich, talking with his mouth full about a concert he wants to go to in Hollywood somewhere. Twelve o’clock and all’s well.
Becca says, “Hey, is Mikaela okay?”
“I don’t know,” I say cautiously. “I haven’t talked to her since two days ago. Is she sick?” I worry again that I should have called her after I left Cody’s, but then, I didn’t have a chance.
“I think she’s hung over.” Becca smirks. “She called me around eight last night and gave me a mini-lecture about how Siouxsie and the Banshees are historically underappreciated as the root of modern underground music.”
“Oh.” I hesitate, then tell a white lie. “All I know is, Mon-
day after school I dropped her and Cody off at his place. Maybe they were partying last night, too.”
“Without us? Bitches,” Becca says cheerfully. “Cody never has parties at his place.”
David nods in agreement. “Mostly we go out to Soto Park,” he says quietly. “Not lately, though. Too muddy.”
“And now they’re missing the most awesomest lunch in the world.” Becca pulls a crinkle-cut pickle slice and a piece of wilted, paper-thin lettuce out of her veggie burger and throws them at the nearest tree. “Well, maybe she got a little hot goth-boy action.”
I stiffen, feeling a reflexive stab of jealousy. Then I push the feeling away. I have nothing to feel jealous about. I shouldn’t want Cody. And I don’t.
I really don’t.
Then I wonder: what if Mikaela, drunk, decided to do something stupid? Would she sleep with Cody, even knowing all the things he’s done? Does she even care about the fact that he’s an asshole? I’m furious with her, but I can’t just let things lie, even if she was in on the whole blog debacle. When I get home, despite the lurch in my stomach, I pull out my cell phone and dial her number.
I’m not sure why I care so much, but like my mom says, sometimes you just have to give people a chance to talk.
It rings four times, but nobody picks up.
I try again an hour later, and I try her house, too, but there’s still no answer. I leave a message on her cell telling her to call me, but she doesn’t. It could be that she’s not feeling well, but she doesn’t even answer my text message.
I don’t know if something else happened, something bad. I don’t know if she’s angry at me or not.
I don’t even know if we’re still friends.
twenty-eight
The next day I’m still on edge. All I can think about is whe-ther Mikaela is going to be at school; whether Cody’s going to be there; whether I can bear to face them without completely blowing up; whether they’re both going to hate me now. During French class, Marc from the Zombie Squad gives me a sneer. It’s probably because of that stupid blog, but I honestly don’t care what he thinks anymore.
At lunch, I buy a slice of pizza from the cart. As I’m waiting in line, I glance at the table where I used to sit with Cassie and everyone. It seems like a long time ago now. They’re all eating, laughing together. I see Elisa put her arm around James, see him kiss her on the cheek. I’m glad she’s okay now; glad both of them are happy.
Mikaela, though—I’m not sure I’m ready to talk to her, even though I’ve been worried about her. Deep down, I’m terrified that our friendship is done. That maybe it was always all about Cody for her; not so much about me. I decide I need some alone time before I brave that conversation, so I go straight to my car instead of chancing the picnic table. I’m so lost in thought as I slink past the volleyball courts that I don’t see Spike until he’s jumped right in front of me.
“Dude! Space girl. I waved at you, like, twenty-eight times.” His hair is standing up in little tufts and he wipes the sweat off his forehead with the bottom of his T-shirt. “You gotta lay off the crack pipe.”