Part 12 (2/2)
I blink so rapidly that someone walking past would probably think I've got something in my eye.
Apparently the time jump thing has happened again, but this time it sent me backward to the 1940s, or whatever year it was when boyfriends ordered food for you after commenting on your weight. Gee golly, maybe he'll let me wear his letterman sweater at the soda shop after school.
I need to count to ten or something because this is supposed to be a nice breakfast and right now all I can think about is chucking a saltshaker at his head.
”So how are those applications coming?” he asks me.
”I didn't do too much. I was pretty wiped last night after dinner,” I say.
”Slacker,” he teases. ”Two of mine are already done.”
”Yeah? Which ones?”
”Brown and Notre Dame,” he says.
”Huh, those are two of my schools,” I say, wiping a little condensation off my water gla.s.s.
Blake laughs. ”Uh, yeah. That was the point, remember? Getting into the same school.”
No, I don't remember. I have no idea which colleges he's applying to, and I sure the h.e.l.l don't remember planning out the next four years of my life based on a guy I've been dating for what? Three months?
Okay, I'm freaking out. I don't want to watch my carbs or go to Notre Dame. I don't want to be here at all.
Our waitress sets down our plates, and I stare at the scrambled eggs and wheat toast I never would have ordered. I have a sweet tooth in the morning. Eggs or meat this early just gives me a stomachache.
Blake watches me closely as I pick up my fork, and it's pretty clear he can tell something's up. His look turns cool and detached, and I put my fork down, feeling like something in a petri dish. My stomach squirms, and I feel a cold sweat slick the palms of my hands.
I sit back in the booth. ”Blake, I'm sorry, but I'm really not feeling well.”
”Maybe some hot tea will help. Chamomile is supposed to be soothing,” he says, looking around for our waitress.
”No.” The word comes out a little louder and harsher than I intend. I feel bad enough to bite my lip and look down.
”What is it, Chloe?” he asks, and there it is again. That almost clinical expression that makes me think he should be holding a clipboard. If this were biology cla.s.s, I'd be the thing in the metal tray with the pins holding my skin apart. And I don't want to be dissected.
”It's my stomach,” I say, and for once it's the G.o.d's honest truth. ”I think I need to head home.”
”Let me get the check. I'll drive you.”
”I appreciate that, but I don't want to puke in your car.”
For a minute I can tell he's not a fan of that possibility either. But he covers it up fast with a worried frown. ”Chloe, don't be crazy. You can't walk. It's got to be two or three miles.”
”If you cut through the neighborhood, it's nothing. I used to walk here with Maggie for pancakes every Sat.u.r.day morning.”
Saying her name sends another kind of pain through my middle. I might cry if I stay here. I can feel it, and I don't want to do it in front of him.
I stand up, pus.h.i.+ng my plate away. ”I'm sorry. I really am.”
”Well, feel better. Call me if you need me.”
I barely manage to nod before I rush out the door and into the too-bright morning. The air is crisp and dry, clearing my head and unknotting my nerves.
I should head straight home, but I don't. I feel pulled back to Belmont Street. My feet know all the shortcuts by heart, so I follow without thinking. Across Mound Street, then through the newer development to Belmont. I follow the elm trees that line the street, proving just how long these houses have been here. Before I even understand why I'm here, I'm standing in front of Julien's house.
I try to remember Mrs. Miller in the flower bed or Julien on the porch swing, but I don't even know if she liked to sit out here. She was practically a stranger to me before. Now, she's like a ghost in my mind, a hazy silhouette of girl I never really knew. And never will, because she's gone.
I close my eyes and try to picture her. Maybe hear her voice. She is just a set of vague features. Blond hair, small nose. Shy smile. It could describe half the girls in my school.
”You're sad that she's not coming back, aren't you?” a young voice says.
I look down at the girl in front of me, coat half-zipped and cheeks red from the cold. She can't be more than eight or nine.
”What?” I ask, though I'm sure I heard her right.
”Julie,” she says. I've never heard anyone call her that, but I doubt she's referring to someone else.
I bite my lip, realizing this little girl probably saw her like an idol, the beautiful princess from the biggest castle on the street. I smile down at her. ”I'll bet she misses you.”
”Yeah, maybe. She made snowmen with me sometimes. I don't think you can do that in California,” the little girl reasons, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her coat. She looks up and must not like the pity she finds in my eyes. She crosses her arms and tries to look tough. ”But it's not like I stand here crying because she's gone.”
”I'm not crying.”
The little girl blinks up at me. ”Maybe not now, but you did then. I saw you crying here. The night she left.”
Goose b.u.mps rise on my arms, but I try to chuckle, as if I can laugh them away. ”I'm sorry, you must be thinking of somebody else.”
”Nuh-uh. You were wearing that same red coat. You stood out there for a long time. You know, my mom was going to call the cops.”
”The cops? Why?”
She shrugs and makes a circle on the sidewalk with her boot. ”I don't know. Maybe she thought you were going to do something bad.”
”I wasn't,” I say, but I don't know that. I don't even remember being here, so I sure the h.e.l.l don't know what I was doing. Or why I was crying.
”Well, I gotta go. Don't be sad about Julie. You can send her letters. She likes my glitter paper, so you can borrow some if you want.”
I try to thank her, but there's no voice left in me. Instead, I watch her leave, a ribbon of dark hair flapping above her pink coat as she runs. I wish I could run too, hard and fast until my lungs burned and my eyes watered.
But I know it would never be fast enough. I'm sure my past would still catch up with me.
Chapter Twelve.
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