Part 23 (1/2)

”See you soon?” she asks.

”Yeah,” I say. ”I'll see you soon.”

20.

In the car, I open my notebook to the second page of directions-from Copy Cat to Davey and Amanda's apartment in Hayes Valley. By now, lots of people are on the road, and I creep through city traffic for about twenty minutes before I get to their street. This time, finding parking is harder, and when I finally spot someone leaving, I have to block the lane while I wait with my turn signal on. ”I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry,” I say to all the cars that swerve around me. It takes me at least ten tries before I'm parallel-parked, and by the time I've climbed out of the car, the traffic has quieted down a little. I walk a couple blocks, past a cafe with stylish people inside, past a skinny man smoking a cigarette, past a million Victorian apartments rising on either side of me. A homeless guy in a worn gray sweater asks me for a quarter, and I reach into my bag and fish out a dollar.

”G.o.d bless you,” he says, walking away. A few steps later he adds, ”You're a sweetheart.” When he's reached the end of the block, he shouts, ”Be good! Listen to your parents! Stay in school!”

I find their apartment-a light blue Victorian with gold trim. I look up at the top floor, but I can't see anything through the windows. I don't ring the doorbell yet. Instead, I imagine what would happen if everyone turned their regrets into wishes, went around shouting them. Signal lights would change at intersections, and as the people on opposite sides of the street stepped off the curbs, they would call to one another-Finish college! Exercise at least three times a week! Never start smoking! Tell your mother you love her! Wear a condom! Make peace with your brother! Don't sign anything before you've met with a lawyer! Take your dog to the park! Keep in touch with your friends!

I ring Davey's doorbell and wait for footsteps down the stairs, for the lock to turn.

Nothing.

I ring again, just in case.

After another minute, I sit on their front steps and find the pages I want to give them-her first entry, the one to the hall monitor, because I know it will remind them of how much energy Ingrid used to have; a couple pages of mushy Jayson dreaming, because I'm pretty sure that they never got to know that side of her; and one of the last entries, even though I feel a little mean, like I'm dropping a bomb on all the good memories. But, at the same time, I'm doing this to share her, and that means all of her-the energetic, hopeful Ingrid, the sad Ingrid, the violent Ingrid, the Ingrid who hated me sometimes.

After I get their pages together, I tear out a sheet from my notebook and I write them a note. Then, I paper-clip everything together, and leave their package in the mailbox.

Dear Davey and Amanda, I know I said I'd stop by a while ago. I'm sorry it's taken me this long. Here is something I wanted you to have. If you're sad, make sure to talk about it!

Love, Caitlin It's already noon and I'm hungry, so I go back to that cafe I pa.s.sed earlier, and order a sandwich and a latte and sit at a table, surrounded by older people wearing black and talking about important things.

A girl in a vintage c.o.c.ktail dress calls me from behind the counter, so I weave between the other tables to get my food. I look through the copies as I eat, deciding which ones I'll give to my parents. I take a sip of the latte, and decide I'll give them one of everything. I take another sip. Then another. Even after the foam is gone, the drink still tastes good, kind of milky, not too strong. And maybe I'm overreacting, but it makes me so happy-I've been searching this whole year to find a coffee drink that's right for me, and now I've found it.

20.

It is 2 P.M. I'm back in Los Cerros.

A man answers the door at Jayson's house, wearing sweats and an Oakland A's T-s.h.i.+rt. He's tall like Jayson, but not as athletic-looking. Behind him is a small living room with a worn-in couch and a recliner. A television is playing commercials.

”Mr. Michaels?” I ask.

”That's me,” he says.

”I'm Caitlin. I'm a friend of Jayson's . . .”

He opens the door wider. ”Come in,” he says. ”Jayson and I are watching the game.”

”Jay-son!” Mr. Michaels calls as I walk in.

Jayson emerges from what I imagine is the kitchen, carrying a huge bowl of popcorn and wearing a backward A's hat. I crack up.

”Big fans?” I ask them, and they laugh, nod their heads as if to say I've found them out.

I share their popcorn and Mr. Michaels has me sit in his recliner, an honor, he tells me, which is reserved for only very special guests. Jayson rolls his eyes.

By the middle of the third inning, I'm starting to get nervous. I have so much more to do today, but I can't figure out how to give Jayson his entries without making a big scene in front of his dad. I try to catch his eye, and when I finally do, I point my head toward the door. I do it subtly, too too subtly I guess, 'cause Jayson just looks confused and asks, ”You want more popcorn?” subtly I guess, 'cause Jayson just looks confused and asks, ”You want more popcorn?”

”Okay,” I say helplessly and he hands me the bowl.

Another inning pa.s.ses and I'm getting desperate, so I just hope that Jayson was taught to walk his guests to the door, and tell them I have to get going.

”I'll walk you,” Jayson says, and I want to hug him.

Once we're out the door, Jayson tells me, ”My dad's totally gonna grill me when I get back inside, you know.”

”Sorry,” I say, knowing how weird it seems that I just showed up out of nowhere and watched half a game with them.

”No, it's cool,” Jayson a.s.sures me. ”We're friends, you can come by anytime. But my dad's gonna think you want to date me. He'll be b.u.mmed when I tell him it's not like that. Plenty of girls have come over before, but he's never offered one of them his recliner.”

”Yeah, right.”

”No, I'm serious. He totally likes you.”

”Oh no!” I laugh. ”I'm sorry to disappoint your dad. He's so nice.”

Jayson waits while I unlock my car door and set my heavy bag down on the seat.

”What do you have in there?” he asks.

”Too much,” I say. ”But some of it's for you.”

”Oh yeah?”

I pull out his pages and place them in his hands.

”They're copies I made from one of Ingrid's journals.”

Jayson slides into my car and turns the light on inside. I sit up on my trunk, and give him time to look.

I've been trying to be honest about what I give people, but after thinking a lot about it, I decided to give Jayson only the good parts. I don't think that the rest is something he would want to know, and I'm pretty sure Ingrid wouldn't have wanted him to know, either.

I wait for what feels like an hour, and then I go back to where he's sitting.

He's hunched over the steering wheel with his head in his hands.