The Best Possible Answer(18)

Evan puts his hands up. “Whoa. I’m sorry. I was just kidding—”

“Seriously, though. If it makes Sammie feel better about her day, why do you care? Why is it such an issue for you?”

“Actually,” Professor Cox says, “she’s right. Horoscopes do serve as a valid cognitive trick, like hindsight bias, and they can help us navigate rough times. We invoke the idea of fate via activities like astrology in order to reflect upon and accept the reality of our situations, the choices we’ve already made.”

“Exactly,” I continue. “Thank you. And therefore I am in full support of Sammie reading her horoscope if it means she’ll feel better about those choices.”

“Okay, okay—” Evan puts up his hands and smiles at me. “It all makes sense now.” And then he puts his hand on my shoulder, squeezes me tight. “That’s a perfect argument.”

Sammie stands up. “I’m out.” She straps her bag over her shoulder. “See you guys tomorrow.”

I was trying to defend her, but now I’ve stepped into the spotlight, and she’s pissed.

“Wait. Where are you going?” I ask. There’s still ten minutes before closing.

She doesn’t answer, though. Instead, she walks out the door without clocking out. She does this sometimes, turns off at a moment’s notice.

Evan looks confused, but I don’t wait to explain. “I’m going to head out, too,” I say.

I clock out quickly for both Sammie and me, and then I grab my bag and try to catch up with her. I run through the courtyard, but she’s out of sight. I struggle to find my key to the back entrance door of our building. By the time I get to the elevator, she’s already disappeared.

*

She’s ignoring my texts. I run upstairs and knock on her door, but Mrs. Salazar answers and says that Sammie’s locked herself in her room, that she might be taking a nap. I hate it when she does this. She shuts off, shuts me out. It’s the only thing about having a best friend who’s a drama geek that drives me crazy. She reads into everything.

Admittedly, this time, she’s right. Evan was showing interest only in me. I felt it. She felt it. We both felt it.

And maybe if it weren’t for Sammie, I might be interested, too. The more I’m around him, the more I like him. I’m not sure why exactly. Maybe because he asks questions that make me step outside of myself, away from my wandering, hurting mind.

But I’ve made a promise to her.

I’ve made a promise to myself.

I head back down to my apartment, where Mila is zoned out on the couch, watching her animal show, and my mom is in the dining room, on her computer, like always, studying for her class.

I try to get to my room without her noticing me, but of course that’s impossible in this tiny apartment. “You were late today,” she says. “I thought the pool closed at seven, no?”

“It did. It does. I was just helping them clean up.”

“Do they pay you for that?”

“Yeah, actually,” I say, lying. “Mr. Bautista said I could work overtime.”

“There are laws in Illinois that govern how many hours minors can work each week. He’d better not be breaking them.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.” Whoops. Just my luck that my mom, with her photographic memory, has probably memorized the entire Illinois legal library.

“I thought this was going to be an easy job. And that you were going to be home on time.” She says this as a statement, not a question. She doesn’t ask how it’s going, if I even like it. She just assumes that I’m doing something wrong.

“It is an easy job,” I say. “I was just having fun. I wanted to stay a little longer, that’s all.”

This somehow appeases her, for now. “You go lie down now.”

I don’t tell her that I don’t want to lie down. Or that I have finals to study for. Or that I’m tired of her telling me what to do instead of asking me how I am.

I head to my room and shut the door.

*

The next morning, I wake up to five texts from Sammie. She’s read all my texts, heard my voice mails, accepted my apology. She knows it’s not my fault—it’s just that she thought she liked him so much, and it’s totally fine if I want to go for him—she’ll never be one to get in the way of true love.

I call her up.

“I’m telling you. I’m not into him.”

“But it’s okay if you are.” She’s using her drama voice again, the one that’s too high-pitched to be real.

“I’m not, though.” Despite whatever force I felt draw me toward him, the last thing I need right now is to be dating anyone. “Anyway, he was being kind of a jerk to you, with that whole horoscope thing.”

“I think he was just trying to get your attention. He liked it when you stood up for me.”

“Let’s just drop it. Okay?”

“You’re sure?” she asks. “I can go for him, and you’re one hundred percent totally okay with it.”

“Yes. Absolutely. I’m one hundred and fifty percent totally okay with it,” I say. “Would you please stop asking me? I’ll see you downstairs in ten minutes?”

“Okay, fine. Yes. Sure. See you downstairs.”