The Best Possible Answer(31)

But I kissed Evan. I kissed him. He kissed me.

And I see it: the stupidity of feeling better because some random guy thinks that I’m pretty and that my pupils are attractive. It shouldn’t take a guy to make me feel better. It shouldn’t be because of him.

And then I think about Sammie.

About how I’ve betrayed her.

Oh wait. Here it comes. That dizzy feeling, that tense embarrassment, that deep worry about what I’ve done. It’s a sharp realization, one with jagged edges that stab deep. Even when I think I’m feeling good, I’m actually failing. I’ve failed. Again.

I text Sammie about the fight with my mom and Mila and the divorce and how my dad won’t be home for another three months. I don’t text her about the tomatoes or the kiss or the hand-holding underneath the umbrella situation.

She texts back for me to come upstairs.

I go back into the dining room to ask my mom if I can stay with Sammie tonight, but she’s not there. I hear whispering and crying in Mila’s room. I could go in, try to make amends, but I don’t. I write a note for my mom—Upstairs with Sammie—and leave it on her keyboard.

Sammie wraps her arms around me right when I walk in. “Do you want to talk?”

This is the point where I should say yes, that I need to tell her about Evan and me. About how stupid it was of me to kiss him.

Instead, I shake my head. “Do you?”

“No,” she says. “Guys are jerks. Guys of all ages. I’m sorry about your jerky dad.”

I’m supposed to say “I’m sorry about your jerky Evan,” but I don’t.

I can’t.

So I just nod. “Tell me a story?” I say.

“Of course.” We head to her bedroom and lean against the window.

Sammie picks up her binoculars and tells me that the O’Briens are eating Thai. “Good for them,” she says. “Shaking it up!”

“Is Professor Cox home?”

She moves her binoculars to his balcony. “No.” She lifts the binoculars. “Oh, but Mrs. Woodley is belly dancing in her living room! Want to see?”

I close my eyes. “No thanks. Describe it for me?”

Sammie nods and tells me about Mrs. Woodley’s new life plan to travel the world with Tad, bungee jumping in New Zealand, river kayaking in Bali, and mountain biking in Namibia.

“Mountain biking in Namibia?”

“It’s a thing people do,” she says. “I read about it online.”

I ask Sammie if I can stay over, and of course she says yes. I decide not to bother texting my mom to tell her. I’m supposed to take Mila to camp tomorrow morning before I come back for my morning shift, but I figure if she cares enough, she’ll find me.

*

I don’t sleep well anymore. I can’t remember the last time I had a really good night. Even when I do sleep, I feel like I’m half-awake, my dreams filled with running and reading and testing and failing. Crowds watching me. Naked dreams. Dreams that are predictable and boring, and yet interminable and torturous.

The morning light is filtering in through the blinds, and I’m already awake, but I’m still startled when Sammie sits up in bed. “Oh my God. Wake. Up.”

She’s on her phone. “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. Evan. Just. Messaged. Me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Through Instagram. Look.” She holds up her phone to my face and I have to let my eyes focus before I can really see what it is that she’s showing me. It’s a photo of the back of his hand with a phone number written on it. “His number,” she says. “He sent it to me privately.”

I sit up to look at her bedside clock. “Why is he sending you messages at six-thirty A.M.?”

“I just posted a pic from yesterday—my Marilyn photos, you know? I couldn’t think of a good caption, so I waited until just now to post—and then he messaged me right after.”

“Good! That’s great,” I say, but it’s not great. It’s weird and awkward, and I don’t know why I blurt that out.

I mean, he’s flirting with her. He responded to a half-naked photo of her with his phone number. It’s what she wanted. And I need to remember that as good as I felt in that crazy, wonderful moment yesterday, I don’t want him. Life is complicated enough as it is. And I want Sammie to be happy.

“He wants me to text him.”

“So, text him, then.”

“Okay. Yeah. Yeah? Okay. I’ll do it.”

She hovers over her phone and sends him a message. I don’t ask what it says. I lie back down.

She lies back next to me. “Okay. I sent it. Oh God. I can’t believe it.”

“Did he say anything else with the picture?”

“No. It’s just his number. I hope it was meant for me. Maybe it wasn’t meant for me?”

“It was meant for you.”

Her phone lights up. She reads the message and nearly wakes the whole building with her squeal. “HE WANTS TO COME OVER!”

“Wait. What? Here? Now?”

“Yes.” She ignores my questions while she types something back to him and then throws the cover off our legs. “He’s riding his bike over from campus. Come on. Get up. We’ve got to get ourselves together. Will you fix my hair? Maybe that cool braid again? I’ve got to put on some lipstick or something. He’s going to be here in ten minutes.”