The Memory Book(32)

Maddie stood and pulled me aside a few feet away. I could tell that she was still mad at me, but it was just a relief she was even responding.

“I’ll say it for you directly into your face. You hurt me by not telling me.”

I tried on a smile. “And I’m sorry! We’re on the same page! That’s what I’m trying to say!”

“Sammie, I’m not done.”

“Okay,” I said. She could keep going forever, as long as we were friends again. I breathed a sigh of relief (prematurely, as it turned out).

“I don’t know how to handle you being sick.”

I sucked the air back in, letting it sink through me with her words. But they didn’t land anywhere that made sense. “What do you mean?”

Maddie put her hands into a prayer position. Her nails were painted deep purple. “Suddenly we’re friends, right when you get sick? You never wanted to hang out with me before, outside of debate. But now it’s like, you need someone to bring all your woes and sadness and realizations about life to, and I’m the most convenient instafriend.”

“That’s not—”

“I’m just saying… I made a huge effort to be real friends, and you can’t even tell me the truth of what’s going on in your life? No, you’re too obsessed with your own stuff, too busy with the Sammie show.”

I threw up my hands. “The Sammie show?” Me? The person who could barely peel herself off the wall at a party? The person who talked to a computer instead of people? What the hell was she talking about?

“I mean, you aren’t always like that, Sammie,” Maddie said, closing her eyes briefly. She opened them again. “I was exaggerating. But I avoided you because I was afraid you would use me as, like, emotional support, whenever it was convenient for you, without giving any back. And of course I could never question you, because you’re sick and you should have what you want…”

“I would never do that,” I said quietly.

“People do it without realizing it,” she replied. “It’s not their fault.”

I just looked at her, waiting. Now I was afraid to talk, for fear I was dumping something on her.

Maddie put her hands on the side of her face and sighed, looking at me. “Does what I’m saying make sense? I don’t know. Maybe I’m putting too much of my own shit into this.”

I swallowed and said the smallest thing I could think of. “I’m really confused.”

“Me too,” she said, and the bell rang for first period.





JUST A TUESDAY, LIKE ANY OTHER TUESDAY


I AM FREAKING OUT. Stuart texted again, telling me he gets off work at six p.m., so I would be heading there after school toward the end of his shift and hanging out with him for three hours at the very least. AT THE VERY LEAST.

Okay, I text him.

“What time will you be coming in?” he asks.

If I respond within five minutes, is that too eager?

What if I’m trying to do to Stuart what Maddie said I was doing to her?

But I wasn’t doing that to her. I swear to you and all the saints, Future Sam, that I was never trying to use Maddie.

I can’t tell Stuart about NPC. Who knows how he’ll react. If he freaks like Maddie, then I’d be down to no one.

Is ten minutes too long, like I’m not interested, more of a friend thing?

I go with eight minutes, because he had taken the initiative to text me first, but I realize I pretty much forced him into saying it was a date the last time we hung out. So, right in between. Statistically sound.

Oh my god, I only have one nice outfit, which I already used. My glasses are smudged. I’m wearing clogs, cutoffs, and a huge sweatshirt that says DAN & WHIT’S SURPLUS because Puppy threw up all over the clean laundry this morning and my only other option was a shirt my dad bought me as a joke that says GOT CHOCOLATE MILK?, which, of course, has a chocolate milk stain by the collar because, yes, I do “got chocolate milk,” thank you very much.

This is an outfit that says, “I am just a normal, ambitious, laid-back young woman who does not have a debilitating disease.” Right?

It is not traditionally feminine, but if Elizabeth Warren worried about what she wore, she wouldn’t have time to condemn corrupt banking practices. Oh god, he said, “See you in a bit.” Okay, I will see him in a bit. I will see him in a bit for the second date of my entire life and perhaps the last because watch me forget my own name. Watch me enter the Canoe Club and everyone I know is there, like an intervention. And the entire NPC Clubhouse (as I have taken to calling them after receiving two newsletters) is there with their wheelchairs and tropical shirts to say, Surprise! We paid your crush to pretend to like you so that you wouldn’t feel more socially alienated than you already are! But you’re one of us now! You’re a shooting star!

Maybe I should be nicer to people.

Maybe I should have worn the chocolate milk shirt.

Oh god. Screw him. I mean, it. Sorry. I meant “screw it.” Freudian slip.





HUMANS HAVE BEEN DOING THIS FOR CENTURIES: A LESSON IN ANATOMY


The Canoe Club used to be a place I had only walked past, that my parents had only gone to on anniversaries, that Dartmouth students take their grandparents to when they’re in town. But now it feels like mine forever.