Big Summer(14)

I consulted my phone. We had fifteen minutes to traverse the two blocks that would get us to East Ninety-First Street in time to collect Izzy at Spence. “If we eat fast.”

Ian nodded. “That’s fair.”

“How was your day?”

Ian sighed. “We had PE, and I got picked last again.”

“Aw, man.” Ian rolled his eyes at my sad attempt to sound hip, but I could see a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “Seriously, though. I can’t believe schools are still doing it this way. Letting kids pick teams.”

He looked up at me. “Did you get picked last ever?”

“Um, did I get picked last always?” I asked lightly. Keep it moving, I told myself. If I got mired in memories of gym class horror, I’d be crying by the first intersection. “What will we be enjoying this afternoon?”

“Chocolate croissant at Sarabeth’s,” he said promptly. “Are you trying to change the subject?”

Ian didn’t miss much. “I one hundred percent am.”

“Were kids mean to you when you were in third grade?”

“On occasion. But you know what? I survived. And you will, too. And those jerks who were mean to you will probably peak in middle school, whereas you have many, many years to excel.” Ian smiled at that. I wondered when he’d realize that some bullies just stayed that way, that some of the little jerks just grew up to become bigger, rich, successful jerks, and that the scales didn’t always balance in the end.

We walked into Sarabeth’s. The woman behind the counter smiled when she saw Ian. “The usual?” she asked.

Ian nodded. “Yes, please.”

“You’re a regular!” I said. He rolled his eyes, but he was glowing with the pleasure of being recognized, standing a little taller as he looked around to see who might have heard. Everyone likes being seen, I thought, and stowed that observation away for later use in an Instagram post.

“Who was mean to you?” Ian asked, once we’d found a table. “Was it that girl? The one who came to our house?”

I pulled an allergen-free, lavender-scented wipe out of my bag. “Hands.”

Ian wiped his hands and started to eat. “It was, wasn’t it?” His voice sounded dolorous, even with a mouthful of chocolate and pastry. “I’ll bet she got picked first.”

“That, my friend, is a bet you would win.”

I wished that Ian and Izzy had never met Drue, that my former best friend had never dragged my employers and their kids into our drama. But, as Drue had pointed out, I hadn’t given her any other option. I’d ignored her emails and the texts she sent after she’d gotten my phone number from our alumni association. I hadn’t opened the direct messages she’d sent on Instagram and Facebook and Twitter, and I’d thrown the letter she’d mailed me into the trash, unopened. When she’d left word with my parents that she was trying to reach me, all I’d said was “Thanks for letting me know.” And even though I was sure that they were both desperate to hear the story about what had gone wrong between us. they hadn’t pushed, or pried, or asked questions.

Finally, Drue had done an end run and had gone to the Snitzers. Dr. Elise, it emerged, sat on the board of one of the museums where Drue was a member of the Young Friends, and she had been delighted to facilitate the reunion of two old friends. She’d even enlisted Ian and Izzy. “We’ve got a big surprise for you!” Izzy had said one afternoon, making me sit while Ian solemnly wrapped a blindfold around my head. Each kid had taken a hand, and they’d led me into the kitchen. I’d smelled chocolate as they’d helped me take a seat. “Surprise!” they’d shouted. I’d pulled off the blindfold to see a frosted cake on the table, with candles blazing.

Confused, I’d said, “It’s not my birthday.”

“That’s not the surprise!” Izzy crowed. She and Ian went into the foyer. A minute later, larger than life and twice as beautiful, in high pale-beige heels and a navy-blue blazer that probably cost more than I would earn all week, was Drue Cavanaugh. My old best friend.

“Hey, Daphne!” she’d said, as if we’d seen each other fifteen minutes ago at our lockers at the Lathrop School after a day of classes instead of six years ago, on a sidewalk outside of a bar, after a fight.

I stared at her. “Blow out your candles,” she said quietly. “Make a wish.” As if I’d been hypnotized, I bent and did as she’d told me. I blew out the candles, but I didn’t make a wish. My mind had gone completely, distressingly blank.

“It’s your friend!” Ian crowed. “Your friend from school! She wanted to surprise you!”

“Are you surprised?” Izzy had asked, dancing around me in her tulle tutu.

I could barely breathe, could barely speak. “I am. Yes. Hey, can you two monsters give us a minute?”

The kids, placated by slices of cake and glasses of milk, had gone to the den for a bonus half-hour of screen time. Drue had helped herself to the slimmest sliver of cake. “Thanks, Josie,” she’d said, dismissing the Snitzers’ cook in the impersonally friendly tone of a woman who’d spent her whole life telling the help what to do. Josie had nodded and bowed her way out the door.

And then it had been just the two of us.

I imagined that I could feel the air changing, some kind of shift in the atmosphere signaling the gravity of this moment. Name five things you can see. The refrigerator. My hand on the table. My black shirt. The stainless-steel refrigerator. Drue’s highlighted hair. I could still smell the cake that Josie had made, the good scents of chocolate and butter and vanilla, and I could hear Izzy and Ian squabbling about what to watch, but all of that felt very far away. I imagined that we were in a bubble, my old friend and me, floating, alone together, apart from the world. Just the two of us.