Hope and Other Punch Lines(33)

“She is, right?” I ask. “I think it’s the overconfidence.”

“Cat could totally rock overalls,” Noah says, almost wistful. I wonder if he likes Cat and if that’s why he and Jack gave her a ride home the other day. He seems like the kind of guy who would get massive unrequited crushes on cute, quirky girls like her. It’s not like I don’t understand. I’ve had a platonic crush on her almost the entirety of my life. I spent years orbiting Planet Cat and I never minded a single bit that she was the one who got all the attention. Preferred it, actually. She gave me cover.

I don’t like the thought that Noah would want anything to do with her.

“Why am I such a wimp?” I ask. I knot my hair into a bun on the top of my head and fan myself. Could Cat possibly like Noah back? He’s not really her type—she always said she likes men, not boys—but Noah has a certain stealthy charm. Even Julia isn’t immune.

“You’re not a wimp,” Jack says. “You seem really brave.”

“Please tell me you don’t mean the Baby Hope crap,” I say.

“God, no,” he says. “I mean how you seem to be exactly yourself wherever you are. You are the same person at a party as you are in my basement as you are at school. You know, I once saw you eat lunch by yourself on the bleachers last year. You didn’t hide out and eat in the library like I do when Noah’s not there. You could have, but you didn’t.”

“I have this weird thing about fresh air,” I say.

“Screw Cat,” Noah says. “Seriously, screw her.”

“She’s not a bad person,” I say. “She’s…” I trail off because I don’t know what she is. Selfish. Impulsive and decisive. Easily bored.

“I don’t think she even recognized me as the guy who drove her home last week,” Jack says. “I think that tells us all we need to know.” I don’t say it—it’s no longer my job to defend her—but it doesn’t really tell us all we need to know, because the old Cat might have been self-obsessed, but she was also funny and kind and strong. Which I realize now is why we never had the talk about us growing in different directions. That would have required a cruelty she didn’t possess.

“You know what I think? I think the reason high school sucks is because it feels so small. Like a too-tight turtleneck,” Noah says. “And even if you are brave enough to molt, there’s all these people around you still, like, holding up and showing you your old skin.”

“That’s both beautiful and gross,” Jack says.

“But soon our worlds are going to get bigger. Like exponentially,” Noah says, ignoring Jack’s gentle teasing. He throws his head back and looks up at the sky as if examining its vastness. It’s dark and cloudy, but I bet he’s picturing it bright blue. “And then there will be so much more fresh air for you to breathe. There will be more room to just be.”

“I meant the fresh-air thing literally. Not like a metaphor,” I say, and nudge Noah with my shoulder to let him know that I’m also gently teasing. I understand his point, though. You would think that the cough would help put all this stuff in perspective—a small thing versus everything. I think Julia might be right. Heartbreak is heartbreak. The fact that it already hurts less doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter. “So what will college feel like, then? A loose tank top? A poncho?”

“A cape,” Noah says, and grins his goofiest grin. “I think once we break free of this place we’re going to wander the whole world in capes.”

“Way better than overalls,” I say. Suddenly this moment is bursting with all the warm goodness of being surrounded by people who get you—a feeling I’ve been lacking as of late—and Noah and Jack both throw their arms around my shoulders and pull me into a group hug. Though I literally can’t breathe smooshed between them, no fresh air to be found, I close my eyes and smile.





Here’s my plan: I’ll take the two pictures from my backpack and present them to Abbi side by side today at camp. I won’t be all dramatic, like a prosecutor on TV. I’ll slip them out, super casual and calm, and say Hey, do you see what I see?

The unidentified man in the University of Michigan hat.

The picture of my dad hugging my mom on September 9.

Same stubble and tired eyes. Same face.

But whenever I spot Abbi across the soccer field, or by the plake, or in the arts and crafts cabin, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, her arms around little Livi’s shoulders, she smiles at me, warm and open and bright, like we are finally on the same team. Like we’ve pulled past obligation, past her equating me with blackmail, and moved on to fully solid ground.

A leap closer to the Abs stage.

I run through every scenario. I imagine her repeating Jack’s theory about doppelg?ngers. I imagine her saying exactly what my mom said when I asked her: “Noah, that’s not your dad, because that guy obviously lived.” I imagine Abbi getting furious and calling the whole project off. I imagine her slapping me across the face, which is ridiculous. She’s way more likely to knee me in the nuts.

The only thing I can’t imagine: her telling me I might be right.

Her grabbing my hand and saying Let’s do this. Let’s go find your dad.

The photos stay in my bag, unseen, right where they’ve been all along.