Hope and Other Punch Lines(6)

“Wow. Those are some e-nor-mous plans,” I say, and he smiles at me, an explosion of delight on his face. These days, I only allow myself one limited daydream about the future: college. In my mind’s eye, it’s glorious: hooded sweatshirts and food trucks and library carrels. Coed dorms and lectures on feminist theory and parties full of people from anywhere and everywhere but Oakdale. I imagine myself happily eating my way toward the freshman fifteen, which might be the answer to the problem of my cavernous chest, and laughing late into the night with the perfect roommate and then sleeping until noon without thinking of the hours wasted. I want to go to school on an urban campus, I think, but in a smaller, nonthreatening city. No New York. No DC. Maybe Philly?

The one way I can accept this whole getting-sick/limited-time-left-on-this-planet thing is if there are—and I truly believe there will be, there have to be—at least a few good years for me to get used to the idea.

Connie was ill for half a decade. I tell myself there’s no reason I shouldn’t have a similar trajectory. Five years seems manageable. Five years makes my plan of putting off dealing with the cough for one summer seem totally reasonable.

“A comedian, huh? Are you funny?” I ask.

“Hilarious,” he says, just flatly enough that I surprise myself with a laugh.



* * *



—

We sit down across from each other in the lounge-ier section of Starbucks, where the chairs are upholstered and the tables are low, and all of sudden, our conversation, which has been flowing nicely after that bad start so far, begins to taper off.

“You’re probably wondering why I asked you to have coffee with me.” Noah clears his throat, as if about to commence the official portion of our meeting. He’s simultaneously dorky and earnest and also sarcastic, the sum total of which is a kind of sneaky charm. I’ve found that sarcasm usually brings with it a certain amount of unpleasant defensiveness when it comes to the boy species. Here it seems unencumbered. Joking purely for the pleasure of it.

“I figured you wanted to talk about the weather,” I say, and brace myself, though for what, I have no idea. It’s not like someone is going to jump out from behind the glass muffin case. We’re far enough away from Oakdale.

“I have a proposition for you. It sort of involves, well, Baby Hope.”

The disappointment twists my gut. Before he even starts his spiel, I already know the word I’m going to say back, in the nicest way possible—no.

“I want the first issue of the Oakdale High Free Press to be dedicated to hunting down all the other nine-eleven survivors in the Baby Hope picture, and I need your help to do it,” he says, and then, once it’s out in a quick rush, he looks me straight in the eyes and spreads his hands as if writing a triumphant headline in the air. He smiles, like I’m supposed to think this is a brilliant idea. Something fun and exciting, like skipping work and spending the day at the beach.

“I don’t think so,” I say.

“Why not?” he asks, and I don’t answer. “If you do this with me, I really think we could get the newspaper national exposure.” He grins again, though this time it’s slightly slower to take off. He uses that weird enthusiastic tone, like I might actually care about the “national exposure” of the Oakdale High Free Press, when the last thing I can ever imagine wanting is publicity.

“No, but thanks anyway. This was fun.” I stand up to leave, unsure why I reflexively thanked him. I should be able to say a polite no and leave it at that. These are exactly the sort of life skills I need to learn in my hypothetical college feminism lectures.

“Abbi, please. Wait,” Noah says, and signals for me to sit down. I do, but only because my phone is dead and I left my backup charger in my car and I have no idea how to get back to camp.

“Was it something I said?” he jokes. I laugh despite myself.

I meet his eyes again, and inexplicably, embarrassingly, mine begin to water.

“Seriously, why don’t you want to do this? Aren’t you curious? Who are they? Where are they now?” His voice sounds urgent. Like he still thinks there’s a chance he can convince me. He doesn’t notice my wet eyes, or if he does, he ignores them. “Do you know?”

“Nope,” I say, a blanket nonanswer. I don’t mention Connie. That I know that at least one person in the photo, the most important person, is already dead. That I suspect the rest of us have more in common than that terrible moment. “No one cares anymore, anyway. It was a long, long time ago.”

“Look,” Noah pleads, changing tactics. “I feel like the world should really hear your side of the story.”

“There is no my side of the story. I was a baby. It’s ancient history.” I think about all the Where Is Baby Hope Now? pieces that tend to pop up around the anniversary. Last year, the fifteenth, after I refused to participate in an interview, People magazine ran a sidebar with my yearbook photo anyway. Of course, that led to even more teary confessions and me hugging strangers in line at Home Depot and the Smoothie King and, once, in the ladies’ room at Bloomingdale’s. I have no idea what would happen if the world found out about the cough.

“Please.” His voice is hopeful, as if there is a lot more riding on this than the school newspaper.

“Sorry,” I say, even though it’s a straight-up lie. I’m not even a little bit sorry.