Hope and Other Punch Lines(67)

Me: I know I was just at your house, but I miss you already. Can I say things like that yet?



Jack pauses the game and sits next to me so he can read over my shoulder.

“No, you cannot say things like that yet. Try to play it cool for at least a minute,” he says.


Me: Also remember when you were dying? That was funny



“Too soon, idiot,” Jack says, and smacks me on the head with a throw pillow. I ignore him and continue to type:


Me: Too soon?

Me: Sorry. Of course it’s too soon.

Me: Abs?



While I wait for a response, my hands go clammy. Did I blow this already? All for a not-particularly-funny joke? I should have asked how she was feeling, like a normal person.

“You should have asked how she was feeling, like a normal person,” Jack says, reading my mind, and if I didn’t know he could kill me in one move, both on-screen and in real life, I’d punch him. My phone dings with a new text.


Abbi: Ha! I’m totally here! Never too soon. Miss you too. Was fun hoping you were sweating it out there for a minute



“Holy crap. She’s like the girl-Noah,” Jack says. “I’d totally binge-watch the crap out of this rom-com.”

“Shut up and go away,” I say.


Me: You’re evil Abbi: I’m evil? Was I the one who just made jokes about someone potentially dying from cancer?

Me: I thought…humor helps Abbi: I’m kidding! I totally get it Me: Have I ever mentioned that I’m obsessed with finding the perfect 9/11 joke?



“Sharing one of your idiosyncrasies. Brave. I like it,” Jack interjects. “Being occasionally vulnerable is key. I told Brendan my coming-out story yesterday, though of course I had to ratchet up the drama a bit.”

“I think your mom is calling you,” I lie, and motion upstairs. Of course he stays put.


Abbi: Seriously? A 9/11 joke? That is so weird and so you and makes complete and total sense to me, you comedy nerd Me: Haven’t gotten very far. Think the problem is I’m swinging too big. A joke is not going to save the world Abbi: Maybe not. But it could save someone in the world Me: You think?

Abbi: Maybe even the person telling it Me: Look at you having theories too Abbi: By the way, tell Jack I can’t wait to meet Brendan



“Let me take this one,” Jack says, and successfully wrestles my phone out of my hands.


Me: Abs! This is Jack. Listen, when you meet Brendan under no circumstances are you allowed to ask about the boobtastic mermaid tattoo Abbi: Did you save my life, Jack? Did I say you can call me Abs?

Me: PLEASE LET ME CALL YOU ABS. I’ll be your best friend. You can ask Noah if you need to see my references. I come preapproved Abbi: Okay. Fine. But only because I happen to be in the market for a new best friend. So what happens if the tattoo comes up naturally in conversation?

Me: It will not come up in conversation Abbi: What if I happen to mention to Brendan, “Oh man, I love tattoos. You know what I’ve always wanted? A woman naked on the top, finned on the bottom. What’s your position on why I totally have this weird need to permanently ink my body with that mer-image?”

Me: I hate you Me: That was Jack. This is Noah again. I don’t hate you. Not even a little Abbi: I don’t hate you either. Not even a little



I feel myself smiling like an idiot, and I’m powerless against it. Before Jack can say anything, I pick up the controller and restart the game. I set fire to an alien overlord and shoot off a rocket. I keep my eyes on the screen and my thumbs busy as I wait for him to make fun of me for my shameless lovesickness. Which is fine and inevitable and fully deserved.

But for once, Jack holds back. Instead, to my surprise, on-screen anarchy girl takes a break from her ass-kicking to lean over and give me a celebratory high five.





“Here are the rumors about you in order of most repeated: one, drug overdose; two, you were hit by a bus; three, you tried to kill yourself; and number four, my personal favorite, you had a bad reaction to shots of human growth hormone,” Julia reports on my first day back at camp while we distribute the cupcakes I brought in for the girls. I can only hope that my collapsing and being taken away on a stretcher will not feature in their future therapy sessions. I’ve been out of a camp a week, like a month in camp time, the entirety of which I have spent watching TV and texting Noah and Jack. As much fun as both of those things are, I’m thrilled to be back at work. “You should have seen this place the day after. Swarming with news trucks.”

“Basically my worst nightmare,” I say, relieved that the media interest, after an initial flurry of activity, has died down. Dr. McCuskey, at the request of my parents, issued a statement that I had been released from the hospital and was expected to make a full recovery. Other than the outrageous rumors and a few random Baby Hope memes on Twitter and Facebook, and yes, I was a punchline on the Daily Show (Noah loved that one), most people seem to have forgotten about me. Which is just the way I like it. “By the way, it was none of the above.”

“I know. I’m happy you’re okay,” Julia says, and throws her arm over my shoulder and squeezes. “It wasn’t the same here without you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Totally. I had to clean up, like, three floaters.”