Begin Again(53)

The caller lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank you. Thank you, whatever your actual name is. This . . . helps. A lot.”

I smile as if the caller’s in the room with me, and can feel every inch of it. “I’m glad,” I say sincerely, even though something rings false. Whatever your actual name is. Like calling myself the Squire is creating a distance between me and this caller that isn’t just airwaves, but something I’ve put up myself.

I shift to give Milo back the stool, but he doesn’t move—just points at the mic and makes a wrap-up gesture.

“Me?” I mouth, incredulous.

“We’re out of time,” he whispers. I forgot he went on a work-study rant a little longer than his usual fare before the segment.

I stare at the mic. The segment is so self-contained that I’ve never needed to do a sign-off before—at least one that isn’t my ill-fated “ta-ta” the day Milo overslept. I scramble, trying to remember Milo’s, even trying to remember one of my mom’s, but it’s like my brain’s gone static.

But then I shift my gaze from the mic over to Milo, and the static takes shape. It’s a mess. It’s pieces that need to be picked up. It’s looking forward and looking back. It’s everything I’ve been trying to do, and everything I want to instill in the advice I give from now on—not starting over, but starting with what you’ve got.

“Well, that’s all from us today,” I say. “Go make the most out of it, because every day is a chance to begin again.”

I feel Milo’s smile from across the small room, and smile one of my own into the mic.

After Shay turns off the mic, I sit and wait for the aftermath to hit—to start overthinking everything I said in a twenty-four-hour infinite loop, and pick apart every word of it—but it never comes. We collect our stuff to leave, and on the way out I let myself take a long, hard look at the picture of my mom and for once, smile back at her.

Milo’s waiting for me at the main door to the building, holding it open. “Too bad I’ll never see you on Fridays again, since you’re taking over the show.”

I let out a breathy laugh, still in a state of happy disbelief. “That was wild.”

“That was great,” Milo counters.

I fight the impulse to shrug off the compliment, but can’t help adding, “Well, at least it was an easy one to answer, since I’m in the same boat.”

Milo shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “I’m glad it’s working out,” he says, the words quick, but sincere.

“Thanks,” I say, momentarily thrown. Milo hasn’t even referenced Connor once in these past few weeks. The deliberateness of it feels strange, like it’s testing some boundary between us. “Me too.”

But before I can feel it out, Milo salutes me in goodbye and splits off to another path to get to work.

I reflexively pull my phone out of my pocket. I should text Connor. Tell him about the broadcast. But the idea of it seems to puncture some of the magic, the feeling I’ve been riding since I first took Milo’s mic.

What if you did something behind the scenes instead? Connor had said to me. Every time I pushed myself, every time I tried to get past this fear, he was there with some variation of those words. If you were doing stuff and nobody knew it was you, would it scare you then?

Back then I thought it made me feel safe. But looking back, I think it might have just made me feel small.

When I reach the dorm, I compose an email to my old AP Psych teacher telling her I’m ready to pass the torch on the “Bed of Roses” column. I don’t hesitate to send it. Some part of me has known this was coming for a while now. But nothing confirmed it more than this—more than the energy of talking to someone in real time, of rising to meet a challenge as it was presented; more than the fire coursing through me, hot enough to fuel but not so much that it burns; more than the friends who quietly believed I could do it, and waited for me to believe in myself.





Chapter Eighteen


“March is a nothing month,” says Shay, scowling at the slush on the sidewalk as we make our way to the library.

“You’re literally a Pisces,” I remind her.

“And as one of the more emotionally aware signs, I feel more deeply than anyone how boring this time of year is,” Shay says, capping it off with a long sigh.

She’s not wrong. There’s a restless kind of energy all over campus. That post-midterm, pre-knowing-whether-you-passed-themidterms feeling that has everybody a little bit on edge.

At least it’s been getting marginally warmer, because for reasons I cannot begin to fathom, so far every single yellow-ribbon event has been outside. I can’t say I’ve minded it too much, since it’s given me plenty of excuses to explore the arboretum. I’ve even run into Milo’s mom a few times taking care of things on the grounds. After I lingered one afternoon watching absolutely transfixed as she moved a beehive, she asked if I would be interested in joining an outdoor volunteer society she led. I loved the idea of it, but told her it would probably have to wait until next semester—or at the very least until the ribbon hunt finishes up.

“If it isn’t my fellow reigning trivia champions,” says Valeria, already set up at a front table for today’s tutoring session when we walk into the library. “Happy Friday.”