Bright Before Sunrise(5)

No pressure there. I wish Maggie had given me a hint; not only which pictures she doesn’t like, but some clue about which one she does. I like the tree picture. I like the one Amelia chose. I scroll through them again, but they’re starting to blend into indistinguishable smiles and poses.

“Really, any of these would work.” I force the phone into her hand.

Maggie frowns. “So you think I should get retakes? Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“What? No, that’s not what I mean!” I don’t know how to speak more carefully than I already am, yet I still managed to say the wrong thing. “They all look good. You’re really photogenic.”

“But none of them have that standout, wow factor? And my senior photo should, since it’s going to be hanging on my parents’ wall forever.” Maggie sighs. “Okay, retakes it is.” She gives Amelia a look; I get a hug. “Thank you for being honest with me. You’re so right. I can get a better photo than these.”

There’s no way to contradict that without insulting her, but my stomach sinks as she types a response into her phone.

The bell rings. Maggie doesn’t stop typing. I clear my throat and Amelia laughs. “B, you know Ms. Porter’s not going to care if we’re late.”

Maggie finally pockets her phone and starts walking. “So, what are you doing this weekend?”

What are you doing this weekend? It’s a normal question. One I’ve answered every Friday since I reached the age of plan making. Today it glues my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I fidget with my ring, turning the emerald side in and squeezing my hand shut so it hits my palm. I don’t want to think about this weekend.

“—anniversary with Peter,” finishes Amelia. I should remember what her plans are. And which month anniversary it is. We spent last weekend picking out cologne for him. I can’t remember which one she bought. I should know this. Why can’t I remember? Six months? Eight?

Maggie nudges me with an elbow. “What about you? Do you want to come to the movies with us? We’re seeing Shriek 3.”

“Oh, I can’t.” I really hope she lets it go. Doesn’t pressure me or ask a lot of questions. “Thanks, though.”

“Come on! You should totally come.”

“I’ve already seen it.”

“So, what are you doing?” Maggie demands. “Are you going to Jeremy’s party?”

“I …” I stare at the groove Jonah’s locker left across the polish on my index finger. The tip of my thumbnail fits in it perfectly, and I scrape at the edge, making a scratch into a chip. “This weekend?”

We’re too far from the classroom door for me to avoid answering.

“Um, I’m …” I swallow.

My face doesn’t give anything away, but Amelia knows me well enough that she doesn’t need a signal. “Who’s going to the movies? It’s freakin’ scary. I’m surprised Peter and Brighton can still feel their fingers—I gripped their hands tight enough to cut off circulation.”

“I’ve heard it’s the scariest so far. I know I’m going to be terrified!” Maggie starts listing parts of the movie trailer, interrupting herself to name the group of people she’s going with.

Amelia bumps her shoulder against mine and gives me a small smile. It’s nice to know I don’t have to return it, because she knows what I’m thinking, but I force my lips upward and bump her shoulder back. If she could, she’d gladly share some of my dread about tomorrow. She’d pass me tissues and rub my back if I let her see me cry.

I can’t, though. I never could cry in front of other people. Not even when it first happened. Grief always feels too personal to be made public.

Five years tomorrow.

Five years. And it’s still so raw.

Ms. Porter starts class as soon as we slip into our seats. While my fingers dutifully copy her notes off the board and I nod as if I’m fascinated by her insights on Thomas Hardy, my other hand is clenched into a fist in my lap.

I take a deep breath and uncurl my fingers, straighten my ring, smooth out my capris. It’s two weeks till the end of school and the last period on a Friday, so no one’s paying much attention. Ms. Porter even breaks off her lecture early and tells us to start reading the next few chapters aloud. I try to focus—turning pages when I notice the others doing so and staring at the book like the words make sense, but my mind is miles from Tess and her misfortunes.

Evy’s coming home from Glenn Mary University tonight. The relatives descend tomorrow.

“Brighton, next page.”

I blink at my book, blood rushing to my cheeks. Someone coughs. Someone shifts in a chair.

“I’m sorry, I lost my place. What page?” I squeak.

“Three seventeen.” There’s a week’s worth of exasperation in the number, and I cringe under the weight of it.

I stumble over a word, one I know. Then, like an avalanche gathering snow, my mistakes double and triple—collecting and muting me so my last paragraph is read at a whisper.

I finish to silence and stares. Even Ms. Porter has lowered her book to study me.

Amelia clears her throat. “Can I go next?” Without waiting for an answer, she starts reading.

Slowly all the eyes turn back to their books, the blood drains from my cheeks, and the clock ticks its way to dismissal.