Bright Before Sunrise(9)

If Silvia walked by right now, she’d be crushed. I’m not flirting. I don’t have a quarter of the energy required to flirt. I have less than zero interest in flirting with Adrian, but he thinks I am. Instead of helping Silvie, I’m making things worse. I pull my arm away from his hand.

“You know what would be awesome?” I don’t pause for his answer. “If you could carpool on Sunday. Since you can drive and most sophomores can’t—and there’s not much parking there. Maybe you could drive … Silvia?”

“Silvia?” He steps back, message received. “Yeah, I could totally do that. I’ll go find her for you.”

“Thanks,” I say, turning down the hall. “You’re the best, Adrian! See you Sunday.”

Mr. Donnelly’s shuffling through stacks of student work, moving piles back and forth on his desk and looking through his bag. He’s so absorbed in this process, he doesn’t acknowledge my knock or notice when I cross the classroom to stand on the other side of his desk. I shift my weight a few times, check the clock on the wall above the projection screen, and finally fake a ridiculous-sounding cough.

He looks up and adjusts his glasses. “Oh, Brighton! Sorry, I didn’t hear you. I can’t seem to find the list of volunteers for Sunday.”

“I have it. Remember? You gave it to me yesterday.”

“Did I? Well, I’ve got a few more names for you to add. Where did I put that note?”

My heart picks up a beat, and for a moment it’s easy to ignore that the clock is ticking away my downtime while Mr. Donnelly rejects a variety of illegible notes on scraps of paper. Could Jonah have changed his mind? If so, I can just apologize in person at the event.

“Here it is: Mallory Freeman and Jake Murphy. How many volunteers does that put you at?”

I swallow and bite the inside of my lip. Not Jonah.

I need to sit. Now. Like disappointment has a weight to it. A weight heavy enough to make my knees refuse to hold me up. I lower myself onto a table and steal an extra moment by pulling the sign-up sheet out of my bag and adding their names. Adrian’s too.

It’s not just Jonah I’m upset about. It’s my dad. Everything seems to be leading back to Dad right now.

I take a deep breath and count the names on the sheet. “Twenty-two. That’s plenty, even if a few of them are no-shows.”

Mr. Donnelly nods and pulls a coffee-stained catalog out of a drawer. It figures he knows exactly where that is, and he even has a sticky note marking the page. He flips it open, and I’m faced with a glossy photograph of the plaque I picked out back in October: green marble mounted on dark cherry wood. The words engraved in gold. A row of people holding hands across the bottom that look like the chains of paper dolls I used to cut out and decorate in elementary school.

It’s perfect—an exact duplicate of the plaque already hanging in the lobby outside the main office, the one inscribed with my father’s name—but that doesn’t matter anymore. Ninety-nine point whatever percent isn’t good enough.

“Brighton, the deadline for club purchases is next Thursday.”

I nod and tighten my fingers. The date is circled on my calendar at home.

I look at the wording I’d deliberated over this fall—it’s printed on the sticky note, just waiting for an order that won’t be placed:

Cross Pointe Key Club

100% Participation Award

2013–2014

Club President: Brighton Waterford

Club Advisor: Mr. Donnelly

Making the world better, one day at a time.

“I’ve got a lot riding on this. Principal Jencks and I made a bet, you know.”

“You did?” I ask.

“If you pull this off, I win—and my schedule next year will have a coveted end-of-the-day prep period. If we don’t get a hundred percent student participation, I lose. And then I’m in charge of coordinating the halftime bake sales at all the football games. Please don’t make me lose. I can’t cook.”

“I’m trying.” I want to tell him I don’t need the added pressure. That I’ll make all the cookies, cupcakes, sugary whatevers he needs next fall, but I can’t do this.

“I know you are.” His face softens into affection; he’s never made it a secret that I’m one of his favorite students. It’s a blessing that often feels as heavy as a burden—especially now, when I want to make him happy but can’t. “You remind me so much of your dad—and if Ethan were still alive, he’d be so proud of you for doing this.”

I’m used to people comparing us, and I know Mr. Donnelly went to school with Dad, so it shouldn’t surprise me, but I’m unprepared, caught off-guard, and a soft “I hope so” escapes my lips.

“Of course he would. I’m sure I’ve already told you all this: how he was a couple grades above me, but he knew everyone, and everyone wanted to be his friend. He was such a leader—like you—I think if he’d wanted us to dye our hair green instead of raising money for starving Ethiopians or Mexican earthquake survivors, we would’ve done it. You couldn’t listen to him and not get caught up in his enthusiasm. There’s so much of him in you. You are his legacy.”

I suck my bottom lip and refuse to let myself blink. If I don’t shut my lids, then my eyes are just glistening. It’s not the same as crying. I hadn’t realized how badly I needed to hear that. Or how much it would hurt.