Hopeless(20)

“Yes, you should be. But you suck at gift giving and I don’t expect you to change on my account.”

She’s right. I’m a horrible gift giver, but mostly because I hate receiving gifts so much. It’s almost as awkward as people crying. I turn the box and find the flap, then untuck it and open it. I pull out the tissue paper and a cell phone drops into my hand.

“Six,” I say. “You know I can’t…”

“Shut up. There is no way I’m going halfway across the world without a way to communicate with you. You don’t even have an email address.”

“I know, but I can’t…I don’t have a job. I can’t pay for this. And Karen…”

“Relax. It’s a prepaid phone. I put just enough minutes on it to where we can text each other once a day while I’m gone. I can’t afford international phone calls, so you’re out of luck there. And just to keep with your mother’s cruel, twisted parental values, there isn’t even internet on the damn thing. Just texting.”

She grabs the phone and turns it on, then enters her contact info. “If you end up getting a hot boyfriend while I’m away, you can always add extra minutes. But if he uses up any of mine I’m cutting his balls off.”

She hands me back the phone and I press the home button. Her contact information pulls up as Your very, VERY bestest friend ever in the whole wide world.

I suck at receiving gifts and I really suck at goodbyes. I set the phone back in the box and bend over to pick my backpack up. I pull the books out and set them on the floor, then turn around and dump my backpack over her and watch all the dollar bills fall in her lap.

“There’s thirty-seven dollars here,” I say. “It should hold you over until you get back. Happy foreign exchange day.”

She picks up a handful of dollars and throws them up in the air, then falls back on the bed. “Only one day at public school and the bitches already made your locker rain?” she laughs. “Impressive.”

I lay the goodbye card on her chest that I wrote to her, then lean my head into her shoulder. “You think that’s impressive? You should have seen me work the pole in the cafeteria.”

She picks the card up and brushes her fingers over it, smiling. She doesn’t open it because she knows I don’t like it when things get uncomfortably emotional. She tucks the card back to her chest and leans her head on my shoulder.

“You’re such a slut,” she says quietly, attempting to hold back tears that we’re both too stubborn to cry.

“So I’ve heard.”





The alarm sounds and I instantly debate skipping today’s run until I remember who’s waiting for me outside. I get dressed faster than I’ve ever dressed since the first day I started getting dressed, then head to the window. There’s a card taped to the inside of my window with the word “slut” written on it in Six’s handwriting. I smile and pull the card off the window, then throw it on my bed before heading outside.

He’s sitting on the curb stretching his legs. His back is to me, which is good. Otherwise he would have caught my frown as soon as I noticed he was wearing a shirt. He hears me approaching and spins around to face me.

“Hey, you.” He smiles and stands up. I notice when he does, that his shirt is already soaked. He ran here. He ran over two miles here, he’s about to run three more miles with me, then he’ll be running over two miles home. I seriously don’t understand why he’s going through all this trouble. Or why I’m allowing it. “You need to stretch first?” he asks.

“Already did.”

He reaches out and touches my cheek with his thumb. “Doesn’t look so bad,” he says. “You sore?”

I shake my head. Does he really expect me to vocalize a response when his fingers are touching my face? It’s pretty hard to speak and hold your breath at the same time.

He pulls his hand back and smiles. “Good. You ready?”

I let out a breath. “Yeah.”

And we run. We run side by side for a while until the path narrows, then he falls into step behind me, which makes me incredibly self-conscious. I normally lose myself when I run, but this time I’m acutely aware of every single thing, from my hair, to the length of my shorts, to each drop of sweat that trails down my back. I’m relieved once the path widens and he falls back into step beside me.

“You better try out for track.” His voice is steady and it doesn’t sound anything like he’s already ran four miles this morning. “You’ve got more stamina than most of the guys from the team last year.”