Just One Day(71)

I shake my head. “I’m not sure. I think I like languages.” In addition to Mandarin, this fall, I’ll take French, along with another Shakespeare class with Professor Glenny. Intro to Semiotics. And African Dance.
She looks up, hesitates for a second. “So, no Rehoboth Beach this summer?”
We’ve gone to the same summer house since I was five. But not this year. “Dad was invited to a conference in Hawaii, and he convinced Mom to go with him. As a personal favor to me, I think.”
“Because you’re going to Paris.”
“Right. I’m going to Paris.”
There’s a pause. In the background, I can hear the neighbor kids splashing around in the sprinklers. Just like Melanie and I used to.
“To find him.”
“I have to know. If something happened. I just need to find out.”
I brace myself for Melanie’s derision, for her to scoff or laugh at me. But she just considers what I’ve said. And when she says the next thing, it’s not snide so much as matter-of-fact: “Even if you find him. Even if he didn’t leave you on purpose, he can’t possibly live up to the person you’ve built him into.”
It’s not like the thought hasn’t occurred to me. I get that the chances of finding him are small, but the chances of finding him as I remember him are even smaller. But I just keep going back to what my dad always says, about how when you lose something, you have to visualize the last place you had it. And I found—and then lost—so many things in Paris.
“I know,” I tell Melanie. And it’s weird because I don’t feel defensive. I feel a little bit relieved because it almost seems like Melanie is worrying about me again. And also relieved because I’m not worrying about me. Not about this, anyhow. “I don’t know that it matters.”
Her eyes widen at that. Then she narrows them, looks me up and down. “You look different.”
I laugh. “No. I still look like me. It’s just this outfit.”
“It’s not the outfit,” Melanie says, almost harshly. “You just seem different.”
“Oh. Well . . . thanks?”
I look at Melanie, and for the first time, I notice how she seems. Which is utterly familiar. Like Melanie again. Her hair is growing out and is back to its natural color. She’s wearing cutoff shorts, a cute embroidered tee. No nose rings. No tats. No multicolored hair. No slutty-chic outfits. Of course, just because she looks the same has no bearing on whether she actually is the same. It hits me that Melanie’s year was probably was just as tumultuous as mine in ways that I didn’t understand, either.
Melanie is still staring at me. “I’m sorry,” she says at last.
“For what?” I ask.
“For forcing you to cut your hair in London when you weren’t ready. I felt so bad when you cried like that.”
“It’s okay. And I’m glad I did it.” And I am. Maybe he never would’ve stopped me had I not had the Louise Brooks hair. Or maybe he would’ve, and we would’ve exchanged actual names. I’ll never know. Once accidents happen, there’s no backtracking.
We both just stand there on the sidewalk, hands at our sides, unsure of what to say. I hear the neighbor kids yelp in the sprinklers. I think of me and Melanie when we were younger, on the high dive at the pool in Mexico. We would always hold hands as we jumped, but by the time we swam back up to the surface, we’d have let go. No matter how we tried, once we started swimming, we always let go. But after we bobbed to the surface, we’d climb out of the pool, clamber up the high-dive ladder, clasp hands, and do it again.
We’re swimming separately now. I get that. Maybe it’s just what you have to do to keep above water. But who knows? Maybe one day, we’ll climb out, grab hands, and jump again.

Twenty-nine
New York City
My parents want to drive me to JFK, but I’ve made plans to spend the day with Dee before I go, so they drop me off at 30th Street Station in Philadelphia. I’m going to take the train—my first train in a year—to Manhattan, and Dee will meet me at Penn Station. Tomorrow night, I catch my flight to London and then onward to Paris.
When my train is announced, we walk toward the platform. Dad taps his toes impatiently, visions of Maui golf courses dancing through his head. They leave on Monday. Mom just paces. Then when my train’s headlights are visible in the distance, she pulls a box out of her purse.
“I thought we weren’t doing presents this time.” Last year, there’d been the big dinner out, lots of little last-minute gadgets. Last night was more low-key. Homemade lasagna in the dining room. Both Mom and I pushed it around our plates.
“It’s less for you than for me.”
I open the box. Inside is a small cell phone with a charger and a plug adapter.
“You got me a new phone?”
“No. I mean yes. I mean, your old phone, we’ll unfreeze the plan when you get back. But this is a special quad-band phone. It definitely works in Europe. You just have to buy a . . . what are they called?” she asks Dad.
“SIM card.”
“Right.” She fumbles to flick open the back. “They’re very inexpensive, apparently. So you can get a local number anywhere you go and have a phone if you need one, and you can call us in an emergency or text us—but only if you choose to. It’s more for you, so you have a way to reach us. If you need to. But you don’t have to—”
“Mom,” I interrupt, “it’s okay. I’ll text you.”
“Really?”