Underwater(52)

“Like what?”

“That I was good for someone.”

We stop. We stand.

“Morgan, of course you’re good for people. What would Ben be without you? What would your mom be?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Unburdened?”

“Why do you think you’re a burden?”

“Aren’t I? It’s all about me all the time.”

“Is it?”

I think of our life. I think of my apartment and how it feels at the end of the day when everyone is home. I think of dinner and details. Of baths and bedtime stories. Of TV shows and talking. Of weekends and waffles. Of good nights and good mornings. Okay, so it’s not all about me. It’s about all of us.

“Fine. Maybe not all the time,” I concede.

We head back to Paradise Manor. The sun is bright. School will be out for summer break in three weeks. We pass the corner market where Memorial Day decorations from the past weekend have easily morphed into Fourth of July decor. There are streamers and sparklers in a bin by the door. I want to buy a sparkler and light it up in the darkness of the night. I want to watch it sizzle and fizzle in my hand. It will pop and sputter, then disappear as if it had never caught fire in the first place.

Brenda tips her chin toward a trash can, crosses over, tosses her coffee cup, and turns back to me. “I can tell you you’re not a burden. Your mom can tell you you’re not a burden. But you have to believe it yourself. Will you try?”

“I always try.”

“Yes, you do.”





chapter thirty-six

There’s no texting about whether Evan and I should hang out after school the next day; we just do. We sprawl out on chaise longues in the courtyard and move into my apartment when the other residents of Paradise Manor come home and open their windows wide enough to make the courtyard feel less private. We legitimately try to do homework because Evan really does need to raise his grade in trigonometry. But we keep getting distracted by each other. When he lifts his arms above his head to stretch, for instance, I can’t help but notice the way his shirt rides up. And he looks so cute in his reading glasses. I think he might be wearing them on purpose now.

Today slips into tonight. We quit quizzing with notecards as the TV hums quietly in the background. Evan leans over to kiss me but pulls back when Ben races in, dumps his backpack on the floor, and stops still in front of me.

“Look out,” he says, out of breath. “Mom’s mad.”

“Not good,” Evan says as Ben races away from us. “I should go.”

He stands up, but I pull him back down to the couch. “Stay. I’m sure it’s fine.”

My mom stomps through the house. She halts in front of me, waving an open envelope in one hand and a wrinkled piece of paper in the other.

“What is this? Really, Morgan! What is this?” she shouts.

She tosses both at me. They drift through the air, then land solidly on my lap. The envelope rests on my right thigh, writing side up.

My letter. My letter to Aaron Tiratore.

RETURN TO SENDER, ADDRESSEE UNKNOWN is stamped across the middle of it in bright red ink.

For three weeks, my letter has floated around in limbo with no idea where to go.

Evan looks at my lap. At the letter. At me. He tries to understand.

I pull up from the couch to close in on my mom. “You read it? You actually read my letter? How could you? That is such a violation!”

Evan is all ears. I’m all sweat and a quickened heartbeat. Also, a throbbing vein at my temple. My mom hasn’t even acknowledged the fact that Evan’s here. She couldn’t care less that she’s embarrassing me.

My mom points at me. “You do not owe that boy any kind of forgiveness, Morgan Grant. None. Zero.”

I push up on the balls of my feet and lean in. “Wait. I don’t or you don’t?”

“Anyone! Nobody owes him a damn thing after what he did. And what are you even talking about here? What car ride? What does that mean?”

I glance at Evan. His face is angled down at his notebook. He works the tip of his pen through the metal spirals, releasing tiny flakes of paper onto his jiggling knee.

I look back at my mom. “Can we talk about this privately, please?”

“I’m gonna go,” Evan says, bouncing up from the couch. He collects his things, but doesn’t bother stuffing any of it into his backpack. He just leaves the room with papers and folders and half-open books hanging out from under his arms. Ben stands by the front door, shifting from one foot to the other like he has to pee.

“Come with me,” Evan tells him, and they head out.

The door shuts with a rattle, and then it’s just my mom and me and the murmur of the almost-muted voices on the TV.

“Well, that was pretty over-the-top. Did you have to do all of that in front of Evan?”

She doesn’t hear me. She just launches into everything. “Why did you write this letter? Who did you hope would read it?”

“Nobody. The person I wrote it to is dead! You think I don’t know that?”

She looks at me seriously, lowering her voice like she’s going to tell me a secret. “Did you think his parents still lived there? Were you hoping they’d see it? Were you looking for answers?”

“God! I wasn’t looking for anything, okay? It was just something I had to do. It was a relief. Like when I let go of it in the mailbox, I let go of other things, too.”