What Happens to Goodbye(34)

“Um,” I said, “it’s been . . . fine, I guess.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said.
“Of course it helps,” Heather said, tugging her hat down over her ears, “that she fell in with the right crowd.”
“And who would that be?” Dave asked.
She made a face at him. “You know, there are actually people who would love to have the chance to hang out with me.”
“Oh, right. How is Rob these days?” he said.
“He’s history, not that it’s any of your business.” To me she said, “He can say what he wants, but he knows the truth. Me and Riley, we’re the best thing that ever happened to this boy.”
“Cut out the first two words of that sentence and I’ll agree with you,” Dave said. Heather rolled her eyes, but Riley looked up, giving him a wan smile.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Heather said. “I wish you two would just go out, fail miserably as a couple, and get it over with.”
“Well,” said Dave, sitting back, “it’s nice to know we’d have your blessing.”
Just then, I felt someone on my left. I glanced up, just in time to see Deb, her purse tucked tightly to her side, passing beside me. As our eyes met, her face brightened with recognition; when she saw I wasn’t alone, though, she bit her lip and kept moving.
I don’t know what possessed me to put in motion what happened next. It was impulse or instinct, the best or worst thing under the circumstances. Regardless, before I knew it, it was done.
“Hey,” I called out. “Deb!”
Beneath the table, Heather kicked my shin, but I ignored her. As for Deb, she was clearly so unused to being casually addressed at school that she visibly jumped at this, the sound of her own name, then whirled around to look at me, surprised, her mouth a tiny O shape. She was wearing jeans, a pink cardigan sweater, and a navy jacket. The ribbon in her hair matched her lip gloss, which mtched her quilted purse.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Um,” I said, realizing I had no plan past this first greeting. “How’s it going?”
Deb looked at me, then at the rest of the group at the table, as if weighing whether this was a trick or not. “Fine,” she said slowly. Then, in only an incrementally more friendly tone, she added, “How are you?”
“Do you want to sit with us?” I asked her. I felt both Riley and Heather look at me, but I kept my eyes on Deb, who looked so surprised—shocked, even—that you would have thought I’d asked her to lend me a kidney. “I mean,” I continued, and now Dave was looking at me, too, “there’s, um, room here. If you do.”
Deb, no fool, looked at Heather, who was staring at me, an incredulous look on her face. Forget borrowing a kidney: by her face, you’d think I’d offered to eat one. “Well,” she said slowly, pulling her purse a little closer to her side, “I—”
“She’s right,” Dave said suddenly, scooting a bit down from me to create a bigger space between us. “The more, the merrier. Have a seat.”
Riley narrowed her eyes, twisting the top off her water again. Meanwhile, Deb was looking at me, so I tried to convey with one look both reassurance and confidence. Somehow, though, it worked, because she came over—slowly—and slid onto the bench beside me, parking her purse in her lap and folding her hands over the top of it.
This time, I did have to say something. I’d pulled Deb into this, so the least I could do was try to make her feel welcome. But my mind just went blank, then blanker still as I began trying desperately to come up with any conversation starter. I was just about to say something about the weather—the weather!—when she politely cleared her throat.
“I like your tattoo,” she said to Dave, nodding at the circle on his wrist. “Does it have special meaning?”
I knew I was not the only one surprised that this was the topic she chose to broach: Heather and Riley were staring at her, as well. But Deb was giving Dave her full attention as he glanced down at his wrist, then said, “Yeah, actually. It, um, represents someone I was very close with, once.”
Hearing this, Riley closed her eyes, and I thought again about the matching circle on her own wrist. You didn’t just get a tattoo with someone for nothing.
“What about you?” Heather asked Deb suddenly. “Do you have any tattoos?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Really?” Heather said, raising her eyebrows. “I’m so surprised.”
“Heather,” I said.
“I would actually love to have one,” Deb continued, glancing at me. “But I haven’t found anything I feel passionate enough about yet.” To Dave, who was watching her with an attentive expression, she added, “I think it’s important that it really have meaning to you if it’s going to be a part of you forever.”
Heather’s eyes widened, and I felt like kicking her in the shin but restrained myself. Dave said, “That’s very true, actually.”
Deb smiled as if he’d paid her apliment. “Yours looks kind of tribal to me, with the thick lines and the black.”
“You know about tribal tattoos?” Dave asked her.

“A little,” Deb replied. “Although personally, the Japanese designs are my favorites. The fish, and the foo dogs. The artwork is so imperial and classic.”
“Are you kidding me with this?” Heather interjected, incredulous. “How do you know about tattoos?”
“My mom had a friend who had his own shop,” Deb said, either unaware of or just ignoring her tone. “I used to stay there after school until she was done at work.”