99 Days(21)

“Here’s the thing,” I tell Imogen, leaning over the counter where she’s wiping down the espresso machine, her hair twisted up in a tidy hipster sock bun. The shop is mostly empty, just one guy in big headphones near the door. “I know you’re super mad at me, and you have Tess, so you probably don’t need me anymore, but, like”—I take a deep breath, and admit it—“I could really use a friend, Imogen.”

For a second, Imogen just stares at me, rag in hand, unblinking. Then she laughs out loud.

“You need a friend?” she asks, shaking her head like she’s been waiting for this moment, like she saw me coming a mile away. “Seriously? What about all last year, Molly? I stuck my neck out the whole entire time everybody was being shitty to you, and you didn’t even say good-bye when you left.” She drops the rag down on the counter like a red cape at a bullfight, eyes wide. “My mom had skin cancer last fall, did you know that? She had to get a giant chunk of her back carved out, she couldn’t walk or move or do anything, and I couldn’t even talk to you about how scared I was because you ran away and never returned a single phone call. And now you’re back and Patrick’s here and, yeah, it’s probably weird for you, I get that, but honestly I don’t know if I want to stand here at my job and listen to you tell me how you need a friend.”

For a moment I just stand there, motionless, rooted in place like one of the hundred-year-old pine trees lining the shore of Star Lake. “You’re right,” I tell her, my cheeks flushed red and the tips of my fingers gone icy; I feel more cowed in this moment than if Julia Donnelly keyed my car every day for the rest of the summer. I feel like the worst friend in the world. “I’m so sorry; you’re totally right.”

There’s a long, loaded beat before Imogen answers: “She’s okay now,” she says quietly. “My mom.” She looks wrung-out, now that she’s said it—Imogen has always hated to fight, or people being mean to one another. When we were in third grade some boys pulled the wings off a butterfly at recess, and she was inconsolable all afternoon. “It didn’t spread.”

We look at each other for another long minute. We breathe. Finally, Imogen shrugs and picks the rag up again, wiping the shiny chrome body of the espresso machine even though it’s already gleaming. “I like a boy,” is what she says.

I feel a smile spread over my face, slow and uncertain. I know a gift when I see one, and I’m so very thankful for this. “Yeah?” I ask her carefully. “Who’s that?”

His name is Jay, Imogen tells me as she finishes cleaning up behind the counter, switching the music on the ancient iPod they use for music in the shop. He’s a regular at French Roast; he’s nineteen, goes to culinary school in Hyde Park. He’s in town to do an externship at the Lodge.

“Oh! I know Jay,” I realize, grinning. He’s quiet and easygoing, the sous chef who puts coffee in the dining room every morning; I’ve met him a few times on my various detours through the kitchen on one errand or another for Penn. He helped me find juice for Desi once, when I needed three different kinds because she wouldn’t tell me out loud which one she wanted. “Jay’s handsome.”

“He is, right?” Imogen goes pink from the tips of her ears down to the neckline of her flowered sundress. “He’s half-black and half-Chinese; his parents met in London.” She makes a face. “I mean, he volunteered that information, I wasn’t like, ‘Hello, nice to meet you, please tell me about your cultural heritage’ or anything.”

I laugh. “So you and Handsome Jay are chatty, then, huh?”

“Uh-huh.” Imogen nods almost shyly. She reaches into the pastry case and pulls out a chocolate croissant, sticks it on a plate, and hands it over. “Here, try that, we switched bakeries, and they’re new. We talk a bit, yeah. And he had a lot of really cool suggestions for my art show—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” I interrupt, mouth full of delicious croissant. “What art show is this?”

“I’m doing one here at the end of the summer,” Imogen tells me. “They gave it over for a night; we’re going to have food and stuff. You should come.”

“I will,” I promise immediately. “I wouldn’t miss it; I’ll be here with bells on.”

“Okay, relax over there, tiger,” Imogen says, but she’s smiling. “And, hey, what’s going on with you and Gorgeous Gabe?”

I shake my head, breaking off a hunk of pastry and handing it over. “You don’t want to know,” I warn, then settle in to tell her anyway.





Day 21


I’m rushing out the door on the first morning the Lodge opens when my phone dings in my back pocket, the alert for a new email. I fish it out, thinking it could be a last-minute missive from Penn, but it’s actually a notice from school reminding me that I still haven’t picked a major. It’s not mandatory but strongly suggested before class registration, the dean of students wants me to know. Selecting a field of study in advance of arrival on campus aids incoming students in course selection and maximizes the efficacy of that student’s faculty advisor.

I grimace, clicking the button to close out and shoving the whole outfit back into my pocket. My entire life feels undeclared. It’s hard to imagine I’ll ever get out of Star Lake, let alone be able to decide what I want to do with the rest of my existence. I can feel the beginning of a headache pulsing hotly behind my eyes.