One Small Thing(46)

“Oh, that’s so nice. Of course we can go this weekend. Tomorrow morning?” she suggests.

“Sure.” It’s not like I have anything on my calendar. Since I have nothing but school, my schedule is surprisingly free. All my other classmates are busy with extracurricular stuff, but I gave that up years ago. The reasons escape me.

After dinner, Mom goes to do laundry, and I retreat to my bedroom. I sit at my desk, but I don’t have any homework. I flip open my laptop and check my friends’ social media feeds. A message bubble pops up. The sender is Jeff.

I scratch my neck. The idea of chatting with Jeff ranks very low on my scale of fun things to do. I’m still mad at him for abandoning me at the party.

I slam my laptop shut and grab a book off the shelf. I’ve read this one before, but I enjoyed it, so maybe I can lose myself in the words again. After ten minutes of reading the same paragraph repeatedly, I snap the book closed and throw it on my desk.

Mom passes by my room with a laundry basket.

“Do you need me to fold that?” I ask, rushing to the doorway.

She looks up at me in surprise. “No. It’s all done.”

I glance down and see a stack of folded towels. “I’ll put it away, then.”

“All right.” She backs away slowly, as if my offer of assistance is so bizarre that I might not be in my right mind. “Thank you.”

With that, she disappears down the stairs. It takes me only a minute to stow the towels in the closet.

“Do you need any other help?” I yell down the stairs.

“No. I’m fine. I’m going to watch some television and knit.”

I return to my bedroom. There’s nothing to do in here. I run a hand over the door frame. If I had a door, would I feel differently?

I twist around to look at the door across from mine. Slowly, I cross the hall. The knob turns effortlessly and the door swings on silent, well-oiled hinges. I leave it slightly ajar.

The room smells fresh, as if someone had the window open. I walk over and peer into the backyard. The corner of the house, where the swing hangs, is dark. A small yellow pool of light splashes across the patio. The Palmers’ labradoodle three houses down barks as she’s let out into her yard to poop and pee.

It’s an ordinary night. I pull back and survey the room. Rachel’s trophies and medals from five years of club volleyball decorate a shelf next to her bed. On the mirror above her desk, the pictures of her and her friends hang neatly along the edges. I pull out her white desk chair with the fluffy cushion and take a seat.

On the left side are several photographs of her volleyball team. Arms are slung around each other. Rachel’s closest friend, Aimee, is making rabbit ears behind Rachel’s head in all of them. It must be an inside joke. There are a lot of things about Rachel’s life that I don’t know. We were close, but she was still two years older. I’m sure she had her secrets.

On the right side of the desk are two family photographs. One features all of us, taken at my cousin Randy’s wedding the year before Rachel died. Mom bought me heels to wear and I was over the moon. The other is of Rachel and me. It was taken after one of her school volleyball meets. Rachel is sweaty and smiling. I’m holding the volleyball and staring up at her like she’s the center of my world.

A choked sob flies out of my throat, and suddenly I’m on my feet and racing out of Rachel’s bedroom and down the stairs. It hurts too much to see pictures of us together. It hurts to see me looking at her like she hung the moon and the stars. I idolized her, and now she’s gone.

I burst onto the back patio and suck in a gulpful of fresh air. It helps ease the tightness of my throat, but not the ache in my heart. I charge toward the swing, but it reminds me of Rachel so I bypass it and head for the fence instead, where I sink onto the grass and lean against the wooden slats.

The sun has already set, but the sky isn’t pitch-black yet. I stare at the clouds and pick out one that looks like a dragon. Then I wrench my gaze downward, because that’s another thing that reminds me of Rachel. When we were kids we’d throw a picnic blanket on the grass, lie down on our backs and try to find animal shapes in the clouds.

The back of my throat grows scratchy and heat pricks my eyelids, but instead of tears pouring out of my eyes, laughter trickles from my mouth. I try to choke it back. Then I give up and let it come. It’s like Rachel’s funeral all over again. I couldn’t cry, so I laughed. I don’t want to cry right now, so I’m laughing.

“Arf.”

A yip cuts through my hysterical giggles. “Hey, pupster.” I chuckle at Morgan, whose head appears through the slats. “How’s it going?”

He doesn’t answer, but he does stick his tongue out and lick my shoulder.

It’s just what I need. “I missed you, too.”

He licks the side of my neck now, then my cheek. I welcome the doggy slobber, because it’s way better than salty tears.

“Not as much as I miss Rachel, though,” I whisper.

Lick. Lick.

“She’d probably be disappointed in me if she was here right now,” I tell Morgan. “Rachel was so focused. Especially with volleyball.”

I played volleyball back in the day, too. I joined the same club Rachel belonged to. I was a setter, like her. Our weekends were always full as we went from one tournament to another.