Puddin'(90)

He nods silently to himself and turns the radio up. We’ve been spending more time together, but I don’t trust myself enough right now not to turn into a sobbing mess. And maybe a little part of me is scared he’ll tell me I’m being ridiculous.

When he slows to a stop in front of my house, he turns the radio down to a murmur. “Hey, um, I don’t know what exactly happened today, and you don’t have to tell me. Unless you want to at some point,” he adds. “But, um, I know you don’t have a lot of people right now, and I just want you to know that I can be your person.” He coughs into his fist.

I stare at him for a long moment. I can feel my whole body turning to mush. Like I could just nod and let this life with Mitch happen to me in the same way it did with Bryce. I like Mitch a lot. But I liked Millie, too, and look where that got me. “I need some time to think,” I tell him. “But thank you. Because I really don’t have any people at all. Not anymore. Can we just keep taking it slow?”

He tilts his chin down toward me. “As slow as a turtle race if you want.”





Millie


Thirty-One


I’m not saying my life is perfect or drama free, but I’m used to knowing where I stand, and for the first time I don’t know if I should be demanding an apology or giving one. For the first few days, I tried texting. I even tried approaching her at school. I swear, for as good as she is at pretending I didn’t exist, I think she could be an actress. I probably tried every form of contact outside of flat-out asking her mom to lock her in her closet with me.

Three days after the incident, I decided to forego texting and just give her a call, but I was promptly greeted with a message saying the person I was trying to reach had blocked my number. One thing I can say about Callie is when she’s in, she’s all in. She’s cut me out of her life with as much swift efficiency as my mother can repurpose a pile of old camp T-shirts into a summer quilt. (I’ve got the Daisy Ranch T-shirt quilt to prove it.)

I haven’t had a ton of friends in my lifetime, but I’ve never failed so miserably at being a friend. I know that what Callie did by vandalizing the gym was wrong and that I wasn’t doing anything bad by pointing out her necklace in the video footage.

Heck, we wouldn’t have ever become friends otherwise. But after I saw what she did to the dance team and how deep that cut, I should’ve said something. I was so scared to lose what we had, because it’s not a friendship that’s been tested or even lived in a little. The balance with Callie has always felt fragile, like something might just randomly click one day and she would turn back into the person who humiliated me in eighth-grade gym, or the girl who went out of her way to make Willowdean miserable last fall.

I don’t think that version of Callie is a different person, like some kind of evil twin. I believe the bad parts of us always live inside of us. It’s just up to us to take those flaws and repurpose them for good. I was scared of losing Callie, so I wasn’t honest with her. And I lost her as a friend regardless.

Oh, and because everything is a mess, Mom is giving me the silent treatment, too. She goes so far as to even talk to me through my dad. Will you ask Millie to pass the margarine? Please remind Millie to empty the dishwasher. Has Millie finished her homework? And somehow she’s still spying on me enough to make sure I don’t have any solo time with Malik.

When I get home after work, waiting for me on my desk is one single envelope from the University of Texas. When I slipped in through the garage door, my mom didn’t even bother saying anything to me or offering me any hint that the fate of my summer was waiting for me in my room.

The envelope is large. I try not to read too far into it, but I know the law of college acceptance letters is big envelope = good and small envelope = bad. I sit down in my big wicker chair and take a few deep breaths. Maybe I should take up meditation?

And then I tear into the envelope. I’ve pictured this moment for months now, the same way lots of girls imagine their engagement or wedding. In my head, I’m surrounded by friends, and they’re the kind of friends who are so sure that I’ll get into this program that after I read my acceptance letter and we all cry tears of joy, there’s a luau-themed surprise party waiting for us in my backyard. Malik would be there. My parents would be overjoyed.

Instead I’m here alone in my room. I slide a single paper out of the envelope.

Dear Ms. Millicent Michalchuk,

Thank you for applying to our summer broadcast journalism program for high school students. Each year our applicants are more and more impressive, making for a rather competitive program.

We regret to inform you that you were not selected for our program this summer; however, we encourage you to apply again in the future and

My eyes are a tearful blur as the page drifts from my fingers to the carpet below.

We regret to inform you. We regret to inform you. We regret to inform you. The words of rejection are seared onto my heart. I know that I should turn to some sort of tried-and-true motivational book or post or video that has gotten me through tough times in the past. I know I should refocus this pain into motivation.

But for right now—for this exact moment—I just need to hurt. I just need to feel bad for myself and roll around in my own self-pity. I feel so foolish for ever believing they would even accept me. This is what I get for trying so hard and demanding so much.