The Sweetness of Salt(7)

“What’s the matter with her?” I asked.

“She’s a teenager,” Mom said. “And she has a boyfriend. You’ll see when you get there. There are a lot of emotions involved.”

“She’s mean,” I said stubbornly. “I hate her guts.”

“No, you don’t.”

I ignored her. “And she’s not even nice to Eddie.”

Mom tucked her hearing aid wire behind her ear. “Well, Eddie and Sophie’s business is for them to worry about.”

I pouted for a few seconds, and then reached up to finger the tiny springy cord attached to her hearing aid. When I was really little, still drinking out of a bottle, I used to drift off to sleep with one hand attached to the delicate rubber tubing. As I got older, I pretended that the wire was a pet baby caterpillar. Now, I just touched it because it was there.

I reached up with my arms. “I love you, Mom.”

She bent down and kissed me. She smelled like Ivory soap and charcoal smoke from the grill. “I love you too, sweetie. Good night.”



Later that night, I felt someone crawling into bed with me. I turned, half asleep, to see Sophie’s tear-streaked face staring at me from across the pillow. Her big blue eyes were lined with little veins of red, and her nose was running.

“I’m sorry I’m so awful,” she whispered. “I don’t mean to be.” Her voice broke on the last word and a new sob worked its way out of her mouth. I snuggled in under her neck as she wrapped her arms around me. She cried softly for a few more moments. After a while, I could feel her settle her chin on top of my head. She breathed in deeply and then exhaled with a soft shudder. “I love you, Jules,” she murmured.

“I love you too,” I whispered.

We fell asleep like that, until morning.





chapter


5


I went upstairs to change when Sophie and I finally got home. Zoe had rushed across the street into her house, but there still wasn’t any sign of Milo. Mom and Dad were busying themselves in the kitchen: Mom setting out a platter of cheese and fruit, while Dad struggled to open a bottle of sparkling water. The radio was on in the background, tuned to the soft-rock station Mom always listened to.

I had just kicked off my shoes when a light knock sounded on my door. Before I had a chance to say anything, Sophie opened it and walked into the room. “Hey.” She had already changed out of her slip dress into a Tweety Bird T-shirt and a pair of soft, worn-out jeans that hung low on her hips “Mind if I hang out for a minute?”

“Sure.” My heart pounded as she meandered around, studying the room the way she always did when she came back home. This had been her bedroom before she left and sometimes as I watched her inspect it, I felt nervous, as if I wasn’t holding up my end of some unstated bargain. Now she paused in front of my dresser, staring down at Milo’s little cardboard card taped to the top of it.

“Unhook me?” I turned around so I could back my way to Sophie.

Sophie unhooked the tiny clasp and then turned back to my dresser. She leaned in, moving her lips soundlessly as she recited the words that Milo had written. “Is this your handwriting?” she asked, pointing. “It’s so tiny.”

“No. Milo gave it to me. For Christmas.”

“Milo?” she repeated. “Zoe’s brother?”

I nodded.

Her face lit up. “The one you were talking to after graduation? Oh my God! He’s so cute! Are you guys dating?”

I stepped out of my robe and arranged it on a hanger. “No, we’re not dating. We’re just friends.”

“Well, this is a pretty—what’s the word I’m looking for?—personal gift to give a friend.”

I blushed, glancing briefly out my window. The tiny window seat across the street was empty. “What do you mean?”

“nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.” I bit the inside of my cheek as Sophie read the quote aloud. For some reason, it didn’t sound quite so magical coming from her. “Are you serious?” Sophie asked. “That’s practically intimate.”

I shrugged. “It’s about hands. What’s intimate about hands?”

“Julia.” Sophie sat down on the bed with her knees open wide. “That is an incredibly intimate line. Think about it. The person who wrote it was obviously deeply in love with someone. People don’t write things like that for just anyone, you know. There’s meaning behind those words. He’s trying to tell you…”

I rolled my eyes, cutting her off. “Okay, so maybe Milo and I sorta, I don’t know, tried something.” (Or whatever taking me to the prom was.) “But it didn’t work. We’re better off as friends.” (If we were even that.) “Believe me.”

“Oh.” Sophie paused. “Why?”

“We just are.” I shook my head. “It’s not really something I want to talk about.”

Sophie got up and walked over to me. She pulled one of my hands out and studied it for a moment, like she was examining it under a microscope. “I never thought of you as having small hands,” she said finally.

I pulled away uncomfortably and headed for the closet. “I don’t. That line’s not literally about me. Milo just likes that poet.”