by Donna Cooner
Dear Luna,
It seems strange to write to myself without an audience. Just me writing to me. What if I don’t have anything to say?
Remember when I was a baby freshman reporter and was assigned to interview five students about what they were looking forward to about the coming school year? It took me every day for two weeks to get five people to stop long enough in the hall to answer my one-question interview. I remember hanging around the bathrooms out by the band hall begging for a couple of sentences from some flute player.
And now here I am, poised to MAYBE be the next editor in chief of the paper. I never thought it could happen this soon for me. But now I’m scared I won’t get what I want.
I don’t want to write stories about pet ducks or desks. I want to tell the truth. The whole truth. Nothing but the truth. After all, that’s what journalism is all about.
But what is my truth?
Luna
Hey, you, … I mean … me,
Why am I always sad watching my father coach his favorite sport? Because I wish it was me running down the field or kicking the ball through the goalposts. I watch the football players with envy, wishing I could be circled up at midfield listening to the quarterback call the plays. It isn’t that I don’t like soccer—I love soccer—but it seems less important. I seem less important. Not only to my father, but to everyone else at school. The crowds at the football games are easily ten times those at a soccer game. Why can’t I be out there in front of the biggest crowd?
I’m taping a tiny piece of grass from the football field on this piece of paper. It was a lot of work and I had the worst time finding Scotch tape in the junk drawer! Did I tell you how much I miss text messages??? Anyway, I pulled these tiny pieces of grass right from the spot where the ball is going to land when I kick the game-winning goal.
Cait
People think my sister is named after a city, but she was actually named after grass. My parents met in Africa when they were in the Peace Corps. They named her after the African savanna.
I can’t imagine my mom walking out onto the savanna among the wildebeest and giraffe. All she walks with now are the ladies in our neighborhood on their daily coffee runs. And my dad? The biggest adventure he goes on now is going to the gym.
Wildebeest travel long distances across the Serengeti every year in a great migration. No one tells them when to go or where. They just know they need to travel.
Someday I’m going to travel the world and see animals on safari, and meet many different, wonderful people. And I’m going to see Paris. And maybe I’ll fall in love, with someone who loves me as I am. Or maybe I won’t. And maybe that’s okay.
Annie
Change is painful, but nothing is as painful as staying stuck somewhere you don’t belong.
—Mandy Hale
Saturday morning, Savanna knocked on my door way before it was time to go to the bridal shop.
“The store doesn’t even open until ten,” I grumbled from underneath my covers. She ignored me, bouncing into my room and right into the space of piled pillows beside me.
“Get up. Get up. Get up,” she chanted just like I used to do to her every Christmas morning.
I burrowed deeper under the covers and pulled a pillow down over my eyes with a groan. “Five more minutes.”
She yanked it off my head and grinned at me. “What do you think of pockets?”
I rubbed my eyes. “Ummm … they are … good?”
“Exactly.” She looked at me like it was a totally normal conversation for a Saturday morning before I’d even had a bowl of cereal. “Pockets are charming and useful.”
“But,” I mumbled, “do we have to talk about them now?”
“Of course we do. I have to be ready when they ask me what I’m looking for …” Her voice trailed off.
I was confused. “And you’re looking for a dress with pockets?”
She laughed. “Among lots of other things, of course. I thought I liked the mermaid silhouette best, but I don’t think pockets would work with that shape.”
I rolled over on my back, lying beside her. I stared up at the poster on the ceiling. I squinted my eyes, trying to focus on the tip-top of the Eiffel Tower, and wished I was there right now.
“Maybe Miguel and I should go to Paris for our honeymoon,” Savanna suddenly said softly, and that definitely got my attention. “What do you think?”
Oh no. I couldn’t bear the thought of Savanna seeing Paris before me. Then I felt instantly guilty for being so selfish. Paris should be for everyone.
“Sure,” I said weakly.
“Let’s take a selfie,” Savanna exclaimed, reaching for my phone on the nightstand. “I want to record this day on ChitChat. Hashtag wedding dress shopping with my sis.”
Now I was awake. “No,” I said sharply, pushing her hand away and sitting up.
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothing.” I didn’t want to ruin her mood. “I’m taking a break from social media.”
Savanna frowned. “Really?”
“It’s a temporary thing,” I explained, really not wanting to go into detail. “Sort of a school project.”
She looked at me, confused. “Is that why you gave me your phone the other night?”
I nodded.
“So I shouldn’t tag you in any pics today?”
I shrugged. “I guess you can tag me, but I just can’t see the photos you post. At least not now.”
“Deal.” She sat up in the bed with her legs crossed in front of her. She smoothed the escaped strands of blond hair back into her high ponytail and beamed at me. “I’m just so excited.”
“Yeah,” I said dryly. “I got that.”
Suddenly she smacked her hand against her forehead. “I almost forgot. Did you talk to Jameson about being an usher?” she asked.
My heart dropped. I swallowed hard. “Not yet.”
“Well, don’t forget. There’s just so much to think about; I don’t want anyone dropping the ball.”
“I was going to ask him, but …” I said slowly. I wanted to come clean and tell Savanna about Jameson.
She put her hand up, then took a deep breath. “Never mind. I have to let things go and trust that everyone will do exactly what they are supposed to, right?”
I nodded, silent. Then, as brightly as I could manage, I said, “I’m sorry for not being more excited for you. I know it’s a special day and you’re going to find the perfect dress.”
She grinned back at me and popped out of the bed like a fluffed-up peacock. “A perfect dress for an absolutely perfect wedding.”
Nothing is perfect.
The pale blue velvet couch was incredibly uncomfortable with five people jammed onto it. The two high-back brocade chairs facing us sat empty, but no one wanted to be the last one to see Savanna walk out of the dressing room in the next dress option. So far there had been two options—a sparkly ball gown and a mermaid silhouette with a ton of lace—but surprisingly we had all agreed that neither had been the one.
Sarah, Savanna’s best friend and maid of honor, wiggled her slim hips to squeeze in a little more snugly between me and Savanna’s other bridesmaid, Brittney. But I stubbornly held my space at the end of the couch. Sarah and Brittney might be tiny compared to me, but I was the sister of the bride.
“Has she told you anything about the bridesmaid dresses we’re wearing?” Sarah asked me.
I shook my head; then Brittney leaned across Sarah. “She told me blue. Very summery. Perfect for June,” Brittney said, pushing her thick brown hair back over one shoulder. “Savanna said we could pick out the style we wanted as long as it was the right shade—more cornflower than sapphire, of course.”
“Of course,” I said, although I had no idea what the difference was.
Brittney seemed to realize how clueless I was because she quickly scrolled through her phone and held out the screen so the whole couch could see the photo of the color swatch. I wished I had
my phone on me, but I’d left it at home as a way of combating the constant urge to go back on ChitChat.
“That will be perfect with the flowers,” my aunt Edna said from the other end of the crowded couch. She was my mother’s older sister and owned a flower shop in town. Weddings were her thing. “I put together some sample arrangements for the bridesmaids’ bouquets—iris, hydrangea, yellow roses, and just a touch of white salvia.”
She held up her own phone with a photo of the beautiful blue-and-yellow bouquet.
“Oh, Edna, that’s lovely,” my mom said. “Send that to me.”
“To all of us,” Brittney chimed in, and Aunt Edna tapped away at her phone.
My hands felt empty. I would have sat on them, but there wasn’t enough room on the couch to move.
Sarah was the fashionista of Savanna’s group of friends, so I was not surprised she had an opinion on exactly what the dresses should look like. “I think we should all wear something similar in style. Like this.” She held out her phone to show us a photo of a halter-style dress with a short ball-gown skirt. Everyone nodded and agreed it was perfect.
Everyone except me.
I swallowed hard.
That dress would look amazing on Sarah and Brittney. But I couldn’t imagine standing beside them in front of the whole church wearing something so revealing. Everyone would compare the three of us. I could just imagine the hashtags.
Sarah noticed my reaction. “Of course, you could pick something else if you wanted … something more … covered,” she said as though that would make me feel better. “We don’t have to wear the same thing.”
There was a commotion from the dressing room, and I was grateful for the interruption. Savanna walked out and stepped up onto the small round stage in front of the full-length mirrors. When she turned around to face us, we all sucked in our breaths.
The strapless dress was simple but elegant. Creamy white lace and organza combined to create a dreamy A-line silhouette. The waist cascaded into a train featuring scalloped lace edges.
We all stared in wonderment at the beautiful girl standing before us. I recognized her. But I didn’t. My mom brushed away tears, and Aunt Edna’s mouth was wide open. I blinked hard.
This was the girl who whispered ghost stories in my terrified ear when I was only five. And the girl who pushed me off on my wobbly first bicycle ride when I was seven. And she was definitely the girl who hogged the whole back seat on every car trip.
But now that girl was a bride. I tried to swallow past the lump in my throat as the reality of it all finally hit me.
My sister was getting married.
Newsflash. OLDER SISTER GETS MARRIED AND YOUNGER SISTER CRIES.
I know. It’s not exactly the kind of story I can tell anyone. I’m a selfish, horrible person for not wanting Savanna to get married.
But …
What happens when I’m the only one in a family of couples? Do I eat at the countertop because there is no room for me at the table? Am I destined to sleep on the pullout sofa in the family room? Will I spend holidays alone?
Tonight I drew big sad faces on every bride in this magazine. I can only tell you this, but it made me feel a little bit better.
Annie
I am a part of all that I have met.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson
I sat down in the wingback chair and set my mocha on the table in front of me. I’d come to Mugs coffee shop this afternoon to try writing in my new notebook for a while. Caitlin was at Sunday football practice with her dad, and Luna was at church and then lunch with her family.
I took a sip of mocha, letting the warmth fill my mouth and trickle down my throat. When I finally went to Paris, I would drink chocolat chaud and sit at an outdoor café in wooden chairs that wobbled on the cobblestones below my feet. There would be striped awnings over the café windows, and I would see the Eiffel Tower in the distance. I could almost taste the thick, rich hot chocolate I saw in ChitChat pictures, but with a blink, the taste became just a very ordinary mocha again. Everything seemed so far away and impossible to reach.
I glanced around. Most of the brightly painted tables at the coffee shop were full of students studying for exams and future best-selling authors creating their masterpieces. I tensed up for a moment. What if someone here took a picture of me right now and posted it online? I’d look pathetic, just drinking coffee and staring aimlessly into space. They would probably label the photo with hashtags like #loser #nofriends #sadness. I felt the weight of my phone in my purse between my feet, but I didn’t reach for it.
Instead, I pulled out my notebook and flipped to a blank page. There were no photos or filters or comments inside. Just empty lines waiting for my own story. I took out my new pen and pulled off the top. I was glad I chose this pen at the store. I loved the thick black line of ink it produced. Serious. Bold. Important.
I’d written a few journal entries so far, but this time I didn’t feel like writing to myself. So I wrote to Caitlin, even though I knew she wouldn’t see it.
Dear Cait,
How do you become brave? Can you learn it like you learn the rules to soccer or football? Are there drills and exercises? I know I’m just a huge pity party, but I keep wondering what I could have done to make things turn out differently. Could I be different? Can anyone?
Annie
My pen stopped, and I looked up from the page to glance out the window. Old Town was crowded today. The wind had more fall than summer in it, and everyone seemed to have come out to enjoy the chill in the air. Coats were on and scarfs were wrapped tighter, and a steady stream of people paraded by on the leaf-strewn sidewalks, caught up in their own little lives. Couples holding hands. Families with strollers and toddlers. College kids laughing in groups.
Everyone looked so happy.
I wanted to be happy again.
No one ever told me a broken heart would feel like a panic attack, always striking when least expected. Anything could bring it on: Whiffs of certain smells. Specific shades of colors. Lingering tastes of once-shared dishes. But mostly places.
Out on the square, a kid flew by on a skateboard, and without warning, the memory came, vicious and excruciating.
I remembered the first time Jameson kissed me. It was last fall and still so hot the sweat was trickling down the backs of my bare legs. We were eating takeout pizza on a bench outside CooperSmith’s and listening to a bluegrass band playing on the outdoor stage. The sun was just starting to disappear behind the tops of the redbrick buildings, and there was the slightest of breezes starting up. Strings of white lights lit up the kids screaming and dodging the splashes of water that spurted unpredictably up into the air. I was laughing at something. Jameson was watching me, and then he leaned in and kissed me. Quick. Light. Perfect.
He loved me. I knew he did.
He just didn’t anymore.
And then I saw him.
There he was now, outside the window. Jameson. I couldn’t believe it. He was on the other side of the street, standing with his hands deep in his jeans pockets. He was wearing the T-shirt I gave him for Christmas and the Nike sneakers he saved up months to buy.
My mouth quivered. I tucked back into the chair, hoping he didn’t see me. My brain buzzed, and I felt as if all the air was suddenly sucked out of the room. What would the people walking by think if the girl sitting in the coffee shop window suddenly stood up and began pounding at the glass?
Hey, it’s me. Remember? Me?
Jameson liked me so much, and now he didn’t anymore. Did that mean I wasn’t likable? Was I less attractive? Were all those awful comments right? Was this all my fault?
I had so many questions.
Suddenly, Jameson smiled and lifted his hand in greeting. I followed his gaze and saw Milo walking toward him. I felt a flare of anger. Of course. I guessed he and Milo were besties now, after that whole video takedown they’d planned together. I wanted to pull out my phone and search Jameson’s ChitChat account. I needed to know w
hat he was doing—or at least I thought I did. Now I watched them greet each other with a fist bump, then walk off toward the square, laughing and talking.
The two of them disappeared from view. But I didn’t want to stay at Mugs anymore. I stuffed my notebook into my purse, then stood up and left the half-empty mocha on the table by the window.
On the way home, I drove past the high school. The lights on the field were still on even though Sunday practice was long over. I parked the car and let myself in through the gate by the locker rooms. The field was eerily quiet. The floodlight illuminated a wide swath of grass in front of the goalposts, like a stage ready for the performance to begin. I’d never seen it so empty before, but I could almost hear the roar of the crowd and the impact as the players slammed each other to the ground. I hadn’t been to a game yet this season, but I’d accompanied Caitlin to so many games over the years.
I was wrong. The field was not completely empty. Caitlin stood beside the tee on the twenty-yard line, three footballs laid out on the grass.
“Annie?” she called when she saw me.
“I thought I might find you here,” I said. “Do you want some company? Because I do.”
Caitlin nodded. “Practicing helps keep me off ChitChat.”
“Good plan,” I said. “I need a distraction, too.” I walked past her to take up a position behind the goalposts. “I can fetch the balls.”
Caitlin laughed. Then she grew serious and set the first football on the tee. She squinted, concentrating, and swung her leg back. The first kick sent the ball off to the right, and the second kick was too short, making the ball bounce onto the grass and roll slowly to a stop. Caitlin looked frustrated.
“That’s okay!” I yelled, trying to think of what I’d heard her dad say at practices. “You need to work the jitters out.”
Caitlin put the last ball on the tee and squinted at it. Her foot connected solidly, and this time the ball went sailing in a perfect spiral through the center of the goalposts.
