What You Left Behind

by Jessica Verdi

  “Most badass Korean ever,” Mabel says, clinking glasses with him.

  I really don’t feel the need to join this conversation. I’ve heard this story before, and none of it matters now anyway. But Mabel and Alan don’t seem to notice. They’re drunk and haven’t seen each other in a while apart from in passing at school, and they happily tra-la-la on their journey down memory lane.

  I tune them out and focus on the wine in my glass. Red wine is totally a misnomer. It’s not red. It’s more like crimson. No, maroon. Or burgundy. Wait, isn’t Burgundy a kind of wine? Is that what Ron Burgundy is named after? There are little swirly shapes floating in the top of the wine from the grease in my ChapStick. It looks like a solar system. Not our solar system. A different one.

  “Ryden!”

  I snap out of it and blink at Mabel. I think I’m drunk. “What?”

  “Did you know Alan has a girlfriend?”

  “Dude, you have a girlfriend? No more Lane-whoever? From that show?”

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” Alan says quickly. “Not yet, anyway. So at the moment I am still Lane Kim. Virginal and tragic.” He bangs his head lightly against the tabletop. “But I do like her. It’s Aimee Nam—you know her? She’s in our year.”

  “I don’t think so. She’s Korean?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not why I like her,” he says all defensive-like.

  “Yeah, sure,” Mabel and I say at the exact same time. She fist-bumps me.

  “No, really! Meg wasn’t Korean, and I was in love with her, wasn’t I?” Suddenly Alan’s eyes get huge and he clamps his mouth shut.

  “Whoa, dude. Back up,” I say, holding up my hands. “When were you in love with Meg?”

  “I already told you about this…” he says.

  “You said you liked her in seventh grade and she turned you down.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So…?”

  Alan exhales in a huff. His breath carries all the way across the table to me. It smells like wine. And pumpkin cheesecake. “So, okay, maybe it was more than ‘like.’ And maybe it was longer than seventh grade. But I don’t think she knew. And it didn’t last forever—by the time we hit sophomore year, I was completely over her. My self-preservation instincts kicked in.”

  I glare at him. I’m allowed to be mad that he was in love with my dead girlfriend before I knew her, right?

  “Well, she might not have known you were in love with her, but the rest of us sure as hell did,” Mabel says as she opens another bottle.

  “Shut up, Mabel. You did not,” Alan says.

  “Did so.”

  “Did—”

  “All right, all right,” I say. “Tell us about Aimee Nam.”

  “Dude, she’s gorgeous. She looks like Yunjin Kim. She runs the yearbook staff. She wants me to join, but I watch Hope after school, so, you know, that wouldn’t work.”

  I’m probably supposed to say, Oh, that’s cool, man. You don’t have to watch Hope anymore. Live long and prosper. But there’s no way. I need Alan to watch her after school. He’s the sole bridge connecting me and UCLA.

  “But you like hanging out with Hope, right? Because she makes you feel close to Meg? Isn’t that what you said?” I know I’m a dick for playing that card. But right now, I don’t really care.

  “Yeah.” He looks over at Hope, sleeping in her swing. “You’re not wrong about that.”

  We drink the rest of the wine (four bottles total…we’re wrecked), and Alan and I eat the rest of the cake and decide that wasn’t enough, so we order a pizza.

  My mom comes home Saturday morning to find us sprawled across the living room, surrounded by empty wine glasses and a half box of congealing pizza.

  “Looks like you guys had a fun night,” she says. She doesn’t sound thrilled, but she doesn’t sound super mad either.

  “Yeah. You too,” I mumble into the throw pillow I was sleeping on. Nothing like seeing your mom come home at eight in the morning on a Saturday in the same clothes she left the house in the night before. I have a sudden vision of me and Hope in a frighteningly similar situation seventeen years from now. Ugh.

  Mom smiles. “Most fun I’ve had in years.”

  “Glad to hear it. Love you.”

  “Love you too, buddy.”

  And I close my eyes again.

  Chapter 21

  Shoshanna was pissed on Friday when she found out she couldn’t cheer my name because I was on a one-game suspension. She was more pissed when Addison beat our pathetic asses by six goals. And she was even more pissed when I told her I wasn’t going to her postgame party. But by Monday morning, it’s like she’s forgotten about all that.

  She meets me at my locker, smiling and upbeat, her cheek painted with a sparkly blue #1. She holds out a cookie tin.

  “You know there’s no game today, right?” I stash my gym bag in my locker and pull out a couple of books.

  “I know that, silly,” she says, bouncing on the balls of her feet, her ponytail swinging back and forth behind her. Even her eyelashes are glittery. “Today is the first day of a brand-new week, and as your cheerleader, it’s my job to make sure you’re pumped and ready to kick some Clinton Central ass come Friday.”

  “Actually, that’s kinda my job,” I say.

  “Every little bit helps, Ryden.” She hands me the cookie tin.

  “What’s this?”

  “Brownies. Happy Monday!” She rises to her tippy toes, gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, and goes to class.

  What is it with girls giving me food lately? Am I emitting some sort of “feed me” signal on a frequency only women can hear?

  In homeroom, I try one of the brownies. They’re pretty good. But not nearly as good as the stuff Joni’s given me. I never thought I’d say this, but I’d take Joni’s dad’s vegetarian empanada over one of Shoshanna’s brownies any day.

  I pass the tin around homeroom, and by the time it gets back to me, it’s empty.

  Shoshanna’s little Monday Morning Cheerleader Surprise did get me thinking though…

  At work that afternoon, I locate Joni in the bread aisle, restocking the pumpernickel and cinnamon raisin.

  “Wassup, homie?” she asks. She’s wearing a tank top that has a picture of the Spice Girls on it. I think she’s wearing it ironically, but you can never be sure with her. One of her earrings is in the shape of a question mark. The other is an exclamation point. I guess the stud in her nose could be considered a period.

  “Hey.”

  She holds up a bag of bread with a grin. “Look, this is your bread.”

  I glance at the loaf and then back at her, trying to figure out what the hell she’s talking about. “Huh?”

  She points to the writing on the package. “Rye bread. See? Ry bread? Your name is Ry. This is your bread.”

  I shake my head. “You do realize you’re nuts, right?”

  She points to a different loaf of bread with a dorky grin. It’s banana nut bread. Nuts for the nut. I roll my eyes, and she laughs and shelves the package of rye. “Yeah, so I’ve been told.”

  “Good. As long as you’re aware, then it won’t be too much of a surprise when someone finally has you committed.”

  “Noted.”

  “So we’re playing Clinton Central on Friday,” I say. “It’s an away game, so we’ll be on your home turf. Want to come?”

  Joni purses her lips. “I don’t know, Ryden. I’m trying to stay away from school-oriented social events. It’s bad enough I have to spend all day with a building full of people who know every embarrassing detail of my life. Spending after hours with them too? Not so much.”

  I nod. “Makes sense. Okay, well, just thought I’d ask.”

  I walk away but feel her eyes on my back right up until the moment I round the corner.

  Chapter 22

&nbs
p; As the scout’s visit looms closer and the promise of UCLA grows clearer, the possibility that I might not find the other journals before leaving town next year starts to become real. I feel myself panicking just a little more each day.

  My house and Alan’s house have been completely scoured from top to bottom. I’m clearly not able to search Meg’s house, but Mabel swears she’s looked and looked and there’s nothing else, and I’ve even been to the storage unit a couple of days this week before dropping Hope at day care, just to check again.

  Meg didn’t really have any other friends besides Alan, and her aunts and uncles and cousins are all scattered around the country, so there’s no one else I can think of who she would have left the journals with. But they’ve got to be somewhere, goddammit.

  On Thursday, I skip lunch and drive to Meg’s oncologist. He’s the only other person who she saw on a regular basis during those last months. Yeah, I’ll admit it: we’ve gone way past desperate.

  I try to ignore the waiting room full of sick-looking people and explain to the receptionist that I need to see Dr. Maldonado.

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asks.

  “No. I don’t have canc—I mean, I’m not here for anything medical. I just need to talk to him for a couple of minutes.”

  She studies me over the top of her glasses. “What is this in reference to?”

  “That’s private.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let you in to see the doctor without a reason. He’s very busy.” She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms as if she’s a bouncer at a club.

  I run my hand through my hair. “Fine. It’s about Meg Reynolds. Can you tell him that, please? He’ll know who she is.” I nod to the phone. The sooner she calls the doctor, the sooner I’ll leave her the hell alone.

  Her face gets softer. “Meg Reynolds? My goodness, I never thought I’d hear that name again. We miss her so much around here. Were you a friend of hers?”

  She looks at me so kindly, one side of her mouth turned up in a half smile brought on by some memory, and I suddenly don’t want to tell her who I am. Clearly this woman liked Meg—loved her even. I can’t tell her I’m the guy who singlehandedly brought on her demise.

  “Yeah, we were friends,” I say. “I’m…uh…Alan.” I clear my throat. “Can I speak with the doctor for a minute or two? I promise it won’t take long.”

  She nods. “Of course, dear. Have a seat. I’ll call you in as soon as he’s finished with his current patient.”

  Twenty minutes later, I’m following the receptionist down a small corridor and into an office. Meg’s doctor—I assume he was Meg’s doctor; I’ve never actually met him before—is sitting at his desk, typing away. He’s an older guy, but really well put together, with slicked-to-the-side white hair, a close shave, and a perfectly knotted tie.

  “Dr. Maldonado, this is Alan,” the receptionist says and then leaves us.

  Dr. Maldonado looks up. “Have a seat, young man. I hear you were a friend of Megan Reynolds.”

  “Yeah. I mean, yes, sir.”

  He nods thoughtfully. “Such a bright young woman, she was.”

  “Yes.”

  “What can I do for you, son?”

  Son? I’ve never been called that by anyone before. Not even my mom. It’s weird as fuck. “I…um…well, I know this is kind of strange, but I was wondering…did Meg ever leave a journal here? It would have been a regular, one-subject notebook.”

  Dr. Maldonado thinks for a minute. “I do recall her carrying around a notebook or two. But I don’t think she ever left anything here.” He picks up his phone and pushes a button. “Ann, did Megan Reynolds ever leave a notebook here that you know of?” There are a few seconds of silence and then he says, “Thanks,” and hangs up. “I’m sorry, Alan, there’s nothing here.”

  I nod and stand. It was a long shot. I knew that going in. “Thank you, sir.” I hold out my hand and he shakes it. “And thank you for…taking care of her.”

  “Of course, son. That’s my job.”

  I’m halfway out the door when a thought hits me. I turn back. “Um, Dr. Maldonado?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would Meg have lived? You know, if she hadn’t gotten pregnant and didn’t have to stop her chemotherapy? Would she have gotten better?”

  The doctor’s lips press into a thin line. It’s the first sign I’ve seen that this guy is ever anything but cool, calm, and in control. “I’m afraid I’m unable to discuss specifics of my patients’ cases.”

  Oh, come on.

  “But I’m her…best friend. And she’s gone. What difference does it make now?”

  “I’m sorry. Even after death, I’m still bound by a confidentiality clause.” His fingers are steepled under his nose, and he looks at me with apology in his eyes.

  I nod and move to leave. My shoulders feel like they’re weighted with all the boxes in Meg’s storage unit.

  “Alan.”

  I turn.

  He sighs and lowers his voice. There’s no way anyone outside the office would be able to hear him. I can barely hear him. “Her cancer was very advanced.”

  That’s not really an answer to my question, but it seems like he’s okay with breaking the rules now, so I ask another one. “But you wanted to keep doing the treatment? Before she got pregnant, I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “So that means you thought there was a chance it could work, right? It wasn’t completely hopeless?”

  He looks at me, his gaze clear. “There was a chance, yes. A small chance. But a chance.”

  “That’s all I needed to know.”

  Chapter 23

  It feels good to finally be back on the soccer pitch, playing in an actual game.

  The air is a little bit cool, the lights are a little bit warm, the crowd is wild, and I am on fire. I feel like Spider-Man, anticipating every shot before it comes my way, knowing where the ball is going even before the kicker does. I block each goal attempt like it’s nothing, like the goal is the size of a Whole Foods shopping basket.

  I briefly wish the UCLA recruiter were at this game to see me play, but next week’s is going to be even better, on our home turf, with everyone in the stands cheering my name. This week is only the warm-up.

  A huge grin splits my face as the buzzer sounds, indicating game over. Downey Pumas: 2, Clinton Central Pioneers: 0. I run out to the middle of the field to join my teammates in the celebration. They meet me in a frenzy of hugging and cheering and jumping up and down, and I pull my shirt off and swing it around over my head, screaming along with the crowd. After we shake hands with the other team (losers) and get a verbal pat on the back from Coach, half the team runs to the sidelines to make out with their cheerleader girlfriends. Dave and Shoshanna are the worst—she leaps up on him and wraps her legs around his middle, practically shoving her tongue down his throat. His hands grip her ass, under her skirt.

  I grab my water bottle and towel from the sidelines and am crossing the field on my way to the visitors’ locker room when I hear my name. “Ryden!” It’s a girl’s voice. I look back at the cheerleaders. They’re all occupied. So I shift my glance over to the stands, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. Who could it be? Some random girl from school? Mabel? My mom didn’t come tonight, did she?

  “Whole Foods boy!”

  And then I see her—Joni. She’s in the guest stands, a few rows back, waving and trying to get past all the celebrating Downey kids. I can’t believe it. She came.

  I toss my towel over my shoulder and run over to her. We meet at the bottom of the bleachers. Her face is red and flushed from the cool air, and she’s got on a pair of purple earmuffs. She’s grinning the grin I’ve seen on a million fans but never thought I’d see on her: the “holy shit, sports are fucking awesome, especially when your team wins” look.

 
“You’re here,” I say, unable to keep the dopey ass smile off my face.

  “I wanted to see you play. I figured no one I know would see me if I sat on this side.”

  I glance around. No one’s paying us any attention. “I think you’re safe.”

  “Dude, you’re crazy good,” she says. “I mean, I don’t know anything about soccer, but I know your job is to make sure the ball doesn’t go into the net, right? And you, like, really did that.”

  I laugh. “You sound surprised.”

  She shakes her head. “That’s not what I meant. I meant—”

  “Joni,” I say. “I know.”

  She nods quickly. “Okay. Good.”

  “It means a lot to me that you came tonight.”

  She looks up at me. Her nose ring glistens in the field lights. “It does?”

  I hold her gaze. Why does it feel so good that she came to see me play? Why should it matter to me? “Yeah.”

  We stare at each other a minute longer. The sweat on the back of my neck is cooling, and I get a chill. I’m still shirtless, and it’s not exactly warm out here. But the only movement I make is to shift my gaze from her eyes down to her lips. Her tongue darts out to moisten them, almost in anticipation…

  “Brooks!” The sound of my name snaps me out of it. Most of the guys are already making their way to the locker room. Coach is waving me over, pointing at his watch. “Bus leaves in ten. Go hit the showers!”

  I look back to Joni. The stands are a lot emptier now, the sounds of cheering Downey fans and rowdy, drunk, grumbling Clinton Central fans fading in whatever direction the party is at.

  “I should be getting home anyway,” she says. “See you at work tomorrow?”

  “Yeah.”

  She turns to go, and I know I should let her. That would be the right thing to do, the fair thing to do. But then my hand is shooting out and grabbing her wrist. She turns. I catch a fleeting glimpse of her confusion before I pull her to me and press my lips against hers. She melts into me, as if her body was ready, even if her mind wasn’t expecting it at all. I feel exactly the same way.