I shrug. “Zack and I are seeing a movie tonight.”
“That’s wonderful.” She flashes me a smile and leans against my doorway, flipping through the mail. Her brows pull together and she slips an envelope from the stack. It’s shaped like a greeting card, not those narrow envelopes with clear plastic windows that mean bills. “This one’s for you,” she says, setting it on my desk. “Probably a sympathy card.”
I cap my mascara and look over. A strip of cold slices through my chest, and tears spring to my eyes.
“You need a minute?” Mom asks softly.
I nod and yank the card off the desk. As soon as she closes my door, I rip into the envelope. No sympathy card could bring tears to my eyes now — I’ve had dozens of these cards over the last few days.
But it’s Sasha’s handwriting on the envelope.
The card inside is a generic blank greeting card, the photo on the cover a fat housecat wearing a purple feather boa around its neck. I nearly rip the thing in my haste to open it and now I’m crying, my makeup probably going all clown-face down my cheeks.
Rocki,
I have a secret for you. Please don’t be mad. Everything will make sense soon enough. Please go to my grave tonight, Friday the 26th, at six. Bring your laptop and make sure the battery is charged, okay? I love you and miss you, bestie!
xx Sasha
I read the letter several times, and when my phone starts ringing, I almost forget that I’m sitting in my room, that my name is Raquel Clearwater and that a world exists outside of this letter. All I know is there’s someplace I have to be tonight — and it’s not the movies with Zack.
I answer the call and spend about two seconds debating if I should tell him the truth. Then I just say, “Hello?”
“There’s a six fifteen and seven forty-five. Which one do you want to see? I’m gonna buy the tickets online so they’re cheaper.”
I run my hand down the greeting card, picturing Sasha writing this however long ago. The weird part is the date, which was originally left as a blank space. Someone else, with a different-colored pen and shaky, old-person handwriting, filled in today’s date. How long ago did she write this? Who received her instructions to mail it to me after she died?
“I’m sorry, I can’t go.”
“What? You want to come over instead? Mom’s out with her girlfriend so she’ll be home late.”
“No, Zack, I’m sorry. Something came up. I can’t go out at all.”
“This is bullshit, Rocki. Do you know how many girls I’ve turned down lately? All because I knew you’d be back with me eventually?”
“You’re an attractive guy. I’m sure it’s a lot.”
“Fuck yeah, it’s a lot. Jesus, Rocki. I’ve got chicks sending me pics on the gaming forums and I’ve been telling them I’ve got a girlfriend. Now we finally get some time together and you’re blowing me off?”
The old me might have had some choice words to say here, but arguing with my on-again, off-again boyfriend doesn’t thrill me the way it used to.
“Take one of them to the movies,” I say as I hang up.
I unzip my backpack and pull out books and school crap, then stuff my laptop and Sasha’s card inside. I dig under my desk and unplug the charge cord just in case I need it later. I trade out my sexy date-night heels for a pair of worn-out flats and tell Mom I’m off to the movies.
On the way to the cemetery, I remember driving this same route with Sasha last year when we picked out her burial plot. Her mom thought we were being incredibly morbid, given that Sasha’s cancer was diagnosed but not yet terminal. Sasha said better safe than sorry.
Whatever surprises I’d expected to see when I got here, I was wrong. The place looks the same as always, an old cemetery near the back with newer tombstones and mausoleums closer to the main road. I meander through rows and rows of other people’s loved ones until I get to Sasha’s newly covered plot.
Square pieces of sod cover the mound of freshly packed dirt. Flowers are everywhere, spilling over on top of the neighboring graves.
Sasha’s headstone is about four feet tall, made of white granite — the brightest they had — with her name carved in a curly script. Normally they don’t install them until a couple of weeks after the person is buried, but Sasha insisted and her parents paid whatever it cost. The date of her death isn’t etched in yet, because even money can’t buy that kind of knowledge. I put my hand on it and close my eyes, wishing it were a year ago.
I half expect another note here on her grave, but I don’t see anything, not even under the flowers. It’s exactly six, so I’m not late, but there’s nothing here.
I stare at the fresh blades of grass, and an image of Sasha lying inside that casket, six feet below, makes me shudder. It’s creepy to think about; she’s the person who used to eat all of the chocolate out of the trail mix, steal all the blankets when we shared a bed at sleepovers. She used to be real, physical and here with me.
Now she’s …
A shuffling sound makes me look up and images of Sasha’s cancer-covered body lying in a dark box fade from my mind. A short way away, a guy sits on a concrete bench, legs stretched out in front of him while he gazes at the lake. It’s as if he’s sitting on the Venice boardwalk and not in a cemetery.
I ignore him.
A few minutes pass and my spine tingles. I can feel him watching me from over there, his casual expression so wrong for this atmosphere.
I glance over, trying to be equally casual about it, but I am right — he’s watching me. My heart races as I realize the only things I have on me are some car keys and a backpack with my most expensive possession inside. Do people get mugged in cemeteries?
As if sensing my fear, he rises from the bench, all slow and calm, like he knows I have nowhere to run. My car might as well be parked on Mars.
As he approaches, I realize he’s about my age, maybe a little older, but he’s definitely not someone from school. He wears dark jeans and a plain black T-shirt with running shoes that have seen better days. He reaches into his pocket and I freeze, one hand on the gravestone.
He pulls something white from his pocket. He’s near enough now that I can see the stubble on his chin, the way the sunlight casts a shadow under his shaggy black bangs, hiding his eyes until he’s right in front of me.
I inhale sharply. He studies me, those otherworldly blue eyes searching my face for something, like maybe he’s just as lost as I am. Maybe he’s looking for a sign.
Chills cover me from head to toe and more of those damned tears stream out of my eyes. Even as I struggle to breathe, my body can still cry because it acts on its own nowadays.
How is this possible? I can’t take my gaze off him, off those crystal blue, ocean blue, impossibly blue eyes.
He unfolds the white thing in his hand, revealing a beat-up greeting card with a fat housecat on the front. “Does this mean anything to you?” he asks, his voice resonating in the most familiar way.
My knees shake so badly I lean on the headstone and cover my mouth with my hand. A week ago when Sasha died, I knew I’d never see her eyes again.
Yet here they are, watching me while I collapse to the ground.
Chapter Five
The stranger’s hands are on my shoulders, then my arms, helping me stand back up. As soon as I’m on my feet, I scramble backward, my thigh hitting a nearby headstone. I jump aside and my ankle twists in a section of thick grass. I curse as sharp pain shoots up my leg.
“Whoa,” the guy says. He won’t stop staring at me with those stupid eyes. “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.”
I take in the rugged look of his clothing, the calluses on his hands as he holds them up. He isn’t that much older than I am, but he’s not like the other guys at school. He looks like he’s seen some shit. This is not funny, Sasha. “Who the hell are you?”
He ru
ns a hand through his hair, takes a step backward. Because I can’t look into his eyes, I focus on his lips, all soft lines with the hint of a smirk.
“I’m Elijah.” He scratches the back of his neck and I watch his biceps flex. “Elijah, um, Delgado.” If he wasn’t some kind of weird cemetery stalker, he’d be cute. Really cute.
“You’re Raquel, right?”
My nostrils flare. “How do you know that?”
“Well, you’re not Sasha. You don’t look anything like her, so …” He rubs his shoulder, then lets his pinky slide down the silver chain around his neck. I realize he’s just as awkward as I am. Maybe he’s not here to murder me or steal my laptop.
I take a deep breath and release my grip on the headstone next to me. Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin both died in the same year just two months apart. How tragic.
“I am Raquel,” I say, daring to look into his eyes again. Chills cover my body. I know I asked for a sign from Sasha, but I didn’t expect her returning to earth as a hot guy. “How do you know my name?”
He opens the greeting card in his hands and reads. “‘At the cemetery, go to the Mary Grove aisle, then fourteen plots to the right. Look for my best friend, Raquel. She’ll be the one with the shit haircut but a super charming smile.’” He looks up, folding the card back into a square the size of a business card. “No offense, but your hair,” he says, biting on his bottom lip.
I laugh. “That is so like Sasha,” I say, reaching up and touching the previously mentioned shit haircut.
“Ah,” Elijah says. “There’s the charming smile.”
We stand here for a minute, the compliment catching me off guard. Although I might already kind of know the answer — as insane as it is — I have to ask. “So … who exactly are you?”
But my words come out at the same time as Elijah says, “Is Sasha on her way?”
A boulder forms in my stomach. He must not notice the horror in my eyes because he gives me a grin just like Sasha’s and says, “She probably wants to tell you herself, but I’m her biological brother.” He swings a thumb toward his chest. “Same parents. We recently found each other online, but she didn’t want to tell people yet.” Patting his pocket, he says, “This card is the first time she’s asked to meet up.”
I swallow as the information falls over me in waves. Sasha has a brother. She knew and she didn’t tell me.
“So, is she coming?” He watches me with eager anticipation in his eyes, then he glances back toward the parking lot.
I don’t.
I can’t.
Sasha, how could you do this to me?
I stare at the new grass covering Sasha’s burial plot. “Elijah …”
His expression darkens, his hands sliding into his pockets. It reminds me of the first time I told Zack I wanted to break up. All I had to say was his name and he knew whatever I said next would be bad news. This is so much worse.
“What is it?” he asks.
I put a trembling hand to my forehead and pinch the bridge of my nose. Out of all the hard things I’ve done, this is the hardest. The back of my throat burns acidic and I swallow it down.
You got this. You’re so much stronger than you think you are.
Sasha’s unwavering belief in me was one thing when I was preparing to give a speech in class. It’s completely different now. I want so badly to be pissed at her for doing this to me, but I know that’s just how she is. Believing that I can do the impossible.
“I’m sorry, but … Sasha died on Monday.” Warm tears roll down my cheeks. “She’s, uh, she’s behind you. This is her grave.”
Elijah turns around, his head dipping to look at the grave and all of the wildflowers surrounding it. I watch his back, see the lines of his shoulder blades hunch as he lowers his head into his hands.
I step forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “She had cancer. Did she tell you that?”
Hands still covering his face, he shakes his head. Then he looks up toward the sky, a tear rolling down his cheek.
He draws in a deep breath, and it seems like he grows a foot taller when he stands to his full height. When he looks at me, I see so many pieces of Sasha in his features. The cheekbones, the concerned curve of his brow. “Sorry to freak out on you,” he says, turning his gaze toward the grave. “I had no idea what to expect when I got this card telling me to go to a cemetery. Definitely not this.” His bottom lip quivers. “I only just found her. And now she’s gone.”
My hand on his arm is now sticky with sweat. “It’s okay to cry,” I say, peering up at him. I can tell he’s holding back his emotions, trying to keep it all together. It’s the same look I’ve had all week. “You see that lake over there?” I nod toward the back of the cemetery. “I’ve probably cried twice that much water in the last week. Sasha was my best friend.”
Elijah’s lip is trembling. “Tell me about her?”
We head to the nearby bench and I drop my backpack to the ground beside me. “You go first. I had no idea Sasha had a brother. You look just like her.”
He wipes at his eyes and slings his arm across the back of the bench. “I didn’t know either until I turned eighteen and they released me from the group home. I asked for my paperwork —”
“Group home?”
His tongue flicks across his bottom lip quickly and he nods. “Yeah, uh, it’s what they call the place where a ton of underage guys live until they age out.”
My throat feels dry. “You weren’t adopted?”
He shakes his head like it’s not a big deal. “So anyway, I had my paperwork and tried finding my birth parents for a little while.” He snorts and gazes out at the lake. “They’re both dead. Addicts. But I also learned I had a sister who was three years younger and given up when she was really young. I spent months trying to find her. It was hard because her last name was different.”
“Sasha Delgado,” I say, trying on the name she had before she was a Cade.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I ended up finding her on a Texas adoption forum. She was looking for our parents, and when she said she was multiracial, I thought it might be her.”
“Do you know which races?” I ask, curious. Sasha’s obsession with her ancestry had always been a thing. We’d assumed she was probably part African-American, but we could never know for sure. Her parents weren’t thrilled at the idea of Sasha searching for her birth parents, so she never did.
At least not that she ever told me.
“Yeah, like three of them,” Elijah says. “Our dad was half black, and our mother was from Brazil. She came over here as a little girl.”
“Brazil,” I say with a smile. It’s like a missing puzzle piece of Sasha’s heritage has finally slipped into place. “I wonder if that’s where she got those beautiful eyes. Your eyes,” I say, before I can stop myself.
“Ah, the eyes,” he says, leaning back on the bench and looking up at the sky. “I’ve been hearing about my eyes my whole life. Interesting eyes never got me adopted, though.”
“I’m sorry.” My nails dig into my palms. Why do I keep saying stupid things? What exactly is the protocol for meeting your dead best friend’s brother when you never knew he existed in the first place?
“I wonder why —” I shut up and shake my head.
“The Cades didn’t adopt me, too?” he asks, reading my mind. He shrugs. “I was given up after Sasha when I was a toddler. My mom tried giving us both up, but then my dad kept me for a while before he lost his rights and I was put into the system. Maybe the Cades didn’t know. Don’t make that face,” he says, nudging me with his elbow. “I’m okay with it. I’m glad it was her instead of me. She seemed really happy with her family.”
“She was. She loved her parents, they’re really nice people.” And wealthy people, I think. People who gave her a life someone in a group home could never even fathom.
> My heart aches for this boy I’ve only just met. I want to climb into his past and make it all better again, make the Cades adopt him, too, and give him the same wonderful life that Sasha got to have. I know Sasha must have felt the same way. Maybe this is morbid, but if the Cades had adopted both of the Delgado children, they would still have one kid left to love.
My body moves on its own, and soon I’m hugging him, wrapping my arms around his neck as I pull him close, trying helplessly to heal all of his pain.
It takes him a second, but he hugs me back, his strong arms nearly shoving all the air out of my lungs. I inhale the smell of laundry detergent mixed with the faint scent of motor oil. He kind of smells like our garage when the clothes dryer is on.
“I wish it didn’t have to be like this,” I whisper. “But I’m glad I got to meet you.”
“Same,” he says.
When I pull away, we’re both crying and it makes us laugh.
“So, tell me about my sister,” he says, reaching up to brush away the tears on my face. “And possibly about your interesting haircut.”
I laugh harder and somehow that makes me cry more, too. Eventually I pull my shit together and tell him about Sasha. I start from the beginning, from the dollar store shoes incident, to all the times she’s saved my ass over the years. I tell him about holidays at the Cades’ massive vacation house in Miami, and how Sasha never liked any of my boyfriends but it was only because she wanted the best for me.
The way he looks at me when I tell him about my hair is like he’s just figured me all out. I realize all these stories I’m telling him are tinted with my own perspective. He’s getting the truth about Sasha, mixed with a piece of me as well. Would Sasha have told them a different way? I run my hands through my hair, smoothing it down even though the breeze messes it up again. I try to talk slower, telling the stories exactly how they were, instead of how I remember them.
We talk until the light posts turn on and the sun starts to dip toward the lake, disappearing beneath the water.
I am euphoric, telling this sort-of-stranger all about Sasha’s life and our friendship. Every time I look into his eyes, it’s like a part of her is still here, still flashing me a grin while we plan another adventure.
The Last Wish of Sasha Cade Page 4
