The Last Wish of Sasha Cade

by Cheyanne Young

  “I come out here every morning and give them a little snack,” Mrs. Cade says, handing me a glass that she’s refilled. “They’re getting an extra treat now.”

  “They’re little gluttons,” I say, tossing out another handful of corn.

  “I remember how much corn we went through when you girls were little,” she says, reaching into the bucket to toss some toward a fawn that’s ventured near us. “I’d be inside cooking and all I could hear were giggles and I knew y’all must be feeding the deer.”

  I smile at the warm memory of our childhood. I loved coming here when I was younger. “I miss her,” I say, breaking my own rule of not saying anything that will make me sad.

  “I think we always will,” Mrs. Cade says softly. When she turns to me, her eyes are brimming with tears. “Every day I just tell myself how lucky I am to have had her in my life, even if only for a little while.”

  I nod, my throat too tight to say anything. Which is lucky, because I’m afraid I’ll blurt out what I’m really thinking. It is killing me to keep Elijah a secret, especially now when Mrs. Cade and I are sharing this moment of raw pain.

  I think meeting Elijah would be good for her. But I can’t break my promise to Sasha, no matter how much I wish I could, so I bite the inside of my lip and put on a smile.

  “Thanks for having me over,” I say.

  “Anytime, Raquel.” Mrs. Cade’s hand wraps around my shoulder. “You’re a part of the family, I hope you know that. I’m here for you anytime.”

  Before I leave, I lie and say I need to use the restroom. Since Mrs. Cade is busy loading dishes into the dishwasher, I bypass the half bath in the hallway and rush upstairs, Sunny on my heels. I don’t even realize what I’m doing until I’m standing in Sasha’s doorway.

  Her room is just the way she left it, bed made, a stack of romance novels on her nightstand.

  Tiny pictures of us from photo booths are taped to the side of her vanity mirror. Her curtains are pulled open, revealing her familiar bay window.

  My hand rests on the doorframe. I don’t go inside because I know I can’t bear it. After a moment, I breathe in deeply, the scent of Sasha’s room igniting every memory I have of my best friend. Sunny appears beside me. I lean down and wrap him in a warm doggie hug. He licks my forehead and I smile, despite the pain. “I miss her, too,” I whisper.

  I close my eyes and set every part of her room to memory. This room is still Sasha, even though Sasha is gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  There’s a package waiting for me when I get home from school on Monday. It’s about the size of a shoebox, with unfamiliar handwriting addressing the package to me. The return address simply says “A friend” and I know it’s from Sasha.

  In my excitement, I almost call Izzy and say I won’t be coming into work today. Then I think better of it and take the package inside, sneaking past Dad, who is passed out in the recliner. He just got home from an eighteen-hour truck route so he’s going to be exhausted for a while. He’ll probably sleep until he goes back to work on Wednesday.

  In my room, I close the door and rip open the box, Hulk-style. Adrenaline and excitement have me tossing handfuls of packing peanuts onto my bed as I dig out the contents. Five brand-new DVDs, all of them movies I’ve seen a million times with Sasha.

  The Breakfast Club, Ever After, The Princess Bride, Mean Girls and Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.

  As I flip through the stack of movies, each one sends a tidal wave of emotions rolling over me. At the very bottom of the box is another greeting card, Sasha’s handwritten To Raquel on the front. I rip open the envelope. This greeting card has three fat little puppies on it, all wearing sunglasses. I smile and open the card. The pink Sharpie note is simply a web address.

  Heart pounding, I rush to my laptop and yank it open to type in the URL, which is just a random assortment of letters and numbers.

  A video pops up on an otherwise empty web page. Below the video are four other links of random letters and numbers. I click play.

  It’s kind of a routine now. Sasha’s face appears on the screen, and I start crying. I wipe away the tears and watch her leaning in close to the webcam on her computer. She’s wearing a lime green tank top and her hair is piled up in a bun, a headband covering her thinning hairline.

  “’Sup? It’s me, your favorite friend and sister. So, Rocki, you’re probably wondering why I sent you a stack of movies that you already own. Easy. They’re for Elijah. He told me he owns exactly two DVDs, and they’re both stupid boy movies with guns and action” — she gags at this — “and I decided he needs to own my five favorite movies of all time. Also, he only gave me his work address and I didn’t want to send a box of DVDs to a body shop.”

  Now I know why Elijah smelled faintly of motor oil that day. Sasha’s still talking. “But that’s not all, of course. My next adventure is a movie night. If you click on the links below, you’ll see my project took some major commitment. I want you guys to get together and watch each movie. The links below are videos of me watching each movie as well. I’ll tell you when to click play, and then we’ll get to watch it together. Cool, huh?”

  She pauses, her eyes watching the camera, and I almost reply out loud. The rest of the video goes by in a blur, and I have to watch it twice to get all of her instructions.

  She’s giving us one week to do this, and then we’ll get our next adventure.

  Sasha looks into the camera and says one more thing before the video ends. “Have fun with these movies, okay? The next adventure on my list is a hard one. But I guess that’s life, huh? Sometimes it’s beautiful like the lake and hilarious like these movies. Other times …” She pauses and looks down at her hands, then her wide blue eyes seem to bore into mine. “Other times it hurts like a motherfucker.”

  ***

  I read over my email again. Those gut-wrenching feelings of low self-esteem kick in, and I analyze every single word, wondering if I said or did something wrong. It’s been twenty-four hours since I emailed Elijah with a link to Sasha’s videos and a picture of the DVDs she sent me to give him. I asked when we could meet up and gave him my cell number. No reply.

  No text.

  What is going on?

  Meanwhile, Zack won’t stop blowing up my phone. His newest tactic is to ask for a date, just a “simple date,” and then berate me for saying I’m not sure if I feel like going on a simple date.

  And of course I can’t tell him why I seem so distracted because not only is Elijah a secret, the fact that he hasn’t replied to me is also a secret. How can I tell someone what’s wrong when I can’t tell them what’s wrong?

  Today I really do call in to work. Izzy doesn’t mind and doesn’t seem to care because she says Tuesdays are the slowest days of the week. Since Homecoming was last Friday, flower buying has slowed down for a while.

  I eat dinner with my parents, and Dad says I look like I’ve grown up in the short time he was away for work. I roll my eyes and stab a bite of Mom’s shepherd’s pie, and everyone laughs like everything is totally normal.

  At eight thirty, my phone gets a new email. I rush over to my computer, wanting to see Elijah’s reply as big and bright as possible because reading it on a phone screen right now might drive me insane.

  Raquel,

  Hey there. I’m off work Wednesday and Thursday … we could probably watch them all over two days after you get off school? Let me know?

  Elijah

  I type back quickly, hoping he’s still at the computer. I can’t stand the idea of waiting another twenty-four hours to hear from him.

  I’m free Wednesday and Thursday. We could meet at your place? I don’t mind the long drive.

  His reply pops up in the corner of my screen. He’s activated the email chat feature.

  Elijah0Delgado: Can’t do it at my place, sorry.

  RockiBoBock
i: Ugh. Well we can’t really do it at mine, either.

  Although Dad will be back at work, Mom will most certainly be home. I can’t even fathom bringing over a new guy my parents have never heard of or met before. And then asking if we can chill in my room for nine hours, watching movies?

  Yeah, not happening.

  The screen tells me that he’s typing a reply for what feels like an eternity. Thanks to my sophomore keyboarding class, I type ninety words a minute, and Zack types like twice that fast since he’s a massive computer nerd. I’ve never had to wait more than a few seconds for Zack’s email chat replies.

  Finally, his message pops up.

  Elijah0Delgado: Why not? Boyfriend won’t like it?

  He doesn’t know I have a boyfriend, does he?

  Wait, I don’t have a boyfriend. Not really.

  RockiBoBocki: Not sure how I can explain some strange guy who happens to look exactly like Sasha to my mother … If I were lucky like you and didn’t have school, then we could watch them in the daytime when she’s at work.

  Elijah0Delgado: ….

  RockiBoBocki: What does that mean?

  Elijah0Delgado: Means you could skip.

  RockiBoBocki: ….

  I’m guessing Elijah has probably skipped school a day or two in his life. But the closest I’ve come to ditching school is mildly exaggerating a sickness so that Mom will encourage me to stay in bed all day and get better.

  But I did miss four days to mourn Sasha and nothing bad happened. I lean on my elbow, biting my nails as I stare at the chat window. He’s willing to drive all this way and spend a whole day watching movies with me and a digital version of Sasha. I pull up another internet window and add up the length of all five movies. With Mom’s workday, plus her long commute to the city, we’d technically have enough time to watch them all. While I’m weighing the pros and cons of ditching school and the possibility of getting caught, he sends another message.

  Elijah0Delgado: I wonder how strict she is with the one-week rule?

  RockiBoBocki: I can’t break her rules, even knowing that she’s not here. I just can’t. We need to do this.

  Elijah0Delgado: So you’ll skip?

  RockiBoBocki: What if we just watch the movies separately on our own? I can send you the movies. I have my own copies.

  Elijah0Delgado: I don’t have my own computer. :(

  I’m on my boss’s.

  RockiBoBocki: You have a TV, right?

  Elijah0Delgado: Yup

  RockiBoBocki: So we could talk on the phone and I’ll play her video commentary for you?

  Elijah0Delgado: No phone. Maybe we could meet somewhere? Rent a hotel room … Hahahaha.

  I don’t realize I am biting my tongue until I taste blood. I let out a long sigh. He doesn’t have a phone? Or a computer? He lives somewhere so secret he wouldn’t even tell Sasha? What is up with this guy?

  Now that I think about it, I don’t really know him at all. I take a deep breath and trust in Sasha. I send him my address.

  RockiBoBocki: Can you get here at 7 am tomorrow?

  Elijah0Delgado: I don’t want to contribute to the delinquency of a minor. Truancy is a big deal, you know.

  RockiBoBocki: I can break the rules just this once. You coming or not?

  Elijah0Delgado: I’ll be there.

  RockiBoBocki: Cool. :)

  That smiley face is an understatement. The chat window says he’s typing for the longest time, and then it stops. I start to type something but then it says he’s typing again so I wait to see what he’ll say. A few moments pass with him typing and then not typing. Maybe he doesn’t know what to say. I put my hands on the keyboard, figuring I’ll say something, and then his reply comes through.

  Elijah0Delgado: Looking forward to it. See you at 7.

  Elijah0Delgado has signed offline.

  Chapter Twelve

  In my dream, I’m in the guest bedroom of my grandparents’ house. It’s supposed to be my own house, I guess, but dreams are weird and the dream version of myself doesn’t care what room I’m in.

  Because Sasha is here.

  We’re wearing matching pajamas from Victoria’s Secret, the pink ones with sunglasses all over them, the word PINK big and sequined across the front of the matching tank top. (Mom had freaked when I came home with that pink striped bag, saying that anything from that store was entirely too expensive and I shouldn’t let the Cades spend excessive amounts of money on me.)

  Vaguely, I wonder why my dream has drudged up those pajamas from the deep recesses of my memory, but mostly I’m just excited. Sasha is here, sitting on the bed with me, her bright eyes shimmering from the glow of the TV.

  And it’s not the twenty-two-inch flat screen like what I have at home or a wall-mounted monster like what Sasha has in her room — it’s an old box TV with wood-grain paneling, the kind I’ve only seen in movies.

  “Ready to watch the greatest movies ever made?” Sasha says, her voice giving me chills.

  Although the edges of my dream are blurry and white, I look right in her baby blues. “I miss you.”

  Her eyes roll straight up. “You can’t miss me, we’re in a dream.”

  I shake my head and wonder if this is what lucid dreaming feels like. “Don’t be funny right now. Be Sasha. I need Sasha. I know this is a dream, but I miss you.”

  I wonder if I can cry in dreams. “I miss you so much.”

  “You don’t have to miss me,” Sasha says. She reaches out, wraps a hand around my arm and I swear — I swear to God — I can feel her skin on mine. “I’m with you always, Rocki.”

  Everything is blurrier now, the edges of my consciousness poking through this dream. I squint and focus on my best friend, wanting to memorize every feature on her beautiful face. As I stare, her soft smile morphs into a smirk, her eyes getting a little shadow from scraggly black bangs. Suddenly Sasha is Elijah. Now his hand is on my arm. I reach out to touch him.

  And then I wake up.

  ***

  A real movie marathon with Sasha would mean pajamas, messy hair and possibly a dozen bottles of nail polish to keep us busy during the scenes we know by heart. But I’m up thirty minutes early for a movie marathon with Elijah. I hide anything remotely embarrassing from my bathroom (zit cream, box of tampons, printed photo of Andre from the band Zombie Radio) and then put on a pair of jean shorts and a T-shirt that looks nice but not like I’m trying too hard.

  And then I ruin the entire look by wearing enough makeup to perform on Broadway. With a sigh into my vanity mirror, I wash it all off and reapply some powder and mascara. Good. I don’t need to impress Elijah.

  Say it again, Raquel: You don’t need to impress Elijah.

  Mom always leaves for work about fifteen minutes before I go to school, so at six forty-five, I emerge from my bedroom, backpack slung over my shoulder.

  “Morning!” Mom says while she empties two creamer packets into her travel cup of coffee.

  “Blah,” I say, as I heft my backpack to the kitchen table and then dig in the pantry for a Pop-Tart. I need to keep up the facade that I’m going to school.

  She doesn’t suspect a thing. My doorbell rings at exactly seven, and I nearly pee myself as I’m walking to the front door. Why is this so nerve-racking? I’m excited to watch movies with Sasha, and Elijah is a cool guy. No need to fret.

  With a deep breath, I open the door. He’s wearing those same jeans and another black T-shirt, only this one has shorter sleeves and it’s a little smaller, hugging tightly to his arms. His biceps are taut as he holds a drink tray with two coffees in one hand and a white bakery bag in the other.

  Stop checking him out, you idiot, I tell myself.

  “Hey,” I say lamely, stepping aside so he can enter. “How’d you drive a motorcycle with coffee?”

  “I’m not that talented,” he say
s with a little laugh. I close the door behind him and he turns around to face me in the foyer. He seems two feet taller than usual and I wonder if that’s because we never really stand this close together.

  “I borrowed my roommate’s car. Traded him the motorcycle for a day, actually. He was pretty psyched.”

  “You have roommates?” I say.

  “Three,” Elijah says, avoiding my gaze. He turns around to where the foyer opens to the living room on the left and a small dining room to the right. “Where we going?”

  “Straight ahead,” I say, pretending like this isn’t awkward as hell. “What’s in the bag?” I ask as I lead him to my room.

  “Bagels.” When we enter, Elijah makes no effort to hide the fact that he’s checking out my room.

  “Awesome.” I take the bag from him and peek inside.

  Elijah sinks onto my bed, nodding approvingly when the foam mattress conforms around his hands. It was a gift from my grandparents, and it’s nicer than my own parents’ bed.

  “Damn, nice bed. And I am particularly liking those Barbie dolls,” he says, inclining his head toward where the Barbie versions of Sasha and me sit in the same place on my bookshelf that they’ve been since I was ten.

  “Shut up,” I say, grabbing my laptop. “We’ll watch the movies in the living room. Can you get that box of DVDs?”

  His smirk makes my chest ache, but I ignore it. “The bathroom is down there if you need it.”

  “You have a nice house,” Elijah says. He sits on one end of our couch while I sit on the other, propping my laptop on the coffee table in front of us.

  “It’s nothing compared to Sasha’s.” Our furniture is dated and our kitchen needs remodeling. Everything we own is at least a decade old.

  He sinks down, stretching out his legs and resting one hand on the armrest, the other across the back of the couch. “It’s a home, and that makes it nice.”