The Arrival of Someday

by Jen Malone

  Will’s eyes jump to mine, and I’m frozen as I replay our exchange in my head. He examines me quietly for a long beat before opening his mouth to say something, but then seems to catch himself and snaps it shut again. Instead he drops his eyes, then curses. “Dammit! I just broke the first rule of not puking. I looked down.”

  I’m flustered, so it takes me a second to catch up with the conversation change, but when I see the expression on his face, I nearly laugh in spite of myself.

  “Poor Will,” I say, reaching out to rub his arm in exaggerated sympathy.

  He snatches it away. “Go ahead and be smug, Decker. Someday the tables will turn and it’ll be you squirming. In fact, let’s plan another outing right now. What fears do you have? Snakes? Ghost stories? Line dancing?”

  Ever heard of MELD scores?

  As he talks, he steps onto the rope bridge and edges forward.

  I scoff. “Line dancing?”

  “Is that just me? Although that might be less a fear and more a strong aversion.”

  “Never been line dancing, so I can’t say for sure there, but we did do a square dancing unit in gym class in middle school and I lived to tell the tale. Besides, if I did have a fear of it, I wouldn’t need a Boy Savior to rescue me, thank you very much.”

  He reaches the next platform and calls back, “How does you gloating about exposure therapy maybe curing my fear of heights not make you a Girl Savior? Isn’t that hypocritical?”

  “Whatever,” I answer, skipping across the rungs. “There’s nothing more awesome than a lady saving the day. Um, hello? Wonder Woman?”

  He hangs his head. “Damn, I have no comeback. You’re totally right.”

  “See? Now you’re acknowledging my superior intellect and coming around to my way of thinking.”

  Teasing Will is fun. Inhabiting the skin of Before Amelia is everything. Dad was definitely onto something with the whole “relax and just be in the moment” advice.

  “Lia!”

  The voice is distinctive, even as it travels three stories into the air.

  “Amelia!”

  The voice is also tinged in hysteria.

  Will clasps the pole beside us tightly before venturing a peek down. “Is that—your mom?”

  I don’t even have to look. “Yeah, but I don’t—what’s she doing here?”

  “Lia!” she yells again, over the noise of the fountains and the blaring Elvis song they’re pulsing along to.

  I gesture to her that I’m coming down. To his credit, Will keeps right on my heels as we quickly work our way back to the staircase. She’s waiting at the bottom when we reach it and my stomach clenches at the expression on her face.

  “Mom! How did you—”

  “Track you down? I used Find My Phone.” It wasn’t hysteria in her voice, I now realize; it was fury. Will must assess the same thing, because he politely pretends to be absorbed with shucking his harness, helped along eagerly by the same employee who flirted with him before. I slip out of mine on my own.

  “Why? You could have just—” But then I glance at my jacket, hanging on the hook. “Oh, ugh. Sorry.” I grab it and begin patting the pockets. “We’ve been on the course and I didn’t think to bring my phone up with—”

  “You won’t find anything there. It wasn’t your cell I tracked, it was your father’s. And you’re damn lucky he left it charging in the console of his car, young lady.”

  She holds out a palm with my iPhone inside it. “Because you left yours on the kitchen counter!”

  I accept it from my mother with wide-eyed horror. Damn it! I want to offer myself for a voluntary flogging.

  The ropes course girl looks skeptical that a cell phone could be the cause of so much drama. I’m tempted to snap, “It is when you’re waiting on a lifesaving organ!” but of course I don’t. She finishes hanging the harnesses in place and retreats, tossing a final glance over her shoulder at us. Will understands right away, though, judging from the breath he sucks in.

  “Did . . . did it ring?” I unlock the screen, but it’s devoid of any notifications.

  “No,” my mother says, slumping against the wall as some of her adrenaline wears off. “But what if? What if the hospital had called and you weren’t there to pick up? Yes, I’d have answered or they’d have called the house next, but how would I have known where to find you, if not for sheer luck—you never told us where you guys were going. I left Alex ten voice mails trying to get Will’s cell number before Dad remembered leaving his phone in his car.”

  She seems to deflate in front of my eyes. She’s quieter when she says, “We talked about this, Lia. You never, ever, ever let this thing leave your side. I thought that was standard practice for teenagers anyway. Is it really that hard?”

  “I know! Mom, I know! I didn’t mean to—I was driving, so I didn’t have it out, and then when we got here we came straight to the course, and I—I never even realized it wasn’t on me.”

  I can’t bring myself to do more than glance quickly at Will, who’s still standing off to the side, visibly uncomfortable. As much blame as I accept for this screwup, I’m also majorly embarrassed he’s witnessing this.

  “But Lia,” Mom says, “you have to realize. You have to plan and be vigilant. Do you know what happens if they find a liver for you, but they can’t get assurances you’ll make it to the hospital in time to accept it? Do you?” Her voice breaks and Will offers me a sympathetic look, which I duck.

  “They move on to the next person,” she finishes, barely breathing the words.

  “I know,” I whisper. It’s not just that I’m embarrassed because of Will; I’m also ashamed I put my mother through this, on top of everything else she’s dealing with that’s out of our control. This wasn’t. “It was so incredibly careless of me. I’m so, so sorry.”

  I stare at the phone in my hand, avoiding eye contact with either of them.

  “Not wanting to talk about it, pretending it’s not happening, that’s one thing. But I’m not going to allow you to be deliberately obtuse about this. That’s not you, baby.”

  I dart a quick glance at Will, who’s pointedly studying the ground now. Keeping my voice low, I say, “Mom, I know. I get it. I’m really sorry.”

  Her answering look is equal parts anger and disappointment. She shakes her head slowly and says, “No, I don’t think you do. I don’t think you get it at all.”

  She steps away from me and turns to Will. “Sorry you had to witness this. The situation we’re in doesn’t bring out the best in us, I’m afraid.”

  He’s quick to jump in with a flustered, “Oh, no, please don’t apologize!” and she squeezes his shoulder.

  “That dinner invite still stands, okay? We’d love to see you. Jeff will make meat loaf; I seem to remember you inventing excuses to stay whenever that was on the menu.”

  “Was I that obvious?” he asks, following with what he probably wanted to be a light laugh, though it’s clear he’s shaken by what just went down. “Your house was one of the only places I got to sample quintessential American food growing up. Meat loaf is hardly ever on a restaurant menu, so it was such a big deal to me when you guys made it.”

  Mom’s smile also still holds tension, but she replies, “That’s really sweet.”

  I stand silent throughout this exchange, trying to absorb the turn of events and the way the whole Scout’s honor thing blew up, with only myself to blame.

  “Will, do you mind if I pull Amelia aside for a second?” Mom asks.

  Couldn’t she maybe have suggested that in the first place?

  He straightens. “Oh, yeah. Of course. I’ll just, um—check out the fountains.”

  Mom offers me another lingering half-annoyed, half-sad look as Will slides from sight. “I’m trying really hard to treat you like an adult, Lia, I am. But . . .”

  I study the floor and nod sharply, caught between wanting to argue back to save a little face and knowing I have no ground to stand on.

  She nods her head towa
rd the fountains. “You and Will—is this a date?”

  “Mom! No!”

  She holds up her hands. “All right, all right, just making sure because Dad is pretty shaken too and I think he’d really love to have you safe and sound with him, sooner rather than later. So how about if I offer Will a ride back to his dorm in my car and you take Dad’s home?”

  Oh, sure. Not at all embarrassing. This may not be a date, and yes, there was a time when Will used to treat my mother like a second mom, so I know it won’t be awkward for him to ride with her, but still . . . What a perfect way to cap off the night.

  I nod, avoiding her eyes, and slip an arm into my jacket.

  I’m humiliated.

  And defeated.

  Two seconds before she arrived, I was actually feeling giddy. Giddy! But every single time I get the slightest glimmer of hope that there’ll be a break in the rain cloud hovering above my head, it starts to pour instead.

  Every.

  Single.

  Time.

  13

  FLUORESCENT LIGHTING MAKES EVERYONE’S SKIN LOOK YELLOW, right? Right?

  I curse the overhead bulbs in our English classroom and steal a quick glance at Sibby’s arm, lying across the desk next to me. Hers looks yellowish too, I think. Maybe.

  I compare it to mine, even though I know I’m probably just being paranoid because it’s been a week since my last appointment with Dr. Wah, which means I’m due for another panel of blood tests this afternoon. Other than the GI bleed, I still haven’t had any real symptoms, but I’m dreading the results anyway. What if my MELD score climbed again? I know I should be grateful I don’t feel sick, but the idea that terrible things could be happening inside my body right this second and I can’t even tell is . . . disconcerting. No. Screw that. It’s a mindfuck. A terrifying mindfuck of epic proportions.

  All I want is to continue pushing away any and all scary thoughts of BA, but if it is coming for me, then maybe a little heads-up would be nice? Or not? I don’t even know.

  As if in answer to my request for physical symptoms, a hard knot appears in the center of my chest, twisting and tightening. The roar starts in my ears again, just like it did the other night on the roof with Dad.

  No. I can’t have a panic attack in the middle of English Lit. Please, please, no. This’ll put me in the spotlight even more and that’s the last thing I need.

  “Psst,” Sibby hisses, glancing at me. “You okay?”

  I’m wide-eyed, but attempt a nod, which she doesn’t buy for a second. She holds up a finger to me, peeks at Mrs. Aguilar in the front of the classroom, then cups one hand over her left nostril and shoots the other into the air.

  “Mrs. Aguilar? I think I’m having a nose bleed. Can I go to the nurse?”

  “Sure.”

  Sibby’s halfway to the door when she lets her backpack clatter to the floor and adds a second hand to cover her nose. “Bloody oath! This is a bad one. Can Amelia carry my bag for me?”

  Mrs. Aguilar probably doesn’t buy the theatrics and it would be easy enough to bust Sibby by simply requesting she take her hand from her face, but it’s almost April and most of our teachers have about given up on imparting any further knowledge to a restless senior class.

  “Just go, you two,” Mrs. Aguilar says, waving to the door. I grab my things and race to follow, scooping Sibby’s backpack from the aisle on my way.

  Sibby’s waiting around the corner, her (notably clean) hand held up for a high five. At least if a panic attack had to threaten, it had the decency to do so during the one class I share with my best friend.

  “Let’s chuck a sickie,” she says.

  I don’t even need to consider whether or not to ditch. We breeze right out the front doors, daring anyone to stop us. No one does.

  We go two blocks out of our way to walk the scenic route through Harvard’s quad and it’s still only fifteen minutes later that we’re seated in Mr. Bartley’s, a kitschy burger dive across from the university campus that has the best frappés in Massachusetts. It’s barely eleven a.m., so the communal seating tables are wide open, which almost never happens.

  “Way preferable to examining the theme of marriage in Anna Karenina,” Sibby says, slurping from her s’mores frappé. She drops her voice, even though there’s no one around to eavesdrop on us. “Wanna talk about what was going on with you back there?”

  “Nope.”

  If she’s gonna ask, she’s gonna get an honest answer. I stab my straw into my strawberry shortcake frappé and avoid her gaze. But as I feared, when I lift my eyes again, she’s still staring at me. I don’t even know if they have Girl Scouts in Australia, but I do know my best friend and that she’d never agree to any Scout’s honor pact to back off on the tough stuff or to not make me psychoanalyze it.

  It’s the reason I haven’t confessed my feelings about Prom with a Purpose or told Sibby anything about my last appointment and my MELD score rising. I’m used to dumping the contents of my brain into my best friend’s lap without a second thought (and vice versa), and I hate being guarded around her.

  But she’s on to the fact that something was happening to me back there in English class, and I know she won’t back down, so I sigh and shrug before offering a little something to appease her. “I’ve got a silly blood test at the doctor later today.”

  Even admitting my nerves out loud makes me feel like a traitor to my mantra. Fear is not the boss of me.

  “I’ll come with!” she volunteers instantly. “I can hold your hand when they stick you with the needle.”

  Great, yes. Let her believe it’s the needle I’m worried about, not the results.

  “Thanks, but you have derby practice. My mom’s taking me, so I’ll make her do the hand-holding.”

  Sibby considers for a second, then shrugs. “Okay, fine, but if I can’t be there in person, I’ll come along in spirit. When we finish our burgers we can head to CVS and find you some ridiculous Band-Aids to put on after that will make you laugh and think of me. SpongeBob? Or are you more the Power Rangers type? How do I not know this essential detail about you?”

  “Power Rangers were Alex’s favorite. Mine was Dora the Explorer.”

  “¡Qué bueno!” She tips her milk shake at me. “Hey, speaking of Alex, have you? Talked to him, I mean?”

  I exhale, grateful we’re moving off the subject of what happened in English class so easily.

  “A few texts and our regular Words With Friends games. I know he’s waiting for me to bring up the fact that he sent Will to check on me, but I still haven’t decided how much crap I want to give him for it. I wasn’t having the worst time with Will, up until . . . you know.”

  MELD score, no. But Will? Sure. Sibby knows all about him, up to and including the whole saga of how the night at Jordan’s ended. She nods sympathetically.

  “So I’m taking the passive-aggressive approach with Alex,” I continue. “I’ve been playing only words related to ‘annoyed.’ Vexed. Nettle. Gall. I have to keep using cheats to swap out my letters for the ones I need, but I crushed a huge win yesterday with a triple word square plus a bonus for using all seven tiles when I played ‘umbrage.’ And before you call me out on the cheats, he has access to the same ones I do, so the way I see it, it’s an even playing field.”

  Sibby pushes her chair back, stands, and gives me an ovation that attracts stares from the guys working the grill.

  I grab her sleeve and she plops down again, stuffing one of my onion rings into her mouth and speaking around it. “Seriously, though. Are you okay?”

  I should have known she’d circle back.

  “That . . . whatever . . . back there in English was a fluke; I’m okay.” Her expression makes it clear she isn’t buying it, so I revise to say, “I’ll be okay.”

  This she accepts a little better, nodding and passing me a fry. As I chew, she says, “Hey, do you want to take some time this arvo to sketch out a to-do list for Prom with a Purpose? I had some ideas for the website fund-ra
iser I wanted to run by you. . . .”

  I buy myself time by taking a long sip of my frappé. “I was sort of thinking on the walk over that maybe I could get going on my mural. I’m already feeling behind because of all the rain lately, so if I could squeeze in a few hours today, that would really help.”

  She avoids my eyes. “Sure, of course. That makes total sense.”

  My heart twists. I’m the worst friend ever. Why can’t I just talk to her about this Prom with a Purpose stuff and clear the air between us? Why does it feel like doing so will be opening Pandora’s box and that everything else I’m trying to keep at bay will come crashing in? Sibby has the power to break through all my defenses and I just can’t go there. But I also hate the distance I sense between us—we’re tiptoeing around each other and we’ve never done that before.

  I cast about for a compromise. “But maybe first . . . I’ll bet there’ll be people at the chess tables, since it’s so warm out. Wanna hustle some smug old men?”

  Sibby’s aunt back in Darwin taught her chess when she was a little kid and she can hold her own with the best of them, including a majority of the dudes who camp at the outdoor area in front of the Out of Town News kiosk that functions as part gathering spot, part tourist attraction.

  Sibby puts her chin in her hand. “Do you really need to ask?” Her eyes light up and she adds, “Maybe I can win us enough to cover some of the website costs.”

  I hope my smile is less like a grimace than it feels as I reply, “Sounds like a solid plan.”

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