by Beth Revis
“Okay, done,” I say. Jenny and Rosemarie are nearby, both of them humoring their parents with more pictures too. Rosemarie’s little brother, Peter, keeps trying to steal her graduation cap.
“Want me to take one with your whole family?” Jenny’s mother asks me.
“Yes! Please!” Mom says, grabbing Dad and dragging him to the fountain, where I’m standing.
“You said this was the last picture,” I say under my breath.
“This one is.” Mom kisses my cheek.
Dad stands up straight and tall beside me. He looks uncomfortable in his suit, even though he wears one every Sunday. He’s very aware of the camera Jenny’s mom is pointing at us, as if whether or not the picture turns out good rests entirely on his shoulders.
“Wait a minute!” I say before Jenny’s mom can click a picture with Mom’s fancy camera. “Where’s Bo?”
Mom frowns. “He was just here a minute ago . . .”
“Here I am.” My brother runs forward. “Trying to cut me out of the family picture?”
I drag him beside me. Without thinking, I’d grabbed his bad hand, the one injured in the fire. It doesn’t hurt him, but his skin feels unnaturally slick beneath my touch, and the scarring on his palm feels weird. I drop his hand as soon as I realize, but I bump his shoulder with mine, looking up at him and grinning.
“Okay, everyone, this way!” Jenny’s mom calls. “Ready? One, two, three!” She snaps the picture, then holds the camera out to Mom for approval.
“Glad you could make it,” I tell Bo as Mom gets Dad to take a picture of Jenny’s family for her.
“Glad to be here,” he says, but there’s still a little distance in his voice, as if he’s not really here, not all the way. His eyes are on Dad, drinking in the dark suit and carefully knotted tie. Bo’s not dressed up. He’s wearing a plain shirt with no holes in it, though, so I guess that counts for something. But the difference between Bo and my dad is far greater than the way they dress.
I want so badly to ask Bo if he’s happy now. He came back from the fire at his old school different, but I’ve never been able to decide if that difference was good. He’s steadier now, but is that really better? Sometimes there’s a hollowness in his gaze, a melancholy twist to his smile. I think about the blank pages in his notebook. I’m sure they’re still blank.
I shake my head. That’s Dad’s way of thinking. Bo isn’t a before-and-after picture, he’s just the same Bo. And even though he’s different now, and even though I cannot read the difference, he’s still my brother. Asking him if he’s happy now is moot. Happy is too definite a word to describe Bo. He’s alive. He survived. And when we talk about the future, like we did that morning over cereal, the conversation now includes what he wants to do and be.
“These are new,” Bo says, tweaking my navy blue cat-eye glasses.
“I’m tired of contacts,” I say. “And they’re not that new.”
“New to me.” This is the first time I’ve seen Bo in over three months. The new school he attends is in upstate New York, and even though it’s just a few hours’ drive, the program there is more “rigorous,” as Dad describes it. Mom and Dad get monthly reports from the school, detailed analyses and charts all mailed in a giant manila envelope. They talk about Bo’s medication and how it’s more stabilized now, and they include schedules of therapy and courses, as well as charts that track grades and progress, both academic and psychological. Every envelope includes a note saying that the purpose of Bo’s therapy is not to “heal” him, but to help him cope with his illness and navigate a somewhat normal life. One day. In the future.
He does look better, though. But there’s still a part of him that isn’t quite here. His body’s present, but maybe there will always be a part of his mind that’s not. Ever since Sofía died and the academy burned, there’s been something about Bo that’s more absent than before. He’s like a man who lived through a battle but isn’t quite sure whether or not he left the war.
“Well,” I say. “I’m going to go hang out with my friends.” I lean down and pick up my purse from the ground, rooting around inside it for my phone. My parents got their pictures; now it’s time to get mine.
“Hey,” Bo says, reaching for me.
I pause, surprised, half thinking he’s going to pull me into a hug, which he has literally never done before. Instead, his hand goes to my face. He brushes my hair away.
“You’re about to lose that earring,” he says, touching the diamond.
My hands go immediately to my ears. He’s right; the back is loose. I tighten it, then check the other one.
“How did you even notice?” I ask. The graduation cap and several bobby pins hold my hair in place, covering my ears.
“Lucky guess.” Bo smiles at me. “I’d hate for you to lose one.”
“Yeah,” I tell him, my voice choking with unexpected emotion. “These really mean a lot to me.”
“I know,” he says.
I fiddle with the earrings, checking them again. I’m surprised that Bo would pay enough attention to notice that one was loose, to remember that they’re important, to even recognize that these were Grandma’s earrings before they were mine. Maybe I’m not as invisible to him as I thought.
“Only for special occasions,” I say, imitating Mom in a high-pitched voice.
Bo cracks a smile. “Yeah, well, life is a special occasion.”
The words surprise me, coming from him. But for the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe everything’s happening the way it’s supposed to be happening, and that it’ll all be okay.
“Go on,” he says genially. “I’m sure you want to take pictures with your friends.” I turn to go, but he calls out to me: “Pheebs?”
“Yeah?”
“What school did you pick?” He shuffles his feet. “I mean, the last time we talked about, you know, your future, you seemed a little . . . undecided.”
I grin at him. “Don’t tell Mom and Dad,” I say, leaning toward him and lowering my voice. “I did get accepted to NYU, and I’m going there, undecided major for now, but . . .” I draw out the last word.
Bo waits, his eyebrow cocked in anticipation.
“But I’m going to defer a year,” I say. I look behind me, making sure our parents haven’t overheard. I’ll have to tell them eventually that I plan on waiting a solid year before going back to school, but they can’t do anything about it. I’ve already submitted the paperwork and finalized it all. It’s my decision to make, and I made it.
“What are you going to do for that year?” Bo asks.
A grin spreads across my face, an immediate reaction that I’m not sure comes from joy or relief or something else entirely.
“That’s the best part,” I say. “I have no idea.”
Looking for more?
Visit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.
Discover your next great read!
